Ovid’s Women of the Year: Narratives of Roman Identity in the Fasti 9780472130047, 9780472122172

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Ovid’s Women of the Year Narratives of Roman Identity in the Fasti Angeline Chiu University of Michigan Press Ann Arbor

Page iv → Copyright В© by Angeline Chiu 2016 All rights reserved This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publisher. Published in the United States of America by the University of Michigan Press A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 978-0-472-13004-7 (hardcover) ISBN: 978-0-472-12217-2 (e-book)

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Acknowledgments Nothing comes from nothing, and it is inconceivable that this book could have come into existence without the support and encouragement of numerous individuals. Let me sum up: grateful acknowledgments are due to all the friends, family, colleagues, and students who have taken such sustained and heartening interest in this project and who fortified my will and focus with regular infusions of coffee and chocolate. They never gave me up or let me down. I owe particular thanks to the many wonderful Ovid scholars and enthusiasts who shared both the pleasure of their company and the spark of their insight on this book’s journey from idea to publication. You are truly legion, and though I have not the space here to call each of you by name, you know who you are. Furthermore, the following in alphabetical order generously gave their time to read this book at various stages of its development: Neil Bernstein, Denis Feeney, Andrew Feldherr, Robert Kaster, Barbara Saylor Rodgers, Amy Vail, Tracy Jamison Wood, and the anonymous readers. Any remaining errors are mine. Thank you also to Ellen Bauerle and the staff of the University of Michigan Press who displayed great patience despite the irony that though I was writing about the Roman calendar, I was never quite on time. Finally, I must acknowledge Ovid himself, not only the subject of academic teaching and research but also the unfailingly delightful companion of all these many years, together forever and never to part.

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Introduction Operosus Dierum Vates: The Poet of the Fasti At the beginning of AD 8, Publius Ovidius Naso was indisputably Rome’s greatest living poet. He had won his literary spurs some years earlier by writing several celebrated collections of elegantly witty love poetry, along with an acclaimed tragedy. Now comfortably ensconced in Rome with his third wife, occasionally visiting his country home on the outskirts of town or the family estate in Sulmo, Ovid at age fifty was enjoying a fresh burst of creativity. With quintessential aplomb, he was engrossed in two monumental new projects at the same time:1 the Metamorphoses and the Fasti, grandly ambitious undertakings by a mature, sophisticated poet at the height of his powers and eager to broaden the scope of his literary talent. The Metamorphoses, an epic in fifteen books of dactylic hexameter and a tour de force of mythological tales, was already completed in draft and awaiting final polishing. The Fasti was still in the white-hot process of being written, a project planned around the Roman calendar as twelve books of elegiac couplets, with one book for each month and its festivals. Of these twelve, six had been drafted when disaster suddenly fell on the poet at the end of the year. Ovid would afterwards liken it to being struck down by Jupiter’s thunderbolt from on high, and so it must have seemed: the elderly, embittered emperor Augustus ordered the poet cast out of Rome and banished to Tomis. Today it is the resort town of Constanta in Romania, but then it was a rough-and-tumble partly Greek, partly Getic and Sarmatian settlement clinging to the chilly shore of the Black Sea. Technically the sentence was not exile, exilium, but relegation, relegatio, for Ovid was permitted to keep his citizen rights and his property back in Italy. That distinction was likely cold comfort to the poet torn from the gleaming imperial capital, Rome caput mundi, and packed off in winter to the Page 2 →shabby edge of empire with no hope of return save for the emperor’s specific forgiveness. Tomis was everything Rome was not—even the Latin language was scarcely in evidence there—and for a cultured, sociable urban sophisticate like Ovid, being forced to live in this remote outpost apart from his friends and family was a devastating blow. The cause of Augustus’s wrath, as a chastened Ovid would later describe it, was carmen et error—a poem and a mistake. The poem, the ostensible excuse for banishment, was the Ars Amatoria, the saucily playful “seducer’s handbook” that flew in the face of Augustus’s well-known attempts at moral reformation. The mistake (probably the actual catalyst) remains a mystery amid the poet’s cagey refusals to explain and therefore publicize what had actually happened; he still held out forlorn hope of being recalled. In terms of writing, Ovid was clearly shattered by his fall from grace, and from Tomis he would lament, even to the emperor himself, that this catastrophe broke off in mid-stream his work on the Fasti: Sex ego Fastorum scripsi totidemque libellos, cumque suo finem mense volumen habet, idque tuo nuper scriptum sub nomine, Caesar, et tibi sacratum sors mea rupit opus. (Tristia 2.549–52) [I have written six Fasti and as many books, each volume had an end along with its own month, but my fate broke off the work recently written under your name, Caesar, and dedicated to you.]

It is hard to miss the alternately plaintive, indignant, and pleading tones in the poet protesting that he had dedicated the Fasti in progress to Augustus. Despite the (disputed) claim of writing twelve books, Ovid never would finish the original twelve-book plan. Eventually he revised his six books of Fasti in exile to give us the work that survives, a poem that is in many ways a deeply transitional work of intriguing complexity, displaying inventive literary approaches of startling, kaleidoscopic variety. It bridges the poet’s lives before and after exile; it observes imperial power at the dangerous handoff between Augustus and his heir Tiberius; it conveys expressions of Roman identity at its core and at its edge. It belongs both everywhere and nowhere. Compared with its fraternal twin, the Metamorphoses, the Fasti has not Page 3 →fared well as literature until rather recently. While the Metamorphoses became and remains one of the canonical texts of Latin literature, the Fasti long languished in obscurity before witnessing an extraordinary renaissance in the last few decades. It is a priceless work of poetry and document of Roman culture, and its rehabilitation is well-merited. New translations, commentaries, books, and articles have flourished, bringing Ovid’s calendar poem back into energetic scholarly discussion, and I hope to add to the ongoing conversation with this book. My general focus is the Fasti’s treatments of Roman identity, that is, the poet’s literary depictions of aspects and expressions of Romanitas. These include founding figures, stories of origins and formative events, traditional exemplars of behavior, Roman cults, and geographical locations of special significance. Much good work has been done on the Fasti in itself, which brings me to a second element: I would like to broaden the conversation by considering Ovid’s work in relation to his day’s wider discourse of being Roman in Augustus’s Rome. “Discourse” can seem such a vague term; to clarify: I have chosen to look at Ovid vis-Г -vis three great contemporaries, all of whom took up, commented on, and in turn influenced the complicated presentations of Romanness in that era of constant change. These are Livy (59 BC–AD 17), the preeminent historian with the Ab Urbe Condita Libri, his 142-book account of Rome from its foundation; Virgil (70–19 BC), the epic poet par excellence with his posthumously published Aeneid; and Augustus (63 BC–AD 14), princeps and pater patriae who ultimately made Rome itself, including its calendar, his text. Seen in this nexus, the Fasti becomes even more a poem of overlapping, interweaving, intertextual, metatextual conversations, interactions, and negotiations. That multiplicity is, I think, part of its provocative if occasionally frustrating charm: this is no poem for careless or inattentive readers, Roman or modern. At the same time, the potential for discussion is vast, but the time-honored axiom mega biblion mega kakon (a big book is a big evil) is as true as ever. Accordingly, the third aspect of my organization hopes to place reasonable bounds on the project: I will look specifically at how Ovid engages these issues and authors through a number of significant female figures that he creates in his poem. Similarly to his previous Heroides, which had vigorously engaged epic and tragedy through the distaff side, the Fasti presents a great deal of its narratives through feminine avenues. In short, what happens when we look more closely at the Fasti interacting, specifically through these literary ladies, with Livy, Virgil, and Augustus as they also ponder the meaning of being Roman in a new age? What new perspectives may emerge, what new questions to be asked? Page 4 →

Ad Mea Tempora: Ovid and His Time More than any other poet of his day, Ovid has a personal life that colors how critics see his work. The historical fact of his banishment makes this all but inevitable, and the Fasti, along with all the poetry written in Tomis (Tristia, Ibis, and Epistulae ex Ponto), has a most complicated relationship with events external to the text. We—that is, Ovid scholars—think we know more about Ovid than many another Roman poet, with Horace excepted, and this is a fact enabled in part by Ovid himself with his artfully autobiographical poem Tristia 4.10, a work that is as eloquent in its omissions as in the information it gives. One should proceed with caution.2 A native son of Sulmo (modern Sulmona), a smallish provincial town in Paelignian territory of the Apennines some ninety miles east of Rome, Publius Ovidius Naso was born on March 20, 43 BC. It was a year to the day after the arrival of his elder brother and nearly a year to the day after the assassination of Julius Caesar. Ovid was

born into interesting times as civil wars raged first between the Caesarians and the conspirators and then, after the breathing space of the Second Triumvirate, between Mark Antony and Octavian. When Octavian won his final victory over Antony and Cleopatra at Actium in 31 BC to become the undisputed master of Rome, Ovid was about twelve years old and well into his education. The Ovidii appear to have been a prosperous equestrian family, local landed gentry, and Ovid’s father cherished ambitious plans for his two sons: he saw to it that they were both well educated in rhetoric in Rome as a prelude to legal and political careers. By the time Octavian took the name Augustus in 27 BC and set about remaking Rome in earnest, the sixteen-year-old from Sulmo was thinking about his vision of his future as opposed to his father’s. Ovid held a few minor offices, but then, despite the disapproval of his father and the untimely death of his brother, he gave up thoughts of a public career. He did it specifically in favor of a literary one and never looked back. Young Ovid made his first forays into poetry and recitations while still a teenager, and success came quickly; by his twenties, sometime perhaps between 20 and 16 BC, he published the first edition of his Amores, exuberant love poems in five books, and his brilliant literary career was underway. The Amores Ovid would eventually revise down to three books for a second edition around 2 BC, the version we have now. With them he established himself as the new master of the genre of Roman love elegy, joining his literary predecessorsPage 5 → Cornelius Gallus, Propertius, and Tibullus, the latter two of whom he personally knew. The hallmark meter of the genre, the elegiac couplet, became Ovid’s own, and he proceeded to stretch its uses as he expanded the genre itself. Roughly around the time of the Amores, he wrote the Heroides, a remarkably creative collection of psychological, emotive poems framed as letters written by forlorn heroines, mostly of myth and tragedy, to their absent lovers. In literary circles, amatory elegy was considered a “light” genre, a sort of bagatelle when compared to the grandiose solemnities of tragedy and epic, and Ovid even cheekily played with this idea of hierarchy and expectation in Amores 3.1. In it both Love Elegy and Tragedy personified appear to the poet and demand his attention; given the choice between sensual, beautiful Elegy and demanding, humorless Tragedy, the poet readily chooses Elegy while promising to give Tragedy her due someday soon. In Amores 3.15, the poet claims to bid farewell to love poetry in favor of tragedy, and sometime before the turn of the millennium he made good his promise by writing the Medea. Now sadly lost, it won plaudits and accolades, eventually prompting the dour Roman literary critic Quintilian to praise the play even as he complained about the playwright: Ovidi Medea videtur mihi ostendere quantum ille vir praestare potuerit si ingenio suo imperare quam indulgere maluisset (“Ovid’s Medea seems to me to show how outstanding that man could have been if he had preferred to rein in his talent instead of indulging it”).3 Devotees of Roman tragedy might very well share Quintilian’s frustration, for once Ovid proved that he could write high tragedy of the first caliber if he pleased, he produced no more tragedies. Instead he plunged right back into love elegy. This time it was the mock-didactic Ars Amatoria, or Art of Love, completed in three books around 1 BC, followed soon after by its sequel Remedia Amoris, or Cures for Love. In the former work, Ovid’s poetic persona shifted from the enthusiastic lover of the Amores to the worldly, wittily cynical praeceptor amoris, the professor of passion who purports to instruct his readership in the fine art of seduction. It was an imaginative twist on the genre of love poetry, and its sequel, the Remedia, was a further clever riff. Both collections are shot through with mischievous humor, and while Ovid’s elegant audience was appreciative, one suspects that the emperor Augustus was not amused. The Ars had splashed onto the literary scene at an awkward moment: all too close to the fatal day in 2 BC when the princeps finally grasped the full extent of his glamorous daughter Julia the Elder’s scandalously dissolute lifestyle. It was a discovery made even worse by contrast to his long-running attempts to restore the morals of the nobilityPage 6 → and to present his household as a model. Even worse, in those circles an imperial princess’s adultery with aristocrats could never be politically innocent in implication. Furious, Augustus banished Julia to the small rocky island of Pandateria (modern Ventotene) off the Italian coast and punished her highborn (and therefore politically dangerous) lovers with exile. The most prominent among them, Iullus Antonius, was condemned for treason and forced to commit suicide. It had not helped his case that his father was none other than Mark Antony.4

As for Ovid, nothing happened to him at the moment. Perhaps he did not think much or carefully about Julia’s debacle as he went on about his business with the Metamorphoses and Fasti until his own fatal moment came some nine years later. In the wake of whatever had actually transpired—and the event remains shrouded in mystery despite any number of theories that have been advanced—Augustus was in no mood to extend any benefit of the doubt to Ovid. Caught in a second cataclysm that saw Augustus’s granddaughter Julia the Younger banished to the island of Trimerus amid charges of adultery and whispers of treasonous conspiracy, Ovid found the emperor implacably set against him. He was sent to Tomis without delay, though the journey by ship was dangerous in winter seas.5 His wife, after the tearful farewell embellished in Tristia 1.3, remained in Rome to safeguard his interests and work for his recall. In exile, Ovid continued to write, sending back to Rome Tristia Book 1 in AD 9, almost as soon as he arrived in Tomis. More books of Tristia followed through AD 12, once more using Ovid’s favored elegiac couplet for the meter but in a way he had never before used it: the poems are laments, complaints, apologias, appeals for aid, calling on a cohort of different addressees, including Augustus himself. Sometime around AD 11 Ovid wrote the curse poem known as the Ibis, and two years later Books 1–3 of the Epistulae ex Ponto were completed as a single collection and framed as poetic letters. When Augustus died in AD 14 at the ripe old age of 75 and was succeeded by his stepson Tiberius, a door closed for Ovid. The poet had no real affinity for the second princeps Tiberius. Ovid wrote on bravely anyway, addressing Tiberius’s nephew, adopted son, and heir Germanicus and speaking favorably of Tiberius and Livia. A note of resignation, though, creeps into his poetry. Instead of asking to return to Rome, he began asking only for a change of venue in his exile. At an uncertain point, Ovid (assuming that we take him at his word—always Page 7 →a dangerous pastime6) wrote a now-lost poem in the local Getic language, and then he produced the fourth and final book of Epistulae ex Ponto around AD 16. Ongoing revisions of the Fasti seem to be the last poetic work Ovid took up. In it lies the latest dateable note in all his work, a reference to an event of AD 17. As he worked on this poem of tempora cum causis, times and reasons, his own tempora ran out: by AD 18, his sixtieth year, he was dust and shadows. Ovid died in Tomis without ever seeing Rome again, having failed to win any concession at all from the implacable imperial house. His precise burial place is now lost, but today in the city center of Constanta a larger-than-life size bronze statue of him stands, a belated tribute, the work of the nineteenth-century Italian sculptor Ettore Ferrari. It offers half of a somewhat odd, capricious postlude to the life of the poet, though Ovid may be wryly amused if he only knew: the other half appeared a few years later when an exact copy of the statue was set up in Italy, in the central piazza of the town that once inspired him to sing Sulmo mihi patria est. Ovid had returned to Sulmona.

Fasti: Vision and Revision In terms of the half-completed Fasti, the questions of what Ovid did to the poem in Tomis, and when and how, remain thorny and partially unanswerable. I should offer an opening caveat to the discussion: Ovid’s own presentation of the Fasti in Tristia 2 has confused and frustrated many a scholar. The passage is part of the banished poet’s emotional apologia pro sua vita addressed to Augustus, and I think that it is safer to take it as such—a passionate attempt to explain, defend, and even justify himself from exile—rather than as a purely factual statement. The Fasti as it currently exists does not quite dovetail with Tristia 2’s description of it, from the claim that it was dedicated to Augustus to its other (much more muddled and tendentious) claim that Ovid had written twelve books—all in all, more than reason enough for caution. Amid all the uncertainty, a few things are clear, and it seems best to start with these fundamentals.7 While writing the Metamorphoses, Ovid clearly also began work on the Fasti in Rome. He probably took up these two major projects in earnest once his Ars Amatoria and its sequel, Remedia Amoris, had been finished, giving us the window of c. AD 2–8.8 At the fateful moment of exile in Page 8 →late AD 8, the Metamorphoses and the Fasti were both unfinished, though the Metamorphoses seems to have been closer to its final form.9 As for the Fasti, since Ovid had chosen the Roman calendar as his organizational framework, he almost certainly from the onset planned a work in twelve books, with one book for each month. The fact that only six books exist does not imply that he planned for only six, and it seems that in AD 8, the books covering January to June existed in draft, with July to December still to be written. Ovid never finished the remaining books. This could be for any number of

reasons or combinations of reasons, not the least of which was his new interest in writing the exile poetry, which he did at the beginning of his time in Tomis with a fierce productivity that was likely born as much out of personal desperation as poetic inspiration. I am persuaded that Ovid in Tomis did not immediately begin revisions to the Fasti and that he may have not returned in earnest to that poem for some time, probably not until after the first frantic flowering of the Tristia. He may have edited and revised in fits and spurts, and he returns to his calendar poem in earnest near the very end of his life: Fasti 1.63 refers to or at least anticipates with confidence Germanicus’s triumph of May, AD 17.10 Ovid would be dead a year later at most. As for the unfinished quality of the poem, the likely scenario is that once he understood that, whatever the reasons (and many have been suggested), he would not write the July–December books, he edited Books 1–6 as a unit and placed elements into Book 6 to indicate closure. Of these, the most indicative are thematic parallels to Book 1 to achieve ring composition, the call to the Muses to place their final touch on his work (coeptis addite summa meis, 6.798), and the image of Hercules nodding and strumming his lyre as a valediction. The Fasti parades its incomplete state, with the missing books making almost as striking a statement as the books that do exist: those missing books are conspicuous by their absence and may even be considered a sort of mute protest.11 As Ovid had artfully lamented, tibi sacratum sors mea rupit opus, and rupit is never clearer than in the abrupt cliffhanger of silence after June 30. Actual revisions and their chronology constitute a subject extremely difficult to clarify with satisfaction. This is a work written and rewritten by an author in vastly different personal circumstances, physical locations, and frames of mind. We know that Ovid in Tomis revised the Fasti he had written Page 9 →in Rome, but the timeline is uncertain for precisely what he did and when. In some places, Ovid clearly refers to Augustus while the autocrat was alive, such as noting his being named pater patriae in February of 2 BC at 2.119–44. The poet elsewhere refers to his own exile (4.79–84) and mentions events that occurred after his relegatio, such as the dedication of the Temple of Concord in AD 10 (1.637–50). The death of Augustus in AD 14 was a watershed moment, and it also marked a shift in Ovid’s revisions. After this, the poet was forced to accommodate the new political reality and appeal to the new ruler, Tiberius. Accordingly, Ovid changed the dedication of the poem (1.3–26), addressing it to Tiberius’s nephew and adopted heir, the popular Germanicus, and wove more imperial celebrations and nods to Tiberius himself into the poem (1.533, 615–16, 645–50, 707).12 Germanicus, Tiberius, and Livia appear more frequently in Book 1 than in the rest of the poem, suggesting that Ovid was more or less making his way systematically through the Fasti, revising book by book; we should not forget, though, that hints of editing and rewriting scattered in other books, such as the Book 4 mention of exile, indicate other efforts made at other moments. These observations stem mainly from attempts to date particular details; in terms of the poem’s wider themes, some scholars have suggested convincingly that motifs of silence and exile are later additions informed by Ovid’s own experiences.13 Perhaps the most pragmatic approach to the maddeningly complicated history of the Fasti is this: because the poem was published from exile, exile becomes the inescapable lens through which the readers (be they Augustan or modern or even Ovid himself) see the project.14 Even though much or most of the Fasti was drafted before Tomis, the fact of exile affects the entire work, not only the passages that were specifically revised, rewritten, or added on the edge of the Black Sea. Instead of imposing limits, this approach ultimately expands discussions of the Fasti by opening additional avenues of interpretation, perhaps far more avenues than Ovid had expected when he first began the project, blissfully unaware of how it would end. The Fasti is an exquisitely liminal work expressing a world and an author both in flux, and questions often arise of whether it should be read with a view toward Augustus or Tiberius, Ovid the celebrated poet or Ovid the disgraced outcast, the exuberant comfort of Rome or the gray misery of Tomis, the celebration of Roman culture or the critique Page 10 →of imperial power. The best answer to all these either-or choices is not one or the other, but Yes. The capacious poem encompasses, even encourages, all these tensions and still more besides.

Temporal Engineering: The Changing Calendar

The literary history of Ovid’s Fasti is complex, but not more so than its substance. Its grand organizing principle is the Roman year, a choice that makes it unique in Latin literature. It is not the calendar itself but a discursive, creative commentary on that calendar’s form and content.15 Month by month in life and in verse, a colorful variety of festivals, commemorations, astronomical observations, and religious rites go by, each notable in character, each affording the enterprising poet an opportunity to elaborate on its history and significance if he so chooses. The roll of days offers a wide array of different holidays and their origins, tempora cum causis as line 1 of the Fasti proclaims the poem’s content to be, times and the reasons for them. Beyond marking the days, the calendar also has a much more fundamental function: it reflects, expresses, and offers a commentary on Roman culture and so the very idea of being Roman.16 When Ovid takes the calendar as his subject, he is also embracing all it entails. The true complications arise when that calendar itself changes. The changes began with Julius Caesar two years before Ovid was born. On January 1, 45 BC, a new year started in Rome, and it was new indeed: Caesar put in place his calendar reform that revolutionized Roman timekeeping. Tempora mutantur—the partly lunar, partly solar Republican-era calendar that needed constant adjustment was swept away. In its place was a purely solar, regularized year of twelve months divided among 365Вј days, with an extra day to be added every four years for leap year.17 Making the necessary adjustments was no small feat: 46 BC became the transitional year, and it required eighty days added onto it to bring the calendar into alignment with the seasons and the sun.18 46 BC became the longest year in history. This colossal count of 445 Page 11 →days was unprecedented, but it served its purpose in being, in the words of Macrobius, annus confusionis ultimus, “the last year of confusion.”19 Continuities remained between the old and new calendars. The old year had had twelve months as well, but because it had only 355 days, it required the occasional insertion (intercalation) of a thirteenth month, placed after February.20 Faulty or missing intercalations had by 46 BC resulted in a calendar desperately out of sync with the seasons, rendering agricultural festivals unworkable.21 The months in the new Julian calendar retained their old Republican names, at least in the beginning: Ianuaris, Februarius, Martius, Aprilis, Maius, Iunius, Quin(c)tilis, Sextilis, September, October, November, and December.22 Each month still kept its division into Kalends (always the first of the month), Nones (the fifth day of short months and the seventh of long ones), and the Ides (the thirteenth day or the fifteenth); Romans counted days in reference to these markers.23 Certain days were marked for certain legal or political activities. Days designated C on written calendars were dies comitiales, on which the citizen assemblies, the comitia, could gather for voting; days marked N, dies nefasti, meant no voting and no legal action in the court of the praetor urbanus, the city magistrate. Days marked EN for endotercisus were divided into periods when legal action was possible and not. The days marked F were dies fasti, a term that gave its name to the calendar as a whole: days permissible for legal action. These were all part of the civic calendar. Continuities aside, however, the new Julian calendar clearly broke from what had gone before. This was a source of political contention; before the Caesarian reforms, the priests (pontifices) controlled the calendar, not to say that they were entirely impartial and methodical about it. As members of Rome’s ruling noble families, they often carried out their charge under the influence of political, social, and other concerns. The calendar could be and was manipulated—an intriguing set of letters shows none other than Cicero attempting Page 12 →to prevent an upcoming calendar correction for personal reasons.24 Caesar removed timekeeping from the purview of the priests and arrogated it to himself with his astronomers and mathematicians.25 When he as master of Rome unilaterally pushed through his calendar reforms, the act bore an undeniable political tinge: Cicero, on being told that the constellation Lyra was due to rise, reportedly quipped, “It does so under orders” and cast Caesar’s mastery of the calendar as the monarchic desire of one man who, not content with dominating space, must also lord it over time itself as well.26 Later the Neronian poet Lucan, no admirer of Caesar, describes the autocrat’s desire to command the calendar and the stars in the same breath as his wish to find the source of the Nile, that proverbial metaphor for overwhelming hubris.27 The Roman calendar had always in part been a discourse of power, but now the power underpinning it was the autocrat’s; his identity impinged on the Romanitas in the list of days.28 The nexus between regime and calendar became explicit soon after. Julius Caesar had altered the structure of the year; now his influence would appear in its content. The fasti became an honorific for autocratic power: in 44 BC,

after the assassination of Caesar, the Senate renamed the month of Quin(c)tilis; it became Iulius after the dictator. In 8 BC, only a decade or so before Ovid began writing the Fasti, Caesar’s successor saw the month Sextilis renamed Augustus in his honor.29 The month names of July and August are with us still. Today the names are primarily labels, but in Ovid’s day they displayed how the calendar had become first a reflection and then an expression of imperial power and influence. The trend would grow as new imperial holidays, birthdays, and commemorations became grafted onto the calendar alongside the ancient Roman traditions that it had long marked.30 In 18 BC, for instance, Augustus instituted the Feriae Augusti festival in the month of August; the year before, he had established the Ludi Augustales or the Augustalia in October—a fact that he proudly included in his autobiography.31 It was the first time a Roman festivalPage 13 → had been named for a living human being, not a deity. Imperial concerns were fast complicating the calendar’s expressions of Roman identity, a subject already becoming ever more fluid as City and empire were being rebuilt, reconstituted, and in a fundamental way, remade under Augustus. When Ovid began writing the Fasti in this milieu, he was both innovating as a poet and engaging the broader issue of Romanitas in verse and in life all around him. He was doing so at a time when the calendar as an idea was the subject of great interest. It is no accident that most of the ancient Roman calendars that have been found date from the Augustan and Tiberian periods.32 Nevertheless, aside from standard notations of set holidays, months, and dates such as Kalends and dies nefasti, the calendars do not uniformly all mark the same imperial anniversaries. For instance, some calendars on March 27 note Julius Caesar’s victory at Alexandria in 47 BC while others do not; this element of selection appears for numerous other events, including Augustus’s closure of the temple of Janus, his marriage to Livia, and more.33 There seems to be no single “official” or “authorized” list of imperial calendar additions handed down for general distribution.34 In this period, the creation of calendars for display appears to be a flexible process open to some choice by the creators, though the princeps’ influence hovered in the air. Precisely how one negotiated with it was an overarching question; the calendars offer striking testimony that people were indeed trying. Of all the physical fasti that survive, perhaps the one most congenial to Ovid’s Fasti and helpful in its study is the Fasti Praenestini. Originally standing in the forum of Praeneste (modern Palestrina) some twenty miles east of Rome, this was a monumental marble calendar; its inscribed panels, arranged in a horseshoe, each measured eighteen by six-and-a-half feet. Today its fragments, now in Rome, are still impressive. Crucially, the Fasti Praenestini is both a contemporary of Ovid (dating AD 6–9) and closely tied to Augustus: it was set up by Verrius Flaccus, the freedman scholar who was tutor to the emperor’s own grandsons Gaius and Lucius. Aside from being an expression of personal standing—a statue of Flaccus stood in the semicircle35—the Fasti Praenestini contained explanations of selected days. These are only short notes, but they Page 14 →express the desire to annotate the year and comment on significant days and events; discrepancies between what Verrius Flaccus and what Ovid chose to include raise interesting questions.36 The imperial scholar also wrote a now-lost prose commentary on that calendar, which the poet may or may not have consulted; in any case, it reflects not only Flaccus’s but the wide active interest in the Roman year and all that it entailed and implied. We should remember that as much as scholars and poets (and others too) were interested in Roman time, so was the emperor Augustus, and not only in the renaming of a month in his honor in 8 BC. Then he had also personally intervened, as Julius Caesar had before him, in the technical workings of the calendar. He stepped in to correct the Julian year, already off-kilter from a misunderstanding about leap year.37 His greatest expression of imperial interest in time, however, is not with a calendar per se but with an even bolder project: the construction of the massive Horologium Augusti, a solar meridian, in the Campus Martius around 10 BC.38 With a red granite obelisk imported from Egypt as its gnomon (indicator), the Horologium tracked the sun by the shadow it cast on the bronze-inlaid marble pavement, tracking it as that shadow moved from solstice to solstice, zodiac sign to zodiac sign, through the year. At the same time, the Horologium stood in relation to two other highly symbolic landmarks on the Campus, Augustus’s own Mausoleum and the Ara Pacis Augustae, the Altar of Augustan Peace. Seasons, sun and stars, empire, and the power of the princeps were all bound together—potent stuff already in the air for Ovid’s ambitious poetic commentary on times and causes.

Canam, I Will Sing: The Fasti as Literature As poetry, Ovid’s Fasti defies easy classification. To begin, it has no true peers in Roman literature, though it does have a number of clear precedents and models. In its interest in stars, days, and aetiology—the origins of things—it displays Page 15 →an affinity for two famous works of Hellenistic Greek poetry of the third century BC: Aratus’s Phaenomena (“Star Signs”), written in hexameters and focusing on constellations and star myths, and Callimachus’s Aetia (“Causes”), written in elegiac couplets and collecting picturesque origin stories of cities, rites, and even a comet.39 In terms of Latin poetry, the Fasti’s closest predecessor is the fourth book of Propertius, who proclaimed his desire to be the Roman Callimachus at its publication about 15 BC; his was a collection in elegiac meter that included five poems dedicated to aetiology and early Rome. Latin literature, though, had no tradition of long-form, large-scale didactic or aetiological elegy: Ovid was breaking new ground, and he would push the elegiac genre to ever expanding possibilities in doing it. In the Fasti, the choice of the “light” elegiac meter itself implied certain expectations on the part of the learned, sophisticated audience. That meter came to the calendar poem already associated with lament and aetiology in the old Greek type, but also intimately linked in Rome with love poetry, a fact due in no small part to Ovid himself. The composite, kaleidoscopic, often playful poem, however, plays havoc with standard or simplistic expectations. The tension between the subject matter and the light meter is not only a function of the poem’s construction: it is also a topic highlighted by the poet himself remarking (rather disingenuously) on the supposed mismatch between the two even as he vigorously and boldly combined them.40 The relationship between epic and elegy, often construed as a contrast, was already very much an issue, both in general literary terms and in specifically Ovidian ones: we should not forget that he was writing an epic in dactylic hexameters even as he was composing the Fasti in elegiac couplets, stretching the borders of each meter. The elegiac meter has been usefully and insightfully called a “supergenre,” especially in its Ovidian incarnations.41 That is true, for the poet includes a staggering variety of topics in his work while shaping it all with the meter.42 Nevertheless, this may not go quite far enough. Ovid’s experiments in genre are not only about opening up the range of the elegiac couplet but also about examining and even exploiting the effect of what he has done. Ovid’s elegy is also a most self-aware creation, a “metagenre” that encompasses other genres and transmogrifies them even while commenting on their literary bona fides. Page 16 →The Fasti contains multitudes; this particularly Ovidian complexity is nowhere as much in evidence as in this poem. Considerations of genre are indebted to the investigations and observations of a number of preceding scholars. Heinze (1919) early on considered epic and elegy in the Fasti; Fantham (1998) and Merli (2000) followed suit, and this variegated group of scholars shares an overall general view of the epic and elegiac genres being in balance in the poem. On the other hand, Hinds (1987, but more so 1992), Newlands (1995), and Barchiesi (1997) argue for tension or stress in the two genres’ simultaneous deployment in the Fasti. The fundamental question is how these two source traditional genres interact and play out in their new Ovidian world along with other genre influences and narrative tones. In the words of Miller’s useful analysis: “But there is indubitably an element of contrast in that love continues to be a marker of elegy—albeit a love relocated or transformed—even though Ovid claims to be engaged with a totally different kind of elegy.”43 In that vein, the question of how the language, content, and sense of love elegy resonates in the Fasti is central to Newlands, Barchiesi, Miller (1991, with particular regard to the poem’s festivals) and (2013, examining how Ovid breaks the rules), and Murgatroyd (2005).44 Ovid’s new twist on elegy turns it into a capacious and flexible vehicle for the many dazzlingly different aspects of the calendar in poetry. In terms of the form itself, Pasco-Pranger’s 2006 study is a useful examination of the poetics of Ovid’s Roman parade of days; Murgatroyd (2005) considers different narratives of other genres and somewhat anticipates my chapter divisions of authors to compare with Ovid. For the Fasti’s interaction with the imperial influence of Augustus, Feeney (1992), Newlands (1995, 1996, 2002), and Barchiesi (1997) have helped shape my perspective on the fraught interplay between poet and princeps.45 Finally, though Roman religion per se is not the focus of my study, Beard’s 1987 consideration of holidays and their changing meanings is essential, while Miller (1991) analyzes the festivals with an eye to their literary

treatment and Scheid (1992) and Fantham (2002) attempt to consider Ovid’s poem in conjunction with actual Roman cult practice.

Calendar Girls My research perspective on the Fasti is to consider it as an intertextual project that engages Livy, Virgil, and Augustus through the many feminine figures that Page 17 →Ovid writes into his poem. On the one hand, critics may consider that “imperial ideology deletes woman,”46 but on the other, Ovid as an artist chose to populate this work with a vast array of women—young, old, noble, humble, royal, human, divine, nameless, legendary—all with their own stories to tell. Indeed, this book arose from a Fasti seminar in which I encountered this poem for the first time and was quickly struck by its sheer number, variety, and preponderance of female figures and by how surprising this seemed and yet also how very unsurprisingly, quintessentially Ovidian. His evocation of Rome and being Roman becomes intimately linked with these female figures and their tales—a motif that has not yet been fully explored as a collection, though a number of scholars have taken up an array of individual episodes and characters. My approach will be a series of close readings; individual figures will be discussed at length in coming chapters. In terms of scholarly predecessors, my project is in part expanding the approach that Sannicandro (2010) takes with Lucan, Augoustakis (2010) with Statius and Silius Italicus, and earlier Keith (2000) with her examination of women in Latin epic: focusing on the role and effect of female figures.47 More generally, Heath (2011) examines women transmitting mythical narrative and so also prompts my work to take a closer look at Ovid’s women as repositories of tales as well as storytellers and fabulists. My examination of Ovid’s women in the Fasti is also informed by work on Roman love elegy, particularly Wyke’s explication of the puella as a complicated literary confection (collected in 2002) and Gardner’s (2013) consideration of gendered time in erotic elegy with Bolton’s (2009) of gendered space. In general considerations of women and gender in negotiations and expressions of Roman prominence, Ramsby and Severy-Hoven (2007), Holmes (2012), and Milnor (2005) provided a useful springboard to investigations into what ultimately may be aspects and applications of, in Milnor’s phrase, “gendered Augustanism.”48 My focus on the Fasti’s women in literary action was tangentially anticipated by Keegan’s (2002) attempt to clarify female speech and silence in the poem and Labate (2003) on female models of the past. At the same time, my attempt to acknowledge the specific historical context of the Fasti has benefited from recent work on Roman women, particularly in religion and public life, such as Flory’s articles, Hemelrijk’s researches, Schultz (2006), TakГЎcs (2007), Boatwright (2011), again Milnor (2012), and Lindner (2015). Dolansky (2012) and Caldwell (2015) offered especial considerations of how gender roles and ideals may have been constructed for Roman girls. The Augustan age, as a number of scholars have demonstrated, was a time that Page 18 →saw the rise of new roles in public life for women. The Fasti is intimately connected with its day and age, the time of Augustus, and its nuances cannot be fully appreciated without a command of that historical moment and milieu. This approach has clear links to the critical approach of cultural poetics or New Historicism, though I hasten to add the reminder that as much as the Fasti is an artifact of its time, to be understood in that context, it is also a creative work of art born of an individual talent, and, at its best, art is transcendent: the poem is not only an artifact, and so we must avoid one of New Historicism’s pitfalls. Finally, I am not arguing per se that Ovid is “gendering” or “feminizing” the Fasti as a whole, yet in the course of my research I find that I am also not refusing to say this. In Ovid’s hands, the calendar with its parade of holidays, festivals, and commemorations becomes a poetic project filled with substitute foci and alternate emphases, of which many feature or prioritize female figures. Gender considerations and literary choices blend and mingle organically. Ovid’s women are at work and play throughout the Fasti. Many a male figure does likewise, but the insistent, flamboyantly female presence is irrepressible. If I for my part seem to be disingenuously refusing to take a stand as a reader and critic, perhaps that is the point—not so much of my work but of the Ovidian work that it hopes to consider. Perhaps this is not so much an argument as a proposal sprung from research curiosity: let us read the Fasti with an eye for its literary feminine facets and see where the poem

takes us.

Conclusion As it seems (and perhaps is) odd to write a close to an introduction, I shall note only that this project is intended to be more impressionistic and suggestive than comprehensive or conclusive. In that vein, I have kept footnotes and references to a minimum and written in the hope that it will engage anyone with an interest in Ovid, his era, and his remarkable work. My ultimate purpose is not to declare definitive answers but to stimulate further conversation, for much remains to be discussed. The Fasti is a precious and fascinating work, one of the most insightful reflections we have of Augustan Rome by a Roman who lived in its vibrancy and volatility as well as its startling creative ferment to create literature that was both of his time and for posterity. If this book prompts more readers to take up Ovid’s calendar poem for themselves or to read or reread any of the artist’s other verses, then I will not have written in vain.

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Chapter 1 (Up)Setting Examples Vying with Livy With his Ab Urbe Condita Libri, Livy produced a monumental work of history and historiography that was fully self-aware of its interest in Roman identity. The formation and expression of that identity takes shape under the grand organizing idea famously expressed in the historian’s preface to his work: Hoc illud est praecipue in cognitione rerum salubre ac frugiferum, omnis te exempli documenta in inlustri posita monumento intueri; inde tibi tuaeque rei publicae quod imitere capias, inde foedum inceptu foedum exitu quod vites. (Praefatio10) [This is an especially beneficial and fruitful thing to be gained from the knowledge of history: that you see every kind of example displayed in clear recollection. From there you may take what to emulate for yourself and for your country and also what, disgraceful from start to finish, to avoid.] Livy intimately links the idea of model behavior with Roman self-definition and the welfare of Rome at large, and so the work of this most preeminent of Augustan-era historians became itself a touchstone for discussions of Romanness. While he could pessimistically opine that in his day and age Rome could endure neither its vices nor their cures (Praefatio 9),49 Livy nevertheless suggests a sort of remedy in saying that Roman is as Roman does, particularly in terms of virtue both personal and civic. By presenting historical figures as emblems of Page 20 →moral qualities and Roman character that had made Rome great in the past, he offers them as models that should be emulated now as City and empire began to rebuild after years of civil war. To accomplish these meditations on exemplarity, Livy presents a colorful parade of dramatic set piece narratives marked by powerful speeches and formidable individuals of gravitas and dignitas. These lofty, aspirational, moralizing figures clearly caught Ovid’s eye:50 in the Fasti, he specifically engages a number of Livy’s exemplary figures.51 Their stories were well known long before Livy and Ovid, but Livy’s treatment had given them a fresh literary energy, and Ovid in turn takes on four of the historian’s great narratives: the Conflict of the Orders, a time when the Roman community was tearing itself apart between patricians and plebeians; the Lacus Curtius, a location whose name enshrined martial exploits from Rome’s early days; Claudia Quinta and the arrival of the goddess Cybele to save Rome during the war with Hannibal; and the Rape of Lucretia, the catalyst for the expulsion of the kings and the establishment of the Roman Republic. These four stories, so robust in Livy for expressing Roman self-fashioning and heroic exemplarity, give way to alternate tones, registers, and perspectives in Ovid. In the question of what happens when Livian exemplars become Ovidian figures, we see instantly that they become stories of helpful, garrulous old women (in the case of the first two episodes) and beautiful puellae, the elegant mistresses of Roman love poetry (in the latter two). Exemplars yield to competing stories that reveal the artificiality and instability, or at least the malleability, of exemplars.52 As models of behavior can be set up, so can they be taken down or moved. In fact, to be an exalted moral exemplar at all is almost to invite an uncrowning by an irreverent, playful, and learned poet, and Ovid was just such a poet.

Let Them Eat Liba: Anna of Bovillae, the Plebs, and the Conflict of the Orders in Fasti 3.661–74 We begin with an unassuming little story that appears in a list of possible origins of the ancient river goddess Anna Perenna. The tale of Anna of Bovillae Page 21 →takes place during the Conflict of the Orders, specifically during the plebeians’ famous gambit of withdrawing en masse to the Mons Sacer outside Rome in 494 BC.53

This same incident figures prominently in Livy, whose account at 2.23–33 is our most extensive extant literary source. It is also arguably the most influential Latin literary depiction of this secessio plebis, the Secession of the Plebs. As Livy presents it, the confrontation between the patricians and plebeians over civic rights and political participation is a critical moment for the emergent city-state: Roman identity is at stake as the integrity, viability, and thus future of the Urbs are all in peril.54 Livy’s account is concerned primarily with events in the city of Rome proper, expressed with the historian’s characteristic sweeping scope and flair for the dramatic. He contextualizes the conflict as taking place during a particularly perilous moment for the early Republic: external military danger and internal civil dissension create a perfect storm (2.23.1ff). The domestic discord between patrician and plebeian indicates not only a political quarrel but also a loss of social cohesion. Roman civic integrity begins to break down into factionalism and chaos, threatening Rome’s viability as a community and composite society. Meanwhile a foreign enemy in the shape of the Volscians threatens Rome’s viability as a nation-state. The need for Rome to sort out its internal identity crisis becomes urgent. The Livian account describes the clearest sign of that crisis: the plebs’ drastic move of seceding from Rome and making camp on the Mons Sacer (2.32.2). The participants have made thoughtful preparation; from building a proper camp to bringing provisions, they are committed to the long haul. The effect on patricians still in the City is galvanizing: Nullam profecto nisi in concordia civium spem reliquam ducere; eam per aequa, per iniqua reconciliandam civitati esse. (2.32.7)—there was no hope left except for the harmony of the citizens: by fair means or foul the country had to be reconciled. Rome, as a community of different constituencies grounded in a location, is at stake. At this point in the narrative, Livy’s penchant for exemplars and speeches asserts itself. Out of the confusion in the City, an individual arises who exhibits a model quality needed in such a crisis. Here that quality is publicly oriented, comprised of the diplomatic skills of rhetoric and persuasion, and the individual is Menenius Agrippa, whom Livy describes as a man respected by both feuding orders. Furthermore, because of his doubly good repute, he is the one Roman with the ability, opportunity, and responsibility to reconcile the fractious, feuding orders: sic placuit igitur oratorem ad plebem mitti Menenium Page 22 →Agrippam, facundum virum et quod inde oriundus erat plebi carum (2.32.8). Menenius Agrippa, himself a plebeian, is the patricians’ choice to be their emissary to the aggrieved plebeians on the Mons Sacer; once there, he mollifies their anger by telling them the parable of the Belly and the Limbs (2.32.9–12). The result is the reconciliation of plebeians and patricians: the crisis is resolved and the composite nature of the state restored as its factions reintegrate. In Livy’s account, the involvement of Menenius Agrippa is essential. He is the bridge between the two orders; because of his efforts, Roman community is restored and the fracture in Roman civic identity healed. In this episode he is also the only named figure whose personal identity and individual actions Livy describes in any detail. Even more than solving the crisis, Menenius Agrippa gains a place in Roman public regard. A new sense of unity in the Roman community emerges, and he is at the heart of it: Livy explicitly describes him in the aftermath as vir omni in vita pariter patribus ac plebi carus (2.33.10)—he was a man for all his life equally dear to the patricians and the plebs. He comes to embody the kind of concord that Rome needed. The coda is an account of Menenius Agrippa’s death and funeral, and it contains something of a surprise—the plebeians pay his funeral expenses: .В .В . post secessionem carior plebi factus. Huic interpreti arbitroque concordiae civium, legato patrum ad plebem, reductori plebis Romanae in urbem sumptus funeri defuit; extulit eum plebs sextantibus conlatis in capita. (2.33.10–11) [.В .В .В after the secession he was dearer to the plebs. His services to his country had been great: sent by the Senate as their ambassador to the people, he had carried through the negotiations which healed the breach between the opposing classes, and had been the means of bringing back to Rome the citizens who had deserted her; yet he died so poor that his estate could not bear the expense of his funeral. He was buried by the commons, who each contributed a few coins.] This is a touching conclusion, and it also contains the intriguing idea that the plebs regarded him as a worthy

recipient of their honor not only because he was a plebeian himself but also because he had achieved the reconciliation of plebs and patricians. The plebeians act with their own smaller but distinct identity within the greater Rome, but here they act in that way to honor the man who helped reincorporate them into the larger community. The postmortem celebration of Menenius Agrippa is a remembrance of his successful efforts to Page 23 →bridge the gulf between patricians and plebeians during that perilous moment in Roman history.55 Ovid’s presentation of the same plebeian secession is strikingly different both in detail and implication. Within the framework of the Roman calendar, he introduces the date: the Ides of March with its ancient festival of Anna Perenna. A cheerful springtime celebration, a festum geniale, the rites of the goddess took place on the banks of the Tiber in the shape of a massive picnic with drinking, singing, and dancing (3.523–44). The poet points out a specific feature of the participants—they are plebeians: Idibus est Annae festum geniale Perennae non procul a ripis, advena Thybri, tuis. plebs venit ac virides passim disiecta per herbas potat, et accumbit cum pare quisque sua. sub Iove pars durat, pauci tentoria ponunt, sunt quibus e ramis frondea facta casa est; pars, ubi pro rigidis calamos statuere columnis, desuper extentas imposuere togas. sole tamen vinoque calent annosque precantur quot sumant cyathos, ad numerumque bibunt. (3.523–32) [On the Ides is the merry feast of Anna Perenna not far from your banks, foreign Tiber. The plebs arrive and scatter all over the green grass They drink, and everyone reclines beside their mates. Some rough it under Jupiter’s sky, a few pitch tents, Some fashion leafy nests from branches. Others set up reed poles as rigid columns and then stretch their togas over them. They warm up with sun and wine, and pray for years to match their cups, and they count all their drinks.] The phrase plebs venit makes clear who these festival-goers are, and the description evocatively conjures a festive scene of temporary shelters and cheerful humble pleasures. At the same time, the ultimate identity and origin of

Anna Page 24 →Perenna are open for debate, as the poet himself declares.56 He enthusiastically offers a variety of suggestions, but then he offers one that he describes as haec quoque, quam referam, nostras pervenit ad aures / fama, nec a veri dissidet illa fide (3.661–62)—This story, too, which I will relate, came into my hearing, and it is not too far from the truth. This is as close as Ovid comes to making a claim of truth about the origin of Anna Perenna (as self-contradictory as it is), and his narrative choice is whimsical and fundamentally unruly. He links Anna’s background to the Conflict of the Orders, but only to one side of it. Ovid’s focus is strictly on the plebeian experience: plebs vetus et nullis etiam nunc tuta tribunis fugit et in Sacri vertice Montis erat; iam quoque quem secum tulerant defecerat illos victus et humanis usibus apta Ceres. (3.663–66) [The plebeians of old, unprotected by tribunes, fled to the top of the Sacred Mount. Already the provisions they took with them had run out Along with grain fit for human consumption.] In contrast to Livy’s plebeians, Ovid’s seem more emotionally volatile—they fled, fugit—and they are less prepared; though they took provisions with them, they, unlike the historian’s commoners, ran out of supplies. As Livy’s does, Ovid’s rendition of the Conflict of the Orders focuses on an individual as the face of the situation. The poet, however, presents not Menenius Agrippa or anyone of that admirable ilk, but an old baker woman named Anna of Bovillae:57 orta suburbanis quaedam fuit Anna Bovillis, pauper, sed multae sedulitatis anus; illa, levi mitra canos incincta capillos, fingebat tremula rustica liba manu, atque ita per populum fumantia mane solebat dividere: haec populo copia grata fuit. (3.663–72) Page 25 →[There was a certain Anna born in Bovillae on the city outskirts, a poor old woman but very hardworking. She, having bound her white hair with a light headdress used to make rustic cakes with an unsteady hand. And so every morning she used to share them steaming hot among the

people; this abundance was welcome to them.] The plebeians found themselves short of food, but Anna’s liba helped them hold out until they wrested political concessions from the patricians.58 In this sense, she is a plebeian partisan, and afterwards the grateful commons dedicated a statue in her honor: pace domi facta signum posuere Perennae, quod sibi defectis illa ferebat opem. (3.673–74) [When peace had been made at home, they set up a statue to/of Perenna, because she had given them help when they needed it.] Anna is the heroine of the piece not for reconciling the quarreling orders Г la Menenius Agrippa but for helping the plebeians only. She is their heroine and specifically commemorated as such. That she receives an honorific statue places Anna on par with such rare and exemplary female statue recipients as Cloelia, said to have received an equestrian statue, and Cornelia, mater Gracchorum, whose seated bronze image resided in the Forum itself.59 The fact that we have no archaeological confirmation of a statue to Anna is not the point; what matters is the fact that Ovid gives her one within the Fasti. In his literary world, she possesses this signal honor. The statue implies something else too: although the plebs who gave Anna her statue have reconciled with the patricians and reintegrated into the larger Page 26 →Roman society, they keep their own identity as plebeians with their own history and shared experiences.60 The plebs in Livy as a group paid for Menenius Agrippa’s funeral expenses to honor him for his work in reconciling the orders. The plebs in Ovid as a group paid for a statue to honor Anna for helping them in their standoff against the patricians. The difference is fundamental. It also points out the complexities of identity and the impossibility of creating a seamless composite civic identity. Where old Anna is concerned, there is more than meets the eye, and her story is a complex tissue of influences and associations. Aside from emphasizing a separate plebeian identity, Anna’s story has a Callimachean emphasis on the small, the humble, and the rustic. Livy’s majestically dramatic speeches and exemplary images are nowhere to be found. Ovid’s story highlights only aged Anna of Bovillae, busy, bustling, and helpful.61 Her Callimachean poetics also turn Livy’s grand moment into Ovidian literary play.62 The image of the hospitable old woman harks back to Callimachus’s fragmentary Hellenistic epyllion, the Hecale; there a poor elderly country woman hosts the hero Theseus, who later memorializes her.63 Anna of the Fasti also echoes the poor but hospitable couple, Baucis and Philemon, hosting Jupiter and Mercury in Book 8 of Ovid’s own Metamorphoses—an episode that itself echoes the Hecale. They too are remembered for their virtue. Ovid, by centering the Roman political crisis on aged Anna and her liba, chooses to align her with this small-scale, individualized sensibility while adapting it to treat a larger issue: Hecale with her hospitality helped a single individual (albeit a hero), while Anna assisted an entire group, a subset of the Roman social whole. Furthermore, as an old woman with cakes, Anna is a neat parallel for the old women celebrating Bacchus in the annual Liberalia fertility festival: on this March holiday, old women crowned with ivy sit throughout the city selling cakes—liba—to all comers (3.761–70). Ovid explains that the celebrants love wine and Bacchus is worshipped by women. A country element underpins the festival too as Ovid remarks that rustic folk come into the city for the games Page 27 →then (3.783). Anna is also associated with several more rather compromising factors. One is her possible Eastern origin: her headdress, a mitra, is indicative, for it is a distinctly foreign fashion.64 Another factor is Anna’s association with hot cakes. She may be simply a baker, but she may also be a tavern keeper of sorts. Tavern keepers were sometimes regarded as brothel keepers too, for their waitresses

could double as prostitutes; more than one kind of tart may have been available for the hungry customer.65 Finally, tavern-keeping, erotic dancing, and flute girls were frequently linked with Eastern immigrants in Rome. The playful pseudo-Virgilian poem Copa of the first century AD, for instance, showcases a mitra-wearing Syrian tavern hostess who offers hospitality in the form of food (even described as fumantia and rustica), wine, and dancing girls.66 Another pseudo-Virgilian poem, the Moretum, also involves humble breadmaking by an old foreign woman. With all this as backdrop, Ovid’s Anna takes on a cheerful ignobility, the low side of Romanness, and a sense of social separation as opposed to Livy’s loftier vision. This brings us back full circle to the Anna Perenna festival by the Tiber. A deeper resonance exists between the baker of Bovillae and the goddess-patron of the spring carnival than a casual reader may realize. Anna the baker had supplied food to the plebeians who had left Rome; Ovid describes them departing with the phrase plebsВ .В .В . fugit (3.663–64), they fled. The poet subsequently makes the neat connection to another set of plebeians eating and drinking in the open air: the commons celebrating Anna Perenna’s festival. Ovid calls them plebs again—plebs venit (3.525), they come. What emerges is Ovid’s delicate literary evocation of a Roman plebeian culture, with two Annas—goddess and baker—as its touchstones. While the wider Roman society of patricians and foreigners and other groups is crucial, Ovid evokes one vibrant component of that supercommunity: the plebeians who, while Roman, also have a subculture of their own, with their own shared experience, their own heroes/heroine of the past, and a freewheeling festival celebrated with their peers. Livy’s Conflict of the Orders is an opportunity for the historian to expound a unifying vision of social and political Roman identity. Ovid chooses to present another vision of Roman community entirely; he creates a vignette that de-prioritizes male Page 28 →political prominence and lofty rhetoric in favor of Anna, her sympathy with the plebs, and her resistance to established civic authority. Finally, in terms of the Roman calendar, Anna the baker’s whimsical engagement with history and literature takes on yet another nuance. She is, within the context of the greater tale of Anna Perenna the river goddess, only one of several possible aetiologies. The poet considers some half-dozen options (3.543–698), and in the end he does not make a definitive choice. The occasion of Anna Perenna’s festival on the Ides of March becomes an opportunity to meditate on the open nature of fashioning Roman identity. The multiplicity of possible explanations for Anna, including the old baker woman, suggests that numerous perspectives are always in play and that any kind of group identity is flexible to some degree.

The Lack of Curtius: A Place Name without an Etymology in Fasti 6.395–416 In Livy, the Lacus Curtius (literally, “the Curtian lake”) in the Forum Romanum is a location particularly laden with associations of what it means to be Roman. The historian recounts two separate origin tales for the name of this once-marshy site, and they both focus on Roman identity in terms of history, virtus as the exemplary ideal of masculine courage, and the growth and success of early Rome. In these narratives, the naming of the Lacus is the conclusion and seal of the story. The site, its name, and its cultural and historical connotations all fuse together, and it becomes a monument that declares: this is the Lacus Curtius, this is how it should be recalled, and this is what it means in terms of Rome and Romanness. Each of Livy’s etymologies is prescriptive, fixing a specific meaning onto the topography and transforming it into a monumentum. Livy’s first narrative focuses on the Sabine warrior Mettius Curtius.67 The story unfolds in the midst of early Rome’s struggles to survive: in the aftermath of the Rape of the Sabine Women, war has broken out between Romulus’s first-generation Romans and the outraged Sabine communities nearby. This is Rome at its very inception, struggling to establish itself, its Mediterranean empire still a distant dream of the future. During a pitched battle in the Forum, the Sabine commander Mettius Curtius conspicuously displayed his mettle (1.12.8–10), even though the tide eventually turns against him. The battle is Page 29 →ultimately known for the intervention of the Sabine women that ended the war and reconciled Sabine and Roman.68 Livy gives them a showcase speech, and the combined effect of this and their bold actions is electric:

movet res cum multitudinem tum duces; silentium et repentina fit quies; inde ad foedus faciendum duces prodeunt. Nec pacem modo sed civitatem unam ex duabus faciunt. Regnum consociant: imperium omne conferunt Romam. Ita geminata urbe ut Sabinis tamen aliquid daretur Quirites a Curibus appellati. (1.13.4–5) [It moves the rank and file as well as the commanders. A sudden hush falls. Then the leaders come forward to make a treaty. They not only make peace but also one community out of two. They share power, but all authority transfers to Rome. Thus with the City doubled, the citizens were named Quirites from the town of Cures so that something might be granted nevertheless to the Sabines.] Peace is concluded, the survival of early Rome assured. Sabine and Roman join forces, enlarging and energizing the Roman project and also expanding what it means to be Roman. Furthermore, etymology is a mark of the new Sabine-Roman concord: the name Quirites, taken from a Sabine town’s name, becomes a term of Roman identification.69 Livy’s coda to the incorporation of Sabine and Roman is, significantly, another etymology. This one stamps the memory of the conflict and, by extension, its beneficial resolution onto the physical landscape: Monumentum eius pugnae ubi primum ex profunda emersus palude equus Curtium in vado statuit, Curtium lacum appellarunt. (1.13.5) [They named the place the Lacus Curtius where Curtius’s horse had first struggled out of the deep marsh into the shoals, as a memorial of the battle.] The term monumentum is specific about the preservation and transmission of memory. It is a reminder of Mettius Curtius, but it is also a larger reminder of Page 30 →the Sabine-Roman experience that arced from hostility to cooperation. Curtius, while he had fought valiantly against the Romans, is now part of the commingled population of greater Rome. In Livy, two Sabine names take on new life in Roman usage: the place name of Cures, now tied to Roman civic identity, and the personal name of Mettius Curtius, now transmuted into a Roman landmark.70 The idea of military, masculine virtus also lies at the heart of Livy’s second etymology of the Lacus Curtius. This is the better known of the two tales, and this story, appearing in numerous other authors, is still the most common explanation attached to the location.71 Once again, the narrative centers on an existential threat to Rome, here a vast abyss that opens in the middle of the Forum. Soothsayers promptly declare that the chief strength of the Roman people—plurimum populus Romanus posset—must be thrown into the chasm in order to close it and ensure that Rome will endure forever, perpetuam esse. The question of what that chief strength is goes straight to the heart of Roman identity. An answer soon emerges in the shape of the young soldier Marcus Curtius: Eodem anno, seu motu terrae seu qua vi alia, forum medium ferme specu vasto conlapsum in immensam altitudinem dicitur; neque eam voraginem coniectu terrae, cum pro se quisque gereret, expleri potuisse, priusquam deum monitu quaeri coeptum quo plurimum populus Romanus posset; id enim illi loco dicandum vates canebant, si rem publicam Romanam perpetuam esse vellent. Tum M. Curtium, iuvenem bello egregium, castigasse ferunt dubitantes an ullum magis Romanum bonum quam arma virtusque esset, et silentio facto templa deorum immortalium, quae foro imminent, Capitoliumque intuentem et manus nunc in caelum, nunc in patentes terrae hiatus ad deos manes porrigentem, se devovisse; equoque deinde quam poterat maxime exornato insidentem, armatum se in specum immisisse; donaque ac fruges super eum a multitudine virorum ac mulierum congestas lacumque Curtium non ab antiquo illo T. Tati milite Curtio Mettio sed ab hoc appellatum. (7.6.1–6) [In the same year, it is said that, either from an earthquake or some other force, the middle of the Forum or thereabouts collapsed into a huge chasm of enormous depth. Nor could the abyss be filled by throwing in Page 31 →earth that everyone brought, until a warning from the gods started people wondering what the greatest strength of the Roman people might be: for that was what the soothsayers were prophesying must be offered up to the place, if they wished the Roman republic to

be everlasting. Then they say that Marcus Curtius, a young man outstanding in the military, rebuked those doubting whether there were any greater Roman good than her arms and valor. With silence fallen, he looked up to the temples of the immortal gods which tower above the Forum and the Capitol, and stretching out his hands now to the sky, now to the gaping holes in the earth and the gods of the Underworld, he took up the devotio. He then mounted a horse caparisoned with the greatest splendor and hurled himself fully armed into the chasm. A crowd of men and women then threw gifts and heaped food offerings after him. The Lacus Curtius was named for him, it is said, and not after the Mettius Curtius who was a soldier of Titus Tatius in former times.]

Marcus Curtius first declares what Rome’s most valuable possessions and exemplary features are—arma virtusque, weapons and courage—and then embodies them by sacrificing himself. In this he makes himself an indelible part of Rome, both by literally being incorporated into the Forum and by becoming a showcase of virtus. It is a story tailor-made for Livy’s interest in models of morality: Marcus Curtius saves Rome with courage, religious scruples, and an unforgettable, spectacularly iconic death scene with horse, armor, and all.72 The Lacus Curtius named after him becomes inextricably tied to his public self-sacrifice and manifest courage—a quality to be admired, remembered, and emulated thereafter as a quintessential Roman trait. The Lacus itself becomes the prescriptive monumentum of public, civic, martial, male virtue; the name stamps the memory of Marcus Curtius onto the location even more dramatically than the Mettius Curtius tale had done. Livy even concludes by stating that this becomes the favored etymology.73 The Lacus Curtius and its backstory also appear in the Fasti Book 6, where Page 32 →Ovid takes his liberties. Exemplary behavior and elevated themes disappear, and Livy’s two doughty eponymous warriors vanish in favor of two nameless women. They, a matron and an old local, present an entirely different perspective on Roman identity and what topography might mean in its discussion and practice.74 Ovid begins his story unassumingly, his persona rather at loose ends in the Forum and wandering home: Forte revertebar festis Vestalibus illa quae Nova Romano nunc Via iuncta foro est: huc pede matronam nudo descendere vidi; obstipui tacitus sustinuique gradum. sensit anus vicina loci, iussumque sedere adloquitur, quatiens voce tremente caput. (6.395–400) [On Vesta’s holiday I happened to be coming back by the path that recently linked the Via Nova to the Forum Romanum. I saw a lady making her way down this way barefoot. I was stunned into silence, and I stopped. An old woman from the neighborhood noticed, told me to sit down, and spoke as her head shook and her voice trembled.] Swiftly buttonholing the poet, she launches into a cheerfully evocative tale of bygone Rome. At first glance this

might appear to be merely an amusing sidebar—the Fasti does have its fair share of whimsical digressions—but a closer look reveals a surprisingly complex literary creation. The matrona’s going barefoot may be unconventional, but the poet’s self-proclaimed astonishment seems comically excessive: obstipui is a word that evokes epic Virgilian grandeur, appearing in the Aeneid almost exclusively with startling supernatural encounters.75 Here the term describes seeing a Roman woman without her sandals; it is difficult not to read a wink of Ovidian humor. Eventually the reason for the missing footwear emerges—it is a quaint local custom—but at this point in the passage the poet’s supposed ignorance is the notable detail. Ovid the persona is supposed to be, as he is twice described in Page 33 →the Fasti, the operosus vates, the diligent and learned bard, the researcher and explainer of Roman habits. Yet here he is at a loss. An elderly local woman notices his befuddlement and teaches him the aetiology. The operosus vates abdicates both his roles as repository of knowledge and as storyteller, and the garrulous old woman takes them up. In ordering Ovid to sit, listen, and learn, she is like a teacher; in being a woman of the location, she is also something like an odd human Lar.76 In her age and her tremulous quality, she recalls another elderly but effective woman, Anna of Bovillae. Though old and female, the talkative anus of the Forum still manages to take on a tinge of authority as she recounts the history of the area.77 Hers is, however, a tale with no protagonist, no outstanding figure who will stamp his name on the landscape. Instead she paints a suggestive scene of archaic Rome before it became caput mundi and Augustus’s city of marble.78 Her historical vision is about the geography itself, and her tone is conversational: hoc, ubi nunc fora sunt, udae tenuere paludes; amne redundatis fossa madebat aquis. Curtius ille lacus, siccas qui sustinet aras, nunc solida est tellus, sed lacus ante fuit; qua Velabra solent in Circum ducere pompas, nil praeter salices cassaque canna fuit. (6.401–6) [Soggy swamps occupied this place where the fora are today; the ditch was sodden with the river flows. That [famous] Lacus Curtius over there, which supports dry altars, is solid ground now, but it was a lake before. The spot where the Velabrum funnels parades to the Circus was nothing but willows and hollow reeds.] She calls the spot Curtius ille lacus, but though she employs that famous place-name, she never explains it: she gives no etymology, history, or eponym. No Page 34 →definitions of meaning or identity appear, only vivid physical descriptions of topography. There is something subtle in how the she harks back to a time before the Lacus Curtius was marked by altars or other signifiers of meaning: at one point in the past, that location was unmarked and undefined, a watery spot in the landscape. The altars are an effective embodiment of how meaning can be imposed or defined for a location, but the overall idea is not confined to those siccasВ .В .В . aras of Ovid’s day. The spot did not yet have a fixed identity, much less significance in terms of Roman identity.

This theme of unfettered identity emerges a few lines later in the old woman’s impromptu lecture. In the distant past that her words conjured up, nondum conveniens diversis iste figuris nomen ab averso ceperat amne deus. (6.409–10) [The god over there [Vertumnus] had not yet taken his name from the turned stream that also fits his different shapes.] The fact that the anus vicina mentions the Etruscan god Vertumnus, famed for his shape-shifting talents and flexible identity, has a particular point. A favorite of Augustan-era poets who highlighted his variability, the god possessed a statue in the Vicus Tuscus near the Lacus Curtius, and this signum was regarded as ancient by Ovid’s day.79 The mention of a time before the chameleon-like divinity took a name implies a time before even his identity was defined. However difficult Vertumnus may be to pin down because of his ability to change his appearance, his name remains constant—once he has it. To imagine a day of a nameless Vertumnus is to imagine a primordial time when identity is completely fluid. The old woman’s account is also unexpectedly playful. She gives the reason for Vertumnus’s name and almost suggests an etymology.80 Teasingly, though, she never mentions the name itself.81 On the other hand, she names the Lacus Curtius, though she does not explain the origin of that name. A full origin story does appear in her tale, but it is not about the Lacus. Instead it is about the custom of going barefoot in that precinct:82 Page 35 →hic quoque lucus erat iuncis et harundine densus et pede velato non adeunda palus. stagna recesserunt et aquas sua ripa coercet, siccaque nunc tellus: mos tamen ille manet. (6.411–14) [Here too there was a grove thick with canes and rushes, and a marsh that should not be approached with a shod foot. The pools have receded and the banks hold back the water, and now the earth is dry, but all the same that custom remains.] This aetiology is idiosyncratic, antiquarian, obscure, and appealingly colorful, but it is not remotely about exemplary Roman identity. It does not set out aspirational moral prescriptions, only descriptions of an archaic habit. Even so, it makes a valid point: quaint old customs are also a form and expression of being Roman, and there was a Rome long before Augustus came to turn the ramshackle old city of brick into his gleaming new city of marble. The old woman also reminds us of the existence of the everyday lives of residents—ordinary, inglorious, nameless denizens of Rome who still keep alive the old local customs. She suggests that the Roman past is tied to topography and that historical memory has a mundane, even low and local element. She herself is a repository of such specialized local knowledge; for a moment, she is like Ovid’s operosus vates, and she sets forth a facet of Roman cultural memory about the Lacus that has nothing to do with Mettius or Marcus Curtius

and yet is still a part of Rome. Her version may be even more cheerfully unheroic and evocative than it first appears. In her description of the ancient swamp that once occupied the Forum, she says that it was a spot for travelers and boatmen:83 saepe suburbanas rediens conviva per undas cantat et ad nautas ebria verba iacit. (6.407–8) [Often a reveler heading home through the waves at the edge of the City would sing and hurl drunken words at the boatmen.] No lofty exemplar, the nameless conviva resembles instead Tibullus’s tipsy rustic returning from a festival.84 At this point, in our mind’s eye we may be in Page 36 →the Lacus area, but we are worlds away from the virtuous exemplarity of Livy’s Marcus or military distinction of his Mettius. The old woman gives the location a humorous cast that has no pretension of dignity. Add another literary intertext with unnamed, unruly common folk and nighttime misadventures at waterside: Horace’s Satire 1.5 of the 30s BC. It is a deftly playful account in its own right, but Ovid’s story resonates with it to a startling degree: .В .В . iam nox inducere terris umbras et caelo diffundere signa parabat: tum pueri nautis, pueris convicia nautae ingerere: вЂhuc adpelle’; вЂtrecentos inseris’; вЂohe, iam satis est.’ dum aes exigitur, dum mula ligatur, tota abit hora. mali culices ranaeque palustres avertunt somnos; absentem cantat amicam multa prolutus vappa nauta atque viator certatim; tandem fessus dormire viator incipit ac missae pastum retinacula mulae nauta piger saxo religat stertitque supinus. iamque dies aderat, nil cum procedere lintrem sentimus, donec cerebrosus prosilit unus ac mulae nautaeque caput lumbosque saligno fuste dolatВ .В .В . (Satires 1.5.9–23)

[Already Night is beginning to trail her shadow over the earth and preparing to scatter constellations on the sky. Then the lads shout at the boatmen and the boatmen at the lads: “Pull over here!” “Are you loading three hundred?” “Hey, that’s enough already!” While the money is collected and the mule hitched up, an entire hour’s gone by. The wretched insects and swamp frogs keep sleep away; the boatman soaked with cheap wine sings about his absent floozy, and a traveler joins him. Finally the worn-out traveler starts to nod off and the lazy boatman loosens the mule’s reins so it can graze, Page 37 →ties the rope to a stone, and snores on his back. When the day had arrived, we find that our boat’s not underway yet until some temperamental traveler jumps out and smacks mule and man on the head and flanks with a willow switch.] Horace’s noisy scene displays elements that also appear in Ovid’s later poem: raucous boatmen, a traveler and his song, the whiff of intoxication. Something else also carries through: the idea of reducing a grand political or literary idea to a humorously inglorious tale in an evocative watery setting. The Horatian satire is ostensibly a travelogue of the high-stakes political mission to Brundisium in 40 BC, but our excerpt demonstrates how all that has been transformed and upended. Ovid takes the same narrative raw material that Livy employed—the location that would become the Lacus Curtius—and chooses to do something similar. Moral exemplars are part of the Augustan-era discourse of being Roman, but so are vignettes of ordinary people behaving rather badly: Roman identity is not only a matter of prescription. The Fasti passage concludes as the poet, pleased, calls the old lady optima and bids her goodbye with a blessing that expresses his approval:85 reddiderat causam. “valeas, anus optima” dixi; “quod superest aevi molle sit omne tui.” (6.415–16) [She had given the explanation. “Farewell, you old darling,” I said, “May the rest of your life be completely easy.”] The poet can now safely file away her tale among his researches; aside from enjoying her narrative, he has learned something new about old Rome. The matrona practices an ancient local Roman custom, and the anus optima knows the particular history of her neighborhood. The pair evokes a time in Roman history before altars, markers,

and memorials stamped particular meanings on particular places—a time when identity was less defined and prescribed, when it was literally and figuratively more fluid. The passage is also an intriguing suggestion of other Roman meanings in a world of freewheeling popular memory now largely lost. Identity of place is more multifaceted than a single eponym; a site need not and in fact cannot be so narrowly defined. Ovid is not necessarily delegitimizing the higher tone and Page 38 →meaning of the Marcus Curtius narrative, but he is certainly adding another version. He hints that the stories of virtus are not the only ones possible or, even, acceptable: there are other ways to interpret and understand the Lacus Curtius. Ovid with his cheerful vignette of a long-vanished marsh reminds his audience that a single location can mean different things to different people, geography can be a text, and topography is as flexible and contentious as literature and historiography. It is also interesting—if speculative—to consider that Ovid could have easily discussed the Lacus Curtius in contemporary terms. As the later historian Suetonius notes, in Augustus’s day Romans threw coins into the Lacus as part of yearly prayers for the continued welfare of the princeps.86 This could have been an easy opportunity for the poet to include a nod to Augustus and add to the construction of the new Roman year as an imperial Julian project. He could have thematically linked Augustus’s (and later Tiberius’s) own exploits to the ancient heroic associations of the Lacus. Ovid, however, chose a different approach altogether. One may well ask why Ovid places the encounter with the barefoot matron and garrulous old woman where he does. Conceivably, he could have included the tale at any moment in the Fasti when he contrives a reason to be in the Forum. Ovid, however, ties his tale to a specific occasion, saying at the onset forte revertebar festis Vestalibus (6.395)—“I happened to be coming back from the Vestalia festival.”87 Ovid’s apparent digression occurs in the middle of an extensive treatment of the goddess’s June 9 festival. The Lacus Curtius story occupies a narrative space between a long series of the goddess’s tales at 6.249–394 and the tale of the Palladium, a fire in the Temple of Vesta, and the actions of a heroic priest at 6.417–68. A full treatment of Vesta appears in chapter 3 of this book, but here suffice it to note that Augustus associated himself with the goddess in unprecedented ways, including the construction of a shrine to her in his Palatine residence.88 In the Fasti, to interact with Vesta is ultimately to interact with Augustus. In the middle of describing her great festival, the poet takes a cheeky detour into the world of the unofficial and the humorous. Another aspect to consider is Lucius Caecilius Metellus, the historical pontifex maximus of the third century BC who appears in 6.437–54. During a fire Page 39 →that broke out in the Temple of Vesta, he heroically races in and saves the sacral objects after invoking a devotio: sacra: vir intrabo non adeunda viro. si scelus est, in me commissi poena redundet: sit capitis damno Roma soluta mei. (6.450–52) [O holy objects! I, a man, will go in where a man must not go. If this is a crime, let the punishment for it fall on me: Let Rome be saved with the penalty on my head.] Ovid has elided Marcus Curtius away only to replace him with a figure that is strikingly similar in self-sacrificial patriotic zeal. Metellus may cut an even more dashing figure, for he is not a cavalryman but pontifex maximus, holder of one of Rome’s greatest priestly offices. As for his heroics, the poet specifically states that the goddess approved being saved by what he did: factum dea rapta probavit / pontificisque sui munere tuta fuit

(6.453–54).89 The act of saving Vesta is metaphorically the same as saving Rome; the sacred flame symbolizes the hearth of the City and by extension the City itself.90 So, as Marcus Curtius did before him, Caecilius Metellus saves the Urbs with his boldness and willingness to sacrifice himself. It is, at first glance, as exemplary a heroic model as one could wish for. But as one critic has observed, Ovid has moments of “mischievously out-Livying Livy,”91 and this case fits that description well, down to the hero’s dramatic public speech. Ovid has suddenly given the reader a moral exemplar of the Livian mold, one that may also arguably be construable as a nod to Augustus, himself pontifex maximus and closely tied to Vesta. Yet Metellus as a model is problematic, for he commits an outright religious taboo in order to save Rome. It is an inherent contradiction that cannot be explained away. The creation of moral illustrations itself becomes troublesome. Page 40 →

Dangerous Beauty: The Eroticized Exemplarity of Claudia Quinta and Lucretia Our discussion of Livy and Ovid has focused so far on the poet’s narrative choices that differ from the historian’s and how these choices create alternate perspectives on Roman identity. Ovid, however, is capable of bolder action: he also takes up two of Livy’s exemplary figures and fundamentally rewrites them. Claudia Quinta and Lucretia, both of whom Livy specifically identifies as paragons, become eroticized in Ovid’s hands.92 These two models of virtue take on unmistakable features of the puella of Roman love poetry, the beautiful, sensuous mistress, and their new Ovidian nature complicates them as exemplars. It also complicates the grander ideas of Roman female exemplarity and how it is (or can be) presented in the age of Augustus when imperial women were the usual models. Together, Claudia Quinta and Lucretia form a complementary pair that ponders the effect of beauty on virtue and then examines the exemplarity that depends on that virtue.

In the Eye of the Beholder: Claudia Quinta and the Arrival of the Magna Mater in Fasti 4.305–48 During the height of the Second Punic War, Rome with considerable pomp and circumstance officially imported the cult of Cybele (Magna Mater) from Asia Minor. Historically speaking, this was not unique: it is but one of a number of official Roman adoptions of Greek or Eastern divinities.93 Nevertheless, in two of its most influential literary depictions, Cybele’s public arrival into the City becomes a moment for their authors to reflect on outward expressions of Roman virtue. Both Livy and Ovid describe her arrival in tandem with the nature of those Romans who welcome her. Livy’s account presents the reader with not one but two exemplars performing a public service for Rome. In Book 29 of the Ab Urbe Condita, the historian is deep within his narrative of the Second Punic War. The year is 204 BC, and Livy describes a sense of crisis settling on Rome, fueling nervous superstition and wild reports of prodigies—impleverat ea res superstitionum animos, proniquePage 41 → et ad nuntianda et ad credenda prodigia erant (29.14.2).94 In response, the state orders religious measures culminating with the importation of the Magna Mater. Her arrival from Pessinus would, according to the Sibylline books, ensure the defeat and expulsion of the Carthaginian enemy. In Rome’s struggle with Hannibal, slogging grimly with his army through Italy since 218 BC, the advent of the goddess is clearly linked to the long-term survivability of the state. To underscore this fact, the arriving Magna Mater is to be received at Ostia by an envoy who is the best man of Rome: virtue is linked to morality is linked to victory. The directive comes from none other than the Delphic Oracle itself: nuntiavit deam apportari; quaerendum virum optimum in civitate esse qui eam rite hospitio acciperet (29.11.8). In fact, a large portion of Livy’s account focuses on the choice of this representative: the Senate must decide who he is, and he must be the best man in the state—haud parvae rei iudicium senatum tenebat qui vir optimus in civitate esset (29.14.6). The choice of vir optimus is fundamentally the selection of the most exemplary citizen,

the man most recognized for his standing and character. The great difference as opposed to other Livian stories of model behavior is that here it is a group decision to grant exemplary status. The community at large, distilled into the Senate, chooses who is optimus according to its standards of excellence. Exemplarity becomes a matter of social arbitration and consensus criteria—status awarded by committee. The importance of the actual choice can scarcely be overemphasized; Livy states that anyone would value a victory in this contest above any military command or political office, the two usual sources of prestige and power, veram certe victoriam eius rei sibi quisque mallet quam ulla imperia honoresve suffragio seu patrum seu plebis delatos (29.14.7). The choice of the Senate eventually falls on Publius Cornelius Scipio, cousin of Scipio Africanus and later to be called Nasica. Livy again drives home the idea of the vir optimus: P. Scipionem Cn.В .В .В . iudicaverunt in tota civitate virum bonorum optimum esse (29.14.8). The narrative seems ideal for the theme of exemplarity, yet Livy also remarks on the uncertainty involved in the process. The actual reasons for the Senate’s choice, the exact qualities that set Scipio apart, are lost in history: id quibus virtutibus inducti ita iudicarint, sicut traditum a proximis memoriae temporum illorum scriptoribus libens posteris traderem, ita meas opiniones coniectando rem vetustate obrutam non interponam (29.14.9). As for Scipio himself, the historian offers little detail about him except the fact that he is still too young to be quaestor.95 He is a model Roman, but the exact Page 42 →nature of his virtues remains unknown; the designation of vir optimus is the point, along with the notion that exemplarity can be a status granted to a given individual in a given moment by an elite committee. Scipio continues to be the narrative focus at the arrival of Cybele: he takes her image from the ship and hands her to the delegation of estimable Roman matrons who have accompanied him. Like him, they are recognizably outstanding; Livy describes them as the city’s most prominent married women, matronae primores civitatis (29.14.12). Embedded in their description is the brief mention of Claudia Quinta, whom the historian identifies with two short sentences. She has a famous name—Claudiae Quintae insigne est nomen—but her own reputation was checkered until she performed this religious service and her chastity, pudicitia, was noted—cui dubia, ut traditur, antea fama clariorem ad posteros tam religioso ministerio pudicitiam fecit (29.14.12).96 Livy clearly nods to a tradition that gives Claudia a narrative of her own, but he does not elaborate. In a sense, she is a fitting counterpart to young Scipio—an unexplained exemplar, a blank model. Nevertheless, her ultimate standing is tied to her public religious service. Her brief appearance then folds back into the overall narrative as the matrons pass Cybele’s image from hand to hand and welcome the goddess to Rome. Hannibal, incidentally, would be recalled to Carthage the following year, and Rome would achieve its final victory the year after. Ovid transforms Livy’s rather inaccessible, almost incidental matrona into a major component of his Fasti account. In it exemplarity becomes a matter of performance and expectation; it becomes entangled in the complex interactions of individual and community, private behavior and public judgment. The poet still presents Claudia Quinta as an exemplar, but she is like no exemplar that Livy writes. Claudia undergoes a transformation from a remote figure of exemplary female virtue into a socially prominent yet disruptive woman of beauty, wit, and fashion—one who has much in common with the smart puellae of Roman love poetry. By presenting Claudia Quinta in this way, Ovid complicates the very idea of exemplarity: an exemplar is not only as an exemplar does, but also as she is publicly perceived, and the poet makes clear that sometimes public perception can be completely wrong. The Claudia Quinta story comes embedded in an extensive discussion of the Magna Mater’s annual Ludi Megalenses festival (4.179–372). The poet, after creating the literary conceit of being present at the goddess’s splendid procession,Page 43 → essentially asks to interview the goddess’s spokesperson. Cybele orders the Muses to attend, and of the nine, one answers the poet directly: Erato.97 While the choice can suggest a link to epic grandeur,98 Ovid also refers to Erato being particularly suitable because of her name’s association with love, mensis Cythereius illi / cessit, quod teneri nomen amoris habet (4.195–96). It is a comment that harks back irresistibly to the poet’s own Ars Amatoria, whose second book opens with a call to Erato and a similar remark on her name, along with a call to Venus and Cupid: Nunc mihi, siquando, puer et Cytherea, favete,/ nunc Erato, nam tu nomen amoris habes (2.15–16).99 When Ovid calls on Erato to tell him about Cybele, he sets up also a subtle expectation of amor. Besides, Erato as a narrator has her own agenda; linked

both with Cybele and love, she is no impartial source. What ultimately occurs will be, in the shape of Claudia Quinta, the literary fusion of virtue and elegiac love.100 Moreover, it will take place with undeniable implications for issues of identity public, private, civic, religious, individual, and Roman. The narratives preceding Claudia Quinta’s build a foundation for two ideas crucial to her story: the importance of chastity and the identification of Cybele as a Trojan and therefore Roman goddess. In emphasizing the goddess’s demand for purity, the story of Attis in Ovid takes a distinctly different turn from its famous previous treatment in Catullus 63. The Catullan Attis had impulsively castrated himself in a fit of new devotion to Cybele and then lived to regret it. In Fasti Book 4, this act comes as punishment for Attis’s broken faith to the goddess. He had initially won the goddess’s favor with his chaste love, turrigeram casto vinxit amore deam (4.224), and he had freely agreed to her requirement that he remain pure, even declaring si mentiar /В .В .В . ultima, qua fallam, sit Venus illa mihi (4.227–28). When Attis later carries on with the nymph Sagaritis and breaks his vow of celibacy, he enrages Cybele and goes mad as a result (4.229ff). Even in his frenzied selfmutilation the Ovidian Attis acknowledges his own guilt, declaring that he deserved his punishment: Merui! meritas do sanguine poenas! (4.239). Unchastity before the Magna Mater is clearly an offense that brings destruction on the transgressor. In Ovid, the Delphic Oracle Page 44 →specifically stipulates that on Cybele’s arrival in Rome she must be received with chaste hands: cum veniet casta est accipienda manu (4.260). This idea will reappear pointedly in the subsequent Claudia Quinta narrative. When Cybele comes to the City, in contrast to her Livian arrival amid the pressures of the Second Punic War, the Ovidian goddess arrives at a moment of Roman power and prosperity. No hint of Hannibal appears in Rome’s description as queen of the world: et edomito sustulit orbe caput (4.256). The Magna Mater arrives almost triumphantly as an ancestral goddess come finally to a Rome that has fulfilled its destiny.101 Then in this moment of ascendance, the greater idea of Rome cedes the spotlight to the story of a single woman, Claudia Quinta.102 In a trice, the grand spectacle of a divine advent becomes the backdrop for the personal human drama of a woman being tried in the court of public opinion. Claudia Quinta was in Ovid’s day already an established figure of renowned virtue. A statue of her stood in the Magna Mater’s temple on the Palatine Hill; the image was supposedly a miraculous one that had survived two fires unscathed.103 In terms of her exemplarity, we need not look farther than Cicero, who conjures up the name and reputation of this virtuous ancient Claudia in order to lambaste the lax morals of her scandalous descendant, the notorious Clodia Metelli.104 Elsewhere, he notes that Claudia Quinta was thought to be the “most chaste of matrons,” castissima matronarum putabatur, famed for cuius priscam illam severitatem, her good old-fashioned morals, and therefore worthy to receive the Magna Mater into Rome. By alluding to Claudia Quinta’s name, Cicero asserts her social authority as a moral exemplar even as he embellishes it for rhetorical effect.105 Ovid’s version of Claudia is a different sort of literary creation altogether. He begins by describing her in great physical detail: Claudia Quinta genus Clauso referebat ab alto (nec facies impar nobilitate fuit), casta quidem, sed non et credita: rumor iniquus laeserat, et falsi criminis acta rea est. Page 45 →cultus et ornatis varie prodisse capillis obfuit ad rigidos promptaque lingua senes. conscia mens recti famae mendacia risit,

sed nos in vitium credula turba sumus. (4.305–12) [Claudia Quinta traced her lineage from noble Clausus, nor was her beauty unequal to her nobility. She was chaste, but not believed to be so: malicious rumor had harmed her, and she was indicted on a false charge. Her fashion sense and going out with various coiffures were held against her, along with her ready wit toward harsh old critics. She, knowing her own innocence, laughed at the lies of gossip, but we are a mob prone to believe the accusation.] With these few lines, Ovid creates a nuanced characterization of both Claudia Quinta and her circumstances. The remote historical exemplar suddenly comes to life, like Pygmalion’s statue, as a fashionable, elegant, and spirited personality.106 At the same time, she is a woman under a public cloud of moral suspicion: this exemplar is now under stress. Ovid’s Claudia has much more in common with women who attract negative attention in historical writings because of their attire and behavior in public. Of these, Sallust’s Sempronia is an unavoidable comparanda. Beautiful, learned, aristocratic, self-assured, but of suspect character, she—in that memorable turn of phrase—danced and sang more elegantly than a respectable woman needed to be able to, psallere et saltare elegantius quam necesse est probae.107 Aside from being a clever bit of Sallustian character assassination, this description of Sempronia is a negative exemplar, the articulation of precisely what not to do. She then joins a violent political conspiracy whereas Claudia Quinta does nothing of the sort, but the external similarity remains; Ovid’s Claudia demonstrates a clear affinity for this depiction of an attractive but troublesome matrona.108 She also has something in common with the most famously unruly glamorous married noblewoman of the day: Julia, the daughter of Augustus, famed and eventually exiled for her licentiousness. In Claudia’s ad rigidos promptaque Page 46 →lingua senes (4.310), her witty responses to disapproving critics, she resembles Julia giving humorous, cheeky replies to Augustus’s criticisms of her behavior.109 In his lengthy catalogue of her impertinent retorts, moreover, Macrobius notes that she makes them with style and wit, eleganter.110 Ovid does not explicitly link his Claudia with Julia, but his description of Claudia’s responses to her critics brings a daring frisson in its blending, however briefly, of a virtuous old Republican exemplar with the Augustan era’s most notorious socialite and princess.111 Claudia’s verbal ripostes are only one factor in the negative reputation that grows around her. Perhaps even more to the point is her fashion sense—a fondness for couture that resonates with Livy’s story of two Vestal Virgins who were separately accused of incestum, unchastity, because of their publicly seen attire. Minucia came under suspicion because of her overly conspicuous cultus—suspecta primo propter mundiorem iusto cultum (8.15.7). Likewise Postumia was indicted because she dressed too fashionably and, furthermore, possessed too quick a wit: Postumia virgo vestalis de incestu causam dixit, crimine innoxia, ab suspicione propter cultum amoeniorem ingeniumque liberius quam virginem decet parum abhorrens (4.44.11). She was ultimately acquitted, but in the aftermath the pontifex maximus ordered her to stop making jokes and to dress more appropriately for her role as priestess: Eam ampliatam deinde absolutam pro collegii sententia pontifex maximus abstinere iocis colique sancte potius quam scite iussit (4.44.12).112 The stories of these Vestals demonstrate the link between personal appearance and public opinion as it applies to Roman women of social prominence. More particularly, these are

literary tales of social expectation and the connection, actual and perceived, between reputation and wardrobe, personal morality and outward comportment.113 Claudia Quinta’s strongest affinity is for the sensibilities of the docta puella, the elegiac mistress.114 One of the charges against Claudia is her fondness for elaborate hairstyles, ornatis varie prodisse capillis, a particularly evocative complaint as fashionable coiffure plays a substantial role in Roman love elegy.115 To take a slightly different perspective on this, consider Propertius 1.2. The love poet frames a speech to his mistress Cynthia, professing that her natural beauty Page 47 →is enough and that she does not need to wear modish hairstyles in public. The wording is very similar to the charge against Claudia Quinta: Propertius asks Cynthia, quid iuvat ornato procedere, vita, capillo? (1.2.1). Ovid himself in Amores 1.14 offers a winking admonition to his mistress not to overdo her hairstyles with dyes and rinses and curling irons. Despite all these poetic protestations, however, the beauty and glamor of a good coiffure are an unmistakable part of an elegiac puella’s allure. In Ars Amatoria 3.133–36, Ovid advises girls to wear hairstyles that suit each one best and show her beauty off to greatest advantage: non sint sine lege capilli (133), he states, and nec genus ornatus unum est (135). It is about accentuating the positive, and his advice is specifically about variety, expertise, and artifice. The same idea holds in terms of clothing—couture and cultus. Immediately following his dissertation on hairstyles in the Ars, Ovid as praeceptor amoris explains at length on how to dress (3.169–92). His concluding advice: out of the numerous colored fabrics available, a puella should choose the hues that flatter her complexion best.116 In short, she should consciously and carefully dress for maximum impact; she should dress to be seen, noticed, and admired.117 When Ovid’s Claudia attracts attention with her cultus, she is taking this precise advice.118 The Claudia Quinta of the Fasti is apparently a woman who knew her Ars Amatoria; a well-read and thus learned girl, she is at home and at ease in the elegantly sophisticated world of amatory elegy. Furthermore, like the puella, the Ovidian Claudia Quinta possesses a penchant for attracting and then flouting disapproving comments. This motif appears repeatedly in the Roman love poets from Catullus 5 on, and Propertius encapsulates it with the piquant observation semper formosis fabula poena fuit—being gossiped about is always the price of being beautiful.119 Fasti 4.307–10 considers the causes of the rumor iniquus that had attached itself to Claudia, particularly in terms of the rigidosВ .В .В . senes, the stern, humorless old men who embody “poles of social disapproval.”120 With self-assured aplomb, Ovid’s Claudia laughs at the vicious false rumors surrounding her: conscia mens recti famae mendacia risit (4.311). That sense of confidence, even bravado, underlying a rather self-satisfied internal superiority to external critics, has an unmistakable Page 48 →resonance with Roman love poetry: it is a very short distance between Catullus 5’s exuberantly rebellious declaration, Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus, / rumoresque senum severiorum / omnes unius aestimemus assis! (1–3) and Ovid’s Claudia Quinta.121 Figures of love poetry inhabit a defiantly private erotic world while they flout the opinions of critics. Claudia’s dismissal of gossip and grumbling is an act seamlessly in accord with the amatory sphere.122 So far, Claudia Quinta, the venerable exemplar of Cicero, the woman commemorated in a Palatine temple, has taken on a surprising new characterization in the Fasti. With her stylish outfits, elegant coiffures, and witty words, she is unlike any previous description of her or of any other established Roman female exemplar. She attracts negative attention and suspicions of her moral character because of others’ disapproval of her dress and comportment, but the upshot is that despite all she is innocent. A reputation is publicly constructed, but it can also change in that arena; Claudia’s dubious personal reputation undergoes an unmistakable and spectacular public rehabilitation, one that immortalizes her as a model of virtue in the community at large. When the Magna Mater’s barge arrives in Rome, it founders on the shoals of the Tiber River, and the nervous Romans cannot shift it (4.297–302). At this moment of the goddess’s advent, Ovid presents all Rome in attendance, at least symbolically: omnis eques mixtaque gravis cum plebe senatus obvius ad Tusci fluminis ora venit.

procedunt pariter matres nataeque nurusque quaeque colunt sanctos virginitate focos. (4.293–96) [All the knights and dignified senators with the mingled plebs came to the mouth of the Tuscan river. Likewise came mothers and daughters and daughters-in-law and those who nurture the holy hearths with their virginity.] It is the Roman public as an idea now made flesh and collected into a single location. The microcosm of Rome thus becomes the audience and witness to a divine intervention. The moment turns anxious when the arrival of Cybele seems inauspiciously blocked; Ovid uses the evocative, near-epic phrasing attoniti monstroPage 49 → stantque paventque viri (4.304), astonished by the portent, the men stood pale with fear. Claudia Quinta then steps into the tableau with a display of remarkable self-possession, confident initiative, and an unerring sense of the theatrical: haec ubi castarum processit ab agmine matrum et manibus puram fluminis hausit aquam, ter caput inrorat, ter tollit in aethera palmas (quicumque aspiciunt, mente carere putant), summissoque genu voltus in imagine divae figit, et hos edit crine iacente sonos: “supplicis, alma, tuae, genetrix fecunda deorum, accipe sub certa condicione preces. casta negor: si tu damnas, meruisse fatebor; morte luam poenas iudice victa dea; sed si crimen abest, tu nostrae pignora vitae re dabis, et castas casta sequere manus.” (4.313–24) [When she stepped out of the line of chaste mothers and taken up the pure water of the river with her hands, three times she dripped water on her head and three times she raised her palms to the sky (Those looking on thought she was out of her mind), and on bended knee she fixed her gaze on the image of the goddess

and said these words as her hair streamed down: “Nurturing mother of the gods, accept the prayers of your suppliant’s prayers under one condition. I am said to be unchaste: if you condemn me, I will confess that I deserved it; I, convicted with a goddess as my judge, will pay the penalty with my death. But if the crime is absent, you will give proof of my life and yourself a chaste goddess will follow my chaste hands.”] Claudia publicly asks for the goddess’s affirmation of her chastity, and Ovid’s Magna Mater is heavily associated with this particular measure of moral rectitude. The adjective casta appears no fewer than four times in the passage above. In a sense, the Magna Mater’s narrative culminates here, not so much in her Page 50 →arrival into Rome, but in how that arrival affects Claudia Quinta. Scipio Nasica, the optimus vir of Livy, appears in a single mention in Ovid’s account. At line 347 the phrase Nasica accepit occurs, and it makes a striking contrast with the extensive, dynamic depiction of Claudia Quinta. His exemplarity had been decided upon by committee in Livy’s Senate, but now in Ovid his election is overshadowed by a startling divine intervention: the Magna Mater’s ship moves at Claudia’s light touch and finishes its journey into Rome: dixit, et exiguo funem conamine traxit; mira, sed et scaena testificata loquar: mota dea est, sequiturque ducem laudatque sequendo; index laetitiae fertur ad astra sonus. (4.325–28) [She spoke and pulled the rope with a slight effort; it seems wondrous, but I speak with the stage offering testimony. The goddess was moved, and followed the leader, and by following praised her. The sound of rejoicing is carried to the stars.] The malicious rumors and famae mendacia emphatically come to nothing. In a most public venue, Claudia’s private life is cleared of all moral suspicion. Crucially, in that moment Claudia transforms from a woman of suspect moral standing into a model of feminine virtue. She is in no small part a self-made exemplar in how she exercises her initiative in order to gain her status, and her vindication comes with a divine stamp of approval. In her decisive exoneration, she is like the Vestal Postumia but with a critical difference: where Postumia is then admonished by the pontifex maximus to change her behavior, e.g., cease doing the things that had first roused suspicions, Claudia has no such concluding directive. Divine sanction is incontestable. In an elegant twist on ring composition, Claudia who first appeared as a magnet for negative attention ends as magnet for positive. She draws admiring and even awestruck gazes as she literally as well as figuratively stands out among her peers: Claudia praecedit laeto celeberrima voltu, / credita vix tandem teste pudica dea (4.343–44). The entire episode is, in a real sense, a poetic vindication of the elegiac sensibilities of spirited feminine beauty

and refinement.123 Claudia herself does not Page 51 →change, but public opinion about her does. The poet manages to have his cake and eat it too—his exemplary Roman woman is fundamentally an elegiac puella, and in Erato’s account she is publicly and undeniably established as moral and respectable.124 Virtue that should be emulated, the sort of virtue to which Romans should aspire, has become more complicated. It can, according to the Ovidian narrative, be found in unexpected places and persons, even in those thought to be morally tainted from a superficial external view.125 In expanding the parameters of defined virtue, the poet playfully yet incisively complicates the idea of Roman female exemplarity.126

Fatal Attraction: Lucretia and the Amans Hostis in Fasti 2.721–852 While Claudia Quinta is a tale of imperiled beauty that ends with exemplarity established amid safety and happiness, Lucretia is its foil and counterpoint. This story is one of the most famous ones of early Rome, for it is the legendary catalyst for the expulsion of the kings and the establishment of the Republic in 509 BC. Lucretia herself becomes an iconic figure both in Roman historical accounts and in the postclassical period.127 Livy’s account remains the highly influential locus classicus dramatically presenting one woman as emblem of the travails of the state at large; his Lucretia becomes not only a rallying cry for political revolution but also an inspirational model of feminine Roman virtue and courage. In Book 2 of the Fasti, Ovid retells her story. The occasion is the Regifugium of February 24, the festival commemorating the Flight of the King, e.g., the expulsion of the Tarquin monarchy from Rome. Ovid’s Lucretia, however, bears little resemblance to her famous Livian counterpart except in the broadest outlines of the story. In the Fasti, Lucretia emerges as a woman of elegiac sensibilities who is ultimately destroyed by her own beauty and turned into a Page 52 →public exemplar through no wish of her own. Hers is a deeply personal, intensely private tragedy, and she, unlike Claudia Quinta or Livy’s Lucretia, expresses no desire for any public acknowledgment of her virtue. Hers is also a tale that resonates in opposition with Claudia’s, forming a piquant doublet with it: whereas Claudia Quinta struggled to reconcile beauty and virtue, Lucretia is universally acknowledged to have both from the beginning, but those possessions will cost her her life. Her exemplarity in Ovid comes at a terrible price. To understand Ovid’s Lucretia, we should first consider her formidable predecessor in Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita 1.57–59.128 The outline of her story is familiar: Collatinus boasts of the superiority of his wife, Lucretia, over other wives during a drunken nighttime debate with his fellow soldiers at Ardea. They all impulsively ride first to Rome and then to Collatia to discover that Lucretia is the only wife behaving honorably in her husband’s absence: Muliebris certaminis laus penes Lucretiam fuit (1.57.10). Her diligence in contrast to the other wives (who are hosting wine-soaked parties) is underlined by her participation in the upstanding female activity par excellence of woolworking; it sets her apart as a paragon of feminine virtue. The escapade provokes Sextus Tarquin, the king’s son, to lust after her for both her beauty and her virtue: Ibi Sex. Tarquinium mala libido Lucretiae per vim stuprandae capit; cum forma tum spectata castitas incitat (1.57.11). Livy’s brief but impressionistic account of Lucretia presents her as an admirable matrona of obvious moral fiber and decorous behavior, and though he mentions her beauty (forma), it lacks detail and so is somewhat abstract. In fact, the personality of Lucretia is somewhat abstract as well. Livy’s depiction of Sextus’s return to Collatia and subsequent assault on her is not without emotional heft; she is touchingly described as pavidaВ .В .В . mulier (1.58.3) and maesta Lucretia (1.58.5). Nevertheless, in her actions and her speech, she behaves less as an individual than as an idealized image or type of Roman womanly virtue.129 She is very much aware of her own exemplary moment, and she cements her ownership of it with a set piece oration ending with a neat (perhaps all too neat) epigrammatic statement: “Vos” inquit “videritis quid illi debeatur: ego me etsi peccato absolvo, supplicio non libero; nec ulla deinde impudica Lucretiae exemplo vivet.” Cultrum,Page 53 → quem sub veste abditum habebat, eum in corde defigit, prolapsaque in vulnus moribunda cecidit (1.58.10–11). [“It is for you to determine,” she answers, “what is due to him. Although I acquit myself of

the sin, I do not absolve myself from punishment; nor will an unchaste woman live through the example of Lucretia.” Taking a knife which she had hidden beneath her dress, she plunged it into her heart, and sinking upon the wound, fell dying.]

It is the speech of a plaster saint. Lucretia emerges as courageous, formidable, stoic, and worthy of emulation, but she is also emotionally remote and largely charmless. We as readers believe that she is beautiful because Livy has said so, but she herself does not express any great personal charisma. Arguably all exemplars are, in the end, images reduced to their one great memorable trait or moment, but Lucretia in her speech and its bloody epilogue fashions herself as a stern, inflexible, intimidating figure. Beside her, Collatinus her husband is passive by comparison.130 In terms of her exemplarity, Livy’s Lucretia—like Ovid’s Claudia Quinta—is acutely aware of her personal agency in crafting her reputation and status. She arranges for a particular audience,131 and she delivers her speech in grand sweeping tones, concluding with the supremely self-aware statement nec ulla deinde impudica Lucretiae exemplo vivet.132 She then crowns her self-fashioning with suicide as the irrevocable mark of her exemplary chastity.133 Aside from her determination to create herself as a model of fierce castitas, she also explicitly states that her actions must have ramifications for Sextus Tarquin—i.e., a public, political aspect. When later her body is borne into the public square—elatum domo Lucretiae corpus in forum deferunt (1.59.3)—she becomes both exemplar and catalyst, and accordingly she achieves her objectives for shaping how she is remembered. This Lucretia purposefully and successfully orchestratesPage 54 → and defines her own exemplarity. In the Fasti, Lucretia emerges as a figure vastly different from Livy’s almost from start to finish.134 The two stories do, however, share one important point of contact: of the Augustan-era literary treatments of Lucretia, only those of Livy and Ovid include the competition of wifely virtue.135 Clearly the idea of recognizing superior morals is important in these accounts. Even so, while Livy presents a stern matrona whose virtue and savvy selffashioning outpace her beauty, Ovid individualizes Lucretia.136 The Fasti version highlights the personal tragedy in her story and the ambivalent roles of feminine charm and beauty. Where Ovid’s Claudia Quinta demonstrates (contentiously) the ability of individual beauty and personality to have its place in an exemplarity narrative, his Lucretia story depicts the opposite, along with the possibility that an exemplar’s public narrative may overwhelm her, individuality, beauty, and all. Ovid portrays Lucretia delicately yet unmistakably as an elegiac woman.137 When Collatinus along with Sextus Tarquin and their companions arrive in Collatia, they find Lucretia weaving not in the middle of the house where Livy’s matrona had been discovered but in her bedroom, at the foot of her bed: inde cito passu petitur Lucretia, cuius / ante torum calathi lanaque mollis erat (2.741–42). This is instantly recognizable as a most intimate private setting, and the specific mention of the bed introduces the idea of the erotic. Ovid’s introductory vignette of Lucretia is rife with elements both of amatory elegy’s content and Callimachean poetics. The wool is soft or mollis, a poetically charged word; the handmaids work by a small light, lumen ad exiguum (2.743), while finely drawing out their wool (data pensa trahebant, 2.743) as Lucretia speaks softly to them, tenuiВ .В .В . sono (2.744), all metaphorical references to elegant, polished poetry. Four short lines give the reader a highly evocative scenario, as well as intimations of Lucretia’s personality and Ovid’s own literary sophistication. From the beginning, this Lucretia is a more finely drawn character than Livy’s, and her light charm becomes readily evident. In her encouragement to her handmaids, she digresses into an emotional complaint against war: “mittenda est domino (nunc, nunc properate, puellae) quamprimum nostra facta lacerna manu. Page 55 →quid tamen auditis (nam plura audire potestis)?

quantum de bello dicitur esse super? postmodo victa cades: melioribus, Ardea, restas, improba, quae nostros cogis abesse viros. sint tantum reduces. sed enim temerarius ille est meus, et stricto qualibet ense ruit. mens abit et morior, quotiens pugnantis imago me subit, et gelidum pectora frigus habet.” desinit in lacrimas inceptaque fila remisit, in gremio vultum deposuitque suum. (2.745–56) [“Now, now hurry up, girls—this cloak that’s been made by our hands must be sent to your master right away. But what do you hear, for you’re able to hear more news? How much is said about war still coming? Ardea, afterwards you will fall conquered—you defy your betters, you wicked thing that forces our men to be away! If only they be back! But mine is that brash one, and he dashes every which way with his sword drawn. My mind slips and I die as often as the image of him fighting comes over me, and a cold chill grips my heart.” She ended in tears and let her spun thread fall and dropped her gaze to her lap.] Lucretia fundamentally asks what war is good for, with the unstated answer that for her, it is absolutely nothing: war is something she rejects because it separates her from her lover. Roman love elegy was famously antithetical to war, and in both her weaving and her speech, Lucretia aligns herself with two other young wives lamenting absent warrior husbands: Arethusa longing for Lycotas in Propertius 4.3 and Laodamia bewailing Protesilaus’s participation in the Trojan War in Ovid’s own Heroides 13.138 Arethusa, moreover, weaves a cloak for Lycotas at night as she points out the quiet in the house, a scenario that resonates with Ovid’s Lucretia.139 Furthermore, Lucretia’s tears recall the Page 56 →other great use of elegy, mourning, and effectively characterize her as a loving, sympathetic woman.140 Her abhorrence of war also makes her, as Newlands has pointed out, “an appropriate vehicle for the critical scrutiny of her symbolic importance as a heroic woman who sacrifices her life for the state.”141 Lucretia takes on still more elements of the elegiac puella. When the poet describes her tears as hoc ipsum decuit,

lacrimae decuere pudicam (2.757), he is verbalizing something that the readers have already discerned for themselves. The subsequent mention of her beauty, et facies animo dignaque parque fuit, as her face was the worthy equal of her soul (2.758), comes as a natural elaboration, not an imposed statement. When Collatinus suddenly (to her) appears, her delight is obvious: as a sweet burden she hung from her husband’s neck, deque viri collo dulce pependit onus (2.760), a line that conveys a sense of charmingly heedless spontaneity and the affectionate informality between husband and wife.142 Love has made her oblivious to all else, visitors included; Lucretia’s focus is on Collatinus, and the adjective dulce reflects the pleasure of their reunion. That reunion also displays a striking affinity with love elegy, as with Propertius 3.12 featuring a chaste and loving wife, Galla (called a puella at 15), hanging on her husband’s neck when he returns from war: pendebit collo Galla pudica tuo (22). Ovid’s passage resonates even more with Tibullus 1.3, a love elegy framed as an absent lover’s request to his puella at home: At tu casta precor maneas, sanctique pudoris Adsideat custos sedula semper anus. Haec tibi fabellas referat positaque lucerna Deducat plena stamina longa colu, At circa gravibus pensis adfixa puella Paulatim somno fessa remittat opus. Tum veniam subito, nec quisquam nuntiet ante, Sed videar caelo missus adesse tibi. Tunc mihi, qualis eris, longos turbata capillos, Obvia nudato, Delia, curre pede. Hoc precor, hunc illum nobis Aurora nitentem Luciferum roseis candida portet equis. Page 57 →(1.3.83–94) [I beg you to stay chaste, and may the old woman, careful guardian of sacred modesty, sit beside you. May she tell you stories when the lamp has been set up, and draw long strands from the loaded distaff as all around the girls are tired from heavy labors, and little by little the work sends to sleep. Then may I arrive suddenly, and may nobody announce it beforehand, but let me seem to have been sent to you from the sky. Then run to me, Delia, just as you are, barefoot,

your long hair all tousled. This I pray for: May beautiful Dawn with her rose-hued horses Bring me this shining morning!] At the reunion, Ovid’s Lucretia is nearly the twin of Tibullus’s Delia, the woolworking girl running to meet her lover as he arrives unexpectedly, or Propertius’s Galla. Lucretia’s charm in this moment is irresistible, and unfortunately for her, third-party spectator Sextus Tarquin becomes obsessed with her, interea iuvenis furiales regius ignes / concipit, et caeco raptus amore furit (2.761–62).143 Lucretia’s beauty has become a liability attracting negative attention.144 Ovid lists the qualities that inflame the prince’s lust, and the first among them are elements of her physical beauty—forma placet niveusque color flavique capilli / quique aderat nulla factus ab arte decor (2.763–64), her beauty was pleasing and her snowy complexion and her blonde hair and elegance made from no artifice. These are all familiar features from love elegy, particularly the mention of artifice and cosmetology. Her chastity eventually appears as one more factor along with her comportment and even her voice—verba placent et vox et quod corrumpere non est; / quoque minor spes est, hoc magis ille cupit (2.765–66)—but Sextus’s fixation refocuses on Lucretia’s physical appeal and his own remembered gaze: Page 58 →sic sedit, sic culta fuit, sic stamina nevit, iniectae collo sic iacuere comae, hos habuit vultus, haec illi verba fuerunt, hic color, haec facies, hic decor oris erat. (2.771–74) [She sat this way, she was dressed this way, she spun the yarn this way, This way her hair lay fallen on her neck; She had these looks; she had these words, This complexion, these features, this beautiful face.] The affinity of these traits with love poetry and the elegiac mistress is clear, particularly in terms of wardrobe, coiffure, and, in the focus on her face, the implied use of cosmetics.145 The description is provocative, and the mention of Lucretia’s famed chastity is swiftly incorporated into Sextus’s erotically charged memory as it lingers voyeuristically on her image.146 Thus far Ovid’s treatment of Lucretia has been detailed and specific, presenting a character one may readily imagine. The Fasti account introduces strong elements of pathos as well. When Sextus Tarquin returns as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he is described as hostis ut hospes (2.787), the guest as an enemy, and amans hostis (2.2.805), the lover who is a foe, a perverse and violent (in)version of erotic elegy’s amator.147 The poet includes the lamenting comment quantum animis erroris inest! (2.789) and points out that unlucky Lucretia unknowingly prepares dinner for her own enemy, parat inscia rerum / infelix epulas hostibus illa suis (2.789–90). In a throwback to the opening vignette, the poet addresses her as nupta pudica at 2.794, chaste bride, emphasizing her innocence even as it implies the erotic appeal of a young newlywed. At lines 801–3, the poet gives a powerful snapshot of Lucretia’s thoughts when she wakes and realizes Sextus is hovering over her: quid faciat? pugnet? .В .В .В clamet? effugiat?—What should she do? Fight back? Cry out? Flee? The options flicker through her mind, and each one proves heartrendingly impossible. Her helpless silence speaks

volumes.148 Finally, at the moment of Sextus’s assault, she is called a puella (2.810), with all Page 59 →the beauty and sensual attraction that the word implies.149 Sextus’s violence, however, destroys Lucretia, and in a shrewd twist of characterization, after the sexual assault Ovid no longer portrays her as a beautiful woman of love elegy. Instead he describes her in terms more congenial to Livy, focusing on her status as matrona in unerotic terms. Immediately he compares Lucretia in her sadness to a mourning mother; she is described as passis sedet capillis, but now her tousled hair, previously so becoming, is de-eroticized with the phrase ut solet ad nati mater itura rogum (2.814) and compared to the disheveled hair of a grieving mother burying her child. Lucretia’s lovely face becomes a matronly visage, matronalesВ .В .В . genae (2.828). Finally the poet uses the word matrona itself, describing Lucretia evocatively if somewhat disingenuously as animi matrona virilis (2.847), a matron of masculine courage. The puella is gone. This dovetails neatly with the idea of Lucretia as exemplar of chastity and catalyst of political revolution. As we have seen, Livy’s Lucretia purposefully ensures that she is perceived in this way; she seals her speech with her suicide. Ovid’s Lucretia summons her husband and father (2.815–16), but she gives no powerfully crafted, barnstorming speech as a call for retribution, revolution, and self-proclaimed personal exemplarity. Instead she is long silent (817–20) while fluunt lacrimae more perennis aquae, her tears flowed like running water (820). When she finally speaks, the words come haltingly: ter conata loqui ter destitit, ausaque quarto non oculos ideo sustulit illa suos. вЂhoc quoque Tarquinio debebimus? eloquar’ inquit, вЂeloquar infelix dedecus ipsa meum?’ quaeque potest, narrat; restabant ultima: flevit, et matronales erubuere genae. (2.823–28) [Three times she tried to speak and three times she could not; on the fourth attempt she dared to speak but did not raise her eyes. “Should we owe this too to Tarquin?” she said, “Am I to speak, Am I in my own misery to talk about my disgrace?” She says what she can; the rest remained unsaid; she wept, Page 60 →and her matron cheeks flushed.] In her suicide she makes no reference to exemplarity or to any wish for vengeance. Her self-slaughter stems from other motivations—her emotional desolation hints that she has lost her will to live—and she does not verbalize any desire for her death to accomplish any particular objective. Instead her death scene resembles tragedy more than anything else, ending with a poignant touch of personal modesty: dant veniam facto genitor coniunxque coactae: вЂquam’ dixit вЂveniam vos datis, ipsa nego.’ nec mora, celato fixit sua pectora ferro,

et cadit in patrios sanguinulenta pedes. tum quoque iam moriens ne non procumbat honeste respicit: haec etiam cura cadentis erat. (2.829–34) [Her father and husband pardoned her as she had been forced into the act; she said, “What pardon you give, I myself refuse.” No delay—she stabbed her breast with a blade she had hidden, and fell blood-soaked at her father’s feet. Even then while she was dying she made sure that she fell modestly— even this was her concern as she collapsed.] She says almost nothing.150 Modesty even in death is Lucretia’s immediate concern, not any desire to shape her public reputation postmortem, much less a wish to be an example to others.151 She dies for personal reasons. The actual transformation of Lucretia into an inspirational figure comes at the hands of Brutus, who does so in rather disturbing fashion. He seizes the knife and pulls it from Lucretia’s dying body—fixaque semanimi corpore tela rapit (2.838)—and holds it up still dripping blood—stillantemque tenens generoso sanguine cultrum (2.839)—to make his point. Of his own accord, he makes Lucretia a rallying cry for the overthrow of the Tarquins: Page 61 →per tibi ego hunc iuro fortem castumque cruorem, perque tuos manes, qui mihi numen erunt, Tarquinium profuga poenas cum stirpe daturum. (2.841–43) [I swear to you by this chaste and courageous blood and by your shade, which shall be divine to me, Tarquin will pay the price along with his renegade clan.] Though he calls on the name of Lucretia, one may well wonder if she is the true cause or a convenient excuse: he had concealed his true nature from the Tarquins, and he now declares that his courage has been disguised long enough, iam satis est virtus dissimulata diu (2.844). Lucretia becomes a call for action through no expressed desire of her own. She appears to agree with Brutus wordlessly by moving her eyes and her hair in a scene that is ambivalent at best: illa iacens ad verba oculos sine lumine movit, / visaque concussa dicta probare coma (2.845–46). The most disturbing aspect of this scene may be how others fashion Lucretia into a symbol in her presence while she is not even decently dead yet. This version of the narrative suggests that while some become exemplars, others have exemplarity thrust upon them.152 Ovid’s Lucretia falls victim to her own dangerous beauty, but in a near-perfect foil to Claudia Quinta’s, Lucretia’s beauty has no place in her exemplarity. Ovid emphasizes the idea that under that public exemplarity lies an entire other, private world. The cost of becoming a model for this Lucretia is not only her life

but also her personal identity: the charming hostess with the elegiac sensibilities is swept away first when Sextus Tarquin assaults her and then when Brutus appropriates her body as political symbol and rallying cry. She does gain a sort of immortality, but the model Lucretia who emerges at the story’s end does not have much in common with the actual Lucretia who appeared at its beginning. The Fasti account raises questions about exemplarity—the human cost of being transformed into an inspirational model and the complications of being (or being made) an example to others. So what happens when we read Ovid with an eye for Livy? The poet avidly engages the historian on the idea of moral exemplarity as a way to discuss Romanness. Where Livy posits exemplars as unifying, defining, prescriptive modelsPage 62 → of being Roman, Ovid fractures that approach into other possibilities: he offers alternate approaches and perspectives that expose exemplars’ flexibility and also something of the artifice in their creation. By retooling, refocusing, and retelling narratives from Marcus Curtius to Lucretia, the poet of the Fasti sets out alternate (or to use a more provocative word, competing?) stories and with them alternate (competing?) presentations of Roman identity. The Ovidian vision suggests that there is much more to being Roman than exemplars express and that models of virtue are themselves malleable and vulnerable to interpretation. This also raises the question of who is doing the interpreting and for whom. In Ovid, valiant Marcus Curtius vanishes in the old neighborhood woman’s story of the Lacus Curtius; state interests and glamorous virtus step aside for her humble tale of ancient customs and private Romans going about their own personal business. The plebs interpret old Anna as a plebeian heroine in a story of their group identity within Rome as a composite community. Claudia Quinta with modish beauty sprung from love poetry complicates ideas and expectations of old-fashioned chastity: virtue is not, she demonstrates, always obvious, and she is vindicated by a goddess and a divine narrator with their own vested interests. Lucretia undergoes a transformation from self-fashioning exemplar into victim of circumstance; hers becomes a story of exemplarity imposed on an individual by some for the use of others and ultimately for the state. If this is unsettling, then perhaps it was intended to be so. Being Roman was an idea energetically being discussed, expressed, and contested on numerous fronts in Ovid’s day. Readers may well wonder how the poet’s approach to exemplars interacts with the wider world around it, both literary and actual, where templates for emulation were in the air. For our purposes in this book, we will look at several other representative exponents as they relate to female figures in the Fasti: while Livy wrote his lofty monumental exemplars, Virgil created Aeneas as the ultimate proto-Roman founder-hero of epic and Augustus engaged in a sophisticated reconstitution of Rome while also creating himself and his house as models of behavior. Having looked at the historian, we turn next to the epic poet.

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Chapter 2 Arms and the (Wo)man Contending with Virgil Where Livy meditated on Roman identity through exemplary figures, Virgil embraced mythology as precursor to Roman history. In the epic Aeneid posthumously published in 19 BC, he crafted a Roman world in the making, with the Trojan exile Aeneas as pater of it all, ancestor, trailblazer, founding hero.153 A refugee and leader of refugees in the aftermath of the Trojan War, Aeneas making his dangerous journey to Italy emerges as a tale of becoming Roman. Through his travels and travails, he is the central figure in a determinedly teleological story: Rome is the future, the goal for which he ultimately struggles and strives. That end is not in doubt, given the support of Jupiter and Aeneas’s own mother goddess Venus: Jupiter promises her that Rome will have imperium sine fine (1.279), empire without limit. The exhausting journey to that end, however, is fraught with peril and the relentless rage of Juno: tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem (1.33)—it was such a massive struggle to establish the Roman race. It is one thing to have a destiny to found an empire but quite another to bring it into existence. Even in epic poetry, empires do not found themselves, and Aeneas is soon all too acquainted with the human cost of divine destiny. Along the way, his interactions with different characters, people groups, locations, and circumstances shape his journey in fundamental ways: from Dido in Carthage to Evander in Italy, they are influences to be encountered, negotiated with, confronted, rejected, or embraced in the formation of Roman identity, with pius Aeneas at center stage—arma virumque cano.154 Page 64 →By Ovid’s day, the Aeneid was the inescapable behemoth of Latin poetry, an instant classic from its publication.155 For poets after Virgil, to interact with the Aeneid was an act not only of homage and learned reference but also of sophisticated creative response and adaptation. Ovid had already taken up the Virgilian challenge in his own Metamorphoses, where a mini-Aeneid takes place in Books 13 and 14.156 When Aeneas and other Virgilian figures appear in the Fasti, they present a different literary challenge and opportunity for the poet to adapt them for this new poem’s considerations of becoming and being Roman. As Ovid had engaged Livian exemplars, he takes up Virgilian epic figures—Evander and Carmentis, Anna and Lavinia, Jupiter and Juturna—and reimagines them as new commentaries on Roman origins.

Mother Knows Best: Carmentis, Evander, and the Founding of Primordial Rome in Fasti Book 1 The Aeneid is a story about beginnings, but even beginnings have beginnings, back stories of their own. In Fasti Book 1’s depiction of primordial Latium, the spot where Rome will one day rise, Aeneas does not appear, but Evander and Carmentis do, and they present a provocative contrast to their Virgilian counterparts of Aeneid Book 8.157 Evander before Virgil was an obscure mythological figure; the poet’s innovation is to give him a prominent role. In the Aeneid, Evander is a former refugee from Greek Arcadia who has securely established himself in Italy as founder and ruler of a settlement he named Pallanteum.158 Aeneas at this point in the epic is distressed by the outbreak of war with the local Rutulian prince, Turnus, and at this turning point Evander emerges as much-needed assistance for the Roman project now in trouble.159 Furthermore, Page 65 →the life and accomplishments of Evander are analogous to Aeneas’s own, and this Greek exile who led his followers to a successful settlement in Latium is an important prototype, role model, and guide for him.160 From the beginning, Evander is linked to Aeneas’s divinely sanctioned destiny. One night as the Trojan lies fitfully sleeping, the river god Tiberinus appears to him in a dream and explicitly names Evander as an ally:

Arcades his oris, genus a Pallante profectum, qui regem Evandrum comites, qui signa secuti, delegere locum et posuere in montibus urbem Pallantis proavi de nomine Pallanteum. hi bellum adsidue ducunt cum gente Latina; hos castris adhibe socios et foedera iunge. (Aen. 8.51–56) [On these shores the Arcadians, a line descended from Pallas, who were friends of King Evander and followed his standards, chose the site and placed their city in the hills, named Pallanteum from their ancestor Pallas. These men wage war vigorously with the Latin race; Call these as allies to your camp and join them with treaties.] Evander effectively comes with a divine introduction, an unimpeachable recommendation. When Aeneas makes his approach to Evander’s settlement, Virgil’s description aligns the Arcadian yet more closely to the Trojan’s ultimate goal of Rome: sol medium caeli conscenderat igneus orbem cum muros arcemque procul ac rara domorum tecta vident, quae nunc Romana potentia caelo aequavit, tum res inopes Evandrus habebat. (Aen. 8.97–100) [The flaming sun had climbed to the center of heaven’s vault when from afar they see walls and a citadel and Page 66 →the scattered roofs of houses which Roman power now has made equal with the sky then Evander was holding as a humble kingdom.] It might be res inopes, but Evander has already established a city-state on the actual site of Rome. Virgil explicitly describes him as rex Evandrus Romanae conditor arcis, king and founder of the Roman citadel (8.313). The epic poet also makes clear that this core underlies later Rome, the Romana potentia of his own day; the Arcadian settlement came first as groundbreaker and placeholder. When Evander welcomes Aeneas, he is also incorporating the newcomer into the ongoing saga of proto-Rome. Evander stands as Aeneas’s cultural ancestor and exemplar; from his first physical appearance in the Aeneid, he is portrayed as a wise ruler engaged in the military,

religious, political, and cultural life of his city, a hospitable host, and a devoted father. It is no accident that Aeneas arrives at Pallanteum as Evander is conducting religious rites (8.102ff), a coincidence that resonates with Aeneas’s famous quality of pietas. Evander becomes ally and mentor: older, wiser, more experienced, he is the elder statesman who has already done what Aeneas has yet to do. Furthermore, he is also a paternal figure in the absence of Anchises, and to cement their ties still further, he establishes guest-friendship, xenia, with the Trojan exile.161 The aged Arcadian soon provides Aeneas with invaluable insight into the actual site of Pallanteum/Rome. In his recollection first of Hercules and Cacus (8.184–305) and then of Latium’s earliest days (8.314–36), Evander explains the history of the location, dignifying it with stories of mythological power. When he leads Aeneas on a tour of what someday will be the Roman Forum (8.337–65), Evander is actually offering a glimpse both into the past and the future of Rome. The topographical features of their tour resonate with Augustan significance, and some are unmistakably anachronistic; they would not have had any place in the proto-Rome of Evander’s time, but they would in Augustus’s. In a real sense, this scene is the geographic-poetic counterpart of the famous Shield of Aeneas (8.626–731) and of the Underworld Parade of Heroes (6.752–892), iconic Virgilian visions of Roman history. Aeneas and his destiny will not occur in a vacuum but in a long chain of events. The land has a past, and from Evander, steady guarantor of history and culture, conditor and example, Aeneas learns how he himself will usher in the next phase of Roman development. Throughout this encounter in Latium, Evander is the focus, and his divinePage 67 → mother, the nymph Carmentis, is a minor figure. In his conversation with Aeneas, Evander mentions her along with Apollo as the two divinities whose action brought him to Italy: matrisque egere tremenda / Carmentis nymphae monita et deus auctor Apollo (8.335–36). That is the summary of Carmentis’s relationship to her son, and the nymph is clearly only a memory. Almost immediately afterwards, the two men walk by a gate, the Porta Carmentalis near the Forum-to-be, and Evander describes that gate as an ancient tribute to her—nymphae priscum Carmentis honorem / vatis faticidae (8.339–40). Evander’s recollection has become a monument, locking Carmentis into the irretrievable, distant past. The prophetess-nymph has become, for all narrative purposes, the gate that was named for her, a mention of her co-role in bringing the Arcadians to Italy, and a remembered prophecy about the descendants of Aeneas when she was first to proclaim their future glory.162 That is the extent of Carmentis’s role in the Aeneid; she never appears in propria persona, and she is a memory related by the son who has outgrown her. She is a figure of the past, subsumed into the frugal but flourishing settlement of Pallanteum, the proto-Rome under the firm hand of Evander. Ovid’s Fasti also presents Evander and Carmentis at the site of Rome, but they are vastly different figures. In the account of the Carmentalia festival of January 11 and 15, Carmentis is the focus, emerging as a powerful proto-foundress of Rome in her own right. Her importance also extends to the poet, for she takes on a Muse-like quality: unde petam causas horum moremque sacrorum? deriget in medio quis mea vela freto? ipsa mone, quae nomen habes a carmine ductum, propositioque fave, ne tuus erret honor. (1.465–68) [From where shall I seek the causes and practice of these rites? Who will direct my ship’s sails in the middle of the strait? You yourself advise me, you who have a name drawn from poetry;

be favorable to my enterprise, so that your honor may not go astray.] For the moment, the poet becomes aligned with the Arcadian exile, and even at the beginning of the Evander story, Carmentis is in a position of power and vatic authority.163 Page 68 →The amplification of Carmentis’s role could have taken place on its own (the occasion is the Carmentalia, after all), but the Fasti poet constructs his account so that it also comes at the express expense of Evander.164 Instead of the venerable old ruler of Virgil, Ovid’s Evander is an awkward youth, iuvenis (1.477). This story far predates the events of the Aeneid. From his first appearance, this Evander derives his identity from his mother; he has almost no distinguishing features of his own aside from his distress.165 Evander’s genealogy, for instance, is specifically noted as nobler on his mother’s side—nobilior sacrae sanguine matris erat (1.472). He is a wandering exile, and he possesses no hint of Aeneas’s famous ability to hide his emotions; Evander is openly in tears in his first appearance—flenti (1.479). The image that arises is one of a callow young man clearly overwhelmed by his circumstances. This is not the aged, wise city-founder. This is not even Virgil’s young man of waffling charm who had once sought friendship with Priam and Anchises when they visited Arcadia in their salad days (8.155–68), and this is not at all the vigorous warrior who once defeated the preternatural Erulus three times over (8.560–67). Ovid’s distraught young exile cuts a drastically different figure. This portrayal intensifies when Carmentis appears.166 Almost immediately she takes the mewling Evander firmly in hand and tells him both to stop his tears (siste, precor, lacrimas! 1.480) and to bear his fortune like a man—fortuna viriliterВ .В .В . ista ferenda tibi est (1.479–80).167 The use of viriliter by a maternal virago to a weak son is a flare of sly humor. Carmentis’s consolation speech to her son (1.479–96) is one not of mollycoddling sympathy but of acerbic, tough love; she offers a particularly bracing statement at 1.487, nec tamen ut primus maere mala talia passus—Don’t mourn these hardships as if you were the first to suffer them! Aside from also being a possible nod at Virgilian Aeneas who had suffered similarly two decades or so previously, Carmentis’s speech establishes her as a decisive, capable leader even as it reinforces the impression that Evander is not independent or strong enough to stand on his own.168 The arrival and settlement of Evander is an established fact in the Aeneid Page 69 →and a source of comfort to Aeneas, but here in Ovid the issue is far from clear. When Evander finally sails toward the Italian shore, he does not steer for the future site of Rome on his own initiative; instead, he is explicitly following his mother’s directions—doctae monitu Carmentis (1.499). In contrast to Virgil’s account, the influence of Apollo as coleader in divine guidance has vanished entirely. Carmentis seems increasingly to be the driving force behind Evander’s voyage as he seems increasingly to be drawn in her wake, and this is particularly true of the actual landing. This moment is of paramount importance in discussions of city foundations, but Evander has nothing to do with choosing the settlement site. Instead, Carmentis chooses, unilaterally and in a moment of daemonic ecstasy: utque erat, immissis puppem stetit ante capillis continuitque manus torva regentis iter, et procul in dextram tendens sua bracchia ripam pinea non sano ter pede texta ferit, neve daret saltum properans insistere terrae, vix est Evandri vixque retenta manu. (1.503–8) [And as she stood before the poop deck, her hair streaming,

and fiercely held the helmsman’s hand, and from afar stretching her arms out to the right bank, she stamped the pine deck three times with a mad foot. She was scarcely held back by the hand of Evander as she rushed to set foot on land.] In this scenario, Evander, far from being portrayed as a strong founder, is a son trying desperately to keep his agitated mother from leaping into the water.169 Ovid’s Carmentis, unlike Virgil’s safely distant memory, is present, active, and vibrant—perhaps all too much so. She is formidable, dominant, even domineering (torva, 1.504). What may be more bemusing is that once again, Evander has no choice but to follow. On the exile ship, he is literally and metaphorically only along for the ride. The final result is almost anticlimactic for him: after Carmentis’s extensive, even triumphant prophecy, he is described only as leaving the ship and standing rather lamely on the grassy shore of Latium:Page 70 → puppibus egressus Latia stetit exul in herba (1.539). This image of a young, insecure exile—with no hint of his grand Virgilian future—concludes the tale of his arrival in Italy. The narrative glosses over the actual formation of the Arcadian settlement (1.541–42) and quickly shifts to the tale of Hercules and Cacus.170 As for Carmentis, her role extends far beyond guiding her son. When she raves in her prophetic furor, she not only confirms the place of settlement (1.509–14) but also launches into a lengthy vision of the Roman future (1.515–36). It is she who begins a colony that will later aid Aeneas; in a roundabout way, he owes something to her even more than to Evander, for she has prepared the way for them both. With her visionary proclamation of Rome-to-be, she distills the Aeneid’s Italian half into four lines (1.519–22); Virgil becomes a prГ©cis. The nymph’s prophetic carmen even manages to take on two great Virgilian visions of the future: Book 6’s Parade of Heroes and Book 8’s Shield of Aeneas. Both of these include and highlight Augustus to some extent, presenting him as a figure of Rome at apogee. Carmentis, however, sings a crescendo of Roman events that culminates with her own lasting cult and the deification of Livia (1.535–36). Augustus’s widow will not in fact be deified until the reign of her grandson Claudius (AD 41–54).171 Carmentis in essence predicts a moment which has not yet occurred in Ovid’s contemporary Rome; she has gone far past the safely ascertainable events and figures of Anchises and the Shield. Hers is the power of vatic song on Roman realities, and she has, in one bold song, dared more than Virgil and made a fresh prophecy. Ovid declares that she brought her foretelling down to “our own time”—talibus ut dictis nostros descendit in annos (1.537).172 A sense of immediacy drives Carmentis’s song as it bridges the immense gap between the primordial Italian landscape of Evander’s arrival and the world of contemporary Augustan Rome; it is a startling moment when Carmentis’s literary prophecy suddenly meets historical reality. This has little impact on Evander who, still attempting to keep her from leaping overboard, can hardly be expected to comprehend her vision in full.173 In any case, the Roman future both is and is not for him, adding a poignant irony to her initial speech that he must bear his fortune (1.479–80).174Page 71 → Evander’s future, important though it will be in the Aeneid, is not the center of Carmentis’s overarching song; her vision of the Roman future has a different focus, and in its singing she confronts the prophetic bounds of Virgil. In fact, she glosses over Aeneas to focus boldly and fulsomely on Ovid’s present day (1.529–32). The effects of this Ovidian (re)vision of Virgil’s Roman beginnings are complicated. The epic poet had chosen to give Evander, a previously obscure figure, a prominent new place in the Aeneid as the crucial bridge between Aeneas and the location of Rome. Ovid in turn chooses to give pride of place to Carmentis. The calendar poet presents Evander not only as subordinate to Carmentis but as manifestly anemic, the diametric opposite of Virgil’s Evander. The effect confounds the comfortable scenario of the Aeneid in which Aeneas comes to Latium and finds a stable, authoritative ally and participant of Roman destiny. Ovid’s narrative creates an alternate, almost upside-down vision in which Evander, the bulwark on whom Aeneas leans, is himself needy and

nervous. Virgil’s depiction of Evander is subject to radical reconfiguration; as much as Aeneas depends on him, at one point he depended on another. Beginnings are unstable things. In Ovid, Evander is scarcely a conditor at all; that role goes instead to the redoubtable Carmentis. Later in Book 5, the Muse Calliope refers to Carmentis and Evander (91–98), and in her account, too, Carmentis is the driving authoritative force. Calliope reinforces the power dynamic between the two, stating that Evander, subordinate twice over even as he is called heros, obeyed Carmentis in both her roles as mother and prophetess and so finally reached Italy: et matri et vati paret Nonacrius heros / inque peregrine constitit hospes humo (5.97–98). In the end, the poem effaces Evander as a founder and authority figure, and Aeneas along with him by analogy and association. Carmentis could well invite the astute reader to take another look at Aeneas’s dependence on his own divine mother throughout the Aeneid, where among other things Venus bends Jupiter’s ear on his behalf, obtains armor for him from Vulcan, and engineers the love affair with Dido so the Carthaginian queen would help him. As for Carmentis, she becomes one of Book 1’s great images, presiding over a sphere of vast bardic and prophetic influence. She takes on an ongoing life of her own, slipping from the commemorative words in the Aeneid to sport in the Fasti. She presides over the Carmentalia in Book 1 and the festival of Ino/Mater Matuta in Book 6; she has a role to play too in the overall structure of the Fasti and its tactics of poetic closure. She emerges from her limited place in Virgil to Page 72 →take on new roles in Ovid, not the least of which is to arise as a founding influence of Pallanteum, ancestor-city of Rome. Ovid offers a poetic vision that both nods to Virgil and complicates his neat narrative. Roman foundations become much more open to interpretation and adaptation than Virgil’s ambitiously teleological project might care to allow or admit.175

Sister Act: Anna and Aeneas in Fasti Book 3 While Carmentis inhabits a world that predates the Aeneid in terms of narrative action, Anna inhabits one that postdates it.176 The sister of Dido commands a significant portion of Fasti Book 3; she enters the text as the first and most detailed explanation for the March 15 festival of the rustic Italian goddess Anna Perenna. This aetion, however, is much more than an antiquarian explanation of an ancient and lasting cult.177 It is also the Ovidian poem’s most finely calibrated engagement with the Aeneid as a whole: the story of Anna is both a sequel to Aeneas’s wanderings and a genre- and gender-bending reenactment of them.178 Ovid’s tale is the epic transmuted into an epyllion—miniaturized, circumscribed, stripped of its traditional martial features and given a new focus.179 With Anna at its center, the story fundamentally changes.180 The Fasti story is a detailed account of events occurring after Dido’s suicide and the collapse of Carthage in Aeneid Book 4: When Anna flees Libya by ship (3.551–66), she launches an Annaid that may be an even more astute negotiation with Virgil than Ovid’s well-known treatment in the Metamorphoses.181 She becomes an analogue of both Dido and Aeneas, and she is the primary figure in a counternarrative to the Virgilian Aeneas’s climactic Page 73 →founding destiny. She turns the Aeneid itself into the prologue of her own story of a foreign exile becoming Roman.182 Ovid begins by flamboyantly declaring that he will explain the true origin of the ancient festival of Anna Perenna on the Ides of March: quae tamen haec dea sit quoniam rumoribus errat, / fabula proposito nulla tegenda meo (3.543–44). His protagonist is Anna, and the poet begins with the suicide of Dido (3.545–50) as his bridge between the Aeneid and the Fasti.183 The sister of Dido had been a secondary figure in Virgil, but one of her main narrative functions in that epic had been to broker the relationship between Dido and Aeneas.184 She had been involved from her initial encouragement of the liaison (4.31–53) and to her attempt to intercede when it fell apart (4.416–36).185 The disastrous end of the affair had repercussions beyond Dido’s suicide; while the Virgilian Anna sadly declares that both she and Carthage have been destroyed along with her sister, exstinxti te meque, soror, populumque patresque / Sidonios urbemque tuam (4.682–83), the Ovidian Anna’s story begins with the concrete fulfillment of that lament: protinus invadunt Numidae sine vindice regnum, et potitur capta Maurus Iarba domoВ .В .В .

diffugiunt Tyrii quo quemque agit error, ut olim amisso dubiae rege vagantur apes. pellitur Anna domo, lacrimansque sororia linquit moeniaВ .В .В . nacta ratem comitesque fugae pede labitur aequo moenia respiciens, dulce sororis opus. (3.551–52, 555–56, 559–60, 565–66) [Immediately the Numidians invaded the leaderless kingdom, and the Moor Iarbas took possession of the captured palaceВ .В .В . The Tyrians scattered as each one fled, as bees wander in doubt when their king has been lost. Anna is driven from her home and, weeping, flees her sister’s wallsВ .В .В . Finding a ship and companions for her flight, she sails at an even pace looking back at the walls, her sister’s sweet accomplishment.] Page 74 →Anna emerges as the protagonist of the aftermath narrative, and she does so by assuming many of the characteristics that had marked her sister. She, a Punic princess, leads other Carthaginian refugees into exile, as Dido had led her companions from Tyre; Anna becomes the new dux femina facti striking out into the unknown in search of a place to settle. This scenario also clearly resonates with Aeneas’s own circumstances after the fall of Troy, and the capture of Carthage by its enemies is an irresistible echo of the end of Aeneid Book 2. Ovid’s ensuing Annaid takes the Carthaginian princess on a journey which replays Aeneas’s own almost detail for detail, but on a smaller, demilitarized scale. Anna becomes a de-epicized, elegiac heroine, an Aeneasfigure transformed in an alternate universe.186 A tabular analysis may be useful as preliminary to the discussion. (See table on opposite page.) The similarities are striking. Ovid has re-created the Aeneid in miniature but in a different register, interacting with Virgil’s epic while presenting an appealing new protagonist who displaces Aeneas from his accustomed central role. Anna changes the elements of Aeneas’s epic travels as she reenacts them, and a revealing point of departure is the depiction of both travelers’ island interludes and the reason why they are only temporary stops on their journeys. Anna’s stay on the island of Melite/Malta is a commentary both on the content of the Fasti as a whole and on its Book 3 interaction with Virgil in particular. From the beginning, the Melite interlude is strongly associated with a disarmed vision of poetry. After leaving Carthage, Anna has no divinely foretold destiny like Aeneas; she seeks refuge and peace, not a kingdom or a future to be contested and won with arms. She sails for Melite not because of any predestined goal but because it is a place ruled by an old friend (3.569). There her host Battus emphasizes the unwarlike atmosphere; Ovid describes him as a king who paradoxically hated weapons—rex arma perosus (3.577). Where epic is a genre centered on kings and arms, Battus is an oxymoron.187 He is also a figure of Callimachean poetics, from his name to his acknowledgment of his kingdom’s tiny size: haec inquit

tellus quantulacumque tua est (3.572). This pacifist king receives Anna, and for a while she leads a quiet, peaceful life on Melite. The description of her sojourn focuses on two things, agricultural cycles and astronomical rotations: Page 75 →tertia nudandas acceperat area messes, inque cavos ierant tertia musta lacus; signa recensuerat bis sol suaВ .В .В . (3.557–58, 575) [For the third time the floor had received the harvest for threshing, and for the third time the wine had gone into the hollow vats. Twice the sun had traveled through the zodiac signsВ .В .В .] Narrative Fasti 3 Feature

Aeneid

moenia respiciens, dulce sororis opus moenia respiciens, quae iam felicis Elissae / conlucent flammis rex arma perosusnos sumus imbelles errantem Annam Aeneid Page 76 →Anna on Melite becomes the embodiment of an entire idiom of poetry that focuses on stars, natural cycles, peacetime pursuits, and the avoidance of war—aetiological elegy, with hints of pastoral, and all opposed to epic.188 Presumably Anna would not have left the island of her own accord: she is forced to do it when her wicked brother Pygmalion, catching up with her, arrives and threatens hostilities: frater adest belloque petit (3.577). For Anna, arma has rudely interrupted (3.575–76), and epic disrupts elegy and the peaceful measure of time kept with harvests and stars. Pygmalion’s appearance reveals the most poetically relevant feature of Battus and Melite: their utter incompatibility with war and, by association, martial epic. The king does not—actually cannot—fight (3.577) and can only advise Anna to flee, for the Melitans are unwarlike and unable to mount an armed defense: nos sumus imbelles, tu fuge sospes! (3.578) She departs under duress, trying to avoid armed conflict by escaping to Italy. This is in explicit contrast to Virgil’s Aeneas, who in Aeneid Book 5 leaves peaceful Sicily and its hospitable ruler Acestes specifically in order to fight in Italy. Settling down quietly on Sicilian farm fields is precisely what he wishes to avoid: not for him (not yet, at any rate) the cycles of Melite-like harvests (5.700–3). When Aeneas departs for Latium, he expressly leaves behind on Sicily all the members of his party who cannot or will not bear arms, including the old, the weary, the fearful, and the women (5.715–18). He will journey to Italy only with the strongest men, ready for conflict once they land: lectos iuvenes, fortissima corda,/ defer in Italiam. Gens dura atque aspera cultu / debellanda tibi Latio est (5.729–31). If anything, Aeneas fears that he will not be able to leave Sicily when the Trojan matrons, maddened by Iris on Juno’s behalf, set his ships on fire (5.680ff). Juno’s ploy to thwart the destiny of Rome involves keeping him on peaceable, agricultural Sicily and blocking his journey to mainland Italy. From their respective islands, Anna sails unwillingly to avoid war, Aeneas eagerly to confront it. Anna has re-created the final leg of Aeneas’s journey, but for vastly different reasons. Her journey is the antithesis of his, and she has turned the Aeneid on its head.

When shipwrecked Anna manages to reach Italy, she reconfigures the Virgilian image of refugees washing onto a strange foreign coast. On one level, this harks back to Aeneas’s weary arrival on the shores of Carthage (Aen. 1.157ff), a moment when he must assume a brave face in front of his shipmates. Virgil highlights the burden of leadership; it is a vignette of Aeneas’s epic toil and Page 77 →labor on behalf of Roman destiny. Anna’s arrival is also evocative but in an entirely different fashion—not only unmartial but also erotic. The reader finds her wandering on the beach—errantem Annam (3.605)—and apparently alone, an image that echoes the plight of abandoned Ariadne, so eloquently treated in Catullus 64 and Ovid’s own Heroides 10. Then a barefoot local sees her from a secluded path, secretum nudo dum pede carpit iter (3.604), in a scenario that shares an affinity with another Ovidian tale. In Metamorphoses 12.189–209, the beautiful Caenis is doing precisely the same thing—wandering alone on an isolated beach—when Neptune, clearly an opportunist, ravishes her in a scene with verbal echoes of the Fasti passage: secretaque litora carpens / aequorei vim passa dei est (196–97). Given that, the distinct suggestion of voyeurism arises when Aeneas as the barefoot local sees Anna first and does not immediately make his presence known (3.603ff).189 In this way the scene takes the Virgilian Aeneas’s washing ashore and transmutes it into the delicately drawn image of a princess in distress on distant sands—an image that intensifies when Anna realizes she is no longer alone. Some of the fears that Aeneas had suppressed in his own beach landing arise unfettered in Anna’s agitated thoughts: heu, quid agat? fugiat? quos terrae quaerat hiatus? (3.609)190 The Carthaginian princess is both an analogue of Virgil’s Aeneas and an inversion of him: similar in experience but clearly different in nature. Anna’s Italian landing interacts with the Aeneid in another aspect: the figure of Aeneas. Up to this point in the Fasti narrative, Ovid has negotiated with the epic poem and its hero by employing analogues, parallel stories, literary allusion, and creative adaptation. Then on the Italian shore, Anna finally encounters Aeneas himself, and the Trojan exile cuts a far different figure from the one he did in the Aeneid. This Aeneas does not arrive as a military leader or epic hero.191 Instead, he appears to have been comfortably demilitarized in his post-Aeneid state, the aftermath of fulfilling his destiny: he is making his way barefoot on the beach with only Achates as his companion (3.603–4). With wars, bride, and kingdom safely won and the Trojans and Latins successfully joined in a new hybrid community, populos miscueratque duos (3.602), this Aeneas almost seems to be at loose ends. Ovid, with a touch of slyly irreverent humor, points out the fact that Aeneas is a ruined aristocrat who has (re)married well: he literally has been enriched Page 78 →by the daughter and kingdom of Latinus (Aeneas regno nataque Latini / auctus erat, 3.601–2), and the beach he strolls is part of his wife Lavinia’s dowry—litore dotali (3.603). At the same time, this is a hint that Lavinia may be an uxor dotata, the rich henpecking wife of Roman comedy. One may well wonder what Aeneas is doing out wandering the beach instead of engaging in traditional acts of leadership such as overseeing construction and administering justice. Is he patrolling the shore as a sentry? His status as king along with his bare feet and no mention of weapons seem to preclude that. Could he be temporarily escaping his domestic situation like many a harried comic husband?192 Divested of his crushing Virgilian burdens and responsibilities, this Ovidian Aeneas seems almost indolent or comical—the great mythological founder now rather deflated. Anna and Aeneas’s initial meeting departs still farther from the epic ethos by emphasizing what had been most amatory in the Aeneid. On encountering Aeneas, Anna thinks immediately of her sister (3.610), and Aeneas does too, even weeping at the memory, flet tamen admonitu motus, Elissa, tui (3.612). When he welcomes Anna, he explicitly states that he does so readily both for her own sake and for Dido’s: at tu, seu ratio te nostris appulit oris sive deus, regni commoda carpe mei. multa tibi memores, nil non debemus Elissae: nomine grata tuo, grata sororis eris.

(3.621–24) But you, whether some reason or some god has brought you to our shores, accept the comforts of my realm. We owe much to you, and not a little to Elissa. You will be welcome for your own sake and for your sister’s. All his talk of favor and gratitude powerfully recalls her involvement as bridge between Dido and Aeneas; it may also remind the reader of the alternate poetic tradition of a liaison between Anna and Aeneas, a tradition that Virgil did not duplicate.193 At the same time, in yet another riff on Virgil, Aeneas becomes an echo of Dido: he offers hospitality to a shipwrecked foreigner and listens to that Page 79 →guest’s tale of woe.194 Still another twist remains: he may magnanimously, even ostentatiously, invite Anna to enjoy his kingdom, but as later events will prove, Aeneas—like the decidedly pacifist and ultimately ineffective Battus—cannot guarantee the safety of his guest regardless of how he may want to. The conclusion of the Anna narrative will be discussed in detail in the following section. For the moment, though, the encounter between Anna and Aeneas is an evocative portrayal of a world after Virgil’s Aeneid, when arma has given way to peace, amor, and the actual governance of Aeneas’s destined proto-Roman kingdom. Peacetime, as it soon becomes clear, has its own complications. Anna’s odyssey from Carthage to Italy also offers its own commentary on Virgil. It does not contradict the Aeneid as much as it provides a different perspective on that epic’s overarching theme of journey, destiny, and the colossal effort to found Rome. In Ovid’s project, arma virumque becomes the story of a princess fleeing war and yet making her landing in Hesperia alongside Aeneas. His Annaid brings a sense of double vision to primordial Latium: Virgil’s Aeneas has, if not strict competition, a counterpart, an opposite number. Furthermore, Anna’s story contains the destabilizing idea that though Aeneas previously fled Carthage in order to preserve his Italian destiny, Carthage has followed him to Italy, and once more Carthage takes shape as an appealing Phoenician princess who is herself an exile and a leader of exiles. The Fasti account suggests alternate perspectives: instead of Virgil’s laborious, warrior-founder Aeneas, we have a substitute focus as shipwrecked Anna lands Viola-like on the Italian coast. The possibility emerges of a liaison between the arriving exile and the ruler of the beach, one that would parallel what had happened between Aeneas and Dido. That affair had nearly derailed the entire Roman project by tempting him to become Carthaginian when Carthage was not only “not-Rome” but “anti-Rome.” Suddenly now that he has established himself and his settlement, that Roman mission encounters its Punic nemesis again, if only for one unpredictable, surprising moment, and Carthage wears a beautiful, familiar face.

The Good Wife: Lavinia and Aeneas in Fasti Book 3 As Ovid’s Anna presents a transmuted vision of the Aeneid, so does his Lavinia. The grand arc of Virgil’s epic is Aeneas’s arduous effort to reach Latium where, in the prophetic words of Creusa’s shade, illic res laetae regnumque et Page 80 →regia coniunx / parta tibi (Aeneid 2.783–84)—he will find joyful circumstances, a kingdom, and a royal bride. When Anna washes ashore, she does so at a narrative time when the quest of the Aeneid has already been achieved: Aeneas and his Trojans have defeated Turnus, united with the Latins, and settled the city of Lavinium as the precursor to Rome. Aeneas has married the Latin princess Lavinia and taken his place as ruler of his new kingdom (3.601–2). In short, the goal has been met and divine destiny fulfilled. The next narrative moment asks what happens when the hero has outlived his epic usefulness: Now what? The answer may not be what one expects, either as reader or literary character. The beachfront scene of Anna’s meeting with Aeneas already contained hints of possible domestic discord. Ovid’s statement that the very beach Aeneas walks is litore dotali (3.603), a shore that is a dowry, is an arch

description for all its truthfulness. Aeneas does indeed possess it, along with all the rest of his land holdings, because of his marriage to Lavinia, daughter and sole heir of King Latinus. The fact that Aeneas is wandering the beach accompanied only by Achates both harks back to the Aeneid and overturns it. In the epic, the two had walked the beach at Carthage while armed with iron-tipped spears: bina manu lato crispans hastilia ferro (1.312–13). It is a far cry from Aeneas the unshod figure of the Fasti who is in no apparent condition for hostilities (nudoВ .В .В . pede, 3.604)—has he perhaps grown soft and complacent in his postwar kingdom?195 Ovid’s description of the beach, coupled with the previous comment Aeneas regno nataque Latini / auctus erat (3.601–2), baldly spells out the material benefits that Aeneas derived from his much-foretold marriage. In the fact that she is richer than her husband, Lavinia resembles the uxor dotata as previously mentioned,196 and the resemblance grows stronger in light of Aeneas’s apparent shiftlessness and his absence from the public locations where one might expect to find him carrying out leadership responsibilities.197 At the same time, neither is he at home: one of the signal traits of Roman comedy’s husbands, henpecked and harried by their domineering uxores dotatae, is their desire to avoid domestic life and escape into other locations. These husbands also often have an adulterously randy streak, a pattern that interlaces all too well with Anna’s elegiac sensibilities. These are only initial impressions of Aeneas on the shore. When he returns home with Anna after offering her hospitality, unfolding details reveal a world Page 81 →drastically different from Virgil’s. Almost immediately on arriving home, Aeneas finds himself in a painfully awkward situation of his own making. He is no domestic diplomat when he enters with a strange woman decked in Tyrian finery, Tyrios induta paratus, 3.627, and asks his wife to welcome her: hanc tibi cur tradam, pia causa, Lavinia coniunx, est mihi: consumpsi naufragus huius opes. orta Tyro est, regnum Libyca possedit in ora: quam precor ut carae more sororis ames. (3.629–32) [I will entrust her to you, Lavinia my wife, and my reason is dutiful. When I was shipwrecked, I used her resources. She was born in Tyre and possesses a kingdom on the Libyan shore. I ask that you love her as a dear sister.] The adjective pia takes on an ironic edge, particularly as it is spoken by pius Aeneas, Virgilian paragon of pietas the virtue.198 Pius he may have been in his epic quest, but the pietas of his current request is open for debate, at least from Lavinia’s perspective. The scenario itself is also intriguingly similar to the opening of Aeschylus’s Agamemnon: there too a king returning home brings a foreign princess to his palace and asks his formidable queen to accept her.199 The dignity of that king is similarly suspect: Agamemnon returns to Argos from Troy with only a few surviving ships, and his wife Clytemnestra is a powerful, deceitful figure who readily overawes him. As for Cassandra the Trojan princess, Agamemnon has taken her as his concubine, and her mere presence incites Clytemnestra’s fury. The queen soon murders the newcomer along with her own hapless, unsuspecting husband—all in all, a precedent with precious little in the way of pietas. Given this resonance, the Ovidian Aeneas’s request takes on uncomfortable associations. In both cases, domestic bliss is emphatically absent. More complications arise when Aeneas does not name Anna but instead describes her in terms that are equally

applicable to Dido. The combination of details creates Anna as a reflection or doublet of her sister: rich apparel, general wealth, royal Punic roots, and a personal history with him that predates his Latin marriage. Aeneas has inadvertently, blunderingly framed his introductionPage 82 → of Anna in terms most likely to provoke Lavinia’s personal insecurity, material envy, and sexual jealousy.200 The world of Virgil returns as this episode echoes Aeneas’s other unfortunately worded attempt at personal diplomacy with a hostile queen: his encounter with Dido in the Underworld, where his attempt to justify himself and reconcile with her is a dismal failure and his every word makes matters worse (Aen. 6.331–61). Aeneas had abandoned Carthage as embodied by Dido in order to win his Roman destiny; he has accomplished that, and now Carthage in the form of Anna has arrived.201 Lavinia might well suspect that this time Aeneas actually can have his Carthaginian cake and eat it too—and render her superfluous in the process. The inversion of Virgil continues with Lavinia’s response. While she outwardly agrees readily to Aeneas’s request, promising everything he asks, inwardly she seethes: omnia promittit falsumque Lavinia volnus mente premit tacita dissimulatque metus; donaque cum videat praeter sua lumina ferri multa, tamen mitti clam quoque multa putat. non habet exactum quid agat: furialiter odit, et parat insidias et cupit ulta mori. (3.633–38) [Lavinia promises everything and in her silent mind she hides her deluded injury and dissembles her fears. Although she sees many gifts carried in before her eyes, she nevertheless thinks many more are sent in secret. She does not know exactly what she will do: she hates like a fury and hates a plot and longs to die avenged.] Her dissimulation is more than a calculated response to emotional turmoil, as revealing as that is of her personality.202 It is the counterpart to Aeneas’s own Page 83 →famous habit of hiding his true emotions, a habit that first appears at the very beginning of the Aeneid when he and his shipmates wash ashore at Carthage: he says encouraging things aloud though he is sick with overwhelming cares, and he suppresses his pain deep in his heart, talia voce refert, curisque ingentibus aeger / spem voltu simulat, premit altum corde dolorem (1.208–9). In the use of deception, Lavinia has an affinity with Aeneas, though they differ sharply in their reasons for employing it.203 On the Carthaginian beach, Aeneas disguises his personal feelings in order to bolster his compatriots’ flagging spirits; in other instances of his dissembling his true emotions, he does so in order to pursue the crushing responsibility of following his destiny to Italy.204 In all cases, Aeneas dissembles in service to something other and greater than himself; it is dissimulation as self-sacrifice. Lavinia has no such motivation; she employs dissimulation in order to indulge her own emotions and purposes more freely. The emotional control that is heroic and admirable in the Aeneid becomes a mark of personal darkness in the Fasti: under the guise of amicability, Lavinia hates (furialiter odit), schemes (parat insidias), and plots vengeance (cupit ulta mori) with a murderous will that has no qualms about violating the laws of hospitality. Lavinia sees Anna as a rival to be

eliminated, and in this Aeneas’s wife becomes a type of vengeful native Italian Medea or Clytemnestra. In creating this arrestingly different Lavinia, Ovid exploits her ambiguous and fleeting characterization in Virgil.205 There she had been more symbol than personality: her marriage to Aeneas, along with their future son together and the city that Aeneas will name after her, is foretold by Creusa’s shade, the Underworld Anchises, and Jupiter himself. In Latium, Lavinia appears as a marriageable young woman and a divine omen as well as a pawn of Juno. Throughout the Aeneid, Lavinia says nothing, expressing herself only through downcast eyes and her much-discussed blush.206 She is largely passive even as she incites destructive action in others.207 In terms of her own agency, Lavinia has one notable incident: she participates in the raucous mourning at her mother’s suicide Page 84 →(12.604–7), where she is briefly but intriguingly, and perhaps ominously, said to rage, furit (12.605). Using these details as a springboard, Ovid launches his own version of Lavinia as a shifting combination of uxor dotata, dangerous practitioner of deceit, and vengeful would-be murderess. When Ovid describes Lavinia’s hateful response to Aeneas as Fury-like, furialiter (3.637), he uses this hapax legomenon, this one time only use, as a nod to Virgil that also recalls the other poet’s characterization of Amata. Virgil repeatedly describes Lavinia’s mother in Fury-linked terms and depicts her incited to her disastrous rage by none other than the Fury Allecto.208 In her frenzy, she cannot be contained even by her husband King Latinus, and suddenly Ovid’s Aeneas looks a bit too similar to this well-meaning but ineffectual ruler. Amata’s streak of ferocity seems to run in the family in Ovid’s retelling, and he turns Virgil’s largely passive virgin princess into a rampaging queen all too much like her mother, whose frenzy ultimately brought chaos and bloodshed on herself, her household, and her kingdom. The Ovidian Lavinia becomes an extended gloss on Virgil, hinting that the final peace declared at the end of the Aeneid may not be so stable: Lavinia as the new queen has within her the destructive elements of the old, and the much hoped-for marriage between her and Aeneas is not quite what he (or, by extension, the reader) bargained for. The poet of the Fasti creates the Latian princess as Aeneas’s domestic adversary, not his ally. The protoRoman founder cannot keep his own house in order: from the hints of fecklessness on the beach to the unspoken but underlying disharmony at home, an image emerges that undermines his gravitas, dignitas, and auctoritas. The result is an alternate, rival Aeneas to Virgil’s, one that cracks his epic portrayal: the great founder is outclassed by his termagant queen in a household filled with lies, carefully designed deceit, and attempted murder. Despite all Aeneas’s prior protestations to Anna of welcome and safety, she escapes Lavinia’s plot only when Dido appears, a bloodstained ghost, to warn her that night (3.639–42).209 In an upending of Aeneas’s standing, he is entirely unaware that under his own roof the three formidable women who most influence his post-Trojan life are interacting in an intricate nexus. What unfolds is also manifestly not about him, and he disappears from the story after he introduces Anna to Lavinia. Virgil’s protagonist fades away next to Lavinia, Anna, Dido, and the powerful narrative cocktail of unbridled passions—rage, jealousy, panic—that they create together. Page 85 →The conclusion to the sordid tale of Lavinia’s fury is Anna’s hasty, half-dressed escape through a window (3.643–46)—a scene reminiscent of Roman farce, mime, and even satire210—and her subsequent abduction by the lustful god of the River Numicius. The result is her apotheosis as a nymph of that stream and the establishment of her own Italian cult: corniger hanc cupidis rapuisse Numicius undis creditur et stagnis occuluisse suis. Sidonis interea magno clamore per agros quaeritur: apparent signa notaeque pedum ventum erat ad ripas: inerant vestigia ripis;

sustinuit tacitas conscius amnis aquas. ipsa loqui visa est ’placidi sum nympha Numici: amne perenne latens Anna Perenna vocor.’ protinus erratis laeti vescuntur in agris et celebrant largo seque diemque mero. (3.647–56) [It is thought that the horn-bearing Numicius swept her away in his eager waves and hid her in his pools. Meanwhile with a great clamor the Sidonian woman is sought through the fields: her traces and footprints are visible. They came to the riverbanks; her tracks were on the shorelines. The discerning river held back his quiet waters. She herself seemed to speak: “I am a nymph of the calm Numicius. Hiding in an eternal stream, I am called Anna Perenna.” Right away the cheerful people feast in the fields where they had wandered, and they celebrate both themselves and the day with much wine.] Anna’s narrative arc has taken her laboriously from Carthaginian princess to Roman river goddess.211 Ovid presents a deft case of founding and assimilation that has repeatedly undermined the Virgilian Aeneas and now his Lavinia. Her toxic determination to give no place to Anna enables the Punic princess to become more a part of Latium and Rome than ever: Anna, deified in the Numicius, becomes not only the elegiac, demilitarizedPage 86 → counterpart of Aeneas but now his peer in divinity. Aeneas himself would eventually be buried in the same river and there deified and commemorated as Indiges, the native god.212 Even in the Aeneid, this river is heavily associated with Rome; only the Tiber is more closely tied to Rome and Roman self-fashioning.213 Anna has become Roman, a fact underscored as the poet explains her Tiberside festival in his own day: Anna the goddess is now celebrated on the shores of that most iconic of Roman rivers (3.523ff).214 She has become a playful, inversive analogue to Aeneas, and more.

Iuppiter Victus: Jupiter and Juturna in Fasti Book 2.583–606 While Ovid boldly reimagines Evander and Aeneas, perhaps his most pointedly impertinent treatment of the Aeneid is his recasting of Juturna and Jupiter. Framing the episode as a prequel to the Aeneid, the poet capsizes Virgil’s dignified, authoritative ruler of Olympus and reimagines Juturna, the princess-turned-nymph and object of his desire.215 Not even the king of gods and men is immune from Ovid’s twists and turns, and his transformation implies the mutability and malleability of the Virgilian vision.216 In Ovid’s explanation of the Feralia, the goddess Muta’s rites of February 21, the uncrowning of Jupiter begins with the statement Iuppiter immodico Iuturnae victus amore (2.585)—Jupiter conquered by overwhelming passion for Juturna. Innocuous enough at first glance, on second look the line becomes a bit of sly humor at Jupiter’s expense. The description of the god as victus, “conquered,” is itself a deflation, an inversion of his majestic public image. More mischievously, it resonates with his mighty epithet Jupiter Invictus, the Unconquered Jupiter, a name under which the Romans celebrated him, Page 87 →state god extraordinaire, on June 13.217 Ovid notes the festival at Fasti 6.650,218 but in that passage the name, the god, and the day are

mentioned only to be unceremoniously swept away in favor of a cheerfully ignoble, unruly tale of drunken flute players defying the Senate while singing iocosa verba.219 As the authorities and Jupiter Invictus had received short shrift there, Jupiter as authority figure will also receive a teasing treatment in Book 2 as unaccustomed victus, and vae victis indeed. More tellingly, the description of Jupiter as Iuppiter immodico Iuturnae victus amore makes him a parallel to another impressive Roman state god brought ignominiously low by unbridled desire: Mars of Book 3, correptus amore (3.681) and initially described as a type of passive prisoner. You were unarmed, the poet says to the god, when the Roman priestess Rhea Silvia captured you, tum quoque inermis eras / cum te Romana sacerdos cepit (3.9–10). In a related tale, Mars, correptus and flummoxed by another bout of passion, had to endure his lovesickness for a long time, uror et hoc longo tempore vulnus alo (3.682), before finally being driven to desperate measures that end with his public embarrassment (3.675–96). Though previously triumphant in other sexual conquests, he is now spectacularly unsuccessful in his attempt to bed the object of his desire; Minerva (or at least his fantasy idea of her) vanishes like a teasing mirage. When the Jupiter of Book 2 is victus, he echoes this vision of Mars, and the similarity intensifies when the poet describes Jupiter further still as enduring many things that should not be endured by so great a god, multa tulit tanto non patienda deo (2.586). Passion has forced him into humiliation. Startlingly—and not a little amusingly with quintessential Ovidian irreverence—Jupiter the incorrigible Don Juan of Olympus finds only failure in his pursuit of the nymph Juturna. She, hiding now in the woods, now in the waters, consistently eludes him (2.587–88).220 As Mars is forced to ask Page 88 →for assistance from old Anna, so Jupiter calls the other nymphs to a meeting (2.589ff) in a comic inversion of epic’s “council of the gods” trope. Instead of discussing matters of grand import among powerful fellow Olympians, Jupiter addresses a gaggle of nameless minor water nymphs.221 Furthermore, this is for the unabashedly selfish purpose of asking that they help him catch their fellow nymph—“your sister,” he says twice (2.592, 594).222 But as Mars is unsuccessful despite his humbling request for assistance, so is Jupiter. They both find that their hopedfor helpers turn on them and block their goal: Anna makes a buffoonish laughingstock out of Mars, and one of the nymphs, Lara, deliberately ruins Jupiter’s plan. She reports his plans, dictaВ .В .В . Iovis (2.604), to Juturna. Knowing that a trap exists is the first step in evading it, and Juturna handily escapes. The amorous gods are left only with their writhing disappointment and frustration. With all this already in place, Ovid’s engagement with Virgil’s Jupiter and Juturna takes on an added piquancy. In the Aeneid, Juturna is explicitly presented as a former conquest of Jupiter; she had received her divinity as recompense for the virginity that he had taken from her (12.878–80). When Ovid begins his tale with Jupiter in love with Juturna, the clear expectation is that what follows will be the story of how the god ravished the Rutulian princess, sister of Turnus, and then granted her nymph status as restitution. This is precisely what does not happen. At the beginning of Ovid’s story, Juturna is already an immortal nymph without any grant or intervention from Jupiter; this obliquely undercuts Virgil and hints at entirely alternate possible narratives for Juturna. This water nymph also has no connection with Turnus; her fiercely loving Virgilian determination to protect her brother has disappeared. Where before she dashed over the battlefield in the guise of Turnus’s charioteer, desperately keeping her sibling from a fatal confrontation with Aeneas,223 she now flits through the forest, fleeing Jupiter for a purely personal reason. Gone now is the Aeneid’s overarching narrative of grand Roman destiny, all its struggle and human cost expressed in the climactic duel between Aeneas and the doomed Turnus, now beyond his sister’s aid. In the Fasti it becomes an erotic chase with no sense of purpose greater than Jupiter’s sexual gratification and Juturna’s deft resistance. In terms of Jupiter, the Fasti story’s cumulative effect is to take the exalted Page 89 →god of the Aeneid, stalwart patron of the Roman future, and render him ridiculous. In Virgil, the narrative of Juturna comes surrounded by related tales of Jupiter, Juno, and Aeneas’s founding mission. Through them all, Jupiter is a sublimely dignified, authoritative figure; he is genitor (12.843), hominum rerumque repertor (12.829), and rex omnipotentis Olympi (12.791). The Virgilian Juturna herself refers to the great god and his lofty commands—iussa superba / magnanimi Iovis (12.877–78). When he confers with another divinity, it is with Juno, and his words focus on the founding and future of Rome (12.791–842); he succeeds in brokering a deal

with her to establish Aeneas in Italy with all that it entails and implies for Rome-to-be. Majestic Jovian authority reconciles the once-hostile Juno to the Roman project and declares the divinely sanctioned end, the telos, of Aeneas’s long struggle. As part of his bringing down the curtain on Turnus’s armed resistance, he orders Juturna to abandon her brother and so leave him vulnerable to Aeneas. The power of Jupiter compels her, and she despairingly complies under duress even as she recalls the first time she was forced to yield to him (12.843–86).224 Jupiter’s will is incontestable, both tragically for Juturna and positively for the Roman project at large. In the Fasti, Jupiter’s inability to achieve his objectives is not only generally deflating, but in comparison to Virgil doubly damaging. While the Virgilian Jupiter convinces the powerful, previously implacable Juno to support Rome (12.791–842), his Ovidian counterpart attempts to convince nymphs on a much lesser matter, and his effort is ultimately fruitless. Ovid’s Juturna displays an unruly independence, doing as she pleases with no regard for Jupiter, his power, or his prerogatives. Though she is a nymph darting through the woodland and not the fiercely motivated virago that she is in the Aeneid, her agency presents Jupiter with difficulties. Aside from giving him a great deal of personal frustration, it also presents a counterexample to his august Virgilian persona. He had been a god who could force Juturna to forsake her beloved brother in order to assure the rise of Rome. He had all but compelled Juno to give up her hostility to Aeneas and his Roman destiny. Ovid’s recasting has Jupiter unable to compel anyone to do anything: he must persuade—not command—the convocation of nymphs to help him, Lara acts on her own initiative against him, and Juturna continues to elude him without any Ovidian assurance that Jupiter will ever possess her. In short, his ineffectiveness is obvious, and Virgil’s emotionally affecting story of Juturna as a meditation on the cost of founding Rome—Turnus is more or less a founding sacrifice—now becomes Ovid’s narrative turning the king of gods and men into a frustrated randy buffoon. Page 90 →Ovid then pushes his false prequel of Jupiter and Juturna to the ragged edge of comedy with a detail that he introduces with the telling phrase disce per antiquos quae mihi nota senes (2.584), “Learn what I heard from old men.” Stories told by old men and women carry a distinct whiff of the whimsical fabulist and of literary registers far lower than epic. Virgil’s Jupiter, the reassuring guardian of the Roman (and imperial Augustan) future from his opening prophecy in Aeneid 1.257–96 to his concluding pronouncement in Book 12, finds himself knocked down several pegs in Ovid. The final twist appears as insult to injury when Lara not only warns Juturna of Jupiter’s plot to catch her but goes one step farther and tells Juno of her husband’s adulterous plan: вЂNaida Iuturnam vir tuus’ inquit вЂamat.’ (2.606)—“Your husband is in love with the nymph Juturna.” The brevity of the message emphasizes it. This is the close of the Juturna section of the story, and it leaves Jupiter’s dignity in tatters: he does not manage to capture his inamorata, and now his sordid secret is out as he potentially faces the wrath of his infamously jealous and waspish queen. The implication of discord between the king and queen of Olympus resonates with Virgil, but instead of quarrelling about cosmological Roman destiny, they will quarrel about Jupiter’s infidelity. The high drama of the Aenean, Roman mission becomes—for a moment—a domestic, personal, and even rather tawdry argument enabled by a gossipmonger and tattletale, and Aeneas and Rome are both nowhere to be found. The Aeneid may have been regarded as an instant classic, but Ovid repeatedly and contentiously engages its presentation of Roman beginnings, the wellspring of Roman identity. In fact, his approach may find its best modern expression in the idea that “The beginning is an artifice and what recommends one over another is how much sense it makes of what follows.”225 Ovid emphasizes the arbitrariness and artifice in Virgil’s project by reconfiguring its hero and other characters and emphasizing their vulnerability to the will and purpose of their poet(s). In his reinventions of that epic’s minor female characters and their interactions with other figures—Evander vis-Г -vis Carmentis, Aeneas vis-Г -vis Anna, Aeneas vis-Г -vis Lavinia, and finally Jupiter vis-Г -vis Juturna—Ovid replaces epic solemnities with other registers and tones. An entire alternate array of stories appears, a kaleidoscope of shifting priorities and emphases. The learned, clever poet of the Fasti confronts the Virgilian epic not by colliding with it but by deftly presenting other perspectives. Becoming Roman is suddenly much more complicated. Page 91 →Ovid’s interactions with Virgil have the cumulative effect of destabilizing or fragmenting that

monumentalizing epic. Instead of one towering, teleological poetic vision, numerous other possibilities exist simultaneously in the world of the Fasti. Where Virgil sought to bring disparate elements together in the unifying journey of Aeneas as ancestral founding hero, Ovid takes pleasure in teasing out those threads even if (or perhaps because) Aeneas emerges with rather less of his Virgilian dignitas intact. Virgil’s conception has become one of many options. It is a stimulating turn of literary events even as it is provocative and potentially perilous. Virgil’s Aeneas is not Augustus, but his story is one that emphatically has its literary culmination in the princeps. In this vein, we turn to the Fasti’s interplay with that imperial influence itself.

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Chapter 3 Under the Influence Interacting with the Princeps In the Augustan era’s ongoing discourse of being Roman, the influence of the princeps himself is inescapable. For most of the Fasti’s time in composition and revision, that is Augustus with his incalculable auctoritas; then for some three years when Ovid was editing his work on the Black Sea at the end of his life, imperial power took the shape of Tiberius, successor of Augustus. While later revisions of the Fasti clearly nodded to the Tiberian regime, it is still the shadow of Augustus that falls more heavily on the poem.226 How Ovid treats the relationship between poetry and the realities of power off the page is a most complicated question; the calendar poem as cultural and literary commentary is one of Latin letters’ most subtle and incisive responses to this fraught topic. Si licet et fas est, Ovid writes. The imperial influence hovers over the poem. It may be true that “the key aspect in which the Fasti outstrip Ovid’s earlier work . . . is in their treatment of the honors of Augustus.”227 It is also true that the project offers a unique showcase for meditations on what may happen in life and literature when poet meets princeps. In considering holidays added to the calendar, foundresses of primeval Rome, the co-opting of Vesta by Augustus, and the establishment of the Lares Augusti in the City, Ovid offers his own poetic perspectives on imperial realities.

Women’s Rites: Agency and Commemoration in January, March, and May The Fasti is full of women at worship. At first blush, this is not unusual: the calendar poem clearly displays its interest in all kinds of religious observances. Ovid, Page 93 →however, devotes a great deal more time to female worshippers than their male counterparts, and this invites a closer look. His purpose was not to instruct per se about religious matters: the poet has his own reasons.228 These literary laywomen’s very lack of formal religious status emphasizes the existence of an entire world of practice outside the official channels of religious establishment that Augustus had co-opted.229 The fact that many of these women are associated with dubious morality or status—the striptease showgirls of the Floralia, for instance, or the saucy flute girls of the Lesser Quinquatrus—also suggests that more is at stake than a simple numbering and cataloguing of women’s activities.230 In particular, the poet tells of the goddess Flora and the Roman matrons on separate occasions forcing concessions from the male political elite. No mention of the princeps appears, for the incidents are said to take place during the early Republic. Nevertheless, the literary fact remains that during two separate struggles for power and privilege female figures take matters into their own hands and bring the Roman leadership, in the form of the Senate, to its collective knees. The limits of official Roman authority appear in high relief, for the women identify, target, and then exploit to devastating effect that leadership’s vulnerabilities. The result is victory for the women, commemorated as marked days in the calendar. The botanical goddess Flora exercises her right to veneration—and through it ultimately a place in the Roman calendar—in Fasti Book 5. As she tells the poet, in the mythical past Mars had explicitly promised her a place in Rome: habeto / tu quoque Romulea dixit in urbe locum (5.259–60). The Senate, however, failed to honor her; she complains that they passed her by, me quoque Romani praeteriere patres (5.312). This in itself is a tart commentary both on Mars’s command authority and on the Senate’s moral rectitude, and the offended goddess makes her feelings known to the negligent patres: at si neglegimur, magnis iniuria poenis

solvitur, et iustum praeterit ira modum. respice Thestiaden: flammis absentibus arsit; causa est, quod Phoebes ara sine igne fuit. respice Tantaliden: eadem dea vela tenebat; virgo est, et spretos bis tamen ulta focos. Page 94 →Hippolyte infelix, velles coluisse Dionen, cum consternatis diripereris equis. longa referre mora est correcta oblivia damnis: me quoque Romani praeteriere patres. quid facerem, per quod fierem manifesta doloris? exigerem nostrae qualia damna notae? (5.303–14) [But if we are neglected, the insult is absolved with great penalties, and rage exceeds its rightful limit. Look at Meleager: he burned with flames that were not there; This is the reason: because the altar of Phoebe lacked a fire. Look at Agamemnon: the same goddess held back the ships; She is a virgin, but she still avenged her scorned hearths twice. Miserable Hippolytus, you wished you had worshipped Venus when you were torn apart by your horses as they ran amok. It would take a long time to recall neglect redressed by damages. The Roman senators even neglected me! What could I do? How could my resentment become clear? What kind of penalty could I exact to show my grievance?] She soon chooses her response: as a patroness of all growing things, Flora refuses to help any plant flourish, excidit officium tristi mihi (5.315). By effectively going on strike, she brings a plague of agricultural sterility as olives, vines, and grain harvests all fail (5.311–30).231 Flora forces the Senate’s hand: in the face of imminent famine, the patres have no choice but to honor the goddess they had previously ignored. Accordingly they promise her a new festival to be celebrated every year: convenere patres, et, si bene floreat annus, / numinibus nostris annua festa vovent (5.327–28). With the institution of the Floralia festival of April 28–May 3, the goddess of flowers has added her own days to the Roman calendar. A narrative with similar contours appears in Book 1’s ongoing account of the second Carmentalia festival on

January 15. In the tale, the authorities withdraw the Roman matrons’ right to use the carpenta type of carriage. Along with providing transportation, it was also a status symbol: the poet specifically describesPage 95 → this as honor taken away, mox honor eripitur (1.621).232 Enraged by this slight, the matronae bring their own plague of terrifying sterility when they commit mass abortion: .В .В . matronaque destinat omnis ingratos nulla prole novare viros, neve daret partus, ictu temeraria caeco visceribus crescens excutiebat onus. (1.621–24) [.В .В .В Every matron resolved Not to renew the ungrateful husbands’ family lines with any children, and so that she would not give birth, with a blind strike she rashly cast out the burden growing in her belly.] The Senate might noisily condemn the wives for their daring cruelty, corripuisse patres ausas immitia nuptas (1.625), but it nevertheless restores their right to the carpenta (1.619). The mutiny’s effect on the ultimate viability of the state could not be ignored. The matrons’ revolt also makes its permanent mark on the calendar: the patres order a repeat of Carmentalia rites in the hope of more children, binaque nunc pariter Tegeaeae sacra parenti / pro pueris fieri virginibusque iubent (1.627–28). The observation became an annual event. Even after the reconciliation of matrons and Senate, the added festival in the calendar remains as witness and memorial of their schism—a break mended only when the Senate admitted defeat.233 In both the cases of Flora and the outraged matronae, the women strike at the core of Roman identity, Roman existence itself—Flora by threatening starvation, the wives by threatening the extinction of family lines. Accordingly, the Senate yields, and the resulting calendar notations mark these concessions and immortalize their causes. Roman identity, as expressed there, now contains the sly reminder of official power’s own limitations. In the proem of the Fasti, Ovid Page 96 →spoke of days added to the calendar by imperial figures (1.9–14), but where Flora and the rebellious matronae are concerned, they are the ones who add to the calendar at the expense of the authorities’ gravitas. Concessions won, Flora and the matronae, duly mollified, return to their peaceful coexistence with the Senate and—through them—the state. All is calm, but a hint of that dormant ability to revolt lingers. Elsewhere in the poem, the god Mars finds himself at a loss during two instances of women’s religious activity: the Matronalia festival of March 1 and Anna Perenna’s celebrations of March 15. Mars as a patron of war is a figure of epic—in the Fasti he becomes a casualty of Ovid’s play of genres—but he is also a major figure of the Augustan religious program. Augustus’s particular incarnation of Mars was, among other things, an ancestral god, a male counterpart to Venus Genetrix.234 At the same time, his new epithet of Ultor, “the Avenger,” presents him unequivocally as a military god of rightful retribution and victory. His peaceful aspects as a patron of Roman prosperity come in the wake of—as a result of—his military ones. In this vein, Augustus constructed a gigantic new temple to Mars Ultor as the centerpiece of his Forum Augustum, dedicating it in 2 BC. Here the god presided over a complex of buildings that was both an expression of Roman identity and Augustus’s preeminence.235 Statuary in the twin colonnades depicted exemplary Roman heroes of the past, led by Aeneas and Romulus;236 statuary inside the temple depicted the potent, pointed combination of Venus and Mars.237 In the central courtyard outside, a triumphal chariot bore Augustus’s name, and so did

the architrave of Mars’s temple. The entire architectural plan was a grandiose expression of Roman identity anchored by Mars and echoed in Augustus. In light of this, Ovid’s literary treatments of Mars take on an edge when the poet reconfigures or even deflates the god.238 The poet begins on the first of March; it is the Matronalia, the feast of the matrons on the Kalends of Mars’s own month, and he asks:239 Page 97 →si licet occultos monitus audire deorum vatibus, ut certe fama licere putat, cum sis officiis, Gravide, virilibus aptus, dic mihi, matronae cur tua festa colant. (3.167–70) [If it’s permitted for poets to hear the secret counsels of the gods, as rumor certainly thinks it is, tell me, Gradivus, why matrons celebrate your feast, although you are suited for male rites.] By asking Mars to explain, Ovid places the god in a potentially uncomfortable position. In case the reader has not been paying attention, the poet spells out that discomfort: a war god is trying to explain a women’s festival although he is more comfortable with men’s pursuits. It is Ovid’s choice to do this: the poet could have easily explained the festival without compelling the god to be part of it. The choice forces the issue and places Mars on his back foot; talk of his unsuitability puts him (the god of military victory!) instantly on the defensive.240 The implication is that the question is not only about the festival but also about the incongruous meeting of two vastly different spheres of influence. Mars launches into a long, detailed narrative culminating with the Sabine wives rushing onto the battlefield and stopping a war (3.201–32). A few lines previously, Mars had declared that, like Minerva, he was capable of things besides war (3.173–76), but this seems a bit disingenuous: the matrons’ festival arose in the first place because the wives undercut and undid his main function as war god. They had managed to end a military conflict—finierantВ .В .В . Martia bella (3.232). The god further links himself to this by referring to the wars as Martia. The Matronalia in Mars’s own narrative serves as an annual reminder of the wives’ effectiveness against his primary prerogatives. In a postlude Mars offers other reasons for the Matronalia, all of which also de-emphasize his stature as patron of war.241 Perhaps, he says, the Matronalia arose from his liaison with Ilia/Rhea Silvia (3.233–34) or because Roman wives founded a temple to Juno (3.245–48). Finally he suggests it might arise from his mother Juno’s affinity for brides (3.249–52). Mars’s merry-go-round of possible causes hints instead at his own lack of authoritative grip on the situation. Furthermore,Page 98 → the war god, surrounded by women at worship, seems uncomfortably out of place. When he describes a throng of matrons crowding his temple, he seems nearly besieged: matrum me turba frequentat (3.251). The image of Mars nonplussed by a horde or mob of women, a turba, carries its own lashings of humor.242 On the very Kalends of March, women are in the center of the narrative, jockeying (successfully) with the eponymous god for prominence. By the Ides Mars is again embroiled in women’s cult activity, and again he gives the impression of being at a disadvantage. During the festival of Anna Perenna, one rite involves girls singing saucy verses:

nunc mihi, cur cantent, superest, obscena puellae, dicere: nam coeunt certaque probra canunt. (3.675–76) [Now it remains for me to tell why the girls chant obscene things, for they gather and sing certain naughty songs.] Here again is the depiction of women at worship, here again the suggestion that they inhabit something of a world apart. The girls congregate and carry on, and though the poet may explain, he is only a spectator and can never be a participant. He does explain the bawdy ditties: they recall Mars’s embarrassment at the hands of Anna Perenna. He had asked her for help in winning Minerva over, but when Mars goes to bed thinking that Minerva waits for him, he finds old Anna there instead (3.675–94). In a scene cheekily reminiscent of mime and comedy, the war god is made a fool, elusumВ .В .В . deum (3.692), and subjected to Anna’s laughter—ridet (3.693).243 The festive songs not only remember but outright celebrate Mars’s humiliation: inde ioci veteres obscenaque dicta canuntur, et iuvat hanc magno verba dedisse deo. (3.695–96) [So old jokes and saucy ditties are sung, and it’s a pleasure to remember how she tricked the great god.] Page 99 →In effect, whenever the festival is held, whenever the girls celebrate Anna Perenna and sing their rude songs, year after year, it refreshes Mars’s embarrassment, and this is the humorous climax to the Fasti’s account of the Perenna holiday. This is Mars harking back to the opening of Book 3, where the poet had called on him to disarm (3.1–8). Immediately after, the god fell in love with Silvia the Vestal priestess, or rather, in Ovid’s telling turn of phrase, she captured him instead of the other way round: cum te Romana sacerdos / cepit (3.9–10).244 The Matronalia presents the god as less and less martial; this Mars, seen vis-Г -vis various females at worship, is a departure from his familiar incarnation as patron of war and victorious peace. Within the bounds of the calendar, Ovid can (and has) recast Mars. Even so, if one takes a step back, one can also see Augustus recasting the same god—not in literature but in monumental architecture and public display.245 Ovid’s literary games suddenly seem less frivolous as the two figures of Mars come into contact; the art and artifice of the poetic recasting highlights the art and artifice of the political one. Ovid highlights this juxtaposition when he considers Augustus’s Mars Ultor and the Forum Augustum in Fasti 5.545–98.246 The poet emphasizes unapologetic vengeance as the origin of Mars’s new shrine, going so far as to ascribe words to Augustus himself—a daring proposition: si mihi bellandi pater est Vestaeque sacerdos auctor, et ulcisci numen utrumque paro, Mars, ades et satia scelerato sanguine ferrum, stetque favor causa pro meliore tuus. templa feres et, me victore, vocaberis Ultor.

(5.573–77) [If my father, the priest of Vesta, is the reason for waging war, I prepare to avenge both divinities. Come, Mars, and satisfy the sword with criminal blood, and may your favor stand by the better cause. With me as victor, you will have a temple, and you will be called the Avenger.] Page 100 →The speech purports to be the beginning of Augustus’s connection with Mars Ultor, an association that will culminate not only with the vast new temple but also with the establishment of August 1 as the festival of Mars Ultor, the Ludi Martiales. Arguably Mars Ultor was second only to Palatine Apollo in Augustus’s program of religious innovation.247 Yet for all the rhetoric of calling Mars to righteous retribution against Caesar’s assassins—Mars, ades et satia scelerato sanguine ferrum!248—Fasti 5’s poetic vision contains its own subtle humor. The Mars described in the passage seems to be a wide-eyed, overawed visitor to his own glittering urban temple. He is impressed by what he sees and, specifically, impressed by Augustus: spectat et Augusto praetextum nomine templum et visum lecto Caesare maius opus. (5.567–68) [He sees the temple inscribed with the name Augustus, and the work seems even greater when the name of Caesar is seen.] The god may even seem too partisan, too much a participant in the unabashed propagandizing of the place.249 One may well wonder if the poet is satirizing the public image of the temple by laying on praise with a trowel. Behind this depiction of Mars, though, hovers a previous Ovidian Mars—that of Fasti Book 3. There the poet had also called on the god, but he had called on him to disarm: Mars ades et nitidas casside solve comas (3.2). The arrival of Mars clanging with the sound of weapons in Fasti 5.550—Mars venit et veniens bellica signa dedit—resonates as the inverse of Book 3. Two distinct images of Mars emerge: Fasti 5’s Mars Ultor in military might and imperial splendor side by side with Fasti 3’s unarmed amator, observer of the matrons’ festival, and dupe of old Anna.250 This double vision clarifies the fundamental interaction between the Fasti and the official imperial management of Rome: Ovid is playing with fire when his version rubs against imperial presentations. There is Page 101 →indeed the new and glistening presentation by the princeps: Mars Ultor in all his splendor. But there is also another Mars who is something else entirely. By suggesting that the identity of Mars can be divided and multiplied, added to and subtracted from, Ovid reminds his readers of the wider possibility that Roman identity too can be (and has been) both by Augustus and by others.

Honored Matres: Livia and Roman Foundresses The nexus between the imperial regime and the Fasti becomes still more complex when Ovid includes Livia, wife of Augustus, empress in all but name, the most prominent and powerful woman in Rome during first the Augustan and then the early Tiberian age.251 Notably, before the Fasti Livia almost never appeared in contemporary poetry.252 She also never appears in any extant calendar until after the death of Augustus.253 In the Fasti,

however, Livia appears four times and becomes a counterpart to the princeps—the very image of imperial power in a feminine form.254 In a work written during the last years of Augustus’s reign and partially rewritten during the first years of Tiberius’s, the poet confronts not one but two principes, and both are intimately linked to Livia. The natural starting point is Augustus. At first blush, the slight shift in focus from Augustus to Livia may not appear destabilizing to his own image. A close reading of Ovid’s depictions of other rulers and their female cohorts, however, provides valuable context. Throughout the Fasti, a pattern emerges of capable, independent women who possess their own vibrant agency, as we have seen already in the cases of Carmentis with Evander and Lavinia with Aeneas. At the same time, in the Augustan era all authority figures who place their stamp on Roman identity ultimately resonate with Augustus. Romulus and Numa as the first two kings of archaic Rome inevitably invite comparison or analogy with Page 102 →the first princeps. Romulus as the founder echoes Augustus’s public persona as pater patriae, victorious warrior, and refounder of Rome; Suetonius even reports that some Romans thought Octavian should take the name “Romulus” after Actium.255 The second king, Numa, has a clear similarity to Augustus in the sphere of religion; as Numa had been a priestking who established numerous Roman religious practices, so was Augustus, from his attempts to spur a moralreligious renewal in Rome to his many artistic depictions dressed as a priest capite velato. When Ovid explicitly credits both Romulus and Numa with setting up the Roman calendar at Fasti 1.27–44, the parallelism between these archaic founding figures and Augustus becomes compelling: they all shape the calendar.256 As Ovid would have it, though, Romulus may be renowned for his military prowess and Numa for religious institutions, but they both find themselves beholden to women—namely to their energetic, redoubtable wives.257 When a social crisis arises in Romulean Rome, the narrative focuses not on the founder-king but on his queen Hersilia. Moreover, the ostensible storyteller is not the persona of the poet; instead it is Mars in his attempt to be a patron of peace (3.167ff). From the onset, the focus on Hersilia undermines militaristic Romulus by consigning him to the background, and Romulus always seems uncomfortable when he must deal with nonmartial matters. In the demilitarized world of the Fasti, he is consistently at a disadvantage, and this becomes painfully obvious in the case of the Sabine Women. He had been perplexed before their abduction and needed Mars’s direct intervention (3.187–98), he is silent at the moment of crisis, and now he is querulously baffled by the fallout (3.429–34). At issue is the impending war between Romans and Sabines after Rome’s abduction of the Sabine Women. Romulus has gained the wives but lost control of the consequences. The story of the Sabine Women stopping a war between their Roman husbands and Sabine kinsmen is a well-established one. Ovid, however, modifies the material to give Hersilia a prominent place: what ensues is an unarmed Mars narrating the actions of his daughterin-law (meaВ .В .В . nurus,Page 103 → he says at 3.206, and one wonders if there is not a touch of pride in those words). An entire separate sphere of women’s activity arises, and it is filled with social, political, and military pursuits—in a nutshell, the Roman male sphere. Hersilia directs policy among the Sabine wives gathered en masse as a deliberative body in Juno’s temple (3.205); it is a feminine version of a council or even the Senate, and Hersilia delivers a speech of compact rhetorical power: o pariter raptae, quoniam hoc commune tenemus, non ultra lente possumus esse piae. stant acies: sed utra di sint pro parte rogandi eligite; hinc coniunx, hinc pater arma tenet. quaerendum est viduae fieri malitis an orbae. consilium vobis forte piumque dabo.

(3.207–12) [All you have been likewise ravished, since we have that in common, we can no longer hesitate and still be dutiful. The battle lines stand: but you choose which side to ask the gods to support. On this side your husband bears arms, the other your father. The question is whether you prefer to be widows or orphans. I will give you all advice that is both dutiful and bold.] Decisive, clear-headed, and authoritative, Hersilia is undeniably a leader; she possesses a firm grasp of what must be done, along with the ability to plan, organize, strategize, and motivate. The description forte takes on a different nuance—it is no longer the bravery of war but the boldness of counsel. The ultimate result of her leadership is the bloodless resolution of the Roman-Sabine conflict, along with reconciliation and the growth of the City (3.213–28). Though Romulus can use force to seize the Sabine Women, his queen’s guidance—her consiliumВ .В .В . forte piumque—is what achieves a true and lasting benefit for Rome. She comes into her own as a Roman foundress, and she embodies the steady, thoughtful leadership that her impulsive husband seems to lack. In the Fasti, Hersilia carries the day and one of the causae of the Matronalia. The case of Egeria may be even more provocative. In the Fasti’s account, it soon becomes clear that Numa, the second king of Rome, though famed for his peacetime pietas and religious focus, did not act on his own: he depends Page 104 →in large part on his semi-divine wife.258 The poet remarks forthrightly that she was both wife and adviser: illa Numae coniunx consiliumque fuit (3.276). The religious counselor himself needed a religious counselor, and suddenly his relationship with the water nymph Egeria echoes the one between Evander and Carmentis—mortal men and founding figures reliant on divine Muse-like women.259 Like Carmentis before her, Egeria guides early Romanness and watches over new establishments. Livy the historian is skeptical of Egeria; he even speculates that the nymph was merely a figment of the imagination, part of a clever public relations campaign by the king.260 In the Fasti, however, Egeria becomes the driving force behind some of Numa’s hallmark achievements, including the reform of the Roman calendar and the establishment of rites. Numa’s calendar reforms are particularly important. Their first mention occurs in direct contrast to Romulus, who set up a calendar of ten months in an earnest but mistaken effort, as the poet spelled out with no little humor in Fasti 1. Numa then corrects the Romulean calendar by adding two months (1.43–44). Yet when this reform reappears in Fasti 3, Numa has lost some of his knowledge and initiative. The king realizes that Romulus’s calendar is faulty, but he does not reach this conclusion on his own. Instead, the poet gives two possible explanations: Numa learns this either from the Greek philosopher Pythagoras or from his nymph wife Egeria: sive hoc a Samio doctusВ .В .В . / Egeria sive monente sua (3.153–54).261 Egeria emerges as a very possible architect of the Roman calendar. It is tempting to see a poetic twist to this, for a Muse-like goddess has a hand in shaping Roman time, even if time is supposedly commanded by a king. In terms of religious establishments—Numa’s greatest claim to fame—Egeria is also inescapable. A revealing episode unfolds when a prodigy of lightning strikes the City. The populace is terrified, but so is Numa: rex pavet (3.288). He does not respond on his own initiative, but only after Egeria confronts his distress (ne nimium terrere, don’t be frightened, she orders bracingly at 3.289, in an echo of Carmentis bucking up Evander) and explains that the woodland deities Page 105 →Picus and Faunus must be captured and appeased (3.285–94).262 Furthermore, Numa—earnest but unimaginative—is unable to comply without still more instructions; Egeria must also tell him precisely how to go about this: atque ita qua possint edidit arte capi (3.294). The result is the origin of religious celebrations for Jupiter Elicius. Numa the religious king has indeed

established a set of rites, but Egeria was the main factor in how he was able to do so.263 This episode all but duplicates itself at the Fordicia observation of April 15 (4.629–72). Numa receives credit for establishing this rite, yet once again Egeria plays a key role.264 During a crisis of infertility in the state, Numa takes measures to placate the gods (4.651–67). Faunus accordingly appears to the king in a dream to give instructions, but Numa is puzzled by them—visa revolvit / et secum ambages caecaque iussa refert (4.67–68). Once more Egeria must step in because he, relying on his own devices, is going astray, errantem: expedit errantem nemori gratissima coniunx et dixit “gravidae posceris exta bovis.” (4.669–70) [His wife, the favorite in the grove, helped her erring husband and told him, “You are asked for the innards of a pregnant cow.”] Egeria has to spell things out for him. A sneaking suspicion arises that the nymph is the power behind both the throne and Numa’s reputation as establisher of Roman religious rites. As Roman founders, both Romulus and Numa are accompanied—consistently and even inconveniently—by Roman foundresses who possess rather more influence than their consorts may care to admit.265 This suggests that additional facets of history and Roman origins exist, that from the beginning Roman identity is influenced by things other than official or political channels. This even argues for politically unrecognized but nonetheless powerfulPage 106 → female influence, and the tales diminish or at least complicate the two kings’ dignity and authority as founders. This idea comes with its own peril in first the Augustan and then the Tiberian world outside the poem. In this light, we turn to Ovid’s innovative presentation of Livia in four passages of the Fasti. Her first and possibly most arresting appearance occurs during the account of the first Carmentalia of January 11. When Carmentis, caught in oracular frenzy, leaps onto the Latian shore and proclaims the future of Rome, she does so as a figure standing at the very beginning of Roman history. Her founding prophecy highlights two ideas: the establishment of Rome and its future imperial glory. Inherent in her speech is the idea of Rome through time; she recasts the Metamorphoses’ call to the gods to aid a song stretching from the beginning of the cosmos to the poet’s own day.266 There Ovid begins with primordial Chaos and ends with Rome wreathed with imperial Julian divinity in the apotheosis of Julius Caesar (15.840ff). In the Fasti, Carmentis seems to finish her song with a grand vision of Tiberius linked to his adoptive father Augustus: et penes Augustos patriae tutela manebit hanc fas imperii frena tenere domum. inde nepos natusque dei, licet ipse recuset, pondera caelesti mente paterna feret. (1.531–34) [And the guardianship of the nation will remain with the house of Augustus. It is fitting that this house hold the reins of power.

From it the grandson and son of a god, although he himself may decline, will carry with his celestial mind his father’s burden.] If the passage had ended here with the domus Augusta and Tiberius, lofty in authority yet hesitant to take power, 267 it could be read as a flattering exaltation of the new princeps and the imperial household (read: dynasty). This would be a fitting capstone indeed to Carmentis’s sweeping vision of Roma through the ages. Ovid, however, penned two more lines, and they dramatically alter the focus of the passage. Carmentis has dwelt on Tiberius, but she finishes her prophetic song by focusing on someone else entirely, Livia: Page 107 →utque ego perpetuis olim sacrabor in aris, sic Augusta novum Iulia numen erit. (1.535–36) [As one day I will be consecrated on everlasting altars, so Julia Augusta will be a new divinity.] Tiberius has been previously mentioned to be now overshadowed and undercut; Carmentis’s earlier praise has been a double-edged sword. In her song, the culmination of Roman history lies not as much in Tiberius or Augustus as in Livia.268 The second princeps may be nepos natusque dei, but Livia, adopted as Julia Augusta in her husband’s will,269 is hailed unequivocally as novumВ .В .В . numen. It is she who is specifically granted an apotheosis. A divide opens up between two sets of human-divine figures: Tiberius bears his deified father’s burdens with his caelesti mente, but Livia will receive outright cult worship along with Carmentis herself—a striking image of two goddesses as the bookends of Roman history.270 Livia has become, in two lines, the culmination of the Roman prophecy and its focus on the ruling house. Her name of Julia Augusta marks her as the elevated representative of the Julian line; the title Augusta, at this point still unique, presents her as a female counterpart to the princeps.271 She is the feminine face of contemporary dynastic power.272 The effect is electric: there is Augustus as always and now Tiberius, but Page 108 →there is also Augusta.273 This will color her other appearances in the poem: she is now the wielder of imperial influence with feminine hands. While Augustus in historical life presented Livia as an exemplar of virtuous Roman womanhood, Ovid does him one better: Livia becomes a sort of female Augustus.274 Moreover, as Augustus had sought to influence and reshape Roman identity, so will she in the poem. By her prominence (both in the poem and in life) she brings attention both to herself and to Augustus’s pervasive influence. Hers is a presence that outlasts Augustus: Ovid is revising the Fasti after AD 14 with an eye both to Tiberius, Livia’s elder son, and Germanicus, her grandson through her second son Drusus. She stands at the center of dynastic politics; she is the bridge between one reign and the next. When Livia appears again in Book 1, she does so on January 16 to dedicate the temple of Augustan Concord.275 The complication of monument and message lies in her association with such a self-identified feature of the regime as Concordia of the Augustan type.276 In fact, Tiberius’s association with this Concordia serves largely as the poet’s platform for praising Livia, who has eclipsed both husband and son by being a patroness of grand stature: candida, te niveo posuit lux proxima templo, qua fert sublimes alta Moneta gradus, nunc bene prospicies Latiam Concordia turbam,

nunc te sacratae constituere manus. Furius antiquam, populi superator Etrusci, voverat et voti solverat ille fidem. causa, quod a patribus sumptis secesserat armis volgus, et ipsa suas Roma timebat opes. causa recens melior: passos Germania crines porrigit auspiciis, dux venerande, tuis. inde triumphatae libasti munera gentis templaque fecisti, quam colis ipse, deae. Page 109 →hanc tua constituit genetrix et rebus et ara, sola toro magni digna reperta Iovis. (1.637–50) [Fair goddess, the next day placed you in a snowy temple where lofty Juno Moneta raises her towering steps. Now Concord will see the Latian crowd well. Now sanctified hands have established you. Furius, victor over the Etruscan people, had vowed the ancient temple and he had fulfilled the pledge of his promise. The reason was that the common people, having taken up arms, had seceded from the senators, and Rome itself feared its own strength. The better explanation is recent: Germany offers its disheveled tresses to your auspices, venerable leader. From that place you offered the spoils of the conquered race and you built a temple to the goddess whom you yourself worship. Your mother established her both with deeds and an altar— she alone found to be worthy of great Jove’s bed.] The passage ostensibly addresses Tiberius—dux venerande—yet he seems oddly overshadowed. He may have achieved military victory and built the temple, but the passage ends emphatically with Livia.277 She, given the epithet of genetrix, is aligned once more with divinity. At the Carmentalia, Livia was Julia Augusta, the new goddess. Here genetrix, though fitting enough in her role as Tiberius’s mother, associates her with none other than Venus Genetrix, patroness of the gens Iulia, Julius Caesar’s favorite, and recipient of the temple in the

Forum Iulium. The result is a backhanded compliment to Tiberius, if compliment at all: he is an imperial figure, dux, but his mother is a divine genetrix, always a rank beyond. The passage closes by reaffirming Livia’s own exalted status: she is paralleled with Juno as Augustus is to Jove.278 This forms a neat ring composition: the passage begins with Concordia and Juno (Moneta) and ends with Concordia and Juno/Livia. Tiberius is somewhat lost in the middle; it is his lofty mother who Page 110 →is the substance of the passage.279 Previously she represented the sweep of history as Julia Augusta. Now she is a goddess in the domestic sphere as well: this is the first time in the poem that Livia has been depicted as a mother, and she is a dowager empress linked to the ancestral goddess Venus Genetrix. Here too is the first time that Livia’s status as a wife is brought to the fore, and she is tied instantly to the marital goddess Juno.280 Ovid creates a quasi-goddess of Livia as a gloss on imperial influence. Concord is present in Rome, and Livia as much as, or even more than, Tiberius presides over it.281 Livia’s third and fourth appearances become a showcase of Ovid rewriting her presence. In these terms, Fasti 5’s the Bona Dea festival of May 1 is essential. This female-centered cult does not appear in extant Roman calendars, so its presence in Ovid’s poem is noteworthy, especially as it becomes a spotlight for Livia. In fact, Ovid quickly skims past Bona Dea, the supposed honoree of this day, to conclude with praise of Livia: .В .В . interea Diva canenda Bona est. est moles nativa, loco res nomina fecit: appellant Saxum; pars bona montis ea est. huic Remus institerat frustra, quo tempore fratri prima Palatinae signa dedistis aves; templa patres illic oculos exosa virile leniter adclivi constituere iugo. dedicat haec veteris Crassorum nominis heres, virgineo nullum corpore passa virum: Livia restituit, ne non imitata maritum esset et ex omni parte secuta virum. (5.148–58) [Meanwhile, the Good Goddess must be celebrated. There is a native mound, and it gives a name to the location. They call it вЂthe Rock;’ it is a good part of the hill. Here Remus had stood in vain at the time Page 111 →when you Palatine birds gave the first signs to his brother. The Senate established the temple hostile to men’s eyes there on the gentle slope.

The heiress of the ancient name of the Crassi dedicated this, she who had known no man with her virgin body. Livia restored it lest she fail to imitate her husband and follow him in every way.] This is the sum total of the festival’s explanation. The Good Goddess, though described as one who must be praised, canenda est, receives no further attention; her rites and identity are overshadowed by her physical shrine and its history. The focus is actually on the unnamed initial dedicator of the shrine and on Livia the modern-day restorer. The effacement of the Bona Dea is eloquent in its omissions. Her history included elements potentially unwelcome or offensive to the imperial regime, and her very appearance may bring up those associations for astute readers. The notorious Bona Dea scandal of 62 BC had occurred within living memory, and it had implicated Publius Clodius Pulcher, a distant relation of Livia; that infamous politician had disguised himself as a woman in order to infiltrate the female-only rites and carry on an alleged affair with Julius Caesar’s then-wife Pompeia.282 The result was the juiciest of political sex scandals spiced with sacrilege, and the cult of the Bona Dea saw its reputation fall into absolute tatters. The rites became a punchline, a raunchy joke exploited by love poets like Tibullus and Ovid himself.283 His mention of Bona Dea in the Ars Amatoria is humorously rakish: quid faciat custos, cum sint tot in urbe theatra, cum spectet iunctos illa libenter equos, cum sedeat Phariae sistris operata iuvencae, quoque sui comites ire vetantur, eat, cum fuget a templis oculos Bona Diva virorum, praeterquam siquos illa venire iubet? (3.633–38) [What can a guardian do, when there are so many theaters in the City? When she freely watches joined teams of horses? Page 112 →When she sits honoring the Pharian heifer with sistrums and goes where her male attendants are forbidden to go? When the Good Goddess keeps men’s eyes away from her temple, except for the ones whom she orders to come?] The poet of the Fasti finds himself face-to-face with this inconvenient echo of the past. His subsequent attempt to recast and rewrite Bona Dea is clear: the saucy joke of the old irreverent love elegy must be transmogrified into something more respectable. The Fasti passage thus exalts Livia as a model of moral rectitude: she is depicted as a chaste and dutiful wife, emulating her husband in granting lavish benefactions to Rome. Her restoration of the Bona Dea temple would grant prestige to the cult, becoming a factor in rehabilitating its tarnished reputation.284 The polished figure of Livia as exemplar of feminine virtue overshadows everything else, and it is no accident that this passage marks the first appearance of Livia’s name in Roman poetry.

Her prominence drives the poetry about Bona Dea: the goddess is present in order to introduce the woman who would be Julia Augusta. The episode becomes at its core an object lesson in Augustan religious reform: cult, temple, history, religious sensibilities—all these yield in the end to the glorification of the imperial. However imperfect, artificial, or contrived the faГ§ade (and it is), the new faГ§ade is the goal and endgame. The presentation of imperial patronage is not unlike the actual restoration of the temple: the addition of a shining new front to a preexistent building with a past. In the Fasti, the new image of Livia papers over the Bona Dea as imperial virtues and public benefactions reconfigure old multilayered meanings and associations of the cult. When Ovid includes the goddess, he is incorporating the Augustan version along with the subtext of how it comes to be in all its conscious, purposeful artifice. Livia’s final appearance begins with deceptive simplicity in Ovid’s account of June 11, commemorating her dedication of a shrine to Concordia: te quoque magnifica, Concordia, dedicat aede Livia, quam caro praestitit ipsa viro. (6.637–38) [And, Concord, Livia honored you with a magnificent temple, you whom she herself showed to her dear husband.] Page 113 →These lines align Livia with wifely virtue while they also make clear that the Concordia being celebrated is harmony of a particularly private, domestic kind.285 Concordia becomes undeniably a guardian of married life. All this reflects credit upon Livia as the generous endower of that temple, but also reaffirms her as imperial patroness. Marital concord cannot be divorced from Augustan associations, for the princeps had famously legislated marriage.286 The involvement of Livia with the married aspect of Concordia establishes something else too: Livia as lofty model of that harmony. She is the one who embodies wedded Concordia in the imperial household and reaffirms her own status as living exemplar for Roman women. Concord has taken on a distinctly feminine air, and Flory notes that this shrine of Livia’s is the first one to our knowledge that was constructed to honor “Concordia as a symbol of women’s lives.”287 Livia’s attention to Concord is also an echo of Augustus’s efforts to revamp Roman society and identity in general. Concordia under Livia becomes a particular symbol of marital concord—harmony on a personal scale, intimately linked with Roman women. Concordia in the public arena, however, had also long been associated with wider political accord; one thinks readily of Cicero’s touchingly idealistic goal of concordia ordinum, harmony among the Roman social and political orders. Throughout Roman Republican history, Concordia had been the recipient of various vows, dedications, temples, and shrines in this sense of political accord.288 Under Augustus, however, harmony has shifted from the public, political sphere into the private, domestic one. In historical terms, Concordia possessed several aspects, and Livia focuses attention on one—the purely domestic—that had not received so great a public emphasis. It becomes a story of imperial influence changing presentations (and through them, perceptions) of Concordia; the multifaceted old figure now has a more narrowly defined identity, one that is approved by the regime and promulgated by its exponents—i.e., Livia, wife of the princeps. This marks a change in the public display and discourse of Concordia, and this by extension impinges on the identity of Rome. No longer is concord a Page 114 →political thing to be worked out by Romans in the public arena, with agreement to be marked by individuals’ vows. Concord has been domesticated. Public, political matters are now the purview of the imperial regime; there is no place for Concordia as a guardian of public harmony because Augustus has more or less taken over that aspect.289 Emphasis on Concordia as a benign guardian of home life gives it a refocused, retooled place in the public relations language of the principate. Livia’s exemplary behavior as wife becomes the means of identifying Concordia’s now-preferred aspect.290 The public disposition of concord has changed in Rome, and Livia both embodies and expresses this.

When she dedicates this shrine, she capitalizes on the adjusted identity of the divinity. Exemplary as Livia is, demonstrating married harmony to her caro viro, she leans toward the recasting of the goddess and establishes herself as a powerful female face of imperial interests. Concordia, after all, as marital harmony, is largely the purview of the wife.291 If Augustus and then Tiberius presides over the political concordia of Rome, Livia oversees the domestic equivalent.292 Ovid’s imagery of Jupiter and Juno is all too accurate, for Rome is now decisively ruled by new imperial auctoritas both male and female, both formidable and demanding.

Vesta’d Interests: The Ovidian Invention of an Augustan Goddess While numerous women play their roles in Ovid’s engagement with Augustan influence, the ultimate expression of new imperial realities is Vesta. The princeps had already bolstered his personal connection with the goddess by taking the extraordinary, unprecedented step of installing a shrine to her in his Palatine residence in 12 BC.293 The poet will hammer this connection home, and he will in a sense “out-Augustus” Augustus by turning Vesta into an overt, outspokenPage 115 → imperial partisan.294 In a departure from his literary peers and forebears, Ovid chooses to devote a great deal of narrative to this goddess of the hearth who is usually more symbol or abstraction than individual personality in letters.295 In the Fasti, she rises from that past without a detailed literary mythology of her own to become a goddess to be reckoned with and even to be feared.296 Ovid, by essentially inventing myth for Vesta, invents a place for her as a goddess of Augustus’s new Roman identity. The poet does this first by placing Vesta in relation to another well-established deity of Rome in general and Augustan Rome in particular: Venus. The stern Vesta claims a place for herself at Venus’s expense in this poem. Vesta’s new place is also defined in relation to Mars Ultor. In a twist, Vesta supplants Venus again, overshadowing the love goddess’s traditional link with Mars and introducing a new association based on divinely sanctioned vengeance that has unmistakable imperial implications. The Ovidian incarnation of Vesta is a formidable patroness of Augustus; she becomes a commentary on the princeps and his imposition on Roman cultural discourse. Vesta’s interaction with Venus is not only playing with literary genres—Venus is a figure of amatory elegy while Vesta is not—but also a poetic treatment of that love-elegiac ethos under the disapproving eye of the princeps and his campaigns of moral renewal. The heart of the matter is Ovid’s expressed interpretation of the personality of Rome much as of the goddesses. In Book 3’s account of the Ides of March, Vesta’s sphere of influence seems to encroach on Venus’s, as Vesta’s severity and Venus’s playfulness come into conflict. The beginning of Ovid’s tale carries a strong suggestion of Venus’s interests: it opens with Anna Perenna’s freewheeling springtime festival on the banks of the Tiber, a festum geniale (3.523), with paired lovers scattered drinking on the green grass, virides passim disiecta per herbas / potat et accumbit cum pare quisque sua (3.525–26). While the setting recalls Venus’s springtime splendor in Lucretius, Page 116 →the lines also nod to love elegy as a culta amica, the sophisticated mistress instantly recognizable from erotic poetry, dances with streaming hair, diffusisВ .В .В . comis (3.538). This tiny thumbnail sketch adroitly conjures the entire world of love elegy, and Ovid’s treatment of this holiday reveals a consistent interest in the amatory. His most detailed aetion of Anna Perenna is a sequel to the Aeneid that focuses on Dido’s sister Anna. Her tale concerns us here because of its resonance with the Virgilian love story in which Venus is the driving force behind the affair (1.657–94). In his meeting with Anna, Aeneas reconnects with his Aeneid amours; pointedly described in relation to his mother as “the Cytherean hero”—Cythereius heros (3.611)—he sees Anna and immediately thinks of Dido (3.612). Then in his last tale of the Ides of March, Ovid depicts the deified Anna as a procuress of the gods. In a twist of generic identities, a distinctly unmartial Mars falls in love with Minerva. Declaring that he is correptus amore (3.681), he asks Anna for help in seducing his inamorata (3.683–84).297 Anna, however, strings Mars along with false promises, and the result is a god effectively ensnared by tactics worthy of the conniving lena of Ovid’s own Amores 1.8. When Mars thinks that Minerva at last comes to his chamber, he finds himself not only foiled but turned into an object of laughter: it is old Anna, not Minerva, under the veil. Mars’s discomfiture also recalls his most famous amorous embarrassment: being caught in bed with Venus/Aphrodite herself and made the gods’ laughingstock in Odyssey 8.298 Against this backdrop, Venus’s name makes its potent appearance: Ovid explicitly describes Mars’s humiliation as pleasing to her—in fact, nothing

could be more so: nec res hac Veneri gratior ulla fuit (3.694). The entire realm of the amatory is congenial to her, but there is another dimension to Venus’s pleasure: Mars had long been her lover, he had attempted to seduce another goddess, and his embarrassment is fitting punishment for his transgression. Even so, the reprisal is more playful than punitive, and Ovid seems content to end here, with old jokes and racy songs, ioci veteres obscenaque dicta (3.695), all with the approval of laughter-loving Venus. But the Ides are not over. Vesta suddenly, startlingly appears and overpowers both the day and the poet by emphatically ordering him to relate Caesar’s assassination (3.697–702).299 By doing so, she imposes a new Augustan meaning Page 117 →on the old festival and wrenches the day’s focus in a new direction.300 Unlike the lengthy, variegated, and congenial accounts of Anna Perenna, Vesta’s account is short, unified, and stark in its unswerving attention to an uncomfortable subject: Caesar’s assassination and its bloody aftermath in the battle of Philippi of 42 BC.301 Confronted with Vesta’s appearance, the poet’s cheerfully frivolous voice disappears.302 The playful games so pleasant to Venus are swept aside by Vesta and her more somber—indeed imperial—prerogatives. The imposition of a more austere reality is clear in the idea of punishment. Vengeance under Venus is bloodless and humorous, but vengeance under Vesta results in outright slaughter: at quicumque nefas ausi, prohibente deorum numine, polluerant pontificale caput, morte iacent merita. Testes estote, Philippi, et quorum sparsis ossibus albet humus. hoc opus, haec pietas, haec prima elementa fuerunt Caesaris, ulcisci iusta per arma patrem. (3.705–10) [But those who dared that sin and profaned the pontiff’s head, though the gods were opposed, lie in deserved death. Be witness, Philippi, and those whose bones turn the ground white. This was Caesar’s work, his pious duty, his first beginnings— to avenge his father by just arms.] In contrast to the haplessly amorous Mars of the Anna Perenna passage, a very different Mars appears: Mars Ultor, Mars the Avenger.303 Further implications of Page 118 →Vesta’s tale of Philippi are wideranging;304 it is sufficient here to point out that Vesta has imposed herself on the text and the poet, quashing the cheer of the old Ides celebration with the severity of the new commemoration. Vesta has pushed aside Venus’s influence even as she dictates content to a poet cowed into compliance. She openly demands that a particular day mean something that she prescribes.305 That the new content is obviously a matter of imperial interest is eloquent comment in itself. The Fasti’s overarching concern with speech and silence under the princeps takes on new urgency, and Ovid’s Vesta as Augustan partisan and spokeswoman illuminates this idea: as much as Augustus can mandate what cannot be said, he can also command what must be said regardless of the desires of the poet. It is si licet et

fas est forcefully expressed with crystalline clarity. Moreover, its corollary is the likewise alarming idea that Vesta has been silently listening to the poet for some time and then stepped in when she heard (or did not hear) something specific. Speech and silence alike now cannot be separated from imperial oversight, surveillance, and coercion. As for the Ides of March, Vesta has confiscated them for Augustus.306 This episode is the most overt confrontation between Vesta and Venus, yet the two goddesses never meet face to face. In a sense this may be the ultimate displacement of Venus in a world where Vesta is the new figure of official authority. Given this, the juxtaposition of Vesta and Flora in Fasti Book 5 becomes an important test case. Flora is, in her affinity for Venus and for Ovid, all but a proxy for the love goddess. Her games, the Floralia, begin at the end of April, and on the entry for April 28 Ovid hails her as a blossoming divinity linked with a playful, erotic stage: mille venit variis florum dea nexa coronis / scaena ioci morem liberioris habet (4.945–46).307 In this she strongly resembles Venus in her association with good-humored sexuality and flowers.308 Nevertheless, as Page 119 →soon as Ovid mentions her, despite her long-standing festive link with the day, he turfs her out in favor of Vesta: exit et in Maias sacrum Florale Kalendas; tunc repetam, nunc me grandius urget opus. aufer, Vesta, diem! .В .В .В (4.947–49) [Flora’s rites also extend into May’s Kalends. Then I’ll take it up again; now a greater task drives me. Vesta, take the day!] Having forcibly evicted Flora, the poet shifts his attention dutifully to the new goddess. Clearly there are new and more pressing priorities to address now.309 In her dismissal, Flora becomes still more linked with Venus: Ovid’s reason for setting her aside, me grandius urget opus, recalls his dismissal of the love goddess at the end of the Amores (3.15.18). Furthermore, Vesta’s abrupt appearance recalls her arrival on the Ides of March.310 As in Fasti Book 3, frivolity is replaced by an affirmation of the Augustan settlement: aufer, Vesta, diem! cognati Vesta recepta est limine: sic iusti constituere patres. Phoebus habet partem, Vestae pars altera cessit; quod superest illis, tertius ipse tenet. state Palatinae laurus, praetextaque quercu stet domus: aeternos tres habet una deos. (4.949–54) [Vesta, take the day! Vesta has been received into the threshold Of a kinsman: so have the just Fathers decreed.

Phoebus holds part of the house; another part yields to Vesta; he himself [Augustus] as the third partner holds what remains. Palatine laurels, stand! May the house stand, wreathed with oak! A single house hosts three gods.] Page 120 →Once more the new Augustan Vesta overshadows a preexistent festival dedicated to a fun-loving goddess. Control and constraint are at issue, and the more pleasurable divinity hurries offstage before the presence of the austere and uncontestable Vesta.311 That lack of contest is itself significant. Venus had personally opened Book 4 with a warmly flirtatious conversation with Ovid (4.1–18), a passage in direct counterpoint with the end of the book, where the poet greets a stern and silent Vesta.312 But this is not the end of Flora. Her reappearance in Book 5 intensifies both her association with Venus and her contrast with Vesta. As Barchiesi points out, her earlier displacement “does not correspondВ .В .В . to any cooling of the relationship between the goddess and her singer: it is just that Flora has to give up her placeВ .В .В . to a more elevated cause .В .В .В .”313 Just so: Ovid notes this in his invocation, saying he had put off her due before: Mater, ades, florum, ludis celebranda iocosis! / distuleram partes mense priore tuas (5.183–84). Vesta’s demands had prevailed then on a poet under pressure to comply. We—with the poet—will return to Flora. The apparent endgame is Vesta’s uncontested ascendancy over Venus and her proxies. Confirmation comes with her appearance in Fasti Book 6; the poet addresses her with hints of Venus now drastically reconfigured for Vesta’s world. He begins with “Vesta, fave!” (6.249), recalling his invocation of Venus in Book 4: “Alma, fave,” dixi, “geminorum mater Amorum!” (4.1) As in the Venus passage, the poet follows by declaring his devotion to the goddess, tibi nunc operata resolvimus ora (6.249). But where Venus had turned and spoken to the poet, now Vesta gives no physically apprehensible reply. Instead, her long-established association with what is and is not permissible is the focus: ad tua si nobis sacra venire licet (6.250). The poet does declare that he sensed the divinity—caelestia numina sensi (6.251)—as before he had sensed Venus’s touch, sensimus (4.17). The important difference, though, is that no physical contact occurs between Ovid and Vesta, Page 121 →and he never sees her.314 He instead perceives her presence in the rosy, glowing earth—laetaque purpurea luce refulsit humus (6.252). By manifesting herself like this, Vesta appropriates a characteristic that is most famously associated with Venus, whose arrival is often attested by her gleaming, incarnadine form. This seems especially true when she comes disguised, such as in her appearances to Helen in the Iliad and to Aeneas in the Aeneid.315 In the Vesta passage, the ground itself glows—refulsit. Arrivals of Venus are often accompanied with light in the landscape, as it did famously in Lucretius when the sky shone: placatumque nitet diffuso lumine caelum (DRN 1.9). Vesta has certainly not “become” Venus, yet in a way she certainly has—or at least she has assumed the love goddess’s famed epiphanic hallmarks without even appearing herself.316 Ovid provides a final striking test case for the supremacy of Vesta. This is the pair of Priapus’s rape attempts: on the nymph Lotis in Book 1.391–440 and on Vesta herself in Book 6.319–48.317 Much has been said about this pairing, but a few features are relevant to our current discussion. One is the invention of Vesta’s version; no extant mythological precedent exists for any interaction at all between Vesta and Priapus. The clear possibility exists that the story is an Ovidian invention or embellishment. Here it demonstrates how the new Augustan austerity of Vesta pulls the old world of frivolity apart.318 Through the paired stories that bookend the Fasti, the playful erotic world of Book 1 is transformed by Book 6. In Book 1’s tale, Priapus falls in love with the nymph Lotis, choosing to pursue her out of a bevy of others and pining for her alone though she is disdainful of him.319 When a braying donkey foils his attempt to possess her while she sleeps, she wakes and runs away, alerting everyone else as she goes. Priapus instantly becomes an object of laughter to the other revelers: at deus obscena Page 122 →nimium quoque parte paratus / omnibus ad lunae lumina risus erat (1.437–38). The incident becomes a mime-like farce, a sexual joke of a kind like the

one, dear to Venus, played on the crestfallen Mars of Fasti 3.320 Notably in Ovid’s alternate version of this story in Metamorphoses 9.347–48, the nymph simply turns into her namesake lotus flower in order to escape her would-be assailant. In the Fasti 2 passage, the focus is not on nymph or transformation but the humorous response to transgression: the laughing crowd around Priapus. His public humiliation is his penalty. In Book 6, the incorrigibly randy Priapus is again on the prowl when he happens on a sleeping goddess. Another braying donkey thwarts his desire, but his target turns out, startlingly for all, to be Vesta. She wakes, but this time there is no girl fleeing and, more importantly, no audience laughing. Instead, Priapus must run away from the hostile crowd that flocks to Vesta’s defense and threatens him with retributory violence: territa voce gravi surgit dea: convolat omnis / turba; per infestas effugit ille manus (6.343–44). Instead of a joke, Priapus’s act is seen as an outrage, a sacrilege, an offense to be punished aggressively.321 The usually irrepressible Priapus is for once frightened, claiming that he did not realize that his intended victim was Vesta—scisse sed ipse negat (6.336). The implication is that he would not have dared such an act if he had known. Even for Priapus, the unruliest of deities, there are now strict limits made with the threat of force. Erotic jokes have been quashed. In the end, the basic storyline of the Lotis and Vesta episodes might be the same, but the difference in the female lead determines what is lightly humorous in one version and what is punishably criminal in the other.322 Vesta in a playfully erotic world turns it into one of boundaries, where transgressions are penalized, not indulged with laughter.323 What is and is not acceptable now finds its definition in her. Vesta has gained a place for herself by displacing Venus, but she has not yet fully defined that space. The new Vesta is realized in relation also to that other great Augustan god, Mars Ultor. Together they form a pair much concerned with Augustus’s presentation of violence sanctioned as vengeance.324 The link Page 123 →between military victory, Mars, Vesta, and national welfare already existed,325 but Ovid capitalizes on it by endowing Vesta with a personal presence and making her a goddess of retribution. Vesta’s role as “Ultrix” in the Fasti is best understood through her speeches, particularly given this poem’s focus on speech and constraint. The goddess had spoken little, if at all, in her appearances elsewhere in Latin literature. Even in the Fasti she is not a talkative figure. When she does speak directly (and she does so only twice), her words carry enormous weight. Her first speech comes on the Ides of March, as she insists that the poet speak of Augustus as avenger of the murdered Caesar: praeteriturus eram gladios in principe fixos cum sic a castis Vesta locuta focis: “ne dubita meminisse: meus fuit ille sacerdos. sacrilegae telis me petiere manus.” (3.697–700) [I was about to pass over the swords stabbed into the prince when Vesta spoke thus from her chaste hearth: “Don’t hesitate to bring it up—he was my priest; sacrilegious hands struck at me with swords.”] She imposes speech on the poet rather than silence, but the speech she orders sounds suspiciously like an Augustan party line or an “authorized version” of events.326 It is at the very least the trumping of the poet’s personal or artistic desire by an external political interest. In Vesta’s second speech, she suddenly appears and addresses Augustan-era Rome’s quintessential foreign enemy, the Parthian. She bypasses the voice of the poet entirely and again speaks of vengeance in no

uncertain terms: “Parthe, quid exsultas?” dixit dea. “signa remittes, quique necem Crassi vindicet, ultor erit.” (6.467–68) Page 124 →[“Parthian, why do you exult?” said the goddess. “You will return the standards; there will be an avenger who will exact vengeance for the slaughter of Crassus.”] As much as avenging Caesar’s assassination was foundational for Augustus’s domestic settlement, avenging the Parthian defeat of Crassus in 53 BC was foundational for foreign policy. The temple to Mars dedicated in 2 BC was a monument to both these acts of vengeance; the poet specifically names the two when later describing Mars Ultor (5.573–80). In him, personal and national retribution merge into one affirmation of Roman duty, historical context, and triumphal Augustan glory.327 Vengeance is now pietas for Augustus as an individual and Rome as a state. Vesta’s audible voice in the Fasti produces two speeches that focus on precisely these acts of official vengeance behind Mars Ultor. The goddess’s speeches also reveal a distinct character: she is no longer the static deity mainly associated with Roman stability, continuity, and welfare. She becomes linked with the pursuit and guarantee of that welfare with arms—Vesta as martial figure.328 She may even surpass Mars as the deity most responsible for revenge in the Fasti. At the Ides of March, she regards the assault on Caesar as an assault on herself: “.В .В . meus fuit ille sacerdos. / Sacrilegae telis me petiere manus” (3.699–700). That kind of outrage must be punished, and severely; this is the Vestan theme that Priapus finds out to his peril. Furthermore, Julius Caesar’s role as Vesta’s priest, sacerdos, becomes a most urgent reason for avenging his death. This is true again in Fasti 5’s account of the temple of Mars Ultor (5.545–98) and its association with official Augustan retribution. Though Mars is the ostensible honoree, Vesta is inescapable in the context of revenge. Octavian says he will avenge Julius Caesar, who is granted only one attribute, his status as Vesta’s priest: si mihi bellandi pater est Vestaeque sacerdos / auctorВ .В .В . (5.573–74). Recalling the goddess’s vengeful words in Fasti 3, the literary Octavian states that he will avenge not only the murder of his predecessor but both Caesar’s divinity and Vesta’s—ulcisci numen utrumque paro (5.574). Caesar was Augustus’s adoptive father, and Vesta is kin also; the vengeance stakes Page 125 →have become much higher.329 In the next line, Octavian invokes Mars not as the demilitarized god of the poet’s invocation in 3.1–2 but as a fully armed god of war (5.575). Even so, the official god of vengeance comes into a situation already defined by Vesta.330 She is a new Augustan shape of retribution, but she is also concerned with expiation and purification, especially in the wake of civil war. Civil blood makes civil hands unclean, unleashing guilt and pollution, and a widespread literary theme of scelus appears. Horace for instance in Odes 1.2 states that Vesta refuses to hear prayers (25–28), and so he seeks expiation for past Roman guilt—scelus expiandi (29).331 Virgil at the end of Georgics 1 calls on Vesta mater and other national gods to help a world thrown into disorder by tam multae scelerum facies (506). It is no accident that the Vestal cult possessed a great interest in religious purification, as much as in its association with fertility or stability.332 It is central to the cult’s role in two important festivals: at the Parilia (April 21), the Vestal Virgins doled out the purifying incense suffimen to participants, and at the goddess’s own Vestalia (June 7–15) they both made mola salsa, a type of salted flour for ritual use, and purified her temple. In this context, Vesta as patroness of Augustan vengeance gives revenge the legitimacy of purification; she affirms the official tenet that the princeps has expiated scelus for the welfare of Rome.333

The invention of Vesta’s new Augustan identity produces a systematic displacement of Venus and a new alliance with Mars Ultor. In the final book of the Fasti, her new identity gains one more facet: she becomes a foundress and defender of Rome. Our focus is the odd little episode of Jupiter Pistor, “the Miller” (6.349–94).334 Ostensibly an aetion for the altar of Jupiter the Baker, Ovid’s versionPage 126 → of the story is a radical re-invention of Roman history and mythology. In it, Vesta becomes the savior of Rome during the Gallic siege of 390 BC, whose aftermath may be considered almost a second foundation of Rome.335 Ovid’s literary scene opens in a council of the gods, with Mars lamenting how the Romans are besieged in the citadel.336 After him, three other divinities also petition Jupiter to help Rome—Venus, Quirinus, and Vesta (6.375–76), but Jupiter sidelines Venus and Quirinus to call only Vesta to act on Rome’s behalf. He charges her to remain in her sedes and to take charge of grain as a military tactic (6.377–83). While her immobility is traditional, her responsibility for weaponized grain is not. She was associated with grain, millers, and bakers on a domestic level, but now the link with grain takes up state and military purposes in the preservation of Rome.337 Thanks to her, the Roman defenders on the citadel are able to make bread and throw it down on their Gallic besiegers as a defiant sign that efforts to starve the Romans into submission had failed. Panis for pila—and the Gauls are consequently defeated, hoste repulso (6.393). Vesta saves the city in a radical rewriting of Roman history.338 The old mythological history makes room for her, and the goddess intervenes in Roman affairs at a crucial turning point—her role is now as privileged as that of Mars, Venus, or Jupiter.339 As the Fasti draws to a close, the emergence of a new, carefully drawn Vesta becomes clear. The poet’s invention of mythology creates her as a character, not only the symbolic flame. Presented in counterpoint with Venus, she becomes the austere arbiter of Roman proprieties. Associated with Mars Ultor, she becomes the stern overseer of expiatory vengeance. She emerges as a new patroness of Augustus and Rome: the re-invention of Vesta is complete.340 Page 127 →

The Rest Is Silence: The Birth of the Lares Augusti in Fasti 2.583–616 One aspect of Ovid’s poetic treatments of Augustus is the focus on complications, both comical and grave, of imperial authority. Another is an eye for the actual exercise of power. In the Fasti, this idea is almost always connected with concerns about speech and its limits, and Ovid presents a particularly incisive example in the story of Lara in Book 2. Presented as part of the operosus poeta’s discussion of February 21’s Feralia rites, it is also the coda to an irreverent intertextual moment—Ovid’s tale of Jupiter and Juturna. Where its amatory play had undercut Virgil, its epilogue becomes an exhibit of Jupiter’s autocratic rage visited on speech that he deems personally offensive. Given Augustus’s associations with Jupiter as well as the princeps’s incalculable effect on avenues of expression, Lara’s story acquires an unmistakable resonance, especially if read in the light of Ovid’s exile. Hers becomes a grimly cautionary tale: unfettered, unruly speech is subject to imperial repression. Ovid prefaces the Lara narrative with a counterexample of silence: the obscure goddess Tacita.341 The poet presents an evocative image of an aged worshipper performing rites in her honor at 2.571–82. For all its mention of silence, however, the tale contains its own elements of color. The protagonist is an old woman, an anus annosa (2.571), and in the Fasti such figures have a habit of providing engaging stories of a decidedly humorous, often humble (or humbling) type. This anus is the narrative sister of the chatty old lady of the Forum, the baker woman of the Conflict of the Orders, the cheerfully inebriated anus of the Anna Perenna festival, and even of old Anna the divine trickster. Furthermore, this anus sits amid a crowd of girls, in mediis . . . puellis (2.571). For a brief, provocative moment, the words in combination evoke Ovid’s love-elegiac world of beautiful puellae and wily old procuresses.342 In terms of the Feralia, the poet engages irony and wordplay; the old woman might be performing rites in honor of Tacita, but she herself is not silent at all—sacra facit Tacitae nec tamen ipsa tacet (2.572). She mumbles her

incantations as she conjures her sympathetic magic, binding threads with lead, sewing up a fish head with a bronze needle, and so on (2.575–79).343 The purpose of all this, she declares, is to conquer hostile tongues—“hostiles linguas inimicaque vinximus ora,” / dicit (2.581–82). Silence of a distinctly apotropaic nature, the Page 128 →turning aside of evil words and curses, is the ostensible goal, but the actual practice of the rites has another conclusion. It has a distinctly festive air: the anus annosa and her puellae drink whatever wine they do not use in their ritual libations (2.579–80), and when the observations are over, she leaves the scene quite tipsily—ebriaque exit anus (2.582). Ideas of speech and silence reside in a distinctly private, personal setting full of women and wine. Conceivably, Ovid could have stopped here in his treatment of the Feralia’s obscure goddess and proceeded to the next calendar day’s Caristia. But he does not. He gives another, radically different tale in the name of the goddess Muta, who may have been another aspect of Tacita. The second story comes after an extended, playful account of Juturna, a tale that takes the light tone of the preceding Tacita passage and capitalizes on it. In that narrative, Juturna again evades Jupiter’s lustful advances, thanks to a warning from her fellow nymph Lara. For Lara, though, no good deed goes unpunished, at least not if it involves defying Jupiter.344 The blithely jocular atmosphere of Ovid’s Virgilian recasting turns dark with startling speed once Jupiter’s ire flares out, turning him from hapless would-be lover into enraged and all too effective autocrat. The theme of speech is unmistakable in the Lara narrative. Ovid presents the water nymph Lara—fuit nais Lara nomine (2.599)—and immediately offers an explanation of her name: it used to be Lala (2.600), he says in an attempt to co-opt the Greek verb lalein, “to babble, prattle.”345 The nymph is a chatterbox, and the poet depicts her heedless verbosity as a negative trait: she acquired her name because of this flaw—ex vitio positum (2.601). Furthermore, her father the river god Almo had repeatedly (and vainly) warned her to watch her words—saepe illi dixerat Almo, / “nata tene linguam,” nec tamen illa tenet (6.601–2). His advice joins the ideas of speech and circumspection; in the notion of discretion, self-policing, and self-censorship lies the clear implication that words spoken thoughtlessly can bring undesirable consequences. Lara’s unbridled talk soon bears this out when she ruins Jupiter’s best-laid plans for capturing Juturna: in a piquant detail, Ovid says that Lara tells her fellow nymph what Jupiter has said, dictaВ .В .В . Iovis (2.604). She uses his words in a way he did not intend or desire; they had been intended to convince the convocation of nymphs to help him catch Juturna, but Lara uses his own words against him. She demonstrates the Page 129 →power of speech to be a double-edged sword depending on speaker, content, and circumstance. More words add insult to injury when the nymph tattles to Juno. The poet here gives his only direct quotation of Lara: “Your husband’s in love with the nymph Juturna,” naida Iuturnam vir tuus, inquit, amat (2.606).346 Lara has been thoughtless in the sense that she did not think about the possible personal ramifications of what she said, to whom, and, in particular, against whom. Now in tale bearing to Juno the nymph has crossed a line. Jupiter is enraged, and in a sudden burst of violence he tears out Lara’s tongue, eripit huic linguam (2.608), explicitly described as something she had not used discreetly—quaque est non usa modeste (2.607). Her savage silencing is the cost of her speech, even as it points out how Jupiter, nonplussed by both his own words and hers, resorts to brute physical force. The moment is a comment on the use and abuse of power—both verbal and physical—even as this idea is emphasized by its intertextual possibilities. The silencing-by-mutilation of an unruly woman by a powerful autocrat almost irresistibly evokes the tale of Philomela and Tereus that Ovid himself had spun in Metamorphoses 6.424ff. There too a tyrannical ruler had maimed a woman whom he found uncongenial because of her speech; there too he had severed her tongue, his initial motivation of adulterous lust followed by the wish to enforce silence (6.549–60). Tereus, though human, is a king, and so he still resonates uncomfortably with the figure of Jupiter. The implication is evident: speech is dangerous to autocratic power, and speech that offends the ruler brings harsh suppression: silence will fall. Provocatively, Ovid’s description of the following holiday, the Caristia of February 22, notes Procne, Tereus, and Philomela as individuals who are not welcome (2.629–30). If the attentive reader had not already thought of Tereus and Philomela during the tale of Lara, the Caristia account could easily bring that myth to mind in the aftermath.

In terms of vindictive repression, Jupiter’s retaliation against Lara extends even beyond her physical deformation and speech deprivation. In his fury, he desires to rub her out of terrestrial existence—his sphere of influence—entirely. As an immortal water nymph, Lara cannot die, but Jupiter devises a punishment for her that comes as close to oblivion as possible: banishment to the depths of the Underworld. Jupiter summons Mercury in the role of psychopompos,Page 130 → the guide of the newly dead, and with callous satisfaction gives him the order: duc hanc ad manes; locus ille silentibus aptus. nympha, sed infernae nympha paludis erit. (2.609–10) [Take her to the shades; that place is fitting for the silent. She is a nymph, but she will be a nymph of the dismal swamp.] Silence becomes tied to exile and death. Even here Virgilian intertextual elements are in play, but they are in direct tonal counterpoint to the ludic air of the preceding Juturna story, and they emphasize the speed and scope of Jupiter’s devastating punitive measures.347 His imperial ire turns a humorous tone into something unremittingly brutal.348 If we read this in the wake of Ovid’s exile for his own carmen et error, the passage takes on an additional edge. The price for Lara’s speech is paid with the loss of her voice along with exile to the Stygian darkness. Worse is to come: the coda of her story presents yet another aspect of being silenced—the inability to speak even in one’s own defense. As Jupiter was the aggressor in her mutilation, so now Mercury as Jupiter’s agent is the aggressor en route to the Underworld: .В .В . accepit lucus euntes. dicitur illa duci tum placuisse deo. vim parat hic, vultu pro verbis illa precatur et frustra muto nititur ore loqui. (2.611–14) [As they were traveling, they approached a grove. It is said that the god her guide found her pleasing then. He prepares to use force, and she pleads with her expression instead of words and in vain tries to speak with her mute mouth.] Her helplessness magnifies the pathos of her plight. Irony rests heavily here: she cannot prevent or protest her own assault because she has been silenced Page 131 →for speaking to thwart the rape of another nymph. Lara cannot even report the incident. Tellingly, the poet prefaces this tale with the word dicitur—“it is said.” Others will tell Lara’s story; she has lost control of her own narrative and become the passive object of the words of others. She becomes a striking contrast with the opening story of the anus annosa and Tacita. There, the goddess has power to enforce silence and counteract the power of hostile words. There, silence is an exercise of the goddess’s power. Lara’s story here, however, presents silence as an expression of powerlessness.349

Mercury’s appearance brings its own twist. His role of psychopompos, guide of the dead into Hades, is traditional, but his characterization here as a heartless sexual predator is not. The often-playful god350 here shows a dark side as the henchman of Jupiter called not to deliver messages but to carry out personally his father’s directives against Lara. He becomes a sort of proxy for his father, and as Jupiter’s mutilation of the nymph resonates with Tereus maiming Philomela, Mercury’s assault evokes Tereus violating her even after he cut out her tongue: Hoc quoque post facinus (vix ausim credere) fertur saepe sua lacerum repetisse libidine corpus. (Met. 6.561–62) [After this crime it’s said (though I hardly dare believe it) that he often inflicted his lust on her mangled body.] Mercury becomes a brutal opportunist, and he starkly demonstrates the effect of being silenced: not only is Lara unable to speak against Jupiter, but she is unable to speak against anyone else, and this leaves her vulnerable to being further victimized. Lara becomes the image of speech crushed by punitive autocratic power.351 The denouement of Lara’s story is a pair of disturbing aetiologies. Ravished by Mercury, she bears his twin children: Fitque gravis geminosque parit qui compita servant et vigilant nostra semper in urbe, Lares. (2.615–16) Page 132 →[She became pregnant and bore twins who guard the crossroads and always keep watch in our City—the Lares.] Ovid does not need to make the folk-etymological connection between the name of the nymph and the lares compitales in Rome: in his presentation, that link is transparent.352 His account of their origin is the only extant example of this version,353 and the poet specifically links the literary tale to a current Roman topographical reality—Augustus’s 7 BC reorganization of the City’s neighborhoods. In that effort, each one (vicus) renamed its crossroad guardians, the lares compitales, the Lares Augusti in honor of the princeps.354 The complicated issue of what’s in a name was already in the forefront of his various reforms when the neighborhood organization joined the ferment of change.355 A brief glance reveals the extent to which Augustus managed over time to map himself onto Rome literally on a street level. Even before 7 BC, Augustus had already begun efforts to reconstitute the urban neighborhoods, each of which centered on a compitum or intersection of streets. The vici, so volatile in the late Republican era of civil unrest, were now to be reorganized and revitalized with a new focus: local civic participation working in concert with the princeps and under his patronage.356 In 7 BC the vici underwent a massive overhaul into the civic administrative system, and each one was given statues of lares by the princeps.357 Augustus thus made himself symbolically a member of every vicus of the Urbs even as he legitimized himself by assuming the role of new founder.358 Each neighborhood’s old lares became the Lares Augusti commemoratedPage 133 → with altars. They were planned as centers of local activity, especially when the princeps resurrected the lapsed annual winter festival of the Compitalia or Ludi Compitalicii.359 Furthermore, the altars displayed a new art type: the Lares Augusti are almost invariably depicted as a pair of curly-haired, often smiling youths holding wine cups and posed in a dancing stance—images of youth and renewal often coupled with depictions of Augustus’s own

laurels and corona civica.360 Even this brief overview reveals the scale and visibility of Augustus’s influence on the local life of the Urbs.361 Along with their traditional watching over boundaries and crossroads, the smiling Lares Augusti on their new altars embody the princeps’s effort to rebuild Rome and revitalize neighborhood life.362 Yet when those Lares appear along Ovid’s narrative of their origin, they take on another, altogether more sinister aspect. The story of Lara infuses the new figures with the sobering associations of autocratic power when literature collides with topography and even with timekeeping.363 The description of the lares as “those who always keep watch in the City”—vigilant nostra semper in urbe—takes on double meanings. On the one hand, the investment in the vici portrays the benevolent, almost paternal oversight of the princeps as embodied in the new Lares Augusti who represent the cheer and comfort of his eye. On the other, the Ovidian literary account presents those same lares, children of Lara born of imperial vengeance, mutilation, and assault, as images of surveillance, censorship, and latent violence.364 Even as the Augustan neighborhood reorganization gave residents a new vested interest in the principate, a chill may appear in the placid carven smiles of the watchful Lares. They come as images of renewal under the Augustan regime, but that renewal comes out of a creative destruction of what had gone before.365 In terms of unfettered, unruly speech voiced without fear of reprisal, the rest is an eloquent silence. Page 134 →The imperial influence is one of the fundamental features of the Fasti. Augustus and then later Tiberius become inescapable considerations for the poet in Rome and even more so for the poet in Tomis. From Augustus’s personal interest in reconfiguring deities like Mars and Vesta to Tiberius’s public temple dedications, imperial initiatives were writ large on the City even before Ovid took up the topic in poetry. When he did, the reality first of the Augustan and then Tiberian regime helps shape the work and its content, but they do not always find a fully comfortable or congenial place in the lines. It is in those gaps that we might find the most fruitful places to explore the interaction between the poet and first one prince (Augustus) and then another (Tiberius) and then yet another in the wings (Germanicus), all with the power to affect his life and times in profound ways both tangible and psychological.366 The Fasti is a consciously composite work encompassing a wide gamut of perspectives on the inevitable presence of the princeps. Some lines hold praise, others critique, but all offer observation and commentary on the undeniable fact that autocratic power has infused Rome and its calendar. Narratives of women adding holidays to the roll of festivals become a double-edged sword: a reminder of the princeps’s power to add his own holidays and yet also of the inconvenient fact that other calendar disruptions flummoxed official power. Tales of formidable foundresses like Hersilia and Egeria hint at alternate sources and exercises of leadership. Their own agency sets them apart from their husbands, hints that even Romulus and Numa needed help, and fragments male royal standing—a provocative thought in a world that had seen Augustus take on aspects of both founders. These literary turns by redoubtable women have skirted the issue of the actual practice of power; two more Fasti narratives bring this potentially explosive issue to the fore. Vesta undergoes a thoroughgoing transformation from abstract idea into Augustan partisan; she becomes an arbiter of speech under constraint and a patroness of divinely sanctioned violence. Finally, the story of Lara and the Lares Augusti may be the Fasti’s most pointed, poignant treatment of power and subjection. The idea of “the poet and the prince” has driven much discussion of this poem,367 and Ovid demonstrates how intricate and potentially both playful and perilous that interaction can be. Having glanced at the prince, we turn now to the other half of the equation, the poet.

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Chapter 4 Song of Myself Ovid Revis(it)ing Love Elegy What’s past is prologue, and as much as Ovid interacts with perspectives on Roman identity expressed by Livy, Virgil, and the princeps himself, he also does so with his own earlier work. The Fasti has a complex relationship with the poet’s love elegy, particularly the Amores and the Ars Amatoria; the vates operosus of the Roman calendar both revisits and revises the exuberant amatory elegy that had first made him famous. The tales of the dangerous beauties Claudia Quinta and Lucretia discussed in chapter 1 are two instances in what becomes a grander pattern. The Anna episode’s direct quotation of a couplet from Heroides 7 becomes more than a clever literary in-joke. Teasing hints of love elegy persistently appear throughout the Fasti, and their collision and combination with the calendar’s other concerns create a fresh, and often surprising, arena for Ovid’s discussions of being Roman.

Father of the Bride: Ovid as Wedding Planner in Fasti 6.219–22 In reading the Fasti with an eye for Ovid’s earlier love poetry, one small and easily overlooked passage in Book 6 takes on fresh significance. The ostensible occasion is the approaching marriage of the poet’s daughter. At first blush a brief, charming personal anecdote, complete with the portrait of an anxious father, it is also an exceptionally literary and metaliterary moment. The importance of Ovid’s inclusion at all of personal details (or ostensibly personal details—one should not forget the poet’s skilled deployment of personae) in his poetic project should not be missed. The appearance of such detail marks this passage as something other than antiquarian research and calendrical exegesis, even though such pursuits are the professed raison d’être of the Fasti. Page 136 →Other antiquarian works have no comparable personal digressions. Besides using this framing to add human interest, Ovid’s passage about poet, persona, and circumstance becomes the poet’s consideration of life and family under the Augustan influence. In terms of actual biography, Ovid did have one daughter, his child with (most likely) his second wife. Only a few major details of her life are certain, most of which derive from his three mentions of her in his poetry.368 Married young to her first husband, she bore him a child and eventually was remarried to the senator Cornelius Fidus.369 With him she had her second child, and at the time of Ovid’s expulsion from Rome in AD 8, she was with Fidus in the province of Libya. In historical terms she was wed—in fact twice wed—long before the composition of the Fasti. When Ovid in Book 6 depicts his daughter’s wedding as an upcoming event that he must schedule, it is not the historical fact or timing of the wedding that is important, but its ability to be a springboard to other concerns.370 In this sense, the actual historicity of the girl herself (or even the possible lack thereof) is less important than her literary role. The Fasti’s treatment of the impending wedding reveals multiple layers of meaning, beginning with the introduction of the bride-to-be into the account of June 6: est mihi (sitque, precor, nostris diuturnior annis) filia, qua felix sospite semper ero. (6.219–20) [I have a daughter (and I pray that she may live longer than my years); while she is well, I will always be happy.]

In his love poetry, Ovid’s persona had brimmed with enthusiastic praise for his beautiful mistresses and for the thrill of the chase. Here, he expresses an entirely different kind of emotional attachment: that of a devoted parent for his daughter. His personae change dramatically: the saucy love poet of the past and even the diffidently diligent antiquarian of the current poem are swept aside by the doting father, a role complete with the hint of being a fruitful and productivePage 137 → citizen, a proper paterfamilias to boot.371 Taken with Augustus’s wellknown attempts to encourage marriage and children, exemplified in Lex Iulia de Maritandis Ordinibus of 18 BC, this new version of Ovid is, for the moment at least, more aligned with the princeps’s sensibilities. So is his daughter, on the brink of respectable marriage herself. The upcoming wedding presents the poet with a problem: though he needs to schedule it, he is inexperienced and out of his element. Unsure of what to do, he asks for assistance: hanc ego cum vellem genero dare, tempora taedis apta requirebam, quaeque cavenda forent. (6.221–22) [When I wanted to give her away to a son-in-law, I was asking what times would be suitable for a wedding and what times should be avoided.] Surprisingly, the poet is uncertain about time—tempora, precisely the same term he had proclaimed to be his grand topic in the Fasti, the all-important first word of the entire work, tempora cum causis. Confronted with his own daughter’s nuptials, the singer of Roman time is at a loss, and one ought to ask why. The pivotal issue is the authority and experience of the poet in this particular field of life. Ovid’s guise as the humble seeker of knowledge stands in marked contrast to previous personae, namely the exhilarated, emotionally unfettered lover of the Amores and the brashly confident, urbanely cynical praeceptor amoris of the Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris. In particular, that earlier Ars persona with his libertine love lessons had warned away all women who were respectable and declared his vast expertise with those who were not (Ars 1.33–34). The praeceptor amoris was infinitely learned, supremely self-assured to the point of cockiness, and entirely self-possessed, proud of the experience that drove his coaching—Usus opus movet hoc: vati parete perito; / vera canam, he says in the Ars, experience motivates this work: listen to an expert bard; I’ll sing the truth! (1.29–30). Exuberantly he declares, Me Venus artificem tenero praefecit Amori; / Tiphys et Automedon dicar Amoris ego, Venus has made me the master artist of tender love; I’ll be called the Tiphys and Automedon of passion! Page 138 →(1.7–8). Commanding auctoritas in the pursuit of beautiful demimondaines, the Ars persona’s selfconfidence knows no bounds, uncertainty, or doubt. The intriguing difference is that in Fasti 6 Ovid presents himself as a novice in respectability. The vates peritus of freewheeling unmarried amor is now hesitant and unsure of himself when he faces reputable marriage and family obligations. The giver of advice must now request it.372 Notice that there is no mention of any diffidence concerning Ovid’s own marriage(s). The issue is Ovid’s position of authority: his unassailable confidence as instructor of sensual young amatores and puellae stands in contrast to his uncertainty as overseer of a proper young bride. The glittering world of the Ars and Amores, with its elegant erotic games, has vanished. In its place is a world concerned with upstanding moral behavior. The cheekily carefree bachelor on the town has metamorphosed into a concerned father preoccupied with family ties and social and religious responsibilities. We should not forget, though, that he has purposefully portrayed himself in this way here; elsewhere in the Fasti, Ovid shows that he knows very well which days are auspicious for weddings and which are not.373 Tellingly, the poet asks for suitable tempora from the leading priestess, the flaminica Dialis. Her distinctive standing is noted in her description as holy, sancta (6.226). In fact, in her sternness, sober sanctity, and concern for religious propriety, she recalls the Augustan Vesta, and she possesses special knowledge. As she virtually presides over the marriage of Ovid’s daughter, dispensing advice, she resembles a human Juno, verbally

echoed in coniunx sancta Dialis (6.226). As representative of religious authority and dispenser of sacred directives, she is aligned with Augustus, who appropriated for himself the status of religious authority par excellence in Rome. The flaminica, whom Livia as priestess in her own right echoes, brings with her a sense of imperial oversight.374 She schools Ovid in matters of right and wrong as they affect a day for marriage (6.223–34),375 and the poet is deferentially (even abashedly?) quiet in her presence. There is no banter, no back-and-forth conversation, and no warmth compared with his interviews with more congenial figures like Flora and Venus. Page 139 →Arguably, the flaminica’s husband, the flamen Dialis and therefore the holder of one of Rome’s most ancient and prestigious priesthoods, is a more visible and powerful figure in actual religious life, but Ovid does not deal with him or any other source of guidance here. Neither do the pontiffs appear who had long been charged with keeping calendars and designating the nature of days. The poet interacts solely with the flaminica. This woman is a counterweight; as a female religious authority, she resonates with the transformation of religion under the princeps—an arbiter of acceptable behavior, an authority on rite, time, and marriage.376 All these things are heavily linked with imperial interests; the poet’s interaction with the priestess becomes tinged with his relationship to Augustus himself. The passage here begins with Ovid as father and poet, writing of his daughter, but it ends with the princeps. The imperial calendar’s notation of good days and bad days for marriage has impinged on Ovid’s life in a most personal fashion. In a sense, the flaminica has become a surrogate for Augustus’s moral, religious, and social initiatives as they ultimately catch up with Ovid.377 The brief narrative showcases the Fasti poet overwriting his Amores and Ars counterparts even as they all interact with each other and with the savvy reader. Though Augustus’s influence hovers unmentioned, the poet’s manipulation of personae highlights both that imperial influence and his own deft literariness. He has changed personalities in order to fit into the solemn, moralistic world of the princeps’s attempts at social reform. In his apparent submission, though, he also draws attention to the artificiality both of his act and of Augustus’s initiatives. Where the story of Lara and the Lares Augusti noted how Augustus became a presence on almost every street corner in the City, in this new tale the imperial influence literally hits home.

Turnabout Is Fair Play: Janus and Carna in Fasti 6.101–30 The poet is capable of rewriting much more than his own persona, and he demonstrates this with the tale of Janus and Carna for the Kalends, the first day of Page 140 →June.378 Instead of indulging in satiric license, the episode engages the notion of love among divinities who are more or less on equal footing and suited for each other. In this sense, the tale aligns with the stories of Flora and Zephyr in Fasti 5.199–212 and of Pomona and Vertumnus in Metamorphoses 14.623–771. The Janus-Carna account, however, carries a particular narrative burden: it may have been an Ovidian invention or, at the least, embellishment, and it is a tale devised to overlay Book 1’s genial, chatty Janus, god of beginnings and guardian of the gates of peace and war, with a specifically erotic cast. Janus, a figure without many well-known mythological tales of his own,379 had appeared in Fasti 1 as the poet’s first divine interlocutor; as the god of the month Ianuarius, he presides over the start of the Roman year. By the end of the Fasti, Ovid has transformed this god from dignified guardian of pax into wily practitioner of amor, and as Janus’s identity changes, the narrative focus shifts too, from matters of war and public welfare to affaires du coeur. Ovid revises the nature and depiction of the god and with him the associations of Pax, an idea co-opted by Augustus and given spectacular physical form in the Ara Pacis Augustae dedicated in 9 BC in—all too perfectly—January of that year.380 At first glance Janus may seem an unlikely candidate for an amatory escapade.381 In Fasti 1, he cuts an avuncular figure as a hearty, welcoming raconteur spinning tales of early Rome when interviewed by the poet.382 Nevertheless, on second look his appearance there contains several elements that hint at his aptitude for amor. His self-description contains these telling details and comments: praesideo foribus caeli cum mitibus Horis;

it, redit officio Iuppiter ipse meo. (1.124–25) [With the gentle Hours I preside at the gates of heaven; Jupiter himself comes and goes while I am on duty.] Page 141 →Janus serves as a celestial doorman, a role which resonates powerfully with the world of love poetry. In it the ianitor, the door he guards, and the woeful amator exclusus form the paraclausithyron trope, the lockedout lover’s lament to a doorkeeper.383 The mention of the Hours as Janus’s comrades also hints at the god’s possible after-hours pursuits: these minor goddesses are often depicted as the companions of Venus, and elsewhere in the Fasti they appear with the Graces as attendants of the flamboyantly amorous divinity Flora (5.217).384 One may also wonder at Janus presiding over the travels of Jupiter; hints abound of Jove’s notorious sexual escapades and the divine ianitor’s possible knowledge of and collusion in them. Furthermore, Janus proclaims his association with peace; he has closed his doors with the advent of peace under Augustus (1.281–88). Other writers may celebrate the pax Augusta with a focus on Augustus’s Actian victory, but in Ovid’s hands Janus’s association with peace takes on another aspect. His unmartial status, seen against the world of love poetry that balances martial values against amatory ones, implies his suitability for erotic occupations. As he presides over peace, so he is primed for amor, the peacetime occupation par excellence in Rome’s love poets.385 Carna herself also comes to the story primed for amor. Aside from being a huntress nymph and therefore set up for an erotic misadventure like Ovid’s Callisto or Daphne, she is characterized as both beautiful and devious. No naГЇve ingГ©nue, she exercises a cynical command over her hapless male admirers. Pursued and propositioned by numerous suitors, she leads each one on with false promises and then abandons him in the woods: huic aliquis iuvenum dixisset amantia verba, reddebat tales protinus illa sonos: “haec loca lucis habent nimis et cum luce pudoris, si secreta magis ducis in antra, sequor.” Credulus ante ut iit, frutices haec nacta resistit et latet et nullo est invenienda modo. (6.113–18) [If one of the boys spoke romantic words to her, she would respond right away with this: Page 142 →“This place is too well-lit, and with the light too much embarrassment. If you’ll lead the way to a more secluded grotto, I’ll follow.” When he gullibly goes ahead, she halts when she reaches the bushes and hides and can’t be found by any means.] She has no intention of joining her would-be lover in the grotto.386 The lady is a liar, a tease, and “une

nymphe malicieuse.”387 In her flouting of would-be lovers, moreover, she is similar to Pomona, who in the Metamorphoses manages to elude not only satyrs and Pans but Priapus himself. A striking similarity to Atalanta, outrunning all her suitors in deadly footraces, is also in play with the idea of male pattern disappointment. In all three cases, the elusive, scornful beauty unknowingly spurs on the one lover who has been watching all along and who, by using his wits and resourcefulness, will be successful where the others failed. Carna also displays another quality which renders her an apt target for the physically two-faced Janus: she is metaphorically two-faced, presenting herself in words as an amenable, willing lover but proving in deeds to be a cynical, cruel tease. Janus has been quietly looking on—viderat hanc (6.119)—and finally steps onto the scene. As the action unfolds, the two divinities stand as a near-perfect match, for Janus is as wily as she. In Fasti Book 1, Janus had described himself as crafty and cunning—callidus (1.268)—in terms of war, and now he proves himself callidus in love as well. After he approaches Carna with tender words (mollibus verbis), she responds with her usual false promises (6.119–22). Janus, however, has a second plan of action ready to deploy. Carna will be hoisted on her own petard, for she fails to appreciate the fact that Janus is as sly as she is or that he literally has eyes in the back of his head. Behind him, she slips away, but Janus’s rear face sees her hiding place, and the amorous god finally catches the nymph and claims her promise (6.123–26). Carna has met her match at last.388 Furthermore, Janus’s victory recasts his two-faced nature; in Fasti 1.89–144, this physical feature is part of his role as City protector. The god regarded his double visage and role as divine ianitor as parallel to the role of Hecate, guardian goddess of crossroads (1.141–44); this folds neatly into Janus’s larger positionPage 143 → as protector of Roman Peace. In relation to Carna, however, Janus takes features previously used for overseeing civic concord and uses them now for the entirely personal purpose of amor. Critical opinion has been divided over the Janus-Carna story. The narrative has been regarded as everything from a sexually violent aberration to a light bit of comic relief that “rewards” Janus for his affability in Book 1.389 Even so, there is more to the story of this divine pair. The double-faced god captures his duplicitous quarry, but then he makes her clearly his counterpart. He promises Carna that she will be the patroness of hinges—ius pro concubitu nostro tibi cardinis esto (6.127)—and he then gives her a talismanic whitethorn that she can wield to ward danger away from doors and, by implication, those who live in the rooms beyond—spinam, qua tristes pellere posset / a foribus noxas (haec erat alba) dedit (6.129–30).390 Janus has transformed Carna into his opposite number, a goddess who watches over hinges, doors, turning points, arrivals, departures, and the welfare of worshippers.391 This episode in Book 6 forms a doublet with the Janus passage in Book 1; together these neatly bookend the Fasti.392 The paralleling of Janus and Carna also has implications for the welfare of Rome. Janus in Book 1 stands as a helpful, peaceable, beneficent figure for the City; in its early days he prevented an armed Sabine incursion (1.259–76), and now he safeguards the current Augustan (and then Tiberian) peace (1.281–88).393 Carna /CranaГ« in Book 6 becomes a benefactress to Rome: she safeguards Proca, one of the leaders of the nascent state, while he is yet a vulnerable infant attacked by monstrous predatory birds (6.131–82).394 A linguistic bridge connects Carna’s new office with this tale: the apotropaic thorn that Janus gives her is parenthetically said to be white—haec erat alba (6.130)—and Proca will someday be king of Alba Longa, though the name of the city never appears in the passage. Proca will be the ancestor of none other than Romulus, and so his Page 144 →salvation is key for the founding of the future City.395 The amorous encounter of Janus and Carna reappears; it is explicitly cited as the source of the infant ruler’s safety: virgaque Ianalis de spina subditur alba, qua lumen thalamis parva fenestra dabat. post illud nec aves cunas violasse feruntur, et rediit puero, qui fuit ante, color. (6.165–68)

[A wand of Janus is taken from the white thorn and placed where a small window gave light to the bedrooms. After that, it is said that the birds did not violate the cradle, and the boy recovered the complexion he had before.] The Janus-Carna narrative began with the duplicity of a sly nymph and ends with the recovery of a mythichistorical Roman founder.396 Yet this is not only a story about the fortunes and vicissitudes of that royal line. The distinctly amatory nature of this first tale cannot be ignored in favor of the latter story of Carna the guardian. Ovid has rewritten Janus from Book 1 to Book 6 while also presenting obscure Carna as a vibrant character in her own right.

O Most True; She Is a Strumpet: Fortuna and Servius Tullius in Fasti 6.569–84 While Ovid interviews a dignified old Roman god only to turn him into a wily lover later, he takes an immediately erotic approach to the story of Servius and Fortuna. Servius Tullius, the sixth king of Rome, was commonly said to be devoted to Fortuna, given his servile origin and surprising, unlikely rise to power.397 In Livy’s monumental account, Fortuna is in fact not a person or Page 145 →divine personification but a mighty abstract force working to protect Rome while he reigned.398 In Fasti 6’s account, the relationship between king and concept becomes something else entirely as the abstract turns concrete: Fortuna’s metaphorical favor becomes an explicitly physical sexual one,399 and the story of Servius resonates more with love elegy and even stage farce than with history proper or antiquarian catalogues.400 The Ovidian tale begins on the occasion of June 11’s celebration of the goddess as the poet asks for an explanation of a covered statue in her temple: lux eadem, Fortuna, tua est auctorque locusque, sed superiniectis quis latet iste togis? (6.569–70) [The same day, Fortuna, is yours, and both the founder and location. But who is that hiding under the heaped-up togas?] The moment seems primed for an interview with Fortuna on the identity of the hidden figure. The poet, however, overturns reader expectations immediately by answering his own question: Servius est, hoc constat enim, sed causa latendi discrepat et dubium me quoque mentis habet. (6.571–72) [It is Servius—this is certain, but the reason for hiding him is open for debate, and a doubt takes hold of my mind.] This rather surprising turn of events proves metaphorical for what Ovid will do with the core of Fortuna’s

narrative: he will engage the unexpected. In his retelling, framed as Fortuna herself confiding in the poet, the reason for the temple Page 146 →statue is amusingly ignoble: an ill-advised fling later regretted by a woman who would rather forget the incident ever happened: dum dea furtivos timide profitetur amores, caelestemque homini concubuisse pudet (arsit enim magno correpta cupidine regis caecaque in hoc uno non fuit illa viro), nocte domum parva solita est intrare fenestra; unde Fenestellae nomina porta tenet. nunc pudet, et vultus velamine celat amatos, oraque sunt multa regia tecta toga. (6.573–80) [While the goddess skittishly confesses her secret affair, she is ashamed that she, an immortal, had slept with a mortal man (for she was on fire, undone by a great lust for the king, and she was not blind only in regard to that one man). At night she used to slip into his house through a little window; because of this the gate has the name of Fenestella. Now it embarrasses her, and with a veil she hides the visage she had loved, and the king’s face is covered with many togas.] This is an odd little tale that degrades a story of royal fortune and early Roman achievement into a humorous scenario embellished with “morning after” remorse. The words furtivos, timide, and pudet emphasize this mood.401 It is an embarrassing confession that Fortuna gives, and the fact that she even recounts it raises questions.402 She could simply have not told her story at all and buried her indiscretion as she buried the sculpted Servius’s face with fabric.403 The fact that she confides in the poet may in fact be the point: it reveals a certain degree of intimacy and understanding between the goddess and the poet. He has personal grounds for empathy: he not only knew love poetry, but Page 147 →the writer of Amores 3.7 had once, as Fortuna does now, related a tale of cringe-worthy personal erotic shame.404 There the love poet persona was alone at last with a long-desired girl, but in that fateful moment, to his horror and humiliation, he found himself unable to rise to the occasion. That poem too like Fortuna’s tale centers on embarrassment and regret. Facti pudor ipse nocebat (Am. 3.7.37), says the poet, the shame itself hurt. He adds, tristia cum magno damna pudore tuli (73), I endured sad injury with great embarrassment. At the end of Amores 3.7, the girl is now hostile to the poet, as Fortuna is to Servius, and she attempts to rewrite what had happened in the bedroom (81–84). But where Fortuna tries to pretend that nothing had happened, Amores 3.7’s disappointed lover tries to

pretend that something had occurred after the angry puella flounces away (77–84). In both instances, the unsuitable male lover is the source of the girl’s post-tryst hostility, and both tales focus on erotic embarrassment. Fortuna’s confession now in the Fasti is a moment of delicately sophisticated metaliterary play: she is ashamed that she had done something, and she says so to the poet who had once been ashamed that he had not. The two in that moment are sympathetic counterparts and natural confidantes. The comic humiliation of the goddess recalls similar tales in the Fasti: Anna at night leaping through a low window and being swept away by the river Numicius (3.639–48), or the various erotic fiascos of Mars, Jupiter, Faunus, and Priapus. In the Fortuna tale, royalty and divinity find themselves back in the world of play, for the scene has clear echoes of mime shows, comedy, and the sexually charged romps of ioci with their cheerful disregard for dignity and decorum.405 From the covered face to the secret (and adulterous)406 affair to the lover climbing through windows, the air of the comic stage hovers over Fortuna’s story.407 Humor—arguably inappropriate or irreverent humor—intrudes into the narrative of Servius Tullius and kingly Roman beginnings. The window scene also nods to love elegy beyond Ovid. Fortuna’s nocturnal escapades resonate with Propertius 4.7 and its account of trysts remembered bitterly by Cynthia afterwards: Page 148 →iamne tibi exciderunt vigilacis furta Suburae et mea nocturnas trita fenestra dolis? per quam demisso quotiens tibi fune pependi, alterna veniens in tua colla manu! (4.7.15–18) [Have you already forgotten our secret meetings in the sleepless Subura and my window, worn away with nighttime shenanigans? How often did I hang on a rope through that window—a rope let down to you, with me climbing down hand over hand into your arms?] In nearly identical ways Fortuna and Cynthia, unabashedly burning with passion, climb through windows to reach their lovers.408 In the aftermath, both look back resentfully. Fortuna has, at least for this one moment, become an elegiac puella, complete with volatile emotions. In the end, what is passionate anger for Cynthia becomes, for Fortuna, rather humorous mortification. Divinities heedlessly in love in the Fasti usually seem to end in comic embarrassment. Ovid apparently did not invent the tale of Fortuna’s window-clambering communion with Servius; Plutarch also mentions this as a possible reason for the name of the Fenestella Gate.409 Ovid, however, chooses to make her a delicately drawn personality who by confessing her past indiscretion claims a place for herself in the story. In the end, Fortuna covers up Servius—face, identity, story, and all—with both tales and togas. What edifying stories might have been told about the venerable old king with his extensive rГ©sumГ© of civic, political, military, and religious accomplishments go untold. Fortuna’s story has effaced him as much as she has covered his physical features. In a grand twist, Servius’s well-known attachment to Fortuna in terms of Roman state implications is a source of lasting advancement and pleasure for him but not for her. The tale takes yet another influential, authoritative ruler of Rome’s formative years, a man who imprints fledgling Rome with his sense of political, social, and religious order, and transforms him into amatory amusement. Ovid has muffled up the image of Servius Tullius and highlighted Fortuna instead, giving her the trappings of love elegy.

Page 149 →As for the veil over the statue, it might be said to be an assurance of future morality, but it is also, teasingly, a reminder of a past erotic indiscretion.410

The Way We Were: Venus and the Poet in Fasti Book 4 Ovid’s ongoing engagement with love poetry intensifies when it involves Venus herself. When he invokes the goddess of love in the opening of Book 4, the invitation operates on multiple levels. This passage marks the exact midpoint of the Fasti as a whole, and thus the start of Book 4 also functions as an important second beginning in the structure of the project.411 The fourth book covers the month of April, traditionally the month of Venus, and so the poet has a watertight legitimate cause to call on her.412 Nevertheless, it is still his choice how he does. He could have, for instance, taken a leaf from Lucretius’s book and portrayed her as a transcendent figure of peace and a celestial abstraction of fertile creation. He could have depicted her in her Virgilian guise as the devoted guardian and supporter of Roman destiny. He could have called her in an Augustan dynastic sense as Venus Genetrix, lofty mythical founder of the Julian line.413 What Ovid does instead is create a literary confection of a conversation with Venus: she arrives as an overtly flirtatious divinity who explicitly harks back to the Amores as much as she reconfigures the Fasti. The goddess appears in amorous splendor and all but appropriates the work—calendar, poet, and all—for herself. Other concerns, including the antiquarian and even the imperial, yield (at least for the moment) to the irresistible patroness of desire and love elegy. The fact that Ovidian love poetry underpins the opening of Fasti Book 4 is clear from the first verbal exchange between goddess and poet: “Alma, fave”, dixi “geminorum mater Amorum”; ad vatem voltus rettulit illa suos; “quid tibi” ait “mecum? certe maiora canebas.” (4.1–3) Page 150 →[“Bountiful mother of the twin Loves,” I said, “grant me your favor!” She turned her face back to the poet. “What do you have to do with me?” she said. “Surely you were singing about more important things.”] Venus’s arch, even saucy reply is an unmistakable reference to the final poem in Ovid’s Amores collection: in Amores 3.15 he had bid farewell to her and through her the world of love elegy.414 There he had openly stated that he was leaving her in order to pursue other poetic projects: Quaere novum vatem, tenerorum mater Amorum! raditur hic elegis ultima meta meis; .В .В . Culte puer puerique parens Amathusia culti, aurea de campo vellite signa meo! corniger increpuit thyrso graviore Lyaeus: pulsanda est magnis area maior equis.

inbelles elegi, genialis Musa, valete, post mea mansurum fata superstes opus. (Amores 3.15.1–2, 15–20) [Mother of the tender Loves, find a new poet! Here the last lap is being run by my elegies. .В .В . O elegant boy and you the Cyprian mother of that elegant boy, Take your golden standards from my field! Horned Dionysus calls out with his heavier thyrsus: A wider space must be trodden out with great horses. Farewell, delightful Muse and unarmed elegies, A work that will survive, enduring after my fate.] The Venus of Fasti 4 refers back to this particular moment, thus deftly importing the entire world of Ovidian love poetry. The poet has elegantly constructed his invocation: he hails the goddess, and her reply defines their relationship as a complex one with a past. He calls on her for favor, as he calls on many another divinity in the Fasti, but her response is different. She stops and turns around—rettulitPage 151 →—as he apparently catches up to her, or he has approached her when she had her back to him—in either case, she was focused elsewhere. Her first words evoke a mistress coolly responding to a lover returning after he had left her and now hoping to charm himself back into her good graces.415 The Venus of the Fasti remembers Amores 3.15 and uses its message against their author: certe maiora canebas. It is not a warm welcome nor an outright rejection, but a pert, sardonic challenge. The exchange between goddess and poet intensifies in what can be described as a most literary form of flirting. In reply to the goddess, the poet’s Fasti persona acknowledges and even appropriates the persona of the love poems: num vetus in molli pectore vulnus habes?’ “scis, dea,” respondi “de volnere.” risit, et aether protinus ex illa parte serenus erat. (4.4–6) [“Or do you have an old wound in your tender heart?” “Goddess,” I replied, “you know about that wound.” She laughed, and the air instantly brightened from that quarter.] Venus’s question is rife with the associations and specific vocabulary of love elegy, from the metaphor of

injury to the marked word mollis. Her description of the vulnus as old, vetus, glosses both the fact that Ovid’s love poems had been his earliest work and that he has long been devoted to the poeticization of amor. Here in the proem to Book 4, this becomes an elaborate in-joke, a mark of the old concord between poet and patron goddess. By saying only scis, deaВ .В .В . de vulnere, he implies an entire private world of intimacy between them, a world she confirms by bursting into laughter. That laughter is her approval of the poet’s effort to win her back, and it introduces a scene of almost unparalleled affection in the Fasti: the goddess reconciles with the poet, and in so doing brings along the love elegy and all it implies.416 The persona of Ovid in the Fasti—the operosus vates, diligent and antiquarian—suddenly becomes subsumed into the persona of the Amores, the eager lover. Exuberantly he addresses Venus: Page 152 →saucius an sanus numquid tua signa reliqui? tu mihi propositum, tu mihi semper opus. (4.7–8) [Wounded or whole, have I ever abandoned your banners? You are always my aim, my achievement.] Disingenuous as this is—he had after all in Amores 3.15.15–16 disavowed her signa and used that very term to do it—it is also the reassertion of his attachment to Venus and love elegy.417 In the Fasti, the word signa plays with different meanings, combining its definitions as “military standard” and as “stars,” “constellations.” By engaging this wordplay, Ovid links his amatory poetry with his current project and highlights his dexterity at negotiating between the two. In the first lines of the Fasti, the poet declares that this work will not be a martial one; let other poets sing of Caesar’s arms—Caesaris arma alii (1.13). In Fasti 4, the poet employs the military sense of signa—standard, banner, legionary eagle—but does so in an explicitly metaphorical amatory sense: he assures Venus that he still serves under her banner. At the same time, signa recalls the beginning of the Fasti where the poet proclaims he will sing of constellations—signa—which rise and fall under the earth: lapsaque sub terras ortaque signa canam (1.2). The term signa connects the first proem with the second, and now the poet sings of stars and standards with the same word. Venus’s signa are plainly amatory ones, and the poet, depicted as a loyal and indefatigable trooper who does not desert his regimental colors even though wounded (saucius), begins to look increasingly less like an antiquarian researcher and increasingly more like the elegiac lover, the amator. More telling still is the proclamation that “wounded or not,” i.e., “in love or not” and stretching even to “whether writing love poetry or not,” Ovid has never abandoned the goddess’s cause. He may reiterate that he will sing of signa, “constellations,” but the word’s association with love poetry overlays the entire proem with a sense of double vision. The nature of the poem seems to have shifted. Ovid has taken up the lapsed signa, “standards, banners,” of amatory poetry, the signa he had once disavowed. The Book 4 invocation gives the sense that the world of love elegy come to cast its influence wider over the poem. The writer’s persona addresses Venus in a moment of intimate allegiance, and her reply applies as much to his calendar project as to him: Page 153 →“venimus ad quartum, quo tu celeberrima mense: et vatem et mensem scis, Venus, esse tuos.” mota Cytheriaca leviter mea tempora myrto contigit et “coeptum perfice” dixit “opus.”

sensimus, et causae subito patuere dierum. (4.13–17) [“We have come to the fourth month, in which you are most celebrated, and, Venus, you know that both the poet and the month are yours.” Moved, she lightly brushed my tempora with Cytherean myrtle and said, “Finish the work that you started.” I felt it, and suddenly the causes of the days lay open.] I have purposefully left the word tempora untranslated because the core of Ovid’s calendar poem may be condensed into that single word: tempora. It is the first word of his calendar project, where it means “times, ” and where tempora cum causis may have been an alternate title for the poem beside the now-standard “Fasti.”418 The place of tempora in the programmatic opening lines of this complex work can hardly be overestimated: it is the essential nature of the whole poem distilled into one word. With the privileged position given to tempora, the poet makes a proclamation: he will sing of Roman times, of calendar days and their exegeses and aetiologies. Tempora will be his grand theme. It is no great surprise then that the word tempora reappears in the opening sequence of Fasti Book 4, the very center of the work, in a passage that is a second proem to the work. Like the opening in Book 1, this second introduction is emblematic, crucial for the Fasti’s identity and content, particularly in its second half. This second occurrence of tempora, however, is more complicated: it can mean both “times” and “temples, ” the anatomical feature “brow.” At first glance, the sensuous and beautiful Venus lightly brushes Ovid’s temples with her sacred plant, the myrtle—leviter mea tempora myrto / contigit. It is a moment of affection and intimacy, and she shows him the favor he had requested. Her gentle touch on the poet’s brow is both a mark of approval and a sign of divine inspiration; it is a consecration. On second glance, however, one may well wonder if Ovidian wordplay lurks within the tempora: is Venus touching Ovid’s times—his Fasti itself—as well as his brow? The goddess and her sacred myrtle, potent images of patronage, stand in a place that is suddenly difficult to define, for she may preside over both Book 4 as a unit and the calendar poem as a whole. After Venus brushes the poet’s tempora with her myrtle, inspiration Page 154 →strikes him and he understands causae. The resonance with the poem’s programmatic first words tempora cum causis is inescapable. Tempora becomes a reflection of the range and flexibility within the genre—or, better stated, the inclusive “supergenre”419 and the elastic and self-aware “metagenre”—of Roman elegy. The first proem of the work lays out its antiquarian, scholarly focus on rites, stars, causes, days, and festivals. The second proem unveils another force at work and play in the poem: the light world of the love elegy, of amatory themes and pursuits under the patronage of Venus. The adverb leviter (4.15) takes on a new significance, for love elegy is embedded in the very term levis.420 The elegant world of amator, puella, domina, and amor is suddenly very close to and joining or even intruding on the parade of Roman days and highlighting the existence of what one critic has called “an entire sexual and comic sphere” in the Fasti.421 Though Ovid certainly did not invent the commingling of aetiological elements with amatory ones, in the Fasti he takes this idea much farther in narrative complexity and significance.422 The amorous episodes are not included only for the sake of comic relief; neither is Ovid simply reverting to his previous “frivolity” because he somehow cannot separate himself from it, cannot help himself, and blurts out involuntary tics of love elegy.423 These incidents are purposefully included by the will and choice of the poet, and as such they have their own particular niche in the narrative. In Ovid’s literary project, amor and aetia are by no means disparate or mutually exclusive elements. His work invites questions and explorations: what role such “amatory aetiology” plays in the Fasti and how it affects the idea and depiction of what it means to be Roman.

When the poet follows his invocation to Venus with hymnic praise, he intensifies elegiac associations by framing them as a defense of her place in the calendar. The month name of April has alternate etymologies, but the poet reiterates the goddess’s primacy (4.85–86). The ensuing lines (4.90–132) present Page 155 →her as a universal power of peace and fertility, but when Ovid lauds her influence on human beings, that praise is inseparable from love elegy: prima feros habitus homini detraxit: ab illa venerunt cultus mundaque cura sui. primus amans carmen vigilatum nocte negata dicitur ad clausas concinuisse fores, eloquiumque fuit duram exorare puellam, proque sua causa quisque disertus erat. mille per hanc artes motae; studioque placendi, quae latuere prius, multa reperta ferunt. hanc quisquam titulo mensis spoliare secundi audeat? a nobis sit furor iste procul. (4.107–16) [It [Venus as a force] first divested man of his wild appearance: from her came elegant fashion and the neat care of oneself. It is said that a lover was the first to sing a sleepless song at night at closed doors. It was eloquence to win over an unyielding girl, and every man was silver-tongued in his own cause. A thousand arts began through her, and many inventions previously hidden arise because of the desire to be pleasing. Who would dare deprive her of the name of the second month? Far be that madness from me!] The word cultus brings in love elegy and its emphasis on elegant appearance. The Ars Amatoria arises as the playful, barely hidden presence here with its poetic lessons in cultus mundaque cura sui. In the same vein, the mention of the locked-out lover recalls both the iconic paraklausithyron trope and Ovid’s own employment of it in the Amores.424 The emblematic figure of the harsh mistress is incontestable in the words duramВ .В .В . puellam, and eloquence in the cause of love echoes not only the general idea in Ovidian love elegy but also a particularly playful moment in the Ars, in which a barrister falls in love and finds he now must use his eloquence on his own behalf.425 Finally, the poet praises Venus Page 156 →as a civilizing influence,426 but his statement that she is the prime mover behind numerous arts and skills—mille per hanc artes motae—resonates

powerfully with the Ars Amatoria and its opening declaration arte regendus amor (1.4). In the end, he credits her with civilized, cultured life as a whole. Ultimately, this portion of Fasti 4’s hymn to Venus is not only the acknowledgment of her amatory power. It is unabashed praise. The calendar momentarily becomes love’s playground. It is also a counterpoint to the Ars’s topographical suggestions: where it had presented love on the loose in Roman space, the Fasti presents love at large in Roman time. Granted, the Fasti contains many elements aside from the love elegiac, but that it appears with such color and vigor must give the reader pause. This is an imaginatively provocative Venus who emerges to complicate the poem of times and reasons.427 The first narrative of Book 4, Venus Verticordia (4.133–62), takes this one step farther. It presents the overlap among love elegy, aetiological elegy, and female identity. The festival of Venus Verticordia, mingled almost inextricably with that of Fortuna Virilis in Ovid’s presentation, represents an effort to engage manifestly disparate elements.428 The interlinking of the two suggests that amor can unify such elements and create a new poetic space and perspective.429 In factual terms, the April 1 festivals of Venus Verticordia and Fortuna Virilis are not the same; the former was for Roman women of respectable status, while the latter was celebrated by meretrices—prostitutes and courtesans.430 Ovid, however, glosses over the difference between these two groups by starting his account with a call to them both:431 Rite deam colitis, Latiae matresque nurusque et vos, quis vittae longaque vestis abest. (4.133–34) Page 157 →[Rightly worship the goddess, Latin mothers and daughters-in-law, and you who don’t wear fillets and stolae.] The women who could not wear the stola, the long dress of the respectable matrona, were meretrices; they were required to wear instead the toga as a sign of their position and profession. The two groups of women occupied separate spheres of society in Rome, but here Ovid combines them in his call to worship the dea whom, incidentally, he does not immediately identify.432 This juxtaposes his previous love poetry, notably the Ars Amatoria, in which he had repeatedly stressed the difference between women of good standing, the matronae, and women of pleasure, the meretrices.433 The line of demarcation becomes blurred in the call to worship the goddess by washing her cult statue and decking it with fresh flowers (4.135–38).434 The increasingly hazy separation between the women’s social spheres echoes another blurring of boundaries: that of literary spheres. Under the patronage of Venus here on the Kalends of April, an odd unitary identity has arisen—however briefly and only in the poetry—between the Roman women. Similarly, the line between a higher and lower register of love-centered expression blurs. Amatory elegy has already appeared, with the calls to the meretrices and the mention of Venus’s flowers. Furthermore, the poet declares that the goddess herself calls the female celebrants to bathe under green myrtle, the plant so closely and consistently tied to love elegy: vos quoque sub viridi myrto iubet ipsa lavari (4.139). The calendar exegesis suddenly finds itself accommodating the sensual image of a crowd of disrobed women amid pools of water and myrtle crowns at the command of Venus. Overall this fosters a sense of blurred or double vision between the rites of meretrices in the men’s baths and the rites of the honorable matrons elsewhere.435 The purposes of their respective rites could not be more different: the matrons pray to Venus for marital concord and honorable behavior;Page 158 → the meretrices pray to Fortuna Virilis that men would be blind to their physical blemishes.436 The blurring of identities is a literary ploy, emphasizing the festive thronging of female celebrants, but it is also a comment on one aspect of Roman identity under Augustus. His encouragement of the stola and moral legislation attempted to delineate clearly the difference between those women who were socially acceptable and those who

were not. Ovid overturns this when he blurs the celebrants of Venus Verticordia with those of Fortuna Virilis. The cheerful images stand in counterpoint to Augustan social measures; the play of literary genres takes on a particular edge: love elegy is not only an intertextual and self-referential game, but it is also an oblique observation on the cultural milieu under Augustus. The poet who revised the Fasti while condemned for his Ars has not abandoned his attachment to erotic elegy or the idea of unruly love. Instead he has turned it loose on the Roman calendar.

Floral Arrangements: Intertextuality, the Birth of Mars, and the Poetic Sphragis in Fasti Book 5 In the opening of Book 5, Ovid calls on Flora to be his inspiration and patroness as he writes about her festival, the Floralia of April 28–May 3. Accordingly, the goddess arrives in gorgeous fashion, wreathed with roses and brimming with stories to share. The charmingly intimate interlude that ensues is not only an expression of familiarity between goddess and poet: Flora’s interview becomes a meditation on Ovidian literary selfreflection as the flower goddess incorporates elements of his Amores and Metamorphoses. Then in appropriating a place for herself in the Fasti, Flora becomes its most congenial patroness, and in so doing she will exercise a powerful influence on two major aspects of the Fasti’s consideration of Roman identity: she will affect the personality of the calendar poem and its poet’s persona, and she will fundamentally transform the figure of Mars, Rome’s own divine progenitor. Flora emerges in Book 5 as the figure of love poetry. Her arrival is accompanied by a key indicator of amor in the Fasti: the term iocus, associated with erotic play and seen here in its derivative, iocosus. The term is bolstered by ludus and its derivations; it was only in the opening of Book 4 that the poet had referred to his youthful embrace of love poetry as lusimus (4.9). When Ovid invokes Flora with these words, he subtly creates a space for her that is aligned Page 159 →with amatory play: “Come, Mother of Flowers, who should be celebrated with playful games! Mater, ades, florum, ludis celebranda iocosis!” (5.183). One should consider that she could have been portrayed differently but nonetheless fittingly as an unerotic, Ceres-like figure.437 Ovid could have presented her as a purely agricultural goddess, a rustic patroness of grains and fruits, without any of the trappings of love poetry.438 Verrius Flaccus in his own calendar commentary speaks of Flora’s festival entirely in agricultural terms; the Fasti Praenestini’s entry for April 28’s Floralia notes only that on that day a temple was dedicated to Flora because of crop failure.439 Flora could have been glossed over still more superficially; other Augustan writers pass her by, and Virgil ignores her in his Georgics.440 One might well wonder if her festival’s famous sexual license was reason enough for it to be studiously ignored by poets in an age of Augustan moral legislation. Ovid, however, embraces the opposite approach. His Flora is one of the leading figures of the Fasti, bursting into the calendar and bringing with her an unapologetically amatory air. His invocation of her brings two other elements into play: the contrast with Vesta and the granting of authority to Flora. Both will be essential to understanding the queen of flowers in her Ovidian incarnation. The first element is the combination of Flora with the poet’s nameless but unmistakable mention of Vesta, a goddess he had himself largely created as a force to be reckoned with in the world of the Fasti: Mater, ades, florum, ludis celebranda iocosis! distuleram partes mense priore tuas. incipis Aprili, transis in tempora Maii: alter te fugiens, cum venit alter habet cum tua sint cedantque tibi confinia mensum, convenit in laudes ille vel ille tuas.

Circus in hunc exit clamataque palma theatris; hoc quoque cum Circi munere carmen eat.В (5.183–91) Page 160 →[Come, mother of flowers, who should be celebrated with playful games! Last month I put off your place. You go from the beginnings in April into the time of May: One month has you as it flees, the other as it arrives. Because the months’ confines are yours and they yield to you, either one is suitable for your praises. The Circus (games) and the palm praised in the theaters fall in this month: here may my song run with the Circus show.] The poet explicitly recalls the ending of Book 4, in which he had begun to describe Flora in exuberant terms, only to come to an abrupt halt. He had had to hurry the goddess offstage in order to focus his attention on Vesta. In that passage, the floral divinity must give way before the new commemoration of an imperial event: the recollection of how the princeps appropriated Vesta by dedicating a shrine to her in his own Palatine house on April 28, 12 BC:441 mille venit variis florum dea nexa coronis; scaena ioci morem liberioris habet. exit et in Maias sacrum Florale Kalendas: tunc repetam, nunc me grandius urget opus. aufer, Vesta, diemВ .В .В . (4.945–49) [The goddess arrives garlanded with dappled crowns of a thousand flowers; the stage has the habit of more unfettered revelry. Flora’s rites go on into the Kalends of May. I’ll take it up again then; now a more serious task drives me. Vesta, take the day!] Ovid characterizes Flora as a playful, erotic presence who must yield to the stern Vesta and her uncontestable imperial prerogatives. The flower goddess might have an ancient festival that begins on April 28, but the poet makes clear that Vesta’s claim on the same day must take precedence. Ovid need not have made so sharp a point of this: he could have given Vesta her due and deferred Flora into May without making an open contest of April 28. The fact that he Page 161 →does implies a choice: displaying an affection for Flora even while honoring Vesta. It is, in effect, looking to the goddess being displaced as much as the goddess being declared the

grandiusВ .В .В . opus of the moment. In subsequently expounding the new imperial meaning of April 28, the poet implies its artificiality and contrived intrusion into the calendar. His evocation of Vesta with Augustus and the Palatine Apollo as a type of “Palatine Triad” (aeternos tresВ .В .В . deos, 4.954) is praise of a distinctly double-edged nature. Simultaneously, an understated opposition arises between Flora as an emblem of freewheeling frivolity and Vesta as symbol of austere Augustan command and control in the calendar. When Flora returns in Book 5 and the poet specifically recalls how he had previously set her aside, he refreshes the contrast between the two. In particular, he renews the sense that Vesta is a chilly, killjoy figure of compulsion whom he must accommodate (as he had on the Ides of March) and that Flora is a warmly congenial, poetically complicated figure with whom he would prefer to linger. When Ovid asks Flora to identify herself, his request is full of metaliterary sensibilities: ipsa doce quae sis: hominum sententia fallax; optima tu proprii nominis auctor eris. (5.191–92) [You yourself teach me who you are: the opinion of men is deceptive: You are the best authority of your own name.] Ovid’s use of the word auctor, much less optima auctor, unleashes issues of fundamental authority and identity. In asking the goddess to self-identify because men’s opinions are flawed, the poet brings to the foreground the slipperiness of identity and its vulnerability to the opinions and influences of others. The point acquires an additional edge in an age in which divinities were being recast with imperial overtones. The question provokes the issue of how Flora will appear in this poeticized calendar commentary; Ovid’s persona effectively hands over the issue to the goddess and lets her choose how she will appear in the roll of days. Flora replies by aligning herself with Roman love poetry and its central figure, the beautiful mistress: sic ego; sic nostris respondit diva rogatis Page 162 →(dum loquitur, vernas efflat ab ore rosas): “Chloris eram quae Flora vocor: corrupta Latino nominis est nostri littera Graeca sono. Chloris eram, nymphe campi felicis, ubi audis rem fortunatis ante fuisse viris.” (5.193–98) [Thus I spoke, and thus the goddess responds to my questions (while she speaks, she breathes forth spring roses from her lips): “I was Chloris who is called Flora: the Greek letter of my name was corrupted by Latin pronunciation.

I was Chloris, a nymph of the blessed field where you hear fortunate men of old had their place.”] Linguistically, “Chloris” and “Flora” are not linked, but etymological accuracy is not the point.442 The Greek name “Chloris” is appropriate enough for the goddess’s botanical function as it means “green” and so “fresh, verdant, blooming.” When Flora emphatically repeats her Greek name—Chloris eram (lines 195 and 197)—with anaphora forcing the reader to take a literal second look, it becomes clear that the name itself is significant.443 One remembers the tradition in Latin love elegy of giving Greek names to Roman mistresses. Furthermore, “Chloris” was also a common name for courtesans or prostitutes in Rome; both Horace and Propertius in their love poems refer to girls named “Chloris.”444 Aside from her exotic name, the Roman mistress is known also for her beauty, and immediately after giving her name, Flora mentions her own loveliness: quae fuerit mihi forma, grave est narrare modestae; sed generum matri repperit illa deum. (5.199–200) [What kind of beauty I had is hard for a modest girl to say, Page 163 →but it won my mother a god for a son-in-law.] Aside from being a pretty boast, forma, “beauty,” is one of love elegy’s key terms. Moreover, the praise of forma here is reminiscent of another bold praise of physical female beauty: Ovid’s own Amores 1.5, in which the poet shamelessly describes Corinna’s flawless figure. There too a hint of disingenuous diffidence appears at the end (23–25), a refusal to discuss specifics that resonates with Flora’s own here. The goddess has depicted herself as a type of elegiac mistress or at the very least a figure aligned with love poetry. When she mentions Zephyr literally sweeping her off her feet and marrying her, she brings in further amatory associations, for the West Wind is most often the companion of Venus.445 Flora ends with a forthright declaration that she has no complaint on her marriage couch—inque meo non est ulla querella toro (5.206). Matronae were not generally supposed to enjoy sex, but mistresses were.446 For the beautiful and sensuous Flora, the hint of elegiac amor is inescapable. Flora’s affinity with love elegy is most evident in the contrast Ovid draws between her and the world of tragedy. In a description of the Floralia’s saucy celebrations, the poet declares that they are full of playful games and various delights: Quaerere conabar quare lascivia maior his foret in ludis liberiorque iocus; sed mihi succurrit numen non esse severum, aptaque deliciis munera ferre deam. (5.331–34) [I was about to ask why greater licentiousness and freer play happened at these games, but it occurred to me that the divinity is not strict

and the goddess brings gifts fit for delights.] Page 164 →Flora’s festivities were racy affairs with scantily clad dancing girls—celebrations that the famously straitlaced, moralistic Cato Uticensis did not enjoy; one anecdote tells how he left the theater so he could avoid such performances.447 All the same, such pursuits suit Flora, for Ovid proclaims that she is not at all a goddess aligned with tragedy: Scaena levis decet hanc: non est, mihi credite, non est illa cothurnatas inter habenda deas. (5.347–48) [A frivolous stage suits her; she shouldn’t, believe me, she shouldn’t belong among the buskined goddesses [of tragedy].] The repetition of non est emphasizes this assertion. This distinct line of demarcation between Flora and tragedy is the identical twin of another: Amores 3.1 with its diametric opposition between the female personifications of Love Elegy and Tragedy. There, Elegy arrives as a beautiful and playful mistress, Tragedy as a stern and severe task mistress. In Fasti 5, Flora and Elegy become more and more closely aligned; aside from their mutual opposition to Tragedy, they share a number of other important characteristics: beauty (forma), playful sensuality, fragrance, and the possession of plants linked to Venus—notably Flora’s roses (floresВ .В .В . rosa, 5.359–60) and Elegy’s myrtle (myrtea virga, Amores 3.1.34). They share Greek origins, ties with nocturnal love, and, perhaps most tellingly of all, an affectionate relationship with the poet who clearly enjoys their presence and patronage.448 When the vates of the Fasti declares that Flora is not a stern divinity, a numen non severum (5.333), he harks back to playful Elegy, the very opposite of Tragedy with the grim, gloomy brow, fronte torva (Amores 3.1.12). In Amores 3.1, he chooses Elegy over Tragedy, and in the Fasti, he devotes a large section of Book 5 being pleasurably ensconced with Flora after paying Vesta her due. As he had done in Book 4, the poet makes room in Book 5 for a renewal of amatory elegy; Flora becomes a proxy or an analogue of Venus. She had been set aside in April Page 165 →in favor of Vesta only to return in May more powerfully than ever, as though her identity as playful patroness is irrepressible even in the face of imperial propriety’s demands. Aside from being linked to amatory poetry, Flora is also tied to Ovidian epic, demonstrating a distinct affinity for the Metamorphoses as she lays claim to narrative authority. Ovid’s initial call for her to be optima auctor takes a most metaliterary and self-referential turn. When the poet first calls on Flora to explain who she is, her answer resonates with some of the Metamorphoses’s most well-known elements. The pattern is familiar: the beautiful girl, framed in a pleasant natural setting, attracts the lustful attention of a god who chases, captures, and ravishes her. Typically, she ultimately undergoes a transformation. For Flora, all these elements are present in her autobiographical tale. Her rape narrative takes place in a locus amoenus writ large: it was springtime, she says, and she was a wandering nymph (ver erat, errabam, 5.201). The wind god Zephyr sees her, desires her, and gives chase (5.201–4). Even this recalls the beginning of the Metamorphoses, where in the eternal spring of the Golden Age, Zephyr blows on the flowers (ver erat aeternum, placidique tepentibus auris / mulcebant zephyri natos sine semine flores, Met. 1.107–8). After Zephyr catches her, Flora undergoes a change: she had begun as a nymph, nymphe campi felicis, as she said (1.197), but now becomes the goddess-patroness of flowers, for Zephyr calls her dea and specifically gives her command over blossoms (1.205–12). She has been, in a sense, promoted, and she is even given attendants of her own, the Graces and Hours, the same divine entourage as Venus (1.217–20). The former nymph begins to look more like a goddess with status and power of her own. The goddess wields a literal command over flowers, and she also wields a metaliterary command over them.449 Twice Flora declares that she was the first—prima—to do something with flowers amid a catalog of her

botanical res gestae: prima per immensas sparsi nova semina gentes: unius tellus ante coloris erat; prima Therapnaeo feci de sanguine florem, et manet in folio scripta querella suo. tu quoque nomen habes cultos, Narcisse, per hortos, infelix, quod non alter et alter eras. quid Crocon aut Attin referam Cinyraque creatum, de quorum per me volnere surgit honor? Page 166 →(5.221–28) [I first scattered new seeds among the numerous peoples; before, the earth was only one color. I first made a flower from Spartan blood, and a lament remains written on its petal. You, Narcissus, also have a name in the cultivated gardens, you unhappy because you were not a double of yourself. Why should I recall Crocus or Attis or the son of Cinyras, from whose wound beauty springs because of me?] The claim to being first—accompanied by the proclamation of achievement—comes weighted with literary significance. Flora speaks in the terms long used by poets claiming originality, creativity, and literary innovation. She claims to be first to scatter seeds of colorful flowers far and wide (5.221–22), and she also claims to be first to make a hyacinth flower—primaВ .В .В . feci, she says (5.223–24), opening her literary engagement with the Metamorphoses. She appropriates to herself the power of transforming the Spartan youth Hyacinthus into his namesake flower—a tale told at length in Metamorphoses 10.162–219, where Apollo is explicitly named as the transformative power. Nevertheless, Flora insists that it is she who turned the blood into a blossom and inscribed the lament AI AI on its petals (5.223–24); when she talks of the “written lament,” the scripta querella, she also makes a claim on literature tantamount to her claiming authorship. In the Metamorphoses, the Hyacinthus tale is one of frustrated, tragic love and loss, but in the Fasti, it is a matter of literary interest: Ovid reflects on his own writing through Flora, the umbrella influence whose Muse-like power encompasses more and more space, escaping even the world of the Fasti to touch other works. She apparently claims all Ovidian flowers. Flora proceeds to catalog flowers with narratives in the Metamorphoses: aside from Hyacinthus (Met. 10.162–219), she mentions Narcissus (Met. 3.402–510), Crocus (Met. 4.283), Attis (Met. 10.103–5), and, finally, Adonis (Met. 10.710–39). The Adonis tale takes on an added significance, for Flora declares her own central role: his floral honors come through her or, as she says, per me. In the extended narrative of the Metamorphoses, Venus is the cause: she sprinkles nectar on Adonis’s spilled blood so that it turns into the crimson anemone or windflower at Met. 10.724–39. In the Fasti, Flora declares her primacy as patroness of all

things floral, extending her power even to the mythic origins of those flowers. As Flora claims responsibility for Venus’s great love-flower, she Page 167 →too claims a power over love. In the interplay of magic, love, and transformation, of shifting identities and meanings, Flora’s command over flowers touches even the Metamorphoses, a poem in which she does not appear. In Ovid’s epic, there are many causes of flowers, but in the Fasti there is only one. Flora’s list is the tragic floral love stories of the Metamorphoses condensed into a literal anthology, and in the garden of the Fasti, Flora reigns supreme. As Zephyr said, she has arbitriumВ .В .В . floris (5.212) and all that it may entail in literary self-reflection. It is not for nothing that Flora’s hortus is nurtured by a spring of clear water (liquidae fonte rigatur aquae, 5.210): the idyllic garden understands its Callimachean, poetic sensibilities. Flora has been a bridge from the Fasti to Ovid’s other projects, the Amores and the Metamorphoses. She is also a potent figure who fully engages with the world of the Fasti. In this vein, the flower goddess exerts her power over Roman origins and causes with two main achievements: the birth of Mars and the establishment of her annual festival, the Floralia. Both come about in rather surprising fashions. The “birth of Mars” narrative is a fanciful tale, but it ultimately expresses the power of Flora. As she boasts of transforming Hyacinthus and Adonis, she also boasts of playing a pivotal role in the birth of the god of war himself: “In case you didn’t know,” she says, “he was conceived by my arts”—Mars quoque, si nescis, per nostras editus artes (5.229). In keeping with the demilitarized world of the Fasti, her account engages elements of epic by shaping them into a playful story with complex effects on Roman causae. At first glance, the narrative elements comprise a veritable laundry list of epic features: divine anger, discord among the gods, long journeys, the underworld, divine oaths sworn on the Styx, deceit, and contrivance. The context of the narrative, however, renders these elements a little less than epic. The account of Mars’s birth becomes a miniature epic-turned-humorous inversion. It begins with Juno paying an unexpected visit to Flora. The scene of the two goddesses together, one congenial to epic and the other to love elegy, already suggests a confrontation of literary genres. While traveling to Ocean to lodge a complaint against her husband, Juno stops at the home of Flora and explains the cause of her grievance: Jupiter has given birth to Minerva, becoming a father without needing her as mother (3.231–42).450 Juno becomes entangled in epic elements and their Ovidian inversions. She journeys far and wide, but not for any purpose grander than complaint, and aside from diminishing the epic Page 168 →possibility, the very nature of complaint is aligned with lament, that other face of elegy. The epic foe of Aeneas in Virgil (Aeneid 1.8–11) has become a woman aggrieved by an insult to her maternal prerogatives. Furthermore, Juno in her complaint uses the marked word causa (5.237), a critical term in the Fasti’s literary self-identification. The discord between Juno and Jupiter no longer focuses on epic subjects of war as it did in Homer or Virgil. Now it revolves instead around the causes and complications of divine privilege. In this odd scene lie the motifs of sea voyages and a journey to the underworld, two of the great themes of epic. Juno declares that, like Odysseus or Aeneas, she will traverse land and sea; she will brave the journey to Tartarus itself: “Non,” inquit, “verbis cura levanda mea est. si pater est factus neglecto coniugis usu Iuppiter et solus nomen utrumque tenet, cur ego desperem fieri sine coniuge mater et parere intacto dummodo casta viro? omnia temptabo latis medicamina terris et freta Tartareos excutiamque sinus.” (5.238–44)

[“My concern is not to be lightened with words,” she said, “if Jupiter has become a father without the role of his wife, if he alone has the name of both [father and mother], why should I despair of becoming a mother without a husband, of giving birth though I am chaste, having not touched a man? I will try all the drugs in the wide world; I will search the seas and the depths of Tartarus!”] Her reason, however, is not to reach a destined location or to seek knowledge; it is to find a magical fertility drug that will allow her to conceive a child on her own. She wants to engage in a contest of celestial childbirth oneupmanship. The divine quarrel between Juno and Jupiter is not over the Trojan War or the founding of Rome but over parental rights; the journeys of Juno are not for any purpose grander than striking back at her notorious husband and maintaining her sense of status.451 The elements of epic find themselves embedded into a story that seems nearly epic parody, a battle over divine parenthood. One may Page 169 →well wonder if this elicited any wry smiles in light of the official Augustan encouragement of Roman childbearing. Furthermore, given the Fasti’s ongoing play of genres, the emergence of Flora as Juno’s confidante and assistant is a noteworthy development. In previous epic, Juno’s associations with other goddesses had been the stuff of escalating tension in the overall martial story from Homer to Apollonius to Virgil. In the Aeneid, for instance, Juno’s associates are dangerous, even violent: Iris, Allecto, and Juturna all do her bidding to foment war on a grand scale.452 Here, however, Juno needs assistance on a purely personal level; her request for fertility drugs implies distance from the epic idiom. She is also the guest of Flora, a situation placing her on a rather odd footing, and the passage is a bemusing display of an epic goddess beholden to an elegiac one. The queen of gods is sufficiently eager to obtain a reluctant Flora’s aid that she swears the Stygian oath (5.249–50). The very strangeness of Juno asking for aid—“fer, precor, auxilium!” (5.249), she presses—stands in counterpoint to her commands in epic contexts. She does this so that she may acquire not weapons, powers, or promises but a magical bloom with a single purpose: engendering a child without need of a father (5.251–54).453 As for the flower itself, it comes with its own hint of amor, for before telling this story of Juno and infant Mars, Flora had indulged in a recitation of the lovers she had turned into blossoms (5.223–28). With such a backdrop, the actual conclusion of Juno’s quest is an arresting jumble of epic and elegiac elements. Within Flora’s bower of erotically charged flowers, amid an air of epic inversion, the two goddesses connive against Jupiter (5.245–50) and Juno conceives with a touch of that magic flower: Protinus haerentem decerpsi pollice florem: tangitur et tacto concipit illa sinu. Iamque gravis Thracen et laeva Propontidos intrat fitque potens voti, Marsque creatus erat. (5.255–58) [Right away I plucked the clinging flower with my thumb; when it had brushed her bosom, she conceived.

Page 170 →Pregnant now, she arrives in Thrace and the left shore of the Propontis. Her wish was fulfilled, and Mars was born.] Mars, the quintessential patron of war and military epic, the god celebrated under the Augustan epithet of Ultor, is born of a flower plucked from the garden of an Ovidian figure of love elegy. The disjunction is clear, for it is a massive departure from conventional genealogies of the god, most of which name Zeus/Jupiter and Hera/Juno as his parents.454 The poet garlands the account of Mars’s conception and birth with distinctly nonmartial elements, and Flora’s initial declaration at 5.229 rings true: Mars was indeed born by her arts and skills. Startlingly, Mars the father of the Roman race is now indebted for his very existence to a goddess infused with amorous play.455 Love elegy is, in Ovid’s fanciful retelling, at the root of Rome. The postscript to the birth of Mars is the establishment of Flora’s festival, the Floralia. The episode has been discussed in chapter 3, and here only a short overview is needed: although Mars promises her a place of honor in Rome, Flora herself must contend for the Floralia, doing so with her authority over flowers (5.315ff). She personally forces the city to award her her due place in the calendar and its construction of Roman identity, and her rites come in the form of her notoriously libertine yearly ludi. In the explanation of those games, the poet’s descriptions are unequivocal references to the world of love elegy: tempora sutilibus cinguntur tota coronis, et latet iniecta splendida mensa rosa; ebrius incinctis philyra conviva capillis saltat, et imprudens utitur arte meri; ebrius ad durum formosae limen amicae cantat, habent unctae mollia serta comae. (5.335–40) [The brows of revelers are encircled with woven crowns, and the gleaming table hides under heaped roses. The tipsy dinner guest, his hair bound with linden bark, dances and carelessly enjoys the art of wine. The tipsy lover sings at the hard threshold of his beautiful mistress; his perfumed hair holds tender garlands.] Page 171 →From the use of elegiacally charged terms such as mollis and amica to the inclusion of the paraklausithyron, the world of love poetry has become the personality of the Floralia. In a sense, the entire establishment of the Floralia elides Mars out of the scene and replaces him with the saucy dancers of the festive stage. Mars’s pledge to Flora condenses down from a promise of civic honor into a festival entirely overseen by the elegiacally sensitive goddess. Flora is beholden to no other, not even Mars. Her own identity as the playful, blooming divinity has asserted itself and expanded to influence the calendar as well. She contaminates the calendar commentary with her elegiac associations, as though she waves her bouquet over an encyclopedia to perfume its antiquarian entries. In fact, as Flora’s interview with the poet draws to a close, he asks her to infuse his literary project with her gifts:

omnia finierat: tenues secessit in auras, mansit odor; posses scire fuisse deam. floreat ut toto carmen Nasonis in aevo, sparge, precor, donis pectora nostra tuis! (5.375–78) [She finished everything; she vanished into thin air. Her fragrance lingered; you would have known that she was a goddess. So that the song of Naso may bloom in all ages, scatter, I pray, your gifts on my heart!] It is a remarkable statement by the poet. This is the only time in the Fasti that Ovid refers to himself by name, and he does it for Flora: Naso means “nose,” and who better to appreciate the fragrant goddess?456 Humor mingled with playfulness and affection are the hallmarks of the poet’s relationship with Flora. In this vignette lies the distinction in visions of Romanness—Flora, blooming and inviting in May as opposed to stern, imperial Vesta who had taken over in April. The poet’s preference is clear: Flora gave way to Vesta only to return in amorous elegiac splendor and appropriate for herself not only the origin of Mars himself but also the calendar project as a whole, stamping her influence on the Fasti in a way that Vesta never does. Crucially, the vates links his own poetic success with Flora. This moment is the poet’s seal on his own work, the all-important sphragis.457 Flora has alreadyPage 172 → been the many-faceted figure who reaches from the Fasti to Ovid’s other great works, and now she is not only inspiration and patroness but guarantor of his poetic future. She will ensure that his work will endure through time and metaphorically bloom—floreat. Becoming more than a goddess of flowers, she is now on a par with the Muses, the flirtatiously inspiring Venus of Book 4, and Callimachus’s Graces, whom that other poet of aetiology once asked to perfume his work so it would last in days ahead.458 The entire scenario is an echo and complement of Venus brushing the poet’s temples and arguably his work itself with her myrtle. Flora’s closeness to the poet is likewise physical, fragrant, borderline erotic, and filled with botanical elements; her gifts are flowers as well as favor, and the sphragis ends with the sublime image of her showering both on the poet. For the operosus vates and his Fasti, Flora and the world of congenial love elegy are the final seal of identity and the source of poetic immortality, and so all other elements and expressions of Romanness in the poem owe their endurance to her. Reading the Fasti in relation to Ovid’s previous love elegy proves to be a most metaliterary enterprise. The operosus vates of the calendar calls on many divinities throughout the poem, but Venus and Flora are the only ones he invokes not as sources of information but as fonts of poetic inspiration.459 When Venus touches the tempora with her myrtle and Flora gives fragrant life to the sphragis, it is clear that amor has returned and made a place for itself. This does not diminish the Fasti’s standing as much as it adds yet another layer to this subtle and complicated work, folding amatory aetiology and elegiac sensibilities into its treatment of being Roman. Taken with Vesta, though, playful love offers the stimulating possibility that though it gives way before such official, sanctioned solemnities, it returns irrepressibly to offer its own perspectives and alternate (some may even say deviant or contrary) priorities. The poem may return to antiquarian research, religious tales, and imperial honors in the expression of Romanitas, but the influence of the sweet-scented goddesses Venus and Flora lingers as a teasing reminder: mansit odor; posses scire fuisse deam.

Page 173 →

Conclusion Ipse Leges: The Calendar as Reader’s Choice Perhaps the best conclusion is a purposefully inconclusive one, by which I mean one that does not insist on a single grand interpretation, synthesizing goal, or definitive answer. The Fasti delights in a kaleidoscopic approach to everything it discusses; it revels in detail and variation as it presents myriad perspectives and offers multiple causes for single effects. Ovid’s tempora cum causis flees strict definition. Its personality as a poem at the edges and boundaries is what gives it its unique power when it considers Roman identity: this liminal, teasing, elusive text always invites engagement and yet defies classification. Though in its most basic shape the Fasti is based on the calendar’s form and content, it refuses to be constrained by them and indeed takes great pleasure in sporting with those fundamentals. In so doing, the work both reflects and fragments the great cultural topic of its day, what it means to be Roman under Augustus. In Ovid’s hands, meditations on Roman time, history, and culture become poetry of great sophistication and greater playfulness, always eluding the final stamp of authority both imperial and authorial. It asks for and indulges in questions. To define something with prescriptive finality is in a real sense an attempt to limit it, even to kill it, nail it down, and put it up for display like a butterfly under glass, and the Fasti ultimately refuses to endorse this approach to the ever-shifting, flexible calendar. For the operosus vates, the calendar is alive because it reflects Roman cultural identity, itself alive in all its alternately unruly, colorful, expansive, constraining, frustrating, fascinating, ennobling, debasing, divisive, unifying, and—above all—invigorating variety. In this vein, one of Ovid’s fundamental approaches in the Fasti is engagement with other influential exponents of Roman identity in his day. Specifically, he considers Romanness as it is fashioned and promoted by Livy, the preeminent historian; Virgil, the Roman epic poet par excellence; and Augustus, the Page 174 →inescapable imperial presence. In presenting their own perspectives, they all innovated even as they attempted to restore a sense of overall Roman identity working in social accord. Historian, poet, and princeps all sought to define and articulate what it meant to be Roman. Nevertheless, where Livy posited Roman self-fashioning as a function of emulating moral exemplars, Virgil presented Aeneas as a proto-Roman founder who would encompass all Romans, and Augustus sought to stamp himself and his initiatives onto Rome at large, Ovid pursues a complex interplay with all these approaches and more. He folds them into his own poetic project, but he does not follow any of them. Instead, Ovid pursues a habit of destabilizing grand unifying theories of Roman identity and posits a host of other perspectives in dizzying diversity. The end result is the suggestion that Roman identity is too vital, too dynamic and restless, to be as readily contained as it seems to be in the visions of historian, epicist, and autocrat. In a twist of quintessentially Ovidian ironic wit, his persona’s frequent moments of supposed uncertainty about causae may in themselves be considered as understated comments both about the power of those other authoritative accounts and the poet’s own resistance to being defined by them. Two particular test cases bear this out: the opening passages of Books 5 and 6 in the Fasti. They provocatively, teasingly, and even maddeningly emphasize the uncertainty of aetiology and etymology and, by extension, cause and identity. At the beginning of Book 5, Ovid asks the gathered Muses for the source of the month name of May. The reader may well expect an answer from these goddesses as authorities and fonts of poetic knowledge. Instead of giving a definitive answer, though, something surprising and even shocking happens: The Muses themselves cannot agree: dissensere deae (5.9). They splinter into contentious factions, each one arguing for the truth of her own viewpoint and the falsehood of the others’. Hesiod may have said that the Muses know how to proclaim both truth and falsehood, but he makes no indication of disunity among the divine sisters. In Ovid, though, Polyhymnia, Urania, and Calliope each champion different causae, and the remaining Muses side with one or another—Polyhymnia insisting that “May” derives from Maiestas, Urania that it is from the maiores (the elders) of the City, and Calliope that Maia the mother of Mercury gives her name to the month (5.1–106).460 The goddesses have all turned into partisan advocates, and the search for a cause becomes a competition of rival explanations. When the choice falls on the poet, his response is diplomatic (and not a little self-preserving):

Page 175 →quid faciam? turbae pars habet omnis idem. gratia Pieridum nobis aequaliter adsit, nullaque laudetur plusve minusve mihi. (5.108–10) [What should I do? Each side has the same number of supporters. May the favor of all the Muses be with me equally; Let no one be more or less praised where I am concerned!] The unsuspecting reader who feels a stab of frustration at this nonanswer may belatedly realize that he has fallen into the trap: the lack of a definitive explanation is the point. In the opening of Book 6, an almost identical situation unfolds: three goddesses compete for primacy, each one insisting that her explanation of June’s name is the proper one. This time the competitors are Juno, Juventas, and—startlingly—Concordia, whose own identity as harmony embodied does not prevent her from throwing herself into a spirited argument. Where the Muses had argued over different explanations of a month name, here each goddess claims the month for herself; the dissension has become personal. Juno claims that the month name is derived from her own, Juventas that it arises from the term iuniores and so falls under her authority as the goddess of youth, and Concordia that “June” is linked to the word iunctus referring to the joining of Roman and Sabine and so is subject to her authority as the goddess of harmony (6.1–96). Again the poet of tempora cum causis declines to choose among the causae: dicta triplex causa est. at vos ignoscite, divae: res est arbitrio non dirimenda meo. ite pares a me. perierunt iudice formae Pergama: plus laedunt, quam iuvat una, duae. (6.97–100) [A triple reason was declared. But forgive me, Ladies, the question shouldn’t be decided by my choice. Go from me all as equals. Pergamum perished because of a beauty contest: Two goddesses harm more than one can help.] The poet decides by choosing not to decide—that is, he refuses to grant one reason superiority over another and instead accepts all of them for discussion.461 Page 176 →Multiple goddesses argue over the names of May and June as the poet looks on, a bemused spectator. He—and through him the reader—had come to them for answers, but he receives only more questions in return. This dissension of sources and the indecision of the poetic persona have provoked copious but ultimately inconclusive critical debate over the years.462 Numerous divinities, including the Muses themselves, contend for authority, and the poet himself declines to endorse any choice. While this has been read as disillusionment on

Ovid’s part or a failure of his own impetus for writing, let me suggest that this lack of an authorized etymology is itself the point of the passages: they stand as declarations of the ultimate flexibility and mutability of Roman identity in Ovid’s hands. His habit throughout the Fasti of giving multiple explanations finds its ultimate expressions in the proems of Books 5 and 6; the project shows its true colors as a poem that rejects the limitations of external authoritative definitions. The poet refuses to choose one causa out of the many competing possibilities; he will instead entertain them all. If this implies a subversive resistance to the idea of authorized versions, then Ovid may well aim to misbehave; his playfully destabilizing view of authority (others’ and now finally his own) is a matter of record in this poem. Furthermore, in his response to the goddesses of Book 6, the poet adroitly nods at the wider implications of arguing over the calendar as a locus of identity too often underpinned with considerations of power and privilege. He compares himself in choosing one “correct” causa to Paris choosing one winner for the golden Apple of Discord: the result is rivalry and conflict. At the same time, the collapsing of vatic authority over the Roman calendar is in itself a feline suggestion of the collapsibility of any authority over that calendar—even imperial authority. At the same time, the poet presents a still more provocative idea when he says: Hic quoque mensis habet dubias in nomine causas: quae placeat, positis omnibus ipse leges. (6.1–2) [Here also the month has disputed reasons for its name: you yourself pick which one you like from all the possibilities that I set out.] Page 177 →Ipse leges is the heart of the issue here and for the entire Fasti: you yourself choose. The task of interpretation falls to the reader, drawing him into the ongoing discourse of being Roman in that day and age. Others—Livy, Virgil, Augustus, and more—have chosen what to emphasize, ignore, highlight, and promote in their own visions of Romanitas through time, but the poet now articulates the fact that they are not the only ones who can. Ipse leges is an invitation to vigorous participation. Ovid has thrown the doors wide open. It is as audacious a proposal as it is potentially dangerous, and it is not a little cheeky to boot. The vitality of the calendar’s interaction with the discussion of what makes one Roman is too dynamic to be strictly pinned down and solemnly enshrined within prescriptive limits. Sometimes the contents of the calendar are too complex, too unruly; sometimes they defy definition. More provocatively, as the Fasti notes over and over, they enable and invite alternate, unorthodox, and even sometimes deviant perspectives. Ovid’s calendar refuses to be neatly contained and explained. It finally embraces its own liminality. This is not to say that liminality does not have its own sense of humor as well. The poet transforms the roll of Roman days into an urbane and often humorous literary confection through six books; now he invites the reader into it. Ovid crafts the Fasti in all its complications as a project unlike any other in Roman literature. The fact that something is important—even essential, as the calendar is essential as a component of Roman culture—does not preclude its being treated in a way that is ludic, witty, and mischievous: as Oscar Wilde’s Lord Darlington said about life, so is the calendar far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it. In so treating it, Ovid the operosus vates chooses often to contemplate the many subjective, shifting aspects of being Roman under Augustus by filling his poem with an endless parade of feminine figures who exert powerful, often playful influences. In the Fasti we find old women, young girls, respectable matrons, bathing prostitutes, Vestal Virgins, stern divinities, flirtatious goddesses, grave priestesses, saucy nymphs, helpful consorts, shipwrecked princesses,

waspish wives, beautiful puellae, fervent prophetesses, characters from myth and history, a beloved daughterbride, and even a lofty empress, empress dowager, and goddess-to-be. Together they present a dizzying, kaleidoscopic variety. Each one contributes her narrative and adds her distinctiveness to the poet’s collection of causae, festivals, holidays, and their cumulative effects on being Roman.463 They splinter any attempt at a singular authority. In the end, the poem’s structure Page 178 →becomes inseparable from the vast array of the stories that it contains, and this makes a final intriguing suggestion: in Rome the princeps may rule the actual tracking of the calendar, but in the Fasti to engage with the poet’s open-ended complexities of time and rite and Roman self-fashioning, one must, more often than not, in Ovid’s day and in days after, cherchez la femme.464

Footnotes 1. Hinds (1987) and Bömer (1988) 207–21. 2. Holzberg (1997) and (2006). 3. Institutio Oratoria 10.1.98. 4. His mother was Antony’s formidable third wife, Fulvia. 5. Fitton Brown (1985) endorses the thesis that Ovid was never banished at all but wrote his exile poetry as an elaborate fictive literary game while ensconced at Rome. Little (1990) refutes this misguided notion. 6. Holzberg (1997). 7. See Robinson (2011) 525–31 for full discussion with detailed references. 8. Syme (1979) argued that Ovid stopped writing after Augustus’s official adoption of Tiberius in AD 4, but Herbert-Brown (1994) 215–33 has effectively challenged this thesis. Wiseman (2011) xxiv suggests that Ovid actually started the Fasti in AD 4 with the adoption of Tiberius. 9. In the words of Hinds (1987) 10, “One suspects of course that, the Metamorphoses were rather more, and the Fasti rather less, finished than Ovid seems to claim.” 10. Ecce tibi faustum, Germanice, nuntiat annum—“Look, Germanicus, [Janus] proclaims a favorable year for you.” The Senate had decreed his triumph in January of AD 15, thus giving Ovid a largish window of time to receive this news and incorporate it into his Fasti revisions. 11. See Pasco-Pranger (2006) 217–92 for thoughts on missing July and August. 12. Ex Ponto 4.8.24–48, dated to c. AD 16, promises to offer poetry to Germanicus. King (2006) explores homosocial elements of the work. 13. Fantham (1992) and Feeney (1992). 14. Also the approach of Boyle (1997), Green (2004), and Robinson (2011). See too Martelli (2013) on Ovidian revisions as a type of authorship. 15. E.g., Fränkel (1945) 148: “Ovid’s Fasti could never be real poetry; to versify and adorn an almanac was not a sound proposal in the first place.” 16. Beard (1987) is the classic treatment. Other, local calendars existed in Italy, Greece, and around the empire, but Ovid’s project is specifically the one applicable to the City. 17. On Caesar’s reforms: Plutarch, Life of Caesar 59.1, Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.14.3–12, Censorinus, De Die Natali 20.8–11, Michels (1967), Rüpke (1995 and 2011), Hannah (2005 and 2009), and Stern (2012). Caesar’s calendar remains one of his most enduring legacies. Feeney (2007) 193 cites Scaliger’s De Emendatione Temporum of 1583 for both its crushing appraisal of the pre-Julian calendar (“no nation in human memory has used a worse calendar”) and its praise of the Julian (“a victory in the realm of culture more lasting than any Roman victory on land and sea”). 18. The eighty days became two months intercalated after November; Cicero mentions the second, Ad Fam. 6.14. 19. Saturnalia 1.14.3. 20. The pre-Julian calendar had four months of thirty-one days, seven of twenty-nine days, and one of twenty-eight. The name of the intercalary month is mensis intercalaris, though Plutarch (Life of Numa 18.3 and Life of Caesar 59.2) states that it was called Mercedonius, perhaps a nickname. The Fasti Antiates Maiores, the only surviving pre-Julian wall calendar, places the mensis intercalaris after December, presumably to note that it is not one of the twelve standard months. 21. Suetonius Divus Iulius 40 states that the calendar was in such disarray that harvest festivals did not take place in the summer nor vintage festivals in the fall. 22. The first six months are named for characteristics of the month in question, while the latter six are numerical. The first month of the Roman year was once March; January and February were then added before it, a mostly forgotten fact that explains why the current ninth month September is named for the number seven and so on in the sequence. 23. Michels (1967) 21 posits that these may be remnants of a period when Romans used true lunar months. 24. Letters to Atticus 5.9.2, 5.13.3, and 5.21.14. 25. Particularly Sosigenes of Alexandria. 26. Plutarch, Life of Caesar 59.3.

27. Bellum Civile 10.185–92. 28. Feeney (2007). 29. Among others, Suetonius, Divus Augustus 31.2 and Cassius Dio 44.5.2 and 55.6.6. 30. When Tiberius succeeded Augustus, the Senate wished to rename the month of September Tiberius in his honor or October Livius in honor of his mother Livia. Tiberius rejected the proposal, asking what the Senate would do if ever there were thirteen Caesars for twelve months; Suetonius, Tiberius 26. Month name changes that did not endure include Caligula renaming September Germanicus after his father (Suetonius Caligula 15.2); senators flattering Nero by renaming June Germanicus (Tacitus Annals 16.12); Domitian renaming September and October Germanicus and Domitianus after himself (Suetonius Domitian 17.3); and Commodus (AD 161–92) renaming every month after himself (Cassius Dio 73.15). 31. The Feriae Augusti persist as the Italian holiday of August 15, Ferragosto. On the Augustalia, see Res Gestae 11: Aram Fortunae Reducis ante aedes Honoris et Virtutis ad portam Capenam pro reditu meo senatus consacravit, in qua pontifices et virgines Vestales anniversarium sacrificium facere iussit eo die quo, consulibus Q. Lucretio et M. Vinicio, in urbem ex Syria redieram, et diem Augustalia ex cognomine nostro appellavit. 32. Degrassi (1963) collects the mostly fragmentary evidence; e.g., the Fasti Amiternini, Caeretani, Esquilini, Maffeiani, Tusculani, and Venusini. They are all of a type meant for public display (as on a wall) and are comprised mainly of stone or plaster with inscribed or painted lettering. 33. Alexandria appears in the Fasti Caeretani, Maffeiani, and Verulani. 34. Augustus did give an official form to the fasti triumphales, the list of triumphators from the founding of Rome to 19 BC, and closed it to any further additions. 35. Suetonius, De Grammaticis 17. 36. The Fasti Praenestini includes Augustus’s first assumption of imperium on January 7, 43 BC; his dedication of the Ara Iustitiae Augustae on January 8, AD 13; his closing of the temple of Janus on January 11, 29 BC; his dedication of the Ara Numinis Augusti on January 17 in AD 9 (?). Ovid’s Fasti includes none of these. 37. Suetonius Divus Augustus 31.2; Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.14.13–15. A leap day had been inserted every three years instead of four since 45 BC. What we have here is a failure to communicate between Greeks doing the calculations and Romans implementing them; apparently modern students are not the only ones confused by Roman inclusive counting. 38. Pliny, HN 36.72–73. Also Buchner (1976) and (1980) refuted by Rodriguez-Almeida (1978–80) and Schütz (1990 and 2011); Barton (1995), Maes (2005), Rehak (2006), Heslin (2007), and Haselberger (2014). 39. Aratus was quite popular in Roman literary circles, with adaptations and translations produced by such notables as Cicero, his brother Quintus, Ovid, and even Germanicus, who translated the Phaenomena into Latin as the Aratea; see Fantham (1986), Herbert-Brown (1994) 173–212, and Possanza (2004). On Callimachus, see Cameron (1995). 40. Contrast with Lucretius, who wrote his explanatory, expository De Rerum Natura in hexameters. 41. Harrison (2002) 79. 42. Hinds (1996) 1086 notes that Ovid “achieved an unparalleled variety of output by exploiting and extending the range of the genre as no poet had done before.” 43. Miller (2013) 246. 44. On the related issue of mime in the Fasti, see McKeown (1979), Fantham (1983), and Wiseman (2003). 45. For the imperial influence of Tiberius the “second princeps” on the Fasti, see Knox (2004). 46. Sharrock (2002) 105. 47. In this sense, this work is the diametric opposite of King (2006) and its focus on male homosocial aspects. 48. Milnor (2005) 3. 49. The Ab Urbe Condita was published in several installments, with the first set of five books around 27–25 BC. Octavian would have just assumed his title of Augustus (27 BC) and begun attempts to reconstitute Rome after the devastation of the civil war. See also T. J. Luce, “The Dating of Livy’s First Decade.” TAPA 96 (1965) 209–40. 50. Murgatroyd (2005) 171: “Overall it seems that in the Fasti Ovid is reclaiming these myths and

legends for verse and is responding to Livy the sober, moralistic historian (as a tempting target) and to Livy the accomplished story-teller (as a challenge).” 51. Murgatroyd (2005) 171–205 on Livian elements in the Fasti in general, Littlewood (2006) lxxv–lxxxii on such elements in Book 6 in particular, and Preseka (2008) on legendary figures in Ovid’s calendar. 52. Note Vell. Pat. 2.3.4 on how exempla can escape their authors’ original intentions. They are open to interpretation. 53. On this secession and others of its type, see Mignone (2016 17–47). 54. Mitchell (1990) offers a caveat on historicity. 55. Insofar as Menenius Agrippa might be aligned with one side of the standoff, he would have to be aligned with the patricians, as they had chosen him to be their ambassador to the striking plebeians. 56. quae tamen haec dea sit quoniam rumoribus errat, / fabula proposito nulla tegenda meo (3.543–44)—But since rumor obscures who this goddess is, my intention is to conceal no tale. 57. This country town with the modern name of Frattocchie is located some twelve miles from Rome and also linked with the gens Iulia; see Weinstock (1971) 5–7. 58. The earliest extant recipe for a version of libum occurs in Cato, De Agri Cultura 75. 59. Cloelia’s story appears in Livy 2.13.9–13. See also Pliny, HN 34.28–29 and Valerius Maximus 3.2.2. For Cornelia, see Pliny, HN 34.31, Plutarch, Gaius Gracchus 4.4, Juvenal 6.167, Valerius Maximus 4.4, Kajava (1989), Fraschetti (2001) 60–65, and Dixon (2007). Hemelrijk (1999) 266 n. 46 notes that honorific statues of Cloelia and other legendary women have not been confirmed by finds and therefore “must be discarded as fictions.” The earliest literarily attested female honorific statue was of a Vestal Virgin named Taracia Gaia or Fufetia who gave the Campus Martius to the Roman people as a public beneficence; see Pliny, HN 34.25 and Flory (1993) 288. Anna also becomes an odd peer with the preeminent female statue recipients of Ovid’s time, Octavia and Livia, the sister and wife of Augustus, respectively. 60. On popular culture at Rome, see Horsfall (2003), Toner (2009), and Knapp (2011). The idea of a constituency of Rome still retaining its own sense of self may be analogous to Trastevere, whose residents still celebrate the annual “La Festa de Noantri” that specifically identifies the trasteverini as an entity separate from other quarters of the City. 61. Baking was a humble profession. Suetonius, Divus Augustus 4.2.6–9 records Mark Antony jeering at Augustus by alleging that his great-grandfather Balbus had kept a bakery-mill (pistrinum) at Aricia. The same passage preserves Cassius of Parma calling Augustus the grandson of a baker: Materna tibi farinast ex crudissimo Ariciae pistrino: hanc finxit manibus collybo decoloratis Nerulonensis mensarius—Your mother’s flour came from a completely miserable Arician mill, and the money-stained hands of a money-changer from Nerulum kneaded it (4.2.11–14). 62. Cameron (1995) and Hunter (2006). 63. Harrison (1993). 64. Virgil, Aeneid 4.216 and 9.616, Propertius 4.7.62, and Pliny, NH 6.162. The mitra is variously described as Lydian, Phrygian, and Arab. 65. Wiseman (1998) 73. On taverns and prostitution, Kleberg (1957) 89–91. The Roman jurist Ulpian aligned tavern keepers and waitresses with prostitution: Digest 23.2.43.pref. and 9. A well-known inscription notes a tavern customer’s tab; it includes wine, bread, fodder for his pack animal, and a girl (CIL 9.2689 = ILS 7478). Note that in the tale directly following Anna of Bovillae, Anna is a procuress sought by Mars to arrange a tryst (3.675–96). 66. Pseudo-Virgilian Copa, line 1: Copa Surisca, caput Graeca redimita mitella. At line 20, she offers, Est hic munda Ceres, est Amor, est Bromius. 67. Other sources for Mettius Curtius include Varro, LL 5.149, Dion. Hal. 2.42.5–6, and Plutarch, Life of Romulus 18.4. 68. Brown (1995) and Vandiver (1999). 69. Specifically, Quirites connote Roman citizens as civilians. Tacitus Annales 1.42 records Julius Caesar’s pejorative application of this term to rebellious soldiers. Varro LL 6.68 supports Cures as the origin of Quirites and posits that the word means “spear.” At LL 5.73 he links the term Quirites with Quirinus, name of the deified Romulus. Cures is traditionally said to be the home of the Sabine king Titus

Tatius. 70. The City’s physical location is essential in constructing Roman identity in Livy. See especially 5.49–55. 71. Cassius Dio fr. 30.1–2, Dion. Hal. 14.11.3–4, Orosius 3.5, Pliny, HN 15.78, Valerius Maximus 5.6.2, Varro, LL. 5.148, and Zonaras 7.25. See too Dušanić and Petković (2002). 72. Pliny HN 15.78 notes Marcus Curtius’s virtute ac pietate ac morte praeclara. A bas-relief found in 1553 and now in the Capitoline Museums depicts Marcus Curtius on horseback and plunging into the chasm; based on its inscription (CIL 6.1468 = 31662), the relief dates from the early Empire but may be a copy of a second- or third-century BC piece. A modern reproduction stands at the Lacus Curtius site, presenting this Marcus narrative to visitors. 73. Note the specific repudiation of the Mettius Curtius etymology. A third extant etymology was more obscure than either the story of Mettius Curtius or Marcus Curtius; Varro LL 5.150 recalls one Gaius Curtius, who as consul of 445 BC decreed that a lightning-struck portion of the Forum be designated a sacred location: Cornelius et Lutatius scribunt eum locum esse fulguritum et ex S. C. septum esse: id quod factum esset a Curtio consule, cui M. Genucius fuit collega, Curtium appellatum. 74. On women and gender in the Forum Romanum, see Boatwright (2011). 75. For instance, the word obstipuit appears at Aeneid 2.77 (seeing the shade of Creusa), 3.48 (encountering Polydorus), and 5.90 (reacting to the sight of a serpent at the tomb of Anchises). Obstipuit also describes Dido’s astonishment at Aeneas’s sudden, divinely engineered appearance in Aeneid 1.613. 76. See the Lar Familiaris character of Plautus’s Aulularia who narrates the history of his residence. 77. On female storytellers, see Heath (2011). As per Barchiesi (1997) 189, tales told by chatty but not quite credible old women, aniles fabellae, form a subgenre; see the narrator of Cupid and Psyche in Apuleius’s Metamorphoses. 78. The anus vicina loci may also be evoking and then playing with the figure of Virgil’s Evander as he appears in Aeneid 8.337–61, the elderly, knowledgeable figure who explains features and places of the yet-undeveloped Forum Romanum to a young man ignorant of his surroundings as they visit those locations. 79. See Propertius 4.2, especially 19–40, Tibullus 3.8.13, and Ovid, Met. 12.623–771. On the Vicus Tuscus statue, see Varro, LL 5.46, Cicero, Verr. 2.1.154, Livy 44.16.10, Propertius 4.2.1–10, and Horace, Epistles 1.20.1. 80. She comes close with the wordplay with averso and Vertumnus. 81. She displays a certain coyness, and one wonders if Ovid is cleverly nodding to his own Vertumnus of Met. 14.654ff who disguises himself as a chatty old woman telling a story. 82. Other literary sources include Varro, LL 5.5.43–44, Tibullus 2.5.33–38, Propertius 4.2.7–8. 83. Varro, LL 5.43–44. The Forum marsh was not paved until circa the sixth century BC. 84. Littlewood (2006) 128 ad 407. Tibullus 1.10.51: rusticus e lucoque vehit male sobrius ipse. See another tale of night, music, inebriation, the Forum, and aetiology in the Lesser Quinquatrus festival (F. 6.649–710). 85. Compare Theseus’s farewell to Hecale (Callimachus Hecale fr. 263 Pfeiffer). 86. Augustus 57.1. 87. On the Vestalia in Ovid, Williams (1991). 88. Fasti 3.699 and 5.573; at Met. 15.778, this is retroactively applied to Julius Caesar. The statue and altar were erected by senate decree and dedicated on 28 April, 12 BC; see Fasti 4.949–54, Met. 15.864–65, and Degrassi (1963) 452. The Fasti Praenestini and Caeretani mention this domestic shrine. 89. Ovidian humor appears as well, for Vesta the virgin goddess is described as rapta. Though the word here refers to her sacred objects being pulled from the temple fire, the frisson of erotic association remains, as a man did invade her sacred space and seize her sacra. In the context of the Vestal cult, it is difficult not to read saucily into the phrasing of vir intrabo non adeunda viro. I am also tempted to read rapta as a sly reference to Augustus metaphorically taking her from her Forum temple into his own home. 90. See the importance of preserving the sacred objects of the Vestal cult at Livy 5.39–40, as one Albinius saved the Vestal Virgins and the sacra instead of his own wife and sons. 91. Murgatroyd (2005) 171. 92. The notable literary predecessor is Propertius 4.11 in which he depicts the exemplary matrona Cornelia.

There, however, the poet does not eroticize as Ovid does. The Propertian Cornelia is a stern and rather inaccessible figure. See Stahl (1985) 262 and Lowrie (2008). 93. On foreign cults in Republican Rome, Orlin (2002 and 2010). On historicity in the importation of Cybele, see Gruen (1990) 5–33 and (1992) 47–48, Burton (1996), and Berneder (2004), especially 38–81. 94. Gruen (1990) 5–33 rejects the idea of anxiety at Rome as a motivating historical factor. 95. The minimum age was thirty. Scipio was aedile in 197, praetor in 194, and consul in 191 BC. 96. Compare Pliny NH 7.35.120 and a Sulpicia who was declared the most chaste woman (pudicissima femina) by the matrons and elected from a hundred candidates to dedicate a statue of Venus as per the Sibylline Books. 97. Barchiesi (1997) 194 suggests that this destabilizes the narrative; Knox (2002) 165 disagrees. Regardless, Ovid adds a lively frisson by casting Erato as Cybele’s press secretary. 98. Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica Book 3 with an invocation of Erato at 3.1–5, as does Virgil, Aeneid 7.37–44. 99. On the names of Muses in Ovid, Barchiesi (1991). 100. The Claudia Quinta episode is also, as Knox (2002) 171 notes, the “crucial component in fusing the Phrygian and Alexandrian material into a Roman context,” and Cybele had been carefully adapted as a Roman entity with whom Augustus associated himself. Nevertheless, the Romanness of the episode and of Claudia Quinta is under scrutiny, and the “Roman context” is also one of specifically Ovidian make. 101. Wiseman (1984) for the Virgilian treatment of Cybele and Littlewood (1981) 382–83 and Knox (2002) 172 on Ovid’s Cybele coinciding with Augustus’s aim for the cult. 102. Barchiesi (1997) 196 opines that “the whole story of the goddess’s transfer appears to be constructed around a deviant center of interest”—i.e., Cybele’s arrival does not focus on Cybele herself but on her proving that a much-gossiped-about woman is, in fact, chaste and virtuous. See too Newlands (2002) 210. 103. Val. Max. 1.8.11. 104. Pro Caelio 34. 105. See Propertius 4.11.51–2’s mention of Claudia as Claudia turritae rare ministrae deae and Silius Italicus 17.1–47’s account, notably Claudia’s speech at ll. 33–40. 106. Pasco-Pranger (2006) 166 n. 98 considers the mention of the age and nobility of Claudia Quinta’s family as “surely primarily a nod in the direction of Livia’s family.” Torre (2008) considers this episode in terms of the gens Iulia, gens Claudia, and the contemporary figures of Livia and Julia. 107. BC 25. 108. Pasco-Pranger (2006) 156 notes in the earlier tradition Claudia is unambiguously a matron, but the Ovidian version’s position is much less clear. 109. Macrobius, Saturnalia 2.5.1–9. 110. Saturnalia 2.5.6. 111. Newlands (2002) 210 suggests that Ovid’s heroine is modeled on Clodia Metelli and notes Catullus 7. 112. Minucia, however, was condemned and buried alive in the Campus Sceleratus (8.15.7–8). 113. On Vestals, see Beard (1980 and 1995), Staples (1998), Wildfang (2006), Schultz (2006), and Takács (2008). Claudia Quinta in later years became occasionally identified as a Vestal herself. 114. On the Roman mistress, see Wyke (1987) and (2002). 115. On women’s hairstyles in Rome, see Bartman (2001) and Stephens (2008). 116. Especially Ars 3.185–89. 117. On Roman women’s dress, see Olson (2002 and 2008), Sebesta (1997 and 2008), and Edmondson (2008). 118. Propertius 1.2 also voices an objection: [quid iuvat] naturae decus mercato perdere cultu . . . ? (5) 119. On fama in the love poets, see for instance Tibullus 2.1 and Ovid, Amores 1.8.15, 1.10.62, 1.14.50, 1.15.7, 2.2.50, 3.6.90, 3.9.5, 3.14.11 and 36. On Propertius, the applicable passage is 2.32.23–26. 120. Leach (2007) 7. 121. Note Propertius 2.5, especially ll. 29 on Cynthia’s disregard of gossip: quamvis contemnas

murmura famae. 122. Overall, Labate (2010) 229 characterizes her behavior as “precocemente moderno.” 123. Note poets declaring that their own lives are chaste even if their verses are not, e.g., Catullus 16 and Martial 1.4.8. 124. But see Barchiesi (1997) 194–97 and Newlands (2002) 211 on issues of fictionality in Erato. 125. Pasco-Pranger (2006) 158, the story emphasizes “the instability of visual markers of status and the distinction between matron and meretrix.” 126. One might well wonder: would one want Roman girls to emulate this Ovidian Claudia? Macrobius records Augustus’s attempt to co-opt the image of a brash but innocent Claudia Quinta for his daughter, but it failed spectacularly; Saturnalia 2.5.4. 127. Augustine, City of God 1.19 does not see Lucretia’s suicide as a heroic act; see Trout (1994). For Lucretia as cultural touchstone, see Donaldson (1982) and Matthes (2000). Both Livy and Ovid are also likely influenced by the Brutus, a praetexta drama by Accius of the late second-mid-first century BC. 128. Studies of Livy’s Lucretia include Freund (2008), Koptev (2003), Vandiver (1999), Calhoun (1997), Bauman (1993), Moore (1993), Moses (1993), Joshel (1991), Schubert (1991), Joplin (1990), Wiseman (1988), Donaldson (1982), and Galinsky (1932). 129. Newlands (1995) 149. See Keith (2012) 396 on the “interdependence of Roman women’s chastity and the masculine arenas of Roman politics and warfare.” 130. Lucretia’s husband shows no significant initiative of his own aside from enacting her directive to act against the Tarquins. Lee (1953) 116 describes her as “a virtuous prototype of Lady Macbeth.” 131. Lucretia maesta tanto malo nuntium Romam eundem ad patrem Ardeamque ad virum mittit, ut cum singulis fidelibus amicis veniant (1.58.5). In Dion. Hal. 4.66.2, Lucretia explicitly gives a directive to her father to form her chosen audience, “Send for as many of your friends and kinsmen as you can, so that they may hear the report from me, the victim of terrible wrongs, rather than from others.” 132. Chaplin (2000) 1–2 on the efficacy (or lack thereof) of this self-exemplarization. 133. Matthes (2000) 35: “Lucretia understands how her sexual violation will be understood and consequently orchestrates her death in such a way as to ensure that her violation will be read the way she wants. . . . What women symbolize is more important than what they are; their seeming replaces their being. Hence, Lucretia kills herself so that she will be perceived as innocent.” 134. Studies of the Ovidian Lucretia have ranged widely from Heinze (1919) to Lee (1953) to Newlands (1988 and 1995) to Murgatroyd (2005). 135. Other accounts are Dion. Hal. 4.64–85 and Diod. Sic. 10.20–22. 136. Newlands (1995) 149. 137. Critics such as Heinze (1919) and Galinsky (1932) have long noted elements of the elegiac genre in the Ovid narrative, though often without fully exploring the implications of such literary usage. Heinze (1919) 53 does note that Ovid’s focus is Lucretia as opposed to the founding of the Republic. Newlands (1995) 147 offers a reminder that more than literary genre is at stake. See also Landolfi (2004). 138. The presence of wives in love elegy might sound odd, as love elegy is focused on mistresses. Nevertheless both Arethusa and Laodamia are depicted as amorous young wives who reject war and public state activity in favor of love and private, personal pursuits. Arethusa describes herself as a puella, the elegiac word par excellence for a mistress, at 4.3.72. Laodamia turns accounts of Protesilaus’s military exploits into pillow talk at Heroides 13.115–20 and uses the term puellis in reference to herself at 103–6. 139. Propertius 4.3.33–34 and 53. 140. Note Laodamia’s tears at Heroides 13.51–52. 141. Newlands (1995) 150. 142. Newlands (1995) 150 sees elements of the elegiac woman in Lucretia, but she also sees “a natural and, as it turns out, fatal sexual charm of the sort usually associated with the marriageable virgin.” King (2006) 212 sees Lucretia having “an outward display of chastity” but an “inner erotic desire seeking expression.” 143. The voyeuristic third party is an occasional feature of Roman love poetry: see Catullus 55 and Propertius 1.10. In all cases, the third party is a male friend of the male lover. 144. Juvenal Satire 10.289–345 on beauty bringing destruction on its owner, especially ll. 293–94: sed

vetat optari faciem Lucretia qualem / ipsa habuit . . . Lucretia forbids beauty like the kind she herself had to be desired. 145. Recall Ovid’s own fragmentary poem Medicamina Faciei Femineae; see Green (1979) and Watson (2001). For an overview of Roman cosmetics and perfumes, see Stewart (2007). 146. See also Newlands (1988). 147. He combines love and war as he compares besieging Gabii to besieging Lucretia, he is wholly fixated on the puella, and he plots to have access to another man’s woman. See too Murgatroyd (2005) 168–69. 148. Newlands (1995) 146–74 for ramifications of that silence. 149. In a perversion of love elegy, succubuit famae victa puella metu (2.810). The incident may also be read as a version of Propertius 1.3, in which the ill-behaved lover returns at night to his sleeping puella only to have her wake and rebuff him, gone horribly wrong. 150. Murgatroyd (2005) 200 suggests that Ovid “is subtly twitting the historian for making his Lucretia at this stage come out with such a long and rhetorical speech.” 151. See the similarity with Polyxena in Euripides, Hecuba 568–70. According to Suetonius, Divus Iulius 82.2, Julius Caesar did likewise at his assassination. Lucretia’s act is still an effort at selfrepresentation at death; King (2006) 217 sees it as part of an effort to “shape emotional response from the men around her.” 152. Newlands (1995) 146 on “the ways in which individual suffering and individual speech become absorbed and altered by a political ideology committed to an exemplary view of the past.” 153. As Toll (1997) 42–43 points out, Aeneas is called pater thirty-one times in the Aeneid, more than Anchises (twenty-five times) or Jupiter (twenty-seven times). Of those thirty-one occurrences, only six refer to Aeneas’s actual biological relationship to Ascanius, and Toll argues that in the other cases, Aeneas is called pater in the sense of “founding father” or “ancestor” and a common (and therefore unifying) point of origin for all Italians/Romans. Eventually Aeneas would be deified under the name Pater Indiges (chthonios), Dion. Hal. Roman Antiquities 1.64.5. 154. Reed (2007). 155. Propertius 2.34b predicted that the Aeneid, still being written, would be even greater than Homer’s Iliad: nescio quid maius nascitur Iliade. 156. See too Casali (2007). 157. Livy mentions Carmentis/Carmenta in 1.7.8–9, where she is regarded as a prophetess (fatiloqua) before the arrival of the Sibyl. The historian notes that Evander is more revered because of his mother’s divinity, venerabilior divinitate credita Carmentae matris. Our discussion here focuses on the Virgilian Carmentis at Evander’s arrival in Italy, as she likewise appears in Ovid. Livy does not discuss her with this event. 158. See Fantham (1992) and Toll (1997). Other major contemporary Latin poets writing give no significant role to Evander; only Propertius offers a mention at 4.1.4, Evandri profugae procumbere boves. Dionysius of Halicarnassus more extensively portrays him as a founding figure, a ktisis, in 1.31.2ff. 159. On Aeneas’s distress, see Aeneid 8.18–30. See Fantham (1992) 160 for the “Nestorian” Evander. 160. The reason for Evander’s exile from Arcadia does differ from Aeneas’s flight from Troy; Evander’s has been variously explained as civil strife at home, matricide, or even patricide (see Dion. Hal. 1.31.2; Servius and Servius-Danielis on Aen. 8.51 and 8.333). 161. Aeneas claims ancient kinship to Evander through their families’ mythological lineage (8.126–42). Evander relates the establishment of xenia between himself as a young man and the youthful Anchises when they met in Arcadia before the former’s exile (8.151–71); see too Lloyd (1999). 162. Aen. 8.340–41: cecinit quae prima futuros / Aeneadas magnos et nobile Pallanteum. 163. Carmentis, also called Carmenta, has a history of her own in which she is also called Themis or Nikostrate and/or associated with the Camenae and Fates. See Livy 1.7.8–9; Dion. Hal. 1.15, 31–32; Plutarch, Life of Romulus 21 and Quaes. Rom. 56 and 60; Strabo, Geography 5.3; Servius ad Aen. 8.51 and 336; Hyginus, Fabulae 277. See also Pugliarello (2003), Mazzei (2005), and Erker (2013). 164. For Evander in Ovid, see also Fantham (1992). 165. Fantham (1992) 159.

166. Labate (2010) 165 sees Carmentis as anticipating and/or expanding the role of Anchises in relation to Aeneas. 167. The command harks back to another tale in Fasti Book 1: Aristaeus weeping over his bees, at which his divine mother Cyrene also orders him to cease: siste, puer, lacrimas! (1.367). Note Virgil, Georgics 4.315ff. See also Aeneid 1.385–86, in which Venus had had enough of Aeneas’s complaining and interrupts him: nec plura querentem / passa Venus medio sic interfata dolore est. 168. As Fantham (1992) 160 says, he is “barely freed from his mother’s prophetic apron strings.” 169. Barchiesi (1997) 198 notes elements of madness in this scene and suggests that the name Carmentis resonates not only with carmen (“song”) but also carere mente (“to be out of one’s mind”); see Plutarch, Life of Romulus 21 for this alternate etymology due to her divine prophetic frenzies. 170. Unlike Virgil’s account, in which Evander narrates the story of Hercules and Cacus (Aen. 8.184–278), Evander only appears briefly at the end, invited by Hercules to a feast hosted by the hero himself (1.579–80). The Arcadian is entirely separated from the narrative action. Murgatroyd (2005) 36 notes that here again Carmentis effaces Evander. 171. Suetonius, Claudius 11. 172. Note its similarity to Metamorphoses 1.4: ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen. 173. In this, he is similar to Aeneas, particularly at the end of Aeneid 8. 174. Note the prediction of Pallas’s death. See Barchiesi (1997) 200–202. 175. See Newlands (2002) on the interplay of political and poetic authority. 176. Littlewood (1980), Newlands (1996), and Barchiesi (1997) 164–66. 177. Archaeological evidence for the Anna Perenna cult includes specific mention of her festival on the entries for March 15 in various Roman calendars, such as the Fasti Praenestini, Fasti Vaticani (CIL 12.342), Fasti Antiates and Farnesani (CIL 12.311). The Fasti Philocaliani record another festival for Anna on June 18 (CIL 12.344). A sacred spring was uncovered during 1999–2000 in Piazza Euclide in Rome; this location, used for cult worship of Anna from the first century BC to the fourth century AD, has yielded two inscriptions reading nymphis sacratis Annae Perennae. See Piranomonte (2011), (2010), (2009), (2005), and (2002). 178. Littlewood (1980), McKeown (1984), Porte (1985) 142–50, Barchiesi (1997) 21–23. Newlands (1995) 61 sees Anna as a parody. Lee-Stecum (2008) observes the complications of Anna and the failure of refuge. Viarre (2009) sees the influence of theater and mime. 179. Epyllia often center on a female figure, e.g., the lost Hecale of Callimachus, Ariadne in Catullus 64, Myrrha in the lost Zmyrna of Gaius Helvius Cinna, and the lost Io of Licinius Calvus. 180. Hinds (1992) 110 notes that Ovid is arguably reducing epic by feminizing it and making Anna the central character. For women in traditional epic, see Keith (2000). 181. Hinds (1988) 14–17; Casali (2007). 182. See too Egelhaaf-Gaiser (2012), Lee-Stecum (2008), and Fink (2005). 183. See too Marangoni (2007). 184. See Keith (2006) for women’s networks in the Aeneid. 185. On Anna in Virgil, see Swallow (1951), West (1979), and Castellani (1987). 186. The text’s nod to Ovidian love elegy begins with a clever bit of self-reference: When Ovid prefaces the Anna episode by describing Dido’s death (3.549–50), he uses the couplet praebuit Aeneas et causam mortis et ensem. / ipsa sua Dido concidit usa manu and so quotes the final lines of his own Heroides 7. Dido’s letter to Aeneas is itself a complex work interacting with the Aeneid and referring to Anna soror, soror Anna and what she will do after Dido’s death, iam dabis in cineres ultima dona meos, an act that the Fasti Anna describes doing with pathos. 187. For instance, Horace, Ars Poetica 73 on res gestae regumque ducumque et tristia bella. 188. See the end of Virgil’s Georgics 2 with its opposition of farming and war. Marangoni (2007) notes the influence of Georgics 4.158–65. 189. Note the start of Book 3 as seeing immediately produced erotic desire: Mars videt hanc visamque cupit . . . (3.21). 190. See the similarity between Anna’s anxious questions and Lucretia’s in Fasti 2.801–3.

191. Newlands (1995) 49 on the “shiftless” Aeneas. 192. See Plautus’s formidable, overbearing uxores dotatae and their henpecked, feckless husbands who keep trying to escape them, particularly in Menaechmi and Casina. 193. Barchiesi (1997) 164–66 and D’Anna (1989) 159–96. Varro refers to the Anna-Aeneas tradition, as recorded in Serv. Dan. ad Aen. 4.682 and Servius ad Aen. 5.4. 194. Murgatroyd (2005) 121 considers it “a droll touch.” 195. Elsewhere in the Fasti, bare feet appear usually with female characters in amatory settings, such as the saucy nymphs of 1.410—impediunt teneros vincula nulla pedes. 196. See also Barchiesi (1997) 165–66. 197. Dido is first depicted as a capable ruler urging on the building of the city and administering the law: Aeneid 1.503–8, especially 507: iura dabat legesque viris. See also Acestes overseeing the settlement of Acesta on Sicily at Aeneid 5.758: indicit forum et patribus dat iura vocatis. 198. Scholarship is vast; for one consideration of pietas as a priority defining the Aeneid, see Powell (2008) 31–85. 199. I owe this point to Tracy Jamison Wood per litt. 200. Barchiesi (1997) 165, on the other hand, sees Aeneas as “very tactfully” avoiding any mention of Dido in order to avoid “problems of retrospective jealousy.” Unfortunately for Aeneas and Anna, Lavinia’s jealousy is very much about the present. The provocation of jealousy is a common occurrence in Roman love elegy, though there it is the woman who incites these emotions in her male lover. 201. Murgatroyd (2005) 122: “the tricky business of trying to get a new wife to accept a former girlfriend’s sister.” 202. Barchiesi (1997) 165 notes that the interesting thing is that Lavinia’s immediate response is dissimulation. 203. Barchiesi (1997) 165–66 sees in her “capacity for dignified self-control” a quality that makes her “a worthy wife for Aeneas.” I would argue that it is also an indication of her ability to outflank him with his own psychological gambit. 204. E.g., Aeneid 4.332, obnixus curam sub corde premebat, as he attempts to extricate himself from Dido. 205. Lavinia elsewhere in literature is well regarded. Livy, Ab Urbe Condita 1.3.1 refers to her as a woman of substance who after Aeneas’s death ruled capably as regent while her son with Aeneas was underage. Later Dante includes her with the virtuous pagans in Inferno, Canto IV lines 125–26 in the same company as Lucretia, Julia, and Cornelia; Chaucer names her in his Legend of Good Women. 206. The blush occurs at Aen. 12.64–71. See Fratantuono (2008), Formicola, (2006), Cairns (2004) and (2005), and Dyson (1999). 207. See Mitchell (1991) on the link between virginity and violence in Virgil. 208. Allecto infects Amata at Aeneid 7.341–405. For Fury-linked descriptors of Amata, see Barchiesi (1997) 166. 209. This also evokes Hector’s bloody ghost appearing to Aeneas warning him to flee Troy at Aen. 2.268–97. 210. In the reference to a chaotic panic-stricken exit from a bedroom, the scene evokes Horace, Satires 1.2. 211. Silius Italicus, Punica 8.25–224 turns Anna the Italian goddess back into the Punic enemy; see Chiu (2010). 212. Livy, Ab Urbe Condita 1.2; Ovid, Met. 14.581–608; Dion. Hal. Rom. Ant. 1.64; Pliny NH 3.56 describes a sacred grove to Pater Indiges beside the stream. 213. Aen. 7.150–51, 241–42, and 797–98. The last two references specifically describe it in sacral terms: fontis vada sacra Numici and sacrumque Numici litus, respectively. See also Tilly (1936). 214. On the other hand, Ahl (1985) 314 insists on Anna’s innate otherness: “Anna is the female counterpart of Aeneas’ masculinity, as latently hostile to Rome as Indiges is friendly.” 215. See also Murgatroyd (2003). 216. In Murgatroyd’s memorable words, “Ovid impudently plays around with his revered source and parades his own cleverness” (312). Even so, much more is at stake than literary sport and Ovidian wit. 217. Jupiter was the only deity to have several major annual festivals in Rome under various epithets: Jupiter Optimus Maximus on September 13, Jupiter Victor on April 13, and Jupiter Invictus on June 13.

Augustus also associated himself with the god in the aspects of Jupiter Feretrius and Jupiter Tonans. 218. Idibus Invicto sunt data templa Iovi. 219. Barchiesi (1997) 76–77 notes Livy 9.30.5, with the historian apparently embarrassed to mention the flautists’ festival of the Quintratrus Minusculae. On iocosa verba: the word iocus and its adjective form appear in the Fasti almost always associated with playfulness of an irreverent, obscene, or erotic (or all three combined) type. Compare the iocosa verba with the ioci veteres obscenaque dicta marking the comic deflation of Mars at Anna Perenna’s festival at 3.695. On the Senate being deceived by the flautists, compare with similar incidents of the Senate being manipulated by rebellious matrons at the Carmentalia and an offended Flora at the Floralia. 220. illa modo in silvis inter coryleta latebat, / nunc in cognatas desiliebat aquas. The use of the imperfect tense underlines the fact that this chase has been ongoing. 221. An amatory hint also appears with the detail that some of these nymphs inhabit the location around Ilia’s bower—quaeque colunt thalamos, Ilia diva, tuos (Fasti 2.598)—bringing up immediately Rhea Silvia’s story and erotic associations of waterside conquest by an amorous god (3.11ff). 222. Vestra soror (2.592); vestrae sororis (2.594). 223. West (1979) and Castellani (1987). 224. See Perkell (1997) on Juturna’s lament. 225. Ian McEwan, Enduring Love (1998) 20. 226. See too Knox (2004). King (2006) considers Ovid and another imperial figure, Germanicus. 227. Cameron (1995) 470. 228. See too Fantham (2002) on the poem as a source for information about women in religious observance. 229. For aspects of women’s religious activity, see Staples (1998), Schultz (2006), and Takács (2008). 230. It also hints at a popular element, a facet of Roman experience often elided from official venues. Wiseman (2004) considers this element. See Horsfall (2003), Toner (2009), and Knapp (2011) for the culture of the Roman plebs. 231. Flora’s functional similarity to Ceres is clear. See Pliny HN 36.23; there Pliny mistakes Proserpina for Flora in a statue group of “Flora, Triptolemus, and Ceres.” This testifies to the similarity between the goddesses’ statue types. 232. Livy 5.25.9 says that such a carpenta privilege was granted in 395 BC in gratitude for the matrons’ donation of their gold jewelry in the war effort against Veii. 233. The tactics of the Roman wives take the comic premise of Aristophanes’s Lysistrata and amplify it: where the Greek wives had refused to have sex with their husbands until the women achieved their objective, the Roman wives refuse motherhood itself. In terms of history, successful collective action by Roman women against legal measures occurred on at least two occasions. Livy 34.1 notes Roman women in 195 BC demonstrated against the Oppian law of 215 BC, a wartime sumptuary measure limiting women’s use of luxury goods. Appian BC 4.32–34 relates how Hortensia spoke publicly in 42 BC against a triumviral measure aimed at collecting money from Rome’s richest aristocratic women. In both cases, the women achieved their objectives. 234. Zanker (1990) 199ff on Mars Ultor as a fatherly figure. Caesar had apparently planned to build a new temple to Mars, announcing his intent in 46 BC; Suetonius, Divus Iulis 44.1. See Weinstock (1971) 83–87. 235. Much has been written on the Forum Augustum and its complicated semiotics. See among others Goldbeck (2015), Galinsky (1996) 197–212, Rich (1992), and Zanker (1968) and (1990). 236. See Geiger (2008) on the summi viri. 237. Pollini (2012) 148 notes that the cult statue proper depicts Mars Ultor; the flanking image of Julius Caesar is likely a votive offering by Augustus and so is “a noncult image, a private dedication like the golden statue of Cleopatra that Caesar himself placed in his temple of Venus Genetrix next to the cult image of Venus. . . .” 238. Wallace-Hadrill (1987) notes that part of the mischief of the Fasti is that it does not take Romulus seriously as a founder vis-à -vis Augustus. See now the effect of not taking Mars, father of Romulus, seriously either. 239. Only a few lines previously, the poet had hailed Mars in clearly military terms: Mars Latio venerandus

erat, quia praesidet armis: / arma ferae genti remque decusque dabant (3.85–86). 240. On the incongruity of a man being linked with the Matronalia, see also Horace, Odes 3.8.1—Martis caelebs quid agam Kalendis, [you wonder what] I a bachelor am doing on the Kalends of March. 241. Hinds (1992) and also Merli (2000). 242. Mars at the matrons’ rites also carries a suggestion that he is a voyeur. Tracy Jamison Wood per litt. suggests that this resonates with Pentheus spying on female rites in Euripides’s Bacchae. 243. Recall the “false bride” plot point of Plautus’s Casina. 244. This is also a metaliterary moment for Ovid and his famous statement in Amores 1.9: militat omnis amans (1). Note also Propertius 1.1, Cynthia prima suis me miserum cepit ocellis. 245. Weinstock (1971) 128ff offers a useful summary of the links between Mars, Julius Caesar, and Augustus. 246. See too Porte (2003), Newlands (1995) 87–123, and Barchiesi (2002). 247. Dio 60.5.3. On the importance of the festivals, see Weinstock (1971) 157. See also Galinsky (1996) 111–12 and Miller (2004–5). 248. This is itself an elegant allusion to Aeneid 12.949, poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit. The idea that the vow taken at Philippi was a myth invented well after the fact. Revenge on the Parthians was the original aetion. Weinstock (1971), 128–32; Herbert-Brown (1994) 95–108. 249. The depiction of Mars as impressionable tourist is humorous and humanizing. A similar scene occurs in the opening of Euripides’s Ion, with Athenian women gawking at Apollo’s shrine at Delphi (184–218) and, more piquantly in terms of Augustan poetry, Aeneas’s awed response to the temple of Juno in Carthage in Aeneid 1.441ff. 250. Tellingly, Mars humiliated by old Anna takes no retaliatory action. He endures the laughter. 251. In the early years of Augustus’s reign, she did share prominence with his sister Octavia. After Octavia’s death in 11 BC, however, Livia’s position was unequaled. For an overview of JulioClaudian women, see Freisenbruch (2010). For biographies of Livia, see Barrett (2002) and Dennison (2010). For a view of Livia as figure of irony in Ovid, see Luisi (2010) and Luisi and Berrino (2010). 252. She appears in Horace, Odes 3.14, but not by name, and there she is a cipher focusing attention on Augustus (1–10). Livia will also appear in Ovid’s exile poetry. 253. She subsequently appears in calendars under the name of Julia Augusta. See Degrassi (1963). 254. Herbert-Brown (1994) 130–72 divides the passages into composition before and after Ovid’s exile. In this scheme, the passage at hand is not the first composed. Even so, it is the first passage in the revised Fasti to be encountered by the reader and so may be said to be the reader’s first encounter with the literary Livia, a figure to cast her shadow over all subsequent Fasti presentations of her. 255. Suetonius, Divus Augustus 7.2. 256. The passage manages both to give Romulus credit for instituting the Roman calendar and then to take that away by noting that Numa had to correct that calendar because, as the poet says in a wily bit of direct address, scilicet arma magis quam sidera, Romule, noras / curaque finitimos vincere maior erat (l.29–30), “Romulus, you knew weapons better than you knew stars, and conquering your neighbors was your main concern.” 257. Consider Evander, Romulus, and Numa as a succession of founders. Note Feeney (1998) on cumulative, sequential foundings of Rome. 258. Numa is more congenial to elegy; Barchiesi (1997) 176. See Hinds (1992) 118–21 on literary selfawareness. See also Deremetz (2013). 259. Both women are also linked with poetic inspiration: Carmentis’s name with song and Egeria with the Camenae: Egeria est, quae praebet aquas, dea grata Camenis (3.275). She is also associated with a little spring of water, from which the poet takes tiny sips—exiguis haustibus—in a scene redolent with Callimachean poetics (3.273–74). 260. Livy 1.19. For a different but also dismissive mention of Egeria, note Horace, Satires 1.2.125–26. 261. The Greek thinker from Samos and later resident in southern Italy lived from c. 570–c. 475 BC, far too late to be Numa’s contemporary. Pythagoras also appears as Numa’s counselor in Ovid’s Met. 15.60ff. 262. Note the parallel to the nymph Cyrene and her distraught son Aristaeus (F.1.361ff). Egeria’s resemblance again to Carmentis is striking, as they take command over their frightened male companions.

263. The proper execution of the rites is of utmost importance. Livy 1.31 notes the consequences of Tullus performing the Elicius rites incorrectly: he was incinerated by a thunderbolt thrown by the enraged god. 264. This is a major festival involving pontiffs and vestals, with the sacrifice of a pregnant cow for the fertility of Rome and the collection of ritual ashes for the Parilia festival on April 21 marking the foundation of Rome itself. 265. One may be tempted to recall Plutarch’s Cato saying, “All other men rule their wives. We rule all other men, and our wives rule us” (Life of Cato the Elder 8.2). 266. adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi / ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen! (Met. 1.3–4). 267. Cf. Tacitus, Annales 1. Pasco-Pranger 2006 (55) sees in this passage “perhaps the most striking use of the motif of the domus Augusta in the Fasti.” 268. Herbert-Brown (1994) 165–71 regards Ovid’s emphasis on Livia as a misstep in his eulogy of the domus Augusta and one that would not have pleased Tiberius. 269. Testamentary adoption is not fully understood, and female adoption is even less clear. See also Flory (1988) and Barrett (2002) 151–62, noting, “There was no precedent in Rome for the transfer of what was in effect an honorific title from a man to a woman” (151) and “It is probably safe to assume that the Romans did not have an exact notion of what Augusta was meant to convey in AD 14.” (152). The later force of the title Augusta seems to vary from reign to reign. Claudius made a point of not allowing it to be given to Messalina. Agrippina the Younger assumed it when she solidified her power. Claudius posthumously bestowed it on his mother, Antonia. For a study of the Augustae of the Julio-Claudians, see Flory (1998). 270. Livia would not receive divine honors until Claudius (AD 42), but Ovid has written history in the future tense. See Herbert-Brown (1994) 165–71. In the comparison of Livia and Carmentis as deified women, one might also, as Barchiesi (1997) 200 has, consider that Tiberius, like Evander, was once exiled and dependent on his mother’s support. Labate (2010) 172 sees a radical reconfiguration: “la profezia di Carmenta mostra come basterebbe allargarne il raggio per ottenere un tracciato differente, che sostituisce all’apoteosi virgiliana al maschile, di ascendenza troiana (Enea-Augusto), un’apoteosi ovidiana al femmenile, di ascendenza arcadica (Carmenta-Livia).” 271. Barrett (2002) 153: “Although the notion of joint rule is surely an overstatement of his intentions, it is hard to believe that Augustus did not intend Livia to have some kind of formal constitutional role. He must have understood the emotive power of the title Augustus, and have been aware that its female equivalent would raise Livia to a level well beyond traditional honours.” 272. Herbert-Brown (1994) 161. 273. The key problem to interpreting this is the fact that Augustus did not spell out the parameters of this promotion for Livia. His intent is inscrutable, and this caused problems when the Senate and Livia thought the precedented new title implied a new official political position and Tiberius did not. 274. Purcell (1986) on Livia as exemplum. 275. This is dated AD 10. See Herbert-Brown (1994) 162–72. Degrassi (1963) 398 notes two other calendars which mark this day, though without mentioning Livia. The Fasti Praenestini notes only the involvement of Tiberius when he had returned from Pannonia: Ti. Caesar ex Pan[nonia reverses dedi]cavit. 276. During the last years of Augustus’s reign, Concordia in the public sphere takes on further prominence in the context of the domus Augusta, Tiberius, and question of the imperial succession. See also Barchiesi (1997) 169. 277. King (2006) 169: “the language selected by the poet not only accords the dux venerandus an inferior status to the divine rank of his mother, but also uses Livia’s divine image to bring to its climax a passage ostensibly in honour of Tiberius. The overall effect is that the mother is now a political partner in power”—she is the senior partner. 278. The date was January 16. The Fasti Verulani (dated to AD 14–37) notes it as a holiday by senatorial decree to commemorate the marriage: Feriae ex s(enatus) c(onsulto) quod eo die / Augusta nupsit divo Aug[us]t(o). 279. Herbert-Brown (1994) 171 considers that the poet calling Livia tua genetrix in relation to Tiberius “would have been a painful reminder of the Senate’s abortive attempt to create for him the title вЂfilius Juliae.’” Tiberius had vetoed an attempt by the Senate to rename one month of the Roman

calendar for him and one for his mother, Livia (Suetonius, Tiberius 26). 280. Livia is linked with both goddesses in Ex Ponto 3.114–18. For Livia in the exile poetry, see Johnson (1997). 281. Note the possibility of a nod to the troubled relationships within the imperial house, particularly the animosity between Tiberius and Livia, and previously between Tiberius in “retirement” on Rhodes and Augustus, where sweet concord may have been at a premium indeed. 282. Cicero, Dom. 105, Har. Resp.17.37.38, and Att. 1.13.3; Plutarch, Life of Caesar 9. 283. Tibullus 1.6.21–22: exibit quam saepe, time, seu visere dicet / sacra Bonae maribus non adeunda Deae. 284. As pontifex maximus, Augustus had a vested interest in recuperating Bona Dea. See Herbert-Brown (1994). 285. Flory (1984) 314–15 offers a reminder that Concordia had always been associated with domestic accord as well. Livia did not “create” the idea of Concordia as guardian of domestic harmony. Nevertheless, the divide between political/public and domestic/marital aspects of Concordia informs Livia’s involvement. 286. The moral legislation of 18 BC included the lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus. The official encouragement of marriage was reaffirmed in lex Papia Poppaea of AD 9, which penalized bachelorhood. See Treggiari (1991). 287. Flory (1984) 315. 288. The most famous of these may be Camillus vowing the temple after the Licinian laws passed and resolved the Conflict of the Orders (Plutarch, Life of Camillus 42.3–4). The temple may never have been built; Plutarch notes its designated location, the Area Concordiae (Livy 39.56.6, 40.19.2), on which were later built various shrines. 289. See Concordia with the highly publicized idea of Augustan Peace, typified in the Ara Pacis Augustae. Concord cannot be fully considered without evoking the end of the civil war. 290. Flory (1984) 317: “Livia did not develop a new aspect of Concordia; rather, she focused renewed attention on an old ideal.” 291. Columella, Rust. 12.7–10 on the wife’s reverentia and diligentia as the basis of concordia. 292. Tiberius’s own domestic arrangements could not provide such an example: forced by Augustus to divorce his beloved first wife Vipsania Agrippina in order to marry Julia the Elder for dynastic reasons, Tiberius was unhappy in this second marriage, which failed spectacularly. He would reign without a consort at his side. 293. Fantham (1983) 208 distills the Vesta-Augustus connection: “Vesta symbolized several things dear to Augustus: his Trojan ancestry, his role as avenger of his father Julius, the chastity of his family, the perpetuity of his house.” 294. Barchiesi (1997) 204 asserts that Ovid’s great attention to Vesta in Fasti Books 5–6 “can only be explained in one way: that is, by the extraordinary increase in her standing that the prince has recently brought about by means of spectacular operations on her cult and image. No other explanation is possible. . . .” 295. Fantham (1983) 207 notes that Vesta is portrayed with a female form regularly only on the lararia of bakers or millers. The veiled head of Vesta also makes rare appearances on Roman coinage, such as the obverse of a silver denarius of 63 BC, minted by Lucius Cassius Longinus, and an imperial copper as dated AD 37–38, the reverse of which depicts Vesta veiled and enthroned with patera and scepter, flanked by the inscription VESTA S[enatus] C[onsulto]. Vesta also appears as an enthroned female figure on the Sorrento Altar. 296. Critics have described her as “a system of confused meanings among which elegiac play and the high seriousness of Augustan cult collide,” “a kind of Stoic world deity,” “an august goddess synonymous with virginity,” and a figure “subject to deconstruction . . . [t]orn between incompatible representations, elusive and imageless.” References: Newlands (1995) 142, Gee (2000) 103, Murgatroyd (2002) 623, and Barchiesi (1997) 137, respectively. 297. The passage has Mars himself declaring, armifer armiferae correptus amore Minervae / uror et hoc longo tempore vulnus alo (3.681–82). On generic considerations, see Hinds (1992). 298. Odyssey 8.266–342, especially 324–27. On the mime factor, the late Republican playwright

Laberius wrote a comic play called Anna Perenna, of which only fragments remain. 299. Newlands (1996) 327–33 focuses on what she calls “uncrownings” in the Anna Perenna passages—in all three aetiologies of Anna, women “uncrown” or best the men. If “uncrowning” is a theme, then perhaps Vesta’s dominance over the poet is the most impressive “uncrowning” of all here. 300. Newlands (1996) 321: “The conjunction of the popular and then imperial event on the Ides of March symbolically enacts the intervention of the Augustan domus into Roman time.” For Barchiesi, the disjunction is one of context rather than ideology per se in (1997) 129: “The sense of alienation . . . does not come from ideological prejudices but from the context that the narrator has carefully constructed for this episode, inserting it in such a way that it seems to be an adjunct to the popular festival of Anna Perenna.” McKeown (1984) sees the passage as a politically disengaged, purely literary Callimachean project. 301. The bloodshed and the denial of burial (Suetonius, Augustus 13) were a source of horror; for instance, see Velleius Paterculus 2.86.3 contrasting Augustus’s clemency after Actium with the lack of it after Philippi. 302. The question is tied to the placement of speech marks in modern editions of the Fasti, which mostly place them after line 702, thus rendering the remaining lines the poet’s. Barchiesi (1997) 124 note 30 suggests that the marks (a modern invention) should be placed after line 710, thus rendering the entire speech Vesta’s, with no lines by the poet. See Newlands (1995) 132 note 30 and Feeney (2011) 77–78. 303. An even darker undercurrent may be present here. The term elementa is usually associated with teaching children their ABCs, as in Quintilian, Inst. 1.1.126, Manilius 2.762, and Horace, Satires 1.25–26. In the Fasti passage, the basics in Augustus’s regime consist not of learning letters but of slaughtering other Romans. An uncomfortable image conflates Roman children’s white ivory alphabet letters and the white human bones littering the battlefield. If one wishes to understand the beginnings of the Augustan regime, one need only look at the bones. 304. Such as Barchiesi (1997) 123–30, Newlands (1996), Herbert-Brown (1994) 125–29. 305. Recall Venus’s very different approach to the death of Caesar in Metamorphoses Book 15. 306. Barchiesi (1997) 129–30. 307. Degrassi (1963), 452 note the Fasti Caeretani, Fasti Maffeiani, and Fasti Praenestini mark the start of the Floralia on April 28. The Fasti Caeretani and Praenestini also include the installation of Vesta in the house of Augustus. 308. The term ioci can carry specifically erotic connotations; see for example Seneca, Ep. 97.8: Florales iocos nudandarum meretricum, “the playful games of Flora with their female strippers.” Sabbatucci (1988) 151–52 points out, “The Florales were not ordinary games: they were more like a parody of the Circus games, with prostitutes exhibiting themselves in the place of gladiators.” 309. A competition of sorts emerges between Vesta and Flora: Barchiesi (1997), 135–36; Newlands (1995), 143 310. Barchiesi (1997) 136 describing this as “an act of violence.” He also notes, “Here the chaste Vesta is spared any direct contact with Flora and her striptease artistes, who are hurriedly put off to the following month.” It is this nonconfrontational rivalry that is at the heart of the Venus-Vesta relationship. 311. Barchiesi (1997) 133: “If a divinity can cut short an antique festival, a traditional anniversary can also be appropriated and handed over lock, stock, and barrel to new owners. It is clear that the festival of Flora centers on the liberation—and the control—of ludic impulses, and on the celebration of female sexuality.” Pasco-Pranger (2006) 210 “a particularly clear foregrounding of the imposition of a new holiday on the old calendrical fabric.” Fantham (1998) ad 4.945–48, however, sees no real political import here: “Given the length of book IV . . . there is no need to read political significance into O.’s courteous gesture of making way for the grandius opus of honouring Augustan Vesta.” Perhaps so, but it is telling that Fantham refers to the goddess not simply as “Vesta” but as “Augustan Vesta” (my emphasis). 312. Newlands (1995) 143. See also 140: “Ovid also uses Flora as a way of defining the special characteristics of the Augustan Vesta.” She also notes “an implicit comparison between Vesta and

Flora at end of Book 4.” 313. Barchiesi (1997) 135. 314. Since he is a man, it would be nefas for him to see the sternly virgin goddess. Also, Vesta’s physical absence stands in contrast to the sensuous presences of Venus and Flora. 315. Homer, Iliad 3.396–97; Virgil, Aeneid 1.402, 2.590. The phraseology in the Aeneid passage employs the same verb in reference to the divine glow: rosea cervice refulgit (1.402). In general, the idea of disguise is all the more fitting if in the Fasti, Vesta has sublimated Venus or forced her out. 316. On the other hand, Tellus was occasionally assimilated with Vesta, as noted by Varro in Antiquitates Rerum Divinarum, fr. 268 Cardauns: tellurem, inquit Varro, putant esse . . . Vestam, quod vestiatur herbis. See too Green (2002) 97 on the association of Vesta with Venus and also Varro in fr. 283 Cardauns noting an identification of Vesta with Venus in the consideration of fire and earth as fertility symbols. 317. On this pair of stories, see Fantham (1983) 201–9, Newlands (1995) 124–45, Murgatroyd (2002), and Frazel (2003). Garani (2011) 6 n. 23 reads the Vesta-Priapus episode as one that “highlights her connection with fertility.” 318. Viewed through a Tiberian lens, the idea of humorless, grim, imperial power is even more pointedly timely. 319. See Miller (2013) 248 for elements of love elegy in this episode. 320. Frazel (2003) 74–75 sees sexual overtones on Lotis’s part, since she lies sleeping sicut erat lusu fessa (Fasti 1.424). On sexual comedy in the Fasti, see Fantham (1983). 321. Fantham (1983) 204 sees in Priapus “the cliché of the badly composed mime.” She regards the entire tale as an artistic failure in pp. 210–15. For other perspectives, see Murgatroyd (2002) and Frazel (2003). 322. See Williams (1991) 199: “The manipulative process at work here makes the Vesta episode a reaction to the Lotis episode rather than the mere repetition it is commonly held to be. Ovid can take liberties with a nymph which he cannot take with Vesta.” Pace Newlands (1995) who at 128 says, “Most critics have felt that in a final redaction of the Fasti, Ovid would have excised one of these stories, probably the one about Vesta.” 323. Newlands (1995) 145 on this being “an integral part of the poem’s move toward disenchantment.” Miller (2013) 249 sees this as evidence of how Vesta is “incompatible with elegiac fun.” 324. Barchiesi (1997) 203–4 notes that Mars and Vesta merit a privileged voice” and that “their important role in the poem is proportionate to the weight they carry in the Augustan rewriting of the Roman pantheon.” 325. Propertius 3.4 prays for revenge on the Parthians and calls on Mars pater et sacrae fatalia lumina Vestae to speed Roman retribution (11). Horace, Odes 1.2.25–28 speaks of the need for vengeance and Vesta’s refusal to hear Roman prayers until that need is met; the ode calls for an avenger god: Mars, auctor of Rome (35–40). Augustus in RG 21 mentions in the same breath the building of the temple of Mars Ultor and Vesta. 326. Barchiesi (1997) 207: “One has the impression that Vesta has a voice only when she is defending a well-defined interest.” 327. Newlands (1995) 102, Rich (1998), and Hickson (1991). Barchiesi (2002) 15: “What is important is that both the programme of the monument and the programme of the Fasti partake in a discussion which is about the collective past, a discussion which alternates between the concepts of clementia and revenge.” 328. Newlands (1995) 132. 329. Recall Fasti 4.949–50 in which Augustus’s house, which is called cognati . . . limine, the threshold of a kinsman. 330. Mars himself does not speak; only Augustus does. A connection arises between Augustus’s speech on vengeance and Vesta’s: official Augustan military retribution finds itself expounded by the most official of sources. See Barchiesi (2002) 9 on Mars as only the “silent focalizer.” 331. Scelus in terms of Roman religion also came with the idea that the offense has incurred divine anger—an offense that must be expiated. See too Wallace-Hadrill (1982) 24–25 on scelus and Augustus.

332. Beard (1980) and Wildfang (1999), (2001), and (2006). Wildfang (1999) argues that the Vestal priestesses were primarily agents of purification, not of fertility as often thought (especially 227). 333. The idea that one person (namely Augustus) could be responsible for saving Rome from the repercussions of scelus seems to be an innovation. See Liebeschuetz (1979) 56ff. 334. Williams (1991) 185–86 points out that only two accounts exist for an altar to Jupiter Pistor—this one “fabricated” by Ovid and Lactantius’s in Inst. 1.20.33, which could be modeled on Ovid. At the very least, Ovid’s tale cannot be reconciled to historical accounts of the Gallic sack in 390 BC, such as Livy 5.48.4–9, Florus 1.7.15–17, and Valerius Maximus 7.4.3. See Pfaff (2009) on the possible influence of the fabula praetexta form of Roman stage tragedy. 335. Kraus (1994) and Livy Book 5. 336. Roman desperation is clear in the removal of Vesta’s sacred objects for safekeeping (6.365–66). 337. On Vesta’s association with bakers and millers, see also Feeney (1998) 100. In this context Vesta makes an anthropomorphic appearance, mostly as a woman accompanied by a donkey, in domestic wall painting and lararia; see Fantham (1983) 207. Propertius 4.1.21 also mentions Vesta with donkeys. 338. That rewriting glosses over the Gauls’ sack of Rome. Williams (1991) 186 remarks that “Rome is not even allowed to be fully humiliated.” Livy balances defeat with Camillus’s avenging defeat of the Gauls, 5.49.6. Newlands (1995) 135 sees in this story a reduction of Rome’s defense into the realm of farce. 339. See too her place beside Jupiter and Mars in the closing prayer of Velleius Paterculus’s history (131): Iuppiter Capitoline, et auctor et stator Romani nominis Gravide Mars, perpetorumque custos Vesta ignium . . . . 340. Newlands (1995) 124 sees Vesta also as “a key figure in articulating the Fasti’s final concerns: the authority of the poet and of the past, and hence the viability of an aetiological, elegiac poem on national themes.” 341. Newlands (1995) 160–62, Littlewood (2001), and McDonough (2004). 342. Amores 1.8. On the lena in Roman love elegy, see Myers (1996). 343. See also Berrino (2003). 344. Newlands (1995) 160 decries Lara’s suffering for her show of “female solidarity” with Juturna. Of course, Lara’s “solidarity” with one nymph also means her refusal to align herself with all the other nymphs in the convocation, as well as defiance of Jupiter himself. Her attempt to be useful to Juno by telling the queen of Olympus of Jupiter’s planned infidelity gains the nymph no assistance from her; no female solidarity there either. 345. Compare Lalage whom Horace, Odes 1.22.23–24 describes as dulce ridentem . . . dulce loquentem. 346. Given Juno’s history of persecuting Jupiter’s lovers (e.g., Io, Callisto, and Semele), one wonders about the merit of Lara telling Juno about Juturna. The great probability is that Juturna, not Jupiter, would suffer Juno’s wrath. Recall the story of Echo in Met. 3, punished by Juno for protecting a fellow nymph who had been one of Jupiter’s sexual partners. There too an angry divinity inflicted punishment by limiting speech. 347. Murgatroyd (2003) points out resonances between Lara’s end and Juturna’s in Aeneid Book 12. See too Juturna’s despairing wish to be immured in deepest waters (Aen. 12.883–86). Lara fulfills the Virgilian nymph’s wish through no desire of her own; it is imposed on her. 348. Recall Vesta in the Ides of March narrative of Book 3. 349. McDonough (2004) 359 on power and powerlessness in this episode. 350. E.g., the cheeky infant cattle rustler of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, the helper of mortals in Homer (e.g., Iliad 24.358–472 and Odyssey 10.275–303), the laughing observer of divine foibles in Odyssey 8.321–42, the humorous schemer of Plautus’s Amphitruo, and the lover of (a willing) Herse in Ovid’s own Met. 2.737–831. 351. Feeney (1992) 12: “Lara’s silent suffering is emblematic of the repression of free speech under the principate, a repression the bitter and exiled Ovid knew all too well.” 352. Whether lares is actually linked to Lara is debatable. See Zavaroni (2006). My perspective is well expressed by McDonough (2004) 159: “perhaps the purpose of the story is not to give an aetiology for

the Lares, but to explore the concept of silence, highlighted by the semantically transparent name of an otherwise unknown goddess.” 353. Ovid may well have invented his narrative. No ancient writer speaks of Lara as Muta other than Lactantius, who apparently is following Ovid. The cult of the mother of the Lares, the Mater Larum, was ancient and obscure even as it appears in the song of the Arval Brethren. Suggestions for her name include Maia, Mania, Acca Larentia, and Larund; see Taylor (1925), Monella (2004), and Bodel (2008). 354. The use of the name Augustus was a tightly controlled matter subject to his express approval. Aside from the Lares Augusti, Augustus only permitted five other gods to be called by his name: Pax Augusta, Concordia Augusta, Providentia Augusta, Ops Augusta, and Iustitia Augusta; Lott (2004) 103. 355. Laurence (1991), Letta (2002), and Lott (2004). 356. Augustus expressed his interest and involvement by donating various gifts to individual vici—including, intriguingly, a statue of Mercury to one Esquiline neighborhood in 10 BC. Lott (2004) 76–80. Dedications to Mercurius Augustus were also fairly common; see CIL 6.283 and CIL 6.34. 357. Lott (2004) 81–127, especially 103–6, along with Simon (1986) 99–100 and Galinsky (1996) 319–20. 358. On organizing the vici leaders, see Dio 55.8.6–7 on firefighting, Suetonius, Divus Augustus 40 on census-taking, and Vitruvius, De Architectura 2.96 on overseeing water supplies. 359. Suetonius, Augustus. 31.4. The Compitalia was feriae conceptivae; its exact dates varied. See Cicero, In Pis. 4, ad Att. 2.3, 7.5, 7.7; Aulus Gellius 10. 24; Macrobius Saturnalia 1. 4. On the Compitalia as both urban and rural festival, see Stek (2008). 360. See Lott (2004) 110–16 on evidence for the genius and the vicus; 127 points out that no Augustanera neighborhood erected a statue of the princeps himself. 361. Not all compital dedications were to the princeps or divinities associated with him; one of the most prominent dedicatees is the otherwise obscure divinity Stata Mater, protectress against fires. 362. Contrast too with the fading Lares Praestites of Fasti 5.143ff. Barchiesi (1997) 106–10. 363. Note the Fasti Magistrorum Vici inscription of one Aventine vicus, dated 2 BC and covering the years 7–2 BC by city consuls, neighborhood officials, and a festival calendar. Degrassi, Insc. Ital. 13.1. 279–89 no. 20. 364. Feeney (1992) 27. 365. Barchiesi (1997) 109–10. Recall too that in the Fasti, the Compitalia festival itself passes by without fanfare while the poet chooses to give his attention to Lara’s catastrophe with a story placed in juxtaposition to Tacita/Muta. 366. See King (2004) and (2006) for the Fasti’s male homosocial aspects. 367. Barchiesi (1997) and Knox (2004). 368. Tristia 1.3.19–20 and 4.10.75–76 along with the Fasti passage under discussion. Details of her life were collected in Wheeler (1925). Her birthdate falls sometime between 19 and 9 BC. 369. Tristia 1.3.19; Seneca, De Constantia Sapientis 17.1; Pont. 4.8.11–12. 370. Alternatively, Ovid might be speaking about his stepdaughter Nerulla (?) who married Marcus Suillius Rufus no later than AD 16. On the girl, see Berrino (2006) and Ingleheart (2012). On the Roman wedding, see Treggiari (1991) and Hersch (2010). 371. Ovid married three times, the last to a woman with a daughter to whom the poet was apparently a doting stepfather if Tristia 3.7, addressed to Perilla (a pseudonym) and noting utque pater natae duxque comesque fui (18)—“when as a father to a daughter I was both counselor and companion”—is in any sense a literary reflection of their actual relationship. See too Hemelrijk (2004) 149–51 and 320–21, Berrino (2006), Luisi (2008), and Ingleheart (2012). As for Ovid the paterfamilias, such a thought might give any reader familiar with his love poems pause. 372. See Green (2008) for the poet’s various personae ranging from expert authority to insecure novice. 373. Fasti 2.557–62 advises unwed girls not to marry during the Feralia (February 21); Fasti 3.397–98 notes that the flaminica wears mourning garb during inauspicious times for weddings. 374. Barrett (2002) 160 on Livia being priestess of the Sodales Augustales as “the most revolutionary innovation” of that new cult’s establishment in AD 14. Her closest model may have been the flaminica Dialis, and Livia’s appointment to her new role also “brought with it a concrete manifestation of her new place within the state.”

375. She advises Ovid to arrange for his daughter’s wedding after the Ides of June, i.e., June 13. Littlewood (2006) 71 notes, citing Festus 296L, that the earliest possible date would be June 16, in accordance with the flaminica’s advice that the wedding occur after the temple of Vesta is ritually swept clean on June 15. 376. She represented the fertility and prosperity of Rome and was a symbol of marriage, visually expressed in the flammeum, the flame-colored bridal veil that she wore as part of her customary dress. Littlewood (2006) 71–72 notes other parts of her outfit that were associated with fertility. See too Hersch (2010). 377. Of course Roman weddings had always taken place with an eye to auspicious or permissible dates. In the context of the Fasti, however, nearly all types of constraint and rule-making ultimately redound on Augustus. 378. Pace Barchiesi (1997) 239–40, who considers this tale on the same plane as the Priapus and Faunus narratives. 379. Janus does have several small details attached to him. In Met. 14.433–34, Janus has a Palatine nymph named Venilia as a consort. Pseudo-Plutarch, Parallela Minora 9 identifies Janus as the son of Saturn and a mortal woman named Entoria. Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.7.19ff states that Janus ruled a kingdom in Latium, and Saturnalia 1.9.8–9 links Janus with a female counterpart, Jana. Arnobius 3.29 says that Janus had a liaison with Juturna. None of these mentions, however, are extended narratives in the mold of the Fasti. 380. The dedication seems to have been arranged to coincide with the birthday of Livia on January 30. 381. Note Newlands’s vehemence on this at (1995) 144. 382. Fasti 1.63ff. Note his mention of Tarpeia—perhaps a nod to Propertius 4.4. See also Hardie (1991) for analysis of the Janus episode as a whole. 383. Ovid’s Amores 1.6, a lover’s address to a doorkeeper; the first word is ianitor. Propertius 1.16 plays with the convention by purporting to be the door itself speaking. 384. Greek and Roman texts are shot through with associations of the Hours with love; one of the earliest is the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite 5ff. For the Hours guarding the gates of Olympus, see Homer, Iliad 5.749–81. 385. E.g., Propertius 3.12 and 4.3 decry war as a hindrance to love. 386. For other Augustan poetic treatments of grottos and amor, Virgil, Aeneid 4.165–72 for the union of Aeneas and Dido; Horace, Odes 1.5, the Pyrrha ode, for a duplicitous girl of another sort; Propertius 3.13.33–34 for pastoral love; and Ovid’s own Ars 2.621–23 for caves and privacy. Littlewood (2006) 44 notes a Greek analogue in Aristophanes, Lysistrata 922–23 with Myrrhine meeting the desperately amorous Cinesias in the cave of Pan only to disappoint him. 387. Porte (1985) 141. 388. Newlands (1995) 144 states that the incident is humorous but that it also “serves to destabilize our trust in the narrator’s authority.” I think this is perhaps overstating the case. 389. Newlands (1995) 144; Barchiesi (1997) 240. 390. Festus 283L also notes the use of apotropaic whitethorn for torches in Roman wedding processions. 391. Weinstock opines crushingly that Carna is “an obscure goddess without any importance” (1971) 155. Macrobius, Saturnalia 1.12.31 states Lucius Brutus dedicated a shrine to her on the Caelian on June 1. 392. This bit of parallelism and literary architecture is Ovid’s doing. As Littlewood (2006) 39 points out, aside from this passage, Carna has no connection with cardo, “hinge.” Augustine, De Civitate Dei 4.8 and 6.7 states that the goddess of the hinge was named Cardea. The alternate name Crane that Ovid uses at lines 107 and 151 does not appear in any other ancient text and may be the poet’s invention. See Bömer (1957) ad Fasti 6.101 and 107. 393. Green (2000) on the symbolism involved in the closing/opening. 394. McDonough (1997). The striges were also identified as owls, vampires, or witches who prey on children. See Plautus, Pseudolus 819–21; Horace, Ep. 5.39; Ovid, Amores 1.8.1–20; Apuleius, Apologia. 3.21; Petronius, Satyricon 63 and 134. See Porte (1985) 245–46 on the etymology of the word strix. 395. In Livy 1.3.6–10, Proca is a direct descendant of Aeneas; Proca is paternal grandfather to Rhea Silvia and so great-grandfather to Romulus and Remus. Also Dion. Hal 1.71.4–6, Ovid’s Met. 14.609–21 and Fasti 4.29–60.

396. Habinek (2005) 251 considers Carna as “a virtual doublet” of Carmentis and associated with foundation, particularly rites involving singing and sacrifice. Also Sabbatucci (1988) 182–92. 397. According to Plutarch, Quaest. Rom. 74 and Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 4.27.7, Servius was key in introducing the worship of Fortuna to Rome; both writers say that Servius built a temple to her as Fortuna Virilis in the Forum Boarium. Plutarch also credits the king with another shrine to Fortuna Euelpis or Bonae Spei on the Quirinal and still another on the Capitoline, noted in De Fort. Rom. 10. The Capitoline temple’s dedicatee is Fortuna Primigenia, the aspect of the goddess worshipped at Praeneste, where she was regarded as a daughter of Jupiter. Both Quaest. Rom. 74 and De Fort. Rom. 10 mention Servius’s temple to Fortuna Respiciens on the Esquiline. According to Varro, LL 6.17 and Dion. Hal. 4.27.7, Servius also constructed a temple to Fors Fortuna on the right bank of the Tiber. 398. Livy 1.42 and especially 1.46: forte ita inciderat ne duo violenta ingenia matrimonio iungerentur fortuna, credo, populi Romani, quo diuturnius Servi regnum esset constituique civitatis mores possent. 399. The personification of Fortune as a promiscuous tramp, heedlessly and frivolously distributing her favors to one and all, is a commonplace in literature. 400. For Ovid’s Servius Tullius in terms of Augustus and the religious cults of June 11, see Littlewood (2002). For a study of Servius Tullius, see Vernole (2002). 401. Recall also Aphrodite’s embarrassment after her affair with Anchises in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite. 402. Wiseman (1998) 27: “And if she’s ashamed of it, why tell anybody? The commentators offer no explanation.” It is akin to Flora hoping Jupiter will never know she aided Juno, but by telling the poet, she publishes her deed. 403. Pliny the Elder states that the statue in Fortuna’s temple was draped in two togas described as praetextae (HN 8.197) and undulatae (HN 8.194, also Varro ap. Non. 278L). The identity of the statue was a matter of dispute; some believed it was the goddess herself (Cass. Dio 58.7.2), others Servius Tullius; see Varro ap. Non. 278L; Pliny, HN 8.197; Dion. Hal. 4.40.7; Val. Max. 1.8.11. 404. As McLaren (2007) 1 observes, “Ovid’s Amores [3.7] and Petronius’s Satyrica provide the two most famous literary accounts of the ancients’ view of impotence.” Amores 3.7, though, should not be read as an actual (and unverifiable) autobiographical confession as much as a witty riff on love elegy. See also Sharrock (1995). 405. Fantham (1983), Wiseman (1998), and Barchiesi (1995) 228–29 on sexual farce and comedy. 406. Servius Tullius was married to Tarquinia, daughter of Tarquinius Priscus the previous king. 407. Covering up one’s face with a hood or cloak was a feature of mime shows, particularly when the wearer was up to no good; Seneca, Epistles 114.6 unfavorably compares the hooded Maecenas to a mime actor. On the adultery mime, see Ovid, Tristia 2.497–514. Horace reproduces the comic terrors of mime adultery in Satires 1.2.127–34. Note Reynolds (1946) 77–84 on this mime in general. 408. After Cynthia tells of climbing through her window, she states that she and Propertius embraced at the crossroads, saepe Venus trivio commissa (4.7.19), and on the streets: pectore mixto / fecerunt tepidas proelia nostra vias (4.7.19–20). Fortuna’s lapse presumably at least took place within the privacy of Servius’s royal chambers. 409. Plutarch, Quaestiones Romanae 36; Wiseman (1998) 27–29. 410. Barchiesi (1997) 229. 411. See Barchiesi (1997) 56 and Conte (1992) on the importance and role of second proems. 412. Pasco-Pranger (2006) chapter 3: Venus’s month, pp. 126–73. 413. Augustus undertook as an early project in his building program the completion of the Forum Iulium left unfinished by Julius Caesar; it featured a temple to Venus Genetrix. Caesar reportedly vowed a temple to Venus Victrix at the Battle of Pharsalus but then chose to highlight Venus Genetrix instead; Appian BC 73.3. On the Forum Iulium, see Ulrich (1993). In Augustus’s own programmatic Forum Augustum, the temple to Mars Ultor contained a cult statue group of that god joined by Venus Genetrix and Divus Iulius. 414. Note resonance also with Amores 2.18. 415. For returning to Venus after a long absence, see too Horace, Odes 4.1, which begins with an appeal for mercy: Intermissa, Venus, diu rursus bella moves? Parce, precor, precor (1). 416. Barchiesi (1997) 56–57. 417. Miller (2013) 247 describes the poetic persona as “unabashedly sophistical” and Venus

“admittedly self-interested” in the conversation. They are both, however, playing the same game. 418. Horsfall (1981) 103ff, especially 110, and Barchiesi (1991) 6–7. 419. Harrison (2002) 86. 420. Amores 3.15.41’s Elegy personified describes herself as levis: sum levis et mecum levis est mea cura Cupido. 421. Barchiesi (1997) 133. 422. Influential earlier combinations of aetiological and amorous included Tibullus 2.5 and the fourth book of Propertius. In Ovid’s earlier works the affinity of aetiology and amor appears in Amores 3.6, 3.10, and 3.13, as well as Ars Amatoria at 1.405–6 and 2.255–57. Callimachus’s most famous erotic episode, the story of Acontius and Cydippe, appears in the Aetia (fr. 67–75 Pfeiffer). Note also the manifestly false (and satirical?) aetiology for the Persian Wars in Herodotus Book 1, which states that they began as a series of amatory escapades. 423. Pace, for instance, Fantham (1983). While in Tristia 4.10 Ovid declares that he cannot help writing poetry, this is not the same as declaring that he can only write one type of poetry (e.g., amatory elegy). 424. Amores 1.4.59–62, 1.6, 2.2. 425. Ars 1.81–87. Note the words disertus and causa, with the idea that he must plead his own case, causaque agenda sua est, as the Fasti passage’s proque sua causa quisque disertus erat. 426. Barchiesi (1997) 59 declares: “This is elegiac imperialism.” 427. Barchiesi (1997) 60: “This Venus is a prism—an ambiguous signifier that concentrates in herself a plurality of literary influences, as well as of ideological issues, as is typical of the Fasti: she is both erotic and elegiac, didactic and Julian. It is up to the reader to decide whether to attempt a synthesis or to accept the irreconcilable nature of the different voices that the poet keeps in play.” See Pasco-Pranger (2006) 128 on Venus transforming the Fasti as much as the Fasti transforms her. 428. Sabbatucci (1988) 120 sees the various elements as “expressive modules” and the Fasti account as an attempt to elide them. The “modules” include nudity, bathing, and female sexuality. 429. Barchiesi (1997) 225 and Pasco-Pranger (2006) 152. 430. The Fasti Praenestini refers to the celebrants of Fortuna Virilis as humiliores. Valerius Maximus 8.15.12 notes Venus Verticordia as the goddess to restore chastity. Johannes Lydus’s De Mensibus states that respectable women prayed to Venus for marital harmony as their vulgar counterparts wore myrtle crowns and washed in men’s baths. 431. Note the juxtaposition of the line forms: the hexameter verse holds the “higher” discourse of Roman matrons, while the pentameter verse tells of “lower” subjects, that is, Roman prostitutes. 432. Barchiesi (1997) 222. The combination of these two groups resonates with the later call for all women—cunctas (4.147)—to disrobe as part of the rite. 433. Ars Amatoria 31–34 or Remedia Amoris 385–86, especially nil mihi cum vitta (385). Note the lex Iulia de adulteriis coercendis on the difference between adulterium and stuprum in the misbehavior of married men; consorting with prostitutes was generally regarded as stuprum. 434. The washing of the statue recalls Callimachus’s Hymn to Pallas, but in Ovid the hints of amatory poetry dominate. 435. Plutarch at De Fort. Rom. 10 and Quaestiones Romanae 74 ascribes a temple of Fortuna Virilis to Servius Tullius, and his is the only account of a temple for the goddess. The temple of Venus Verticordia was built in 114 BC and probably located on the Aventine hill behind the Circus Maximus; Servius ad Aen. 8.636 notes that it was surrounded by a myrtle grove. Degrassi notes that the anniversary of the temple was the first of April, the Veneralia (433–34). See Valerius Maximus 8.15.12 and Pliny HN 7.120. 436. Recall the erotic associations of Fortuna in 6.569–84. 437. See for instance the polysemic Tellus figure (also identified as Ceres, Pax, or Italia) on the Ara Pacis Augustae for an example of a fertility goddess rendered in a sense and context favorable to the princeps. 438. Barchiesi (1997) 190. 439. eodem die aedis Florae quae rebus florescendis praeest dedicata est propter sterilitatem frugum. 440. Fantham (1992). Contrast Georgics 1.5–20 and its omission of Flora with Varro, Rust. 1.1.5–7, a source for Virgil. 441. See too Ovid, Met. 15.864–65. 442. “Chloris” and “Flora” are not cognate. “Chloris” and its linguistic line are

ultimately related to the modern English word “yellow” whereas “Flora” is related to the English “bloom.” 443. The very name “Chloris” is something of a surprise after Ovid has given his reader eleven instances of flos and floreo within a hundred or so lines of poetry, as Barchiesi (1997) 189 observes. 444. Horace, Odes 2.5.18 and 3.16.8; Propertius 4.7.72. See also Barchiesi (1997) 191 on Greek names for prostitutes in Rome. Griffin (1985) treats the subject of Greek names in Roman society with full documentation. “Flora” itself was also a courtesan’s name; Pompey the Great once had a lover so named; Plutarch, Life of Pompey, 2.2–3. 445. Note Zephyr in Lucretius, De Rerum Natura 5.737–40 where he is linked with both Flora and Venus. 446. Other scholars do not always agree on this point. Johnson (1978) 7 calls Flora “a kind of Eliza Doolittle in late middle age.” Newlands (1995) 108 characterizes Flora as a kind of contented, middleaged wife: “Ovid significantly tones down her erotic charms with a matronly good humor and kindliness” (108). Given Flora’s refusal to obey her husband at one point (5.312–30) and her interest in carnal enjoyment, I cannot agree. On sex and the Roman matron, see Dixon (1992) 86–88. On distinctions between bedding a prostitute for pleasure and a wife for procreation, Lucretius, DRN 4.1263–77. The only publicized moment in which a Roman bride was to desire sex may be at the moment of marriage; I owe this to a comment by James Porter; see Catullus 61 and Plutarch, Moralia 138.4. A lustful matrona is presented as fodder for comedy in Plautus’s Amphitruo (especially 502ff); see Phillips (1985). 447. Valerius Maximus 2.10.8, Aulus Gellius 10.13, and Martial in the prologue to Epigrams Book 1, which at 1.35.8–9 notes Quis Floralia vestit et stolatum / permittit meretricibus pudorem? Seneca, Ep. 97.8 describes the games as Floralis iocos nudandarum meretricum. Juvenal, Satire 6.246–51 refers to a girl trained to fight at the Floralia, Florali matrona tuba. Arnobius, Adversus Gentes 7.33 complained Existimatve tractari se honorifice Flora, si suis in ludis flagitiosas conspexerit res agi et migratum ab lupanaribus in theatra? 448. The key term forma reappears in both Fasti 5.199 and Amores 3.1.9. On the Flora-Elegy comparison, see Newlands (1995) 109. Wyke (1989) states that in Amores 3.1, Elegy is presented as a young prostitute. 449. See too Tola (2009). 450. For Juno the situation is the more galling as she is also Juno Lucina, the patroness of childbirth. On the birth of Athena, see Hesiod’s Theogony 924 and the Homeric Hymn to Athena. 451. Recall Aeneid 1.29–39, where Juno complains that she will be seen as less than other divinities if she does not successfully hound Aeneas. 452. In the Aeneid, Juno’s main attendant is Iris, who brings final extinction to the dying Dido (4.693–705) and causes Aeneas’s ships to be burned in Sicily (5.604–63). Iris is explicitly described as familiar with doing harm—haud ignara nocendi (5.618). Juno deputizes the hellish Fury Allecto to spur Amata and Turnus to war against Aeneas (7.324ff); she sends the nymph Juturna to help Turnus and so prolong that war (12.138ff). 453. Magical plants such as the lotus and moly of the Odyssey and Medea’s mandrake of the Argonautica exist in epic, but no flower shares the ability to engender offspring by its mere touch. 454. Hesiod, Theogony 921–23. In Ovid the god is born from dissension between the married rulers of the gods; see Newlands (1995) 108 on implication for imperial dynastic politics. 455. Newlands (1995) 106 sees a story that “destabilizes the Romans’ strong sense of their masculine identity.” 456. The literary praise of fragrance also harks back to the closing lines of Catullus 13, a point I owe to John J. Miller. On scents and sensuality see Butler (2010). 457. Pace Pasco-Pranger (2006) 171: “Ovid’s placement of the sphragis of his name at so obscure a place in the poem again plays with the displacement of Flora from her rightful position.” 458. Fr. 7.13ff. Pfeiffer. 459. Pasco-Pranger (2006) 171. 460. 1.41 notes that the third month takes its name a senibus and so aligns with Urania’s answer. The passage also states the month name is derived iuvenum de nomine. 461. The poet here is also teasingly similar to Zeus, who refused to choose among Hera, Aphrodite, and

Athena on the issue of who should be the recipient of the golden apple; he then fobbed off the fateful decision to Paris, to whom Ovid also obliquely refers in the quoted passage. 462. See also Harries (1989), Barchiesi (1991 and 1997), Boyd (2000), Newlands (1994 and 2002), Littlewood (2006) 4–34, Pasco-Pranger (2006) 217–92, and Mazurek (2010). 463. The sheer variety recalls Amores 2.4, especially its conclusion: Denique quas tota quisquam probet urbe puellas, / noster in has omnis ambitiosus amor (47–48). 464. The reception of the Fasti and its calendar girls would be the natural next step. Scholarship such as Hemelrijk (1999) already lay a foundation for reception studies of ancient Roman women readers, though conclusions would be largely speculative. Work on postclassical reception thus far includes Newlands (2004) and Burroughs (2012), with Moss (2014) offering a general examination of Ovid as cultural authority to be emulated and imitated in Renaissance England and Fritsen (2015) examining commentaries on the Fasti from the Italian Renaissance. Miller and Newlands (2014) offers a collection of essays on Ovidian reception.

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Index Locorum Catullus Carmina 5.1–3 Horace Odes 1.2.29 Satires 1.5.9–23 Livy Ab Urbe Condita Praefatio 10, 1.13.4–5, 1.57–59, 2.32.7, 2.32.8, 2.33.10–11, 4.44.11, 4.44.12, 7.6.1–6, 8.15.7, 29.11.8, 29.14.2, 29.14.6–7, 29.14.2 Lucretius De Rerum Natura 1.9 Ovid Amores 3.1.12, 3.7.37, 3.7.73, 3.15.1–2, 3.15.15–20 Ars Amatoria 1.4, 1.7–8, 1.29–30; 2.15.16; 3.133–36, 3.169–92, 3.633–38 Fasti 1.2, 1.13, 1.124–25, 1.268, 1.437–38, 1.465–68, 1.472, 1.477, 1.479, 1.480, 1.487, 1.499, 1.503–8, 1.531–34, 1.535–36, 1.537, 1.539, 1.621–24, 1.625, 1.637–50; 2.571, 2.572, 2.581–82, 2.584, 2.585, 2.586, 2.599, 2.601–2, 2.604, 2.606, 2.607, 2.608, 2.609–10, 2.611–14, 2.615–16, 2.741–44, 2.745–56, 2.757, 2.758, 2.760, 2.761–62, 2.765–66, 2.771–74, 2.787, 2.789–90, 2.814, 2.815–20, 2.828, 2.829–34, 2.841–43, 2.844–46, 2.847; 3.2, 3.9–10, 3.153–54, 3.167–70, 3.207–12, 3.228, 3.232, 3.251, 3.276, 3.289, 3.294, 3.523–32, 3.538, 3.551–52, 3.555–56, 3.557–58, 3.559–60, 3.565–66, 3.572, 3.575, 3.577, 3.578, 3.601–2, 3.603, 3.604, 3.605, 3.609, 3.611, 3.612, 3.621–24, 3.627, 3.629–32, 3.633–38, 3.647–56, 3.661–72, 3.673–74, 3.675–76, 3.681, 3.682, 3.692, 3.693, 3.694, 3.695–96, 3.697–700, 3.705–10; 4.1–3, 4.4–6, 4.7–8, 4.13–17, 4.67–68, 4.107–16, 4.133–34, 4.139, 4.195–96, 4.224, 4.227–28, 4.229ff., 4.239, 4.256, 4.260, 4.305–12, 4.310, 4.307–11, 4.293–96, 4.304, 4.313–24, 4.325–28, 4.343–44, 4.669–70,

4.682–83, 4.945–46, 4.947–49, 4.949–54; 5.3–4, 5.22ff., 5.97–98, 5.108–10, Page 206 →5.148–58, 5.183–91, 5.191–92, 5.193–98, 5.199–200, 5.201, 5.206, 5.210, 5.212, 5.221–28, 5.229, 5.238–44, 5.249, 5.255–58, 5.259–60, 5.303–14, 5.312, 5.315, 5.327–328, 5.331–334, 5.335–340, 5.347–348, 5.573–578, 5.567–568, 5.729–731; 6.1–2, 6.97–100, 6.113–18, 6.119, 6.127, 6.129–30, 6.165–68, 6.219–20, 6.221–222, 6.226, 6.249, 6.250, 6.251, 6.252, 6.336, 6.393, 6.395–400, 6.401–6, 6.409–10, 6.411–14, 6.407–8, 6.415–16, 6.450–52, 6.467–68, 6.569–70, 6.571–72, 6.573–80, 6.637–38 Heroides 13 Metamorphoses 1.107–8; 6.561–62; 12.196–97 Tristia 2.54.52 Propertius Carmina 1.2.1; 3.12.22; 4.3, 4.7.15–18 Sallust Bellum Catilinae 25 Tibullus Carmina 1.3.83–94 Virgil Aeneid 1.33, 1.208–9, 1.279, 1.312–13; 2.783–84; 3.603; 8.51–56, 8.97–100, 8.335–36, 8.339–40; 12.605, 12.843, 12.791, 12.829, 12.877–78 Georgics 1.506

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General Index Adonis, 166–67 Aeneas, 62–72, 74–86, 88–91, 96, 101, 116, 121, 167–68, 174 Allecto, 84, 169 amator, 58, 100, 138, 152, 154 exclusus, 141 Amores, 4, 5, 47, 116, 119, 135, 137–39, 147, 149–52, 155, 158, 163–64, 167 Anchises, 66, 68, 70, 83 Anna (sister of Dido), 72–79, 80–88, 90, 96, 116, 135, 147 Bovillae, See Anna Perenna, 20, 24–27, 33 Perenna, 20, 23–28, 62, 64, 72–73, 98–100, 115–17, 127 Apollo, 67, 69, 100–101, 161, 166 Ars Amatoria, 2, 5, 7, 43, 47, 111, 135, 137, 155–157 Attis, 43, 166 Augustus, 1–7, 9, 12–14, 16, 18, 33, 35, 38–40, 45–46, 62, 66, 70, 91–93, 96, 99–102, 106–9, 113–15, 118–19, 122–24, 126–27, 132–34, 137–41, 158, 161, 173–74, 177 Battus, 74–76, 79 Bona Dea, 110–12 Brutus (Lucius Junius Brutus), 60–61 Callimachean poetics, 26, 54, 74, 167 Calliope, 71, 174 Caristia, 128–29 Carna, 139–44 Carmentalia, 67–68, 71, 94–95, 106, 109 Carmentis, 64, 67–72, 90, 101, 104, 106–7 Carthage, 42, 63, 72–76, 79–80, 82–83 Claudia Quinta, 20, 40–54, 61–62, 135 Collatinus, 52–54, 56 Comedy (Roman), 78, 80, 89, 98, 147

Concordia, 108–9, 112–14, 175 Creusa, 79, 83 Cybele, 20, 40, 42–44, 48–50 Dido, 63, 71–75, 78–79, 81–82, 84, 116 Egeria, 103–5, 134 elegy, 4–5, 15–17, 46–47, 54–59, 76, 112, 115–16, 135–38, 145–52, 154–58, 162–64, 167, 169–72 Erato, 43, 51 etymology, 28–31, 33–34, 174, 176 Evander, 63–71, 86, 90, 101, 104 exile, 1, 2, 6–9, 65–70, 73–74, 77, 79, 127, 130 Faunus, 105, 147 Feralia, 86, 127–28 Flora, 93–96, 118–20, 138, 140–41, 158–67, 169–72 Floralia, 93–94, 118, 158–59, 163, 167, 170–71 Fortuna, 144–49 Virilis, 156, 158 Forum Augustum, 96, 99–100 Page 208 →genre, 4–5, 15–16, 72, 74, 96, 115, 154, 158, 167, 169 Germanicus, 6, 8–9, 108, 134 Graces, 141, 165, 172 Hannibal, 20, 41–42, 44 Heroides, 3, 5, 55, 77, 135 Hersilia, 102–3, 134 Hours, 140–41, 165 Hyacinthus, 166–67 Janus, 139–44 Jove. See Jupiter Julia Augusta. See Livia Julius Caesar, 4, 10, 106, 109, 111, 116–17, 123–24

Juno, 63, 76, 83, 88–90, 97, 103, 109–10, 114, 129, 138, 167–70, 175 Jupiter, 1, 23, 26, 63–64, 71, 74, 83, 86–90, 109, 114, 126–31, 140–41, 147, 167–70 Elicius, 105 Pistor, 125–26 Juturna, 64, 86–90, 127–30, 169 Lacus Curtius, 20, 28–31, 33–34, 37–38, 62 Lara, 88–90, 127–31, 133–34, 139 Lares Augusti, 92, 127, 132–34, 139 Lavinia, 64, 74, 78–85, 90, 101 Livia, 6, 9, 13, 70, 101, 106–14, 138 Livy, 3, 16, 19–22, 24, 26–32, 36–37, 39–42, 46, 50–54, 59, 61–63, 104, 135, 144–45, 173–74, 177 Lotis, 121–22 Lucretia, 20, 40, 51–62, 135 Lucretius, 115, 121, 149 Magna Mater, 40–44, 48–50. See also Cybele Marcus Curtius, 30–31, 35, 38–39, 61–62 Mars, 87–88, 93, 96–102, 115–17, 122, 124–126, 134, 147, 158, 167, 169–71 marriage, 13, 80–81, 83–84, 113, 135–39 Matronalia, 96–97, 99, 103 Menenius Agrippa, 21–22, 24–26 Mercury, 26, 129–31, 174 metagenre, 15, 154 Metamorphoses, 1–2, 6–8, 26, 64, 72, 77, 106, 122, 129, 140, 142, 158, 165–67 Metellus (Lucius Caecilius Metellus), 38–39 Mettius Curtius, 28–31 Minerva, 87, 97–98, 116, 167 Muses, 8, 43, 172, 174–76 Muta, 86, 128 Numa, 101–5, 134

Numicius, 74, 85, 147 paraklausithyron, 141, 155, 170 Parthian, 123–24 Philomela, 129, 131 pietas, 66, 81, 103, 124 Pomona, 140, 142 Priapus, 121–22, 124, 142, 147 puella, 17, 20, 40, 42, 46–48, 51, 54–59, 127–28, 138, 147–48, 154, 177 relegatio, 1, 9 Rhea Silvia, 87, 97, 99 Roman identity, 2–3, 10, 12–13, 19, 21, 27–28, 30–32, 34–35, 37–40, 62–63, 90, 95–96, 101–2, 105–8, 113–18, 135, 158, 170, 173–74, 176–78 Romulus, 28, 96, 101–5, 134, 143 Sabine women, 28–30, 102–3 Scipio Nasica, 41, 49–50 Servius Tullius, 144, 147–48 Sextus Tarquin, 52–54, 57–59, 61 Tacita, 127–28, 131 See also Muta Tereus, 129, 131 Tiberius, 2, 6, 9, 38, 92, 101, 106–10, 114, 134 Turnus, 64, 80, 88–89 Page 209 →Venus, 43, 63, 71, 115–22, 125–26, 137–38, 141, 149–58, 163–66, 172 Genetrix, 96, 109–10, 149 Verticordia, 156, 158 Vesta, 32, 38–39, 92, 99, 114–26, 134, 138, 159–61, 164, 171–72 Vestal Virgins, 46, 125, 177 Virgil, 3, 16, 32, 62–66, 68–86, 88–91, 125, 127, 135, 159, 167–69, 173–74, 177 Zephyr, 140, 163, 165, 167