Rhetoric and Innovation in Hellenistic Art
 1108490913, 9781108490917

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Table of contents :
Cover
Half-title
Title page
Copyright information
Dedication
Contents
List of Illustrations
Map
Figures
Color Plates
Preface
Abbreviations and Translations
Plates
Chapter One Rhetoric, Innovation, and the Courts
Introduction
The Role of Rhetorical Education
The Role of Artists
The Role of the Courts
Hellenistic Art around the Mediterranean
The Remainder of This Book: Art and Rhetoric at Pergamon and Alexandria
Chapter Two Narrative in the Telephos Frieze
Introduction
Contextualizing the Frieze
Reconstructing the Frieze
Diegema
Bios
Why Telephos?
Conclusion: A Synkrisis?
Chapter Three Personification in the Archelaos Relief
Introduction
Origins
Personifications on the Relief
Chronos and Oikoumene
The Iliad and the Odyssey
The Nature of Literary Production
Prosopopoiia
Conclusion: An Enkomion?
Chapter Four Ekphrasis in Sosos's Unswept Room Mosaic
Introduction
Pergamene Context
Ekphrasis
Time and Ekphrasis in the Dining Room
Trashing the King
Conclusion: A Greek Sympotic Game?
Chapter Five Conclusion
Notes
1 Rhetoric, Innovation, and the Courts
2 Narrative in the Telephos Frieze
3 Personification in the Archelaos Relief
4 Ekphrasis in Sosos's Unswept Room Mosaic
5 Conclusion
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

RHETORIC AND INNOVATION IN HELLENISTIC ART

Hellenistic artworks are celebrated for innovations such as narrative, characterization, and description. The most striking examples are works associated with the Hellenistic courts. Their revolutionary appearance is usually attributed to Alexander the Great’s conquest of the Near East, the start of the Hellenistic kingdoms, and Greek–Eastern interactions. In Rhetoric and Innovation in Hellenistic Art, Kristen Seaman offers a new approach to Hellenistic art by investigating an internal development in Greek cultural production, notably, advances in rhetoric. Rhetorical education taught kings, artists, and courtiers how to be Greek, giving them a common intellectual and cultural background from which they approached art. Seaman explores how rhetorical techniques helped artists and their royal patrons construct Hellenism through their innovative art in the scholarly atmospheres of Pergamon and Alexandria. Drawing upon artistic, literary, and historical evidence, this interdisciplinary study will be of interest to students and scholars in art and archaeology, Classics, and ancient history. kristen seaman is Assistant Professor at the University of Oregon. She is the co-editor of Artists and Artistic Production in Ancient Greece (Cambridge 2017) and has received fellowships from the Fulbright Foundation, the Loeb Classical Library Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Humanities.

RHETORIC AND INNOVATION IN HELLENISTIC ART KRISTEN SEAMAN University of Oregon

University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, ny 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, vic 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 79 Anson Road, #06–04/06, Singapore 079906 Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781108490917 doi: 10.1017/9781108859202 © Cambridge University Press 2020 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2020 Printed in the United Kingdom by TJ International Ltd, Padstow Cornwall A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. isbn 978-1-108-49091-7 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate, or appropriate. Publication of this book has been aided by a grant from the von Bothmer Publication Fund of the Archaeological Institute of America.

To my mother

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

page ix

Preface

xi

Abbreviations and Translations

xv

1

RHETORIC, INNOVATION, AND THE COURTS

2

NARRATIVE IN THE TELEPHOS FRIEZE

31

3

P E R S O N IF I C A T I O N I N T H E A R C H E L A O S R E L I E F

67

4

E K P H R A S I S I N S O S O S’ S U N S W E P T RO O M M O S A I C

110

5

CONCLUSION

132

1

Notes

135

Bibliography

157

Index

181

Color plates can be found between pp. xvi and 1

vii

ILLUSTRATIONS

MAP

1

The Hellenistic World

page 6

FIGURES

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 1.7 1.8 1.9 1.10 1.11 1.12 1.13 1.14 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8 2.9 2.10 2.11 2.12 2.13 2.14 2.15 2.16

East side, Parthenon Frieze Building of Auge’s boat, Telephos Frieze Athena, Alkyoneus, Ge, and Nike, Gigantomachy Frieze Metope from the Ptolemaion at Limyra Dog mosaic from Alexandria Grave stele from Demetrias Grave stele from Alexandria The Pergamene Akropolis Plan of the Royal District on the Pergamene Akropolis Model of the Pergamene Akropolis Alexandria, view of the Corniche Plan of Ptolemaic Alexandria Reconstruction of ancient Alexandria Bibliotheca Alexandrina Reconstruction of the Telephos Frieze Foundations of the Great Altar on the Altar Terrace at Pergamon Great Altar at Pergamon Plan of the Great Altar at Pergamon Model of the Great Altar at Pergamon Odysseus’s homecoming on a Hellenistic Relief bowl Reconstruction of spolia on the interior altar/base in the Great Altar at Pergamon Court of King Aleos in Tegea and Herakles in an oak grove, Telephos Frieze Pan’s Sanctuary (?), Telephos Frieze Herakles, Telephos, and Lioness, Telephos Frieze Auge’s betrothal to Telephos, Telephos Frieze Battle between Hiera and Nireus, Telephos Frieze Hiera’s funeral, Telephos Frieze Court of Agamemnon at Argos, Telephos Frieze Telephos consecrating an altar, Telephos Frieze Telephos’s deathbed and apotheosis, Telephos Frieze

page 2 3 4 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 25 26 28 29 32 34 34 35 36 37 38 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 ix

x

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10 3.11 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 4.8

Archelaos Relief Tazza Farnese Archelaos Relief, detail Nile Mosaic Stela from Tanis Bibliotheca Alexandrina, with colossal portrait of a Ptolemy Silver kalathos from Herculaneum Odyssey from the Athenian Agora “Iliad” from the Athenian Agora Portrait of Homer Personifications on a hydria attributed to the Meidias Painter The palace area at Pergamon Plan of Palace V at Pergamon Reconstruction of Palace V at Pergamon Reconstruction of a Greek dining room Copy of the “Drunken Old Woman,” detail Funerary monument from Athens Terme Boxer, detail Simias’s Egg

COLOR PLATES

I II III IV V VIa VIb VIIa VIIb VIIIa VIIIb

Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Rome, detail Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Rome Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Rome, detail Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Aquileia Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Aquileia, detail Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Uthina, detail Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Thysdrus, detail Parakeet mosaic from Palace V at Pergamon Hephaistion mosaic from Palace V at Pergamon Copy of Sosos’s birds from the House of Attalos at Pergamon Copy of Sosos’s birds from Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli

68 73 74 78 79 80 86 87 88 89 103 114 115 116 117 121 122 123 129

PREFACE

I think that the Hellenistic age is the most dynamic period of Greek cultural production, and two fundamental questions about it motivated me to write this book: Why did some notable examples of Hellenistic art look so different from previous Greek art? And why did some key elements of Hellenistic art and literature appear so similar? I have come to believe that these questions are, in fact, complementary and that one possible explanation helps to answer both: new practices in Greek rhetorical education informed the students who went on, as adults, to produce the innovative visual and textual culture that is associated with the Hellenistic courts. In this book, I explore the role of rhetoric in helping monarchs and their artists construct Hellenism through their rhetorically informed court art. I have chosen focal points – the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon, the Archelaos Relief, and Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic – that look remarkably different from earlier Greek art and are associated with the scholarly atmospheres of the courts at Pergamon and Alexandria. No one cause, of course, can explain every aspect of a period’s cultural production. But exploring the role of rhetorical education and theory is profitable because it enables us to think about the common academic and intellectual background from which Hellenistic monarchs, artists, and courtiers approached some exceptionally groundbreaking forms of Greek art in the courts. In this project, I am inspired by scholars who have examined the dynamic relationship between word and image – and have considered art to be as worthy of serious study as text. This book began its life as my doctoral dissertation. First and foremost, I owe profound thanks to Andrew Stewart and Erich Gruen for their help and advice throughout all stages of this project. With affection, I also wish to acknowledge Erich’s get-togethers of Ph.D. students that critiqued drafts of dissertation chapters, Ann Hasse’s homemade cookies at those gatherings, and Andy’s Friday lunches; they created a supportive and energizing environment at the start of this endeavor. In addition, I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to Erich and Ann for their kindness and encouragement during the final stretch of finishing this book. I also would like to thank Christopher Hallett for his time and assistance. And I wish to note my great appreciation of Alan Shapiro’s help, interest, and generosity. xi

xii

PREFACE

Throughout the course of my research, I have consulted a number of other people. For help with museum access and technical issues, I thank Peter Higgs at the British Museum; Volker Kästner at the Staatliche Museen zu Berlin; Franca Maselli Scotti and the staff at the Museo Nazionale di Aquileia; and Giandomenico Spinola at the Musei Vaticani. I also appreciate the assistance of Jean-Yves Empereur, Marie-Dominique Nenna, and the staff of the Centre d’Études Alexandrines in Alexandria; the administration and staff of the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut in Germany and Turkey; and the administration and staff of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Moreover, I am grateful that Wolf-Dieter Heilmeyer and Wolfram Hoepfner allowed me to reproduce their reconstructions and plans in this book. For help with particular points, I also thank Marianne Bergmann, Judith Binder, Barbara Borg, Jorge Bravo, Sheramy Bundrick, Antonio Corso, Katherine Dunbabin, Christopher Eckerman, Jas Elsner, Sandra Gambetti, Sander Goldberg, Elizabeth Honig, Jeffrey Hurwit, Noah Kaye, Catherine Keesling, Candace Keller, John Kirby, Elizabeth Kosmetatou, Kenneth Lapatin, Carol Lawton, Paolo Liverani, Ariel Loftus, Lindsey Mazurek, Margaret Miles, Jenifer Neils, Isabelle Pafford, Olga Palagia, Nandini Pandey, Jeffrey Pearson, Ellen Perry, Jerome Pollitt, Patricia Poulter, Molly Richardson, Brunilde Ridgway, Carolynn Roncaglia, Amy Russell, Sara Saba, Edward Schiappa, Jason Schlude, Peter Schultz, James Sickinger, Geo Sipp, Amy Smith, R. R. R. Smith, Emma Stafford, Ronald Stroud, C. Jan Swearingen, Joe Thomas, Petros Themelis, Stephen Tracy, Marjorie Venit, Jeffrey Walker, Geoffrey Waywell, Ruth Westgate, and Graham Zanker. Additional thanks must go to Jerome Pollitt for sparking my first interest in Hellenistic art – and the focal points in this book – when I was an undergraduate in his courses. I am grateful for the institutional support that I have received as well. I thank all my colleagues at Kennesaw State University and the University of Oregon, and I wish to note, in particular, the help of Sander Goldberg and Jeffrey Hurwit. I also wish to acknowledge Charles Lachman and Kate Mondloch, Heads of Oregon’s Department of the History of Art and Architecture; Mary Jaeger and Malcolm Wilson, Heads of Oregon’s Department of Classics; and Christoph Lindner, Dean of Oregon’s College of Design. Moreover, I would like to record my thanks to Beatrice Rehl, the staff at Cambridge University Press, and two anonymous peer readers for their help. An early version of what eventually became one of Chapter 3’s sections appeared as “Personifications of the Iliad and the Odyssey in Hellenistic and Roman Art,” in J. Herrin and E. Stafford (eds.), Personification in the Greek World, Aldershot: Ashgate 2005. I thank the Taylor & Francis Group for permission to include it here in revised form. Several sources of funding enabled my research trips and the image program in this book. I thank the American School of Classical Studies at Athens for

PREFACE

Broneer Travel Grants; the Center for Excellence in Teaching and Learning at Kennesaw State University for an Incentive Award for Research and Creative Activity; the Chancellor’s Professorship Research Fund of the University of California at Berkeley for grants; the Classics Department of the University of California at Berkeley for Brittan Fellowships; the History of Art Department of the University of California at Berkeley for funding; the Graduate Division of the University of California at Berkeley for a Graduate Division Summer Grant; the Institute of International Education for a Fulbright Scholarship; the State Scholarships Foundation of Greece (IKY) for a Postgraduate Scholarship for Foreigners; the Stahl Research Fund of the Archaeological Research Facility of the University of California at Berkeley for grants; and the University of Oregon for research funding. In addition, I am extremely grateful that the von Bothmer Publication Fund of the Archaeological Institute of America funded the purchase of images and licenses as well as the publication of this book’s color plates. Finally, this book would not have been possible without the love and support of my family. I thank especially my parents, my sister and her family, and my grandparents and great-grandparents, who are always present in my thoughts. This book is dedicated to my mother, Nancy Noga Maronn, whom I appreciate more than words can say.

xiii

ABBREVIATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS

Abbreviations of journals follow those listed in the Author Guide for the American Journal of Archaeology (www.ajaonline.org), and abbreviations of ancient sources, epigraphical publications, and standard reference works follow those listed in S. Hornblower, A. Spawforth, and E. Eidinow (eds.) (2012), The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th edn., Oxford: Oxford University Press. DNO = S. Kansteiner et al. (eds.) (2014) Der Neue Overbeck. Die antiken Schriftquellen zu den bildenden Künsten der Griechen, 5 vols., Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. All translations are my own.

xv

plate i Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room, detail. From Rome; second century ce. Roman copy of secondcentury bce original. Mosaic; 4.05  4.05 m. Vatican, Musei Vaticani inv. 10132. Photo: DEA/V. PIROZZI/De Agostini via Getty Images.

plate ii Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room. From Rome; second century ce. Roman copy of second-century bce original. Mosaic; 4.05 m x 4.05 m. Vatican, Musei Vaticani inv. 10132. Photo: Photo Vatican Museums.

plate iii Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room, detail. From Rome; second century ce. Roman copy of second-century bce original. Mosaic; 4.05 m x 4.05 m. Vatican, Musei Vaticani inv. 10132. Photo: DEA/V. PIROZZI/De Agostini via Getty Images.

plate iv Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room. From Aquileia; first century ce. Roman copy of second-century bce original. Mosaic; 2.39  2.07 m. Aquileia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale. Photo: Photographic Archive of the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Aquileia. Published by permission of the Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali, Polo Museale del Friuli Venezia Giulia.

plate v Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room, detail. From Aquileia; first-century ce copy of second-century bce original. Mosaic; 2.39  2.07 m. Aquileia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale. Photo: Photographic Archive of the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Aquileia. Published by permission of the Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali, Polo Museale del Friuli Venezia Giulia.

plate via Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Uthina, detail. From Uthina (Oudna); late first–early second century ce. Mosaic; 60  70 m. Tunis, Bardo National Museum. Photo: credit AMVPPC.

plate vib Copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room from Thysdrus, detail. From Thysdrus (El Djem); early third century ce. Sousse, Archaeological Museum. Photo: credit AMVPPC.

plate viia Parakeet, detail. From Palace V at Pergamon; second century bce. Mosaic; 1.70  3.03 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. Mos. 71. Photo: bpk Bildagentur/Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin/Juergen Liepe/Art Resource, NY.

plate viib Hephaistion’s signature, detail. From Palace V at Pergamon; second century bce. Mosaic; 6.30  6.30 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. Mos. 70. Photo: bpk Bildagentur/Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin/Johannes Laurentius/Art Resource, NY.

plate viiia Copy of Sosos’s birds, detail. From the House of Attalos at Pergamon; first century bce. Wall-painting. Photo: © DAI Pergamongrabung PE2018-11158.

plate viiib Copy of Sosos’s birds. From Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli; second-century ce copy of second-century bce original. Mosaic; 0.98  0.85 m. Rome, Musei Capitolini inv. 1256. Photo: inv. MC 402/S – Mosaico con Colombe (Roma, Musei Capitolini, Palazzo Nuovo, Sala delle Colombe – Archivo Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini, foto Zeno Colantoni). © Roma, Sovrintendenza Capitolina ai Beni Culturali.

CHAPTER ONE

RHETORIC, INNOVATION, AND THE COURTS

INTRO DUCTION

Today Hellenistic art is celebrated for its innovation. To get a sense of how it differs from the Greek art of previous eras, we only need to compare two well-known artworks that are separated by centuries but united in medium: the Classical frieze from the Parthenon in Athens (Fig. 1.1) and the Hellenistic Telephos Frieze from the Great Altar at Pergamon (Fig. 1.2).1 In their original and complete states, both works were continuous marble friezes that wrapped around their monuments. The Parthenon Frieze encircled the top of the exterior walls of the Parthenon’s cella, visible through the spaces in the building’s colonnade. It depicted the procession of the Panathenaic Festival, which celebrated the goddess Athena’s birthday. The Telephos Frieze ran around the Great Altar’s interior courtyard, and here, too, a colonnade framed viewing. It presented the life story of Telephos, a mythical hero who is associated with Pergamon’s origins. These works constitute an especially helpful comparison: although both were architectural friezes on prominent Greek buildings, they look obviously different, even in their current fragmentary state. Most notably, the Parthenon Frieze illustrates one event – a parade – while the Telephos Frieze narrates an episodic story. Moreover, as we see in Figures 1.1 and 1.2, the Parthenon Frieze has stock figures with placid, neutral facial expressions, yet the Telephos Frieze has characters who exhibit emotion and individuality. The Parthenon Frieze also pays little attention to setting, but 1

2

RHETORIC, INNOVATION, AND THE COURTS

1.1 Parthenon Frieze, East side. From the Parthenon Frieze in the Parthenon, Athens; ca. 438 bce. Marble; original height 1.02 m. Athens, Acropolis Museum. (Photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY)

the Telephos Frieze describes a range of landscapes, including the rocky terrain in Figure 1.2. By comparing these two artworks, we can appreciate some of the great innovations that took place in Greek art between the Classical and Hellenistic periods: dramatic changes in the use of narrative, characterization, and description – or διήγημα (diegema), προσωποποιία (prosopopoiia), and ἔκφρασις (ekphrasis), to use Greek terminology. What is more, the relative calmness of most of the Telephos Frieze contrasts with the exuberance of the Baroque sculptural frieze on the Great Altar’s exterior (Figs. 1.3 and 2.2). This new possibility of formal choice – especially within one monument – demonstrates additional Hellenistic innovation in the use of style, or λέξις (lexis). These innovations prompt one basic question: Why did some Greek art in the Hellenistic period look so different from previous Greek art? Explanations for this transformation often look to such external factors as Alexander the Great’s conquest of the Near East in the 330–320s bce and the continued Greek presence in the resulting Hellenistic kingdoms of his

INTRODUCTION

1.2 The building of Auge’s boat. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 5–6. (Photo: author)

Successors (Map 1): the Ptolemaic Kingdom in Egypt, the Antigonid Kingdom in Makedonia, the Attalid Kingdom in Asia Minor, and the Seleukid Kingdom in the Near East. But did this expansion in and of itself really have a profound impact on Greek art? First of all, it is helpful to keep in mind how modern interpretations of these events have shaped the definitions of what we call the Hellenistic period. Today, as we have seen, Hellenistic art is characterized by its differences from earlier Greek art. One of the greatest challenges with attempting an historical explanation for such innovations, however, is the way in which this art-historical period has been conceived and defined. Lack of ancient documentation, modern

3

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RHETORIC, INNOVATION, AND THE COURTS

1.3 Athena, Alkyoneus, Ge, and Nike on the Gigantomachy Frieze, eastern podium. From the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 2.3 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. GF 16.1–16.5. (Photo: author)

neglect, and application of perhaps ill-fitting terms have all hindered historical explanations for Hellenistic art. When the Roman encyclopedist Pliny wrote cessavit deinde ars (“then art ceased”) in 296–292 bce, little did he know that he was to influence the way in which Hellenistic art would be received for the next 2,000 years.2 In this statement, Pliny almost certainly refers to the limited phenomenon of the celebrity sculptor in mainland Greece – and even then assuredly overstates his case. But he does highlight a real, perceptible change that had taken place in Greek visual culture. Like other ancient writers before him, Pliny places the final floruit of Greek art with Lysippos, Alexander the Great’s court sculptor in the 330s and 320s. And so, for Pliny, it is with Lysippos’s sons and immediate followers that art supposedly stopped in the 290s, only resuming in the 150s. This apparent lacuna has proved difficult to fill – and to define – in modern times. For the rediscovery of ancient art in the Renaissance, Pliny provided a framework of Greek and Roman art into which antiquarians and art historians could place old literary references and new finds.3 Thus when dealing with the art produced after Alexander, Renaissance scholars and their Enlightenment successors maintained Pliny’s silence – or, worse yet, condemned both lost and extant artworks as decadent by adhering to the paradigm of history’s organic nature, with its births, blooms, and decays. In ancient art, such an evolutionary

INTRODUCTION

curve was superimposed on what we now call the Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic/Roman periods. At first, the period of art after Alexander was vaguely defined, as seen in the founding modern handbook of ancient art history, J. J. Winckelmann’s Geschichte des Kunst des Alterthums (1764).4 Although Winckelmann questioned Pliny’s theory of decadence, he nevertheless attributed precious few extant artworks to the time after Alexander, and he even placed two of the symbols of what many scholars now call Hellenistic art, the Laokoön and the Farnese Bull, in the epoch of Lysippos – in other words, the end of the Classical period – owing to their fine execution. Winckelmann filled Pliny’s void with Roman copies, which he believed were imitative and derivative works that mimic the Classical. Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, however, the character of the art after Alexander slowly took shape, providing ever more evidence for the drastic change of visual culture that Pliny marked. Works such as the Laokoön were down-dated; excavations at sites such as Alexandria, Delos, and Pergamon yielded provenanced and (roughly) datable material that allowed for the construction of local sculptural schools; such new finds documented the sheer diversity of later Greek art and its contrast with the Classical; and the advent of Hellenistic historical studies gave rise to a causal explanation for this art-historical sea change. In his monumental Geschichte des Hellenismus (1836 and 1843; second edition 1878), the historian Johann Gustav Droysen employed the preexisting term Hellenismus to describe the eastern spread of Greek culture following Alexander’s conquest of Asia. For Droysen, Hellenismus was the Verschmelzung (“fusion”) of Greek and Eastern thought and politics, an intermediary phase of ancient culture that set the stage for Christianity and, eventually, the Lutheranism of his own day.5 The ramifications of Droysen’s work, though, reached far beyond nineteenth-century ideas about the history of religion. In effect, his use of the term Hellenismus created a coherent period of historical study, providing a ready-made label that (among others) art historians and archaeologists could apply to the art after Alexander. The periodization of Greek art was modified accordingly. Owing to their association with Alexander, Lysippos and his followers now marked not the end of the Classical but rather the beginning of the Hellenistic. And, most importantly, Droysen provided an historical cause for the great change in the art after Alexander. So-called Hellenistic art came to be defined as the explosive result of the eastern spread of Greek culture, the dawn of the Hellenistic kingdoms, and Greek–Eastern interactions during the years between Alexander’s death in 323 bce and the triumph of Rome at the Battle of Actium in 31 bce. Thus by the time synthetic studies of Hellenistic art began to appear in the twentieth century, the corpus of Hellenistic material had been defined, and an

5

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RHETORIC, INNOVATION, AND THE COURTS

map 1 The Hellenistic World. Map: Erin Babnik

historical explanation for it had been proposed.6 Yet there are some often overlooked but inescapable difficulties with this accepted explanation for the appearance of Hellenistic art. First and foremost, Droysen’s conception of fusion as the defining characteristic of Hellenismus – and thus the Hellenistic age – is fundamentally problematic. Although he justifies the modern study of the Hellenistic period, his religious determinism reduces it to a merely transitional time between Alexander and Jesus that is almost entirely devoid of art and literature; he all but overlooks the presence and contributions of Jews and

INTRODUCTION

map 1 (cont.)

Judaism; his construction of Alexander’s and the Successors’ power does not allow much if any room for the agency of non-Greeks more generally; and his presentation of ancient historical events often reads like his documented opinions about nineteenth-century politics in Central Europe. Influenced by G. W. F. Hegel and steeped in nineteenth-century ideas about national unity, assimilation, and freedom, his view of Hellenismus is teleological, incomplete, and flawed. Second, although Graeco-Roman elements can be found in Near Eastern art, Hellenistic art rarely – if ever – borrowed elements from other

7

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RHETORIC, INNOVATION, AND THE COURTS

cultures for works done by Greek artists in the Greek style. And third, while previous scholars have noticed similar innovations in Hellenistic art and literature, they have not determined their origin – in Greek–Eastern fusion or in anything else.7 We perhaps should question the necessity of emphasizing Greek–Eastern fusion in all our characterizations of the Hellenistic period and its cultural production. We should look instead to instances of cultural interaction in specific historical circumstances both before and after Alexander. And we should investigate other possible factors that helped to generate Hellenistic innovations such as the ones that we noted on the Telephos Frieze. A question presents itself: If change due to external forces did not prompt the innovations in Hellenistic art, was change from within Greek culture a catalyst? THE RO LE OF RHETOR ICAL EDUCATIO N

Let us think about the Hellenistic innovations that we observed earlier: diegema, or “narrative”; prosopopoiia, or “characterization”; and ekphrasis, or “description.” They all have one thing in common: each is a Greek rhetorical term. It may be useful, then, to probe this apparent link between art and rhetoric in internal Greek cultural production. For many years, scholars have observed a special relationship between Greek art and rhetoric. Their scholarship has primarily focused on the relationship of art and rhetoric in ancient literature, the resemblance of Asiatic rhetoric and the Baroque sculptural style, and the rhetorical devices of particular Hellenistic artworks.8 This work is provocative, but no one has explored the fundamental nature of the relationship between Hellenistic art and rhetoric. Many questions, then, remain. We have yet to understand how artists knew rhetorical techniques that were discussed in sophisticated criticism, or why they employed visual analogies to these devices when making different types of art. Our rhetorical terms – diegema, prosopopoiia, and ekphrasis – are, perhaps, the key. For they were also common rhetorical exercises that ancient youngsters would have learned at school. The advent of rhetorical instruction in Greek education is thus, perhaps, a good place for us to start our investigation of factors that contributed to innovation in Hellenistic art.9 Rhetorical training became part of the Greek curriculum when sweeping pedagogical changes were implemented during the Classical period. This educational shift was most apparent in Athens. Throughout most of the sixth and early fifth centuries bce, Athenian education had emphasized μουσική (mousike, or “oral culture”) and γυμναστική (gymnastike, or “physical training”). These skills had served the aristocratic citizen well, enabling him to recite at symposia and to perform in choruses at religious festivals. But the requirements of good citizenship changed in the later fifth and fourth

THE ROLE OF RHETORICAL EDUCATION

centuries: literacy and public speaking became vital for participation in civic politics.10 Accordingly, three educational changes developed over time. First, the study of γράμματα (grammata, or “letters and literature”) was added to the curriculum.11 Second, gymnastike was separated from cultural training.12 And, third, rhetorical instruction became the norm. By the mid-fourth century bce and the start of the Hellenistic period, the ἐγκύκλιος παιδείας (enkyklios paideias) – in other words, a liberal arts package – was entrenched in curricula at Athens and elsewhere in the Greek-speaking world.13 These changes prompted Greek education to grow increasingly regulated and specialized. Professional teachers now provided basic instruction, often in formal schools.14 Specialists, moreover, taught advanced material such as medicine and philosophy.15 Indeed, by the Hellenistic period, some wealthy students even left home to pursue such advanced study in big cities.16 Education also grew more widespread. Philosophers advocated universal education.17 And Hellenistic monarchs and private citizens often funded it.18 What is more, both boys and girls were educated (though boys, to be sure, received instruction in far greater numbers).19 This educational transformation has been called “the literate revolution.”20 But more than mere literacy was emphasized: students were also taught how to construct their own essays and speeches. This cultural shift, then, entailed a radical change from passive reception to active production. So rhetoric appears to have played a role, too. This change was due in large part to the practical nature of rhetorical instruction during childhood. Students were taught how to be active cultural producers at a relatively young age, learning such techniques as our diegema, prosopopoiia, and ekphrasis as part of the προγυμνάσματα (progymnasmata, or “preliminary rhetorical exercises”). Today Greek progymnasmata are preserved in handbooks attributed to four authors who probably range from the first to fourth centuries ce: Aelius Theon, Pseudo-Hermogenes, Aphthonios, and Nikolaos.21 Model Greek progymnasmata compositions by the fourth-century ce writer and teacher Libanius also come down to us.22 As preserved in handbooks, the progymnasmata consisted of ten or more exercises that were arranged in order of increasing difficulty, including: μῦθος (mythos, or “fable”); διήγημα (diegema, or “narrative”); χρεία (chreia, or “discussion of sayings and actions of notable people”); γνώμη (gnome, or “maxim”); ἀνασκεύη (anaskeue, or “refutation”) and κατασκεύη (kataskeue, or “confirmation”); τόπος κοινός (topos koinos, or “commonplace”); ἐγκώμιον (enkomion, or “exposition of good qualities of a person or thing”); ψόγος (psogos, or “invective”); σύγκρισις (synkrisis, or “comparison”); ἠθοποιία and προσωποποιία (ethopoiia and prosopopoiia, or “imitation of the character of a person or a thing”); ἔκφρασις (ekphrasis, or “descriptive speech”); θέσις (thesis, or “consideration of a subject”); νόμος (nomos, or “introduction of a law”); ἀνάγνωσις (anagnosis, or “reading aloud”);

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ἀκρόασις (akroasis, or “listening”); παράφρασις (paraphrasis, or “paraphrase”); ἐξεργασία (exergasia, or “elaboration”); and ἀντίρρησις (antirrhesis, or “contradiction or counterstatement”). Although the earliest surviving handbook likely dates to the first century ce, progymnasmata appear to have been part of educational practice by the very start of the Hellenistic period. Theon himself says that the progymnasmata have a long previous history.23 The earliest appearance of the word προγυμνάσματα or γυμνάσματα (progymnasmata or gymnasmata) is found in the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum, a treatise that was written probably by Anaximenes of Lampsacus in the fourth century bce.24 Specific exercises can also be dated to the fourth century bce. Aristotle, for example, is said to have used thesis, and he describes the techniques (that were later called) thesis, mythos, gnome, diegesis, enkomion, ethopoiia/prosopopoiia, and ekphrasis.25 Papyri from Ptolemaic Egypt, moreover, preserve actual school exercises. A papyrus from Arsinoite, dated to the second century bce, preserves a diegesis about the Labors of Herakles and another text that could be a paraphrasis of an epic poem, a paraphrasis of a drama written for school, or a diegesis of a drama.26 And a second/first-century bce papyrus fragment from Karanis contains a paraphrasis of an episode from the Iliad.27 Quintilian and Suetonius, moreover, tell us that such exercises had become the backbone of a classical education by the time of Republican and Early Imperial Rome.28 Students practiced the progymnasmata during the intermediary phase of their education, after they had learned to read and write. These exercises served as preparation for more sophisticated declamations in the schools of rhetoric that perhaps twelve- to fifteen-year-old boys attended.29 Although the exercises themselves were standardized, their implementation varied in the Hellenistic and Roman world. For example, both the elementary schools of grammarians and the more advanced schools of rhetors taught the exercises, depending upon educational availability, context, and pedagogy.30 But just about all students would have been exposed to them. Speechmaking was the most important goal of the progymnasmata. Theon, for example, spelled out their importance for learning how to construct judicial, deliberative, and epideictic rhetoric – and thus speeches for a range of civic and personal needs.31 Indeed, many of these school exercises became the patterns and set pieces that helped to shape adult oratory.32 And the handbooks also recognized their general utility for a literate populace: Theon explicitly said that they were helpful for writers and word-minded people.33 Yet the progymnasmata also served a broader cultural function. As the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has argued, education is a process of social reproduction.34 Not surprisingly, then, the progymnasmata showed children how to be Greek. Indeed, they even cite ἑλληνισμός (hellenismos, or “Hellenism”) as a virtue of a technique.35 This ancient use of the term is a far cry from Droysen’s

THE ROLE OF ARTISTS

Hellenismus, and it suggests that we may consider Hellenism to be constructed and performative.36 In fact, Sextus Empericus, writing in the second/third century ce, discusses the constructedness of hellenismos in terms of τέχνη (techne, or “applied skill”), relating it to other technai such as sculpture and painting.37 First and foremost, the progymnasmata taught students how to compose their essays and speeches in a uniform Greek manner and style, no matter where they resided in the Mediterranean world, whether they lived among people who were of Greek descent or whether they identified as Greek. In addition, they disseminated Greek literary culture, using countless examples from literature, mythology, and history.38 More interestingly for us, perhaps, they also highlighted Greek visual culture. Educational papyri contained colorful illustrations of such stories as the Labors of Herakles.39 And the exercises themselves transmitted art-historical facts: they mentioned the artists Antiphilos, Apelles, Daidalos, and Protogenes; the craft of pottery; and the Serapeion at Alexandria.40 Moreover, Seneca’s use of the artists Parrhasios and Pheidias in his Controversiae, or fictitious law-court speeches, demonstrates that sophisticated adult declamations in Rome employed Greek art-historical material, too.41 Exposure to these childhood exercises had a lasting effect on Greek cultural production and reception in adulthood. They helped to provide not only an encyclopedic knowledge of Greek culture but also the structures and flourishes of Greek discourse. Ruth Webb, in fact, observes a direct relationship between the progymnasmata and Hellenistic poetry, tracing the impact of these exercises on the use of such techniques as prosopopoiia and ekphrasis.42 She points to the vivid characterizations of the courtesans, pimps, and schoolmaster in Herodas’s Mimes and the Syracusan women in Theokritos’s Idyll 16. Webb locates the rhetorical origins of such innovative techniques and thus provides a precise and convincing historical explanation for their appearance in Hellenistic literature. The innovations that we find in Hellenistic art, it seems, also appear in Hellenistic literature. Such similarities lead us to wonder whether both literary and artistic innovations can be traced to a common historical source: rhetorical education. Before we can answer this question, though, we first must ask a more basic one. We know that Greek poets received rhetorical educations because they obviously were literate. But do we know whether Greek artists were educated, too? THE ROLE OF ARTISTS

Hellenistic artists’ knowledge of rhetorical techniques depended, of course, upon their own level of schooling. The best indicator of this is the documented financial status of artists and their families, which would have determined artists’ educational opportunities in childhood and intellectual pursuits in adulthood. It is worth taking a look at our ancient evidence for it.43

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We often assume that Greek artists lacked a good education because they were manual laborers from humble backgrounds.44 But ancient literary sources indicate that some artists did indeed enjoy an elevated status in the Classical and Hellenistic periods. Although Greek and Roman authors condemned manual labor generally, they held some artists in high esteem.45 For example, many Greek artists were famous and even appear as recognizable figures in the plays and law-court speeches of Classical Athens.46 Their prominence continued – and increased – in the Hellenistic world. Hellenistic collections of their lives include biographical anecdotes.47 And Hellenistic poets acknowledge them. For example, Theokritos’s Idylls and Herodas’s Mimes both mention the fourth-century bce Praxiteles, and Poseidippos’s epigrams refer to famous Classical and Hellenistic artists such as Polykleitos and Chares of Lindos.48 There is no reason to think that all Greek artists were humble and thus unschooled. What is more, we know that many celebrated artists had been born into well-to-do families that famously socialized with other elite people. The wealth of fourth-century bce artists such as Nikias, Protagoras, and Zeuxis was especially renowned in ancient literature.49 The Kephisodotos-Praxiteles family appears to have been among the very richest families in Classical and Hellenistic Athens.50 And Damophon’s family was prominent in Hellenistic Messene across generations.51 We know that successful artists also earned their own money, perhaps adding to their ancestral wealth in some cases.52 Sculptors who were employed at the Erechtheion in 408/7 bce received 60 drachmas per figure, and each sculptor might have earned 1 drachma per day.53 These high wages are best put into perspective if one considers that late fifth-century bce soldiers and sailors earned just a half drachma per day.54 Perhaps most astonishing of all, though, are Damophon’s supposed earnings in the second century bce. His original fee for his work at Lykosoura was large enough for him to waive a considerable debt of 3,546 tetradrachms.55 In addition, literary sources tell us that Hellenistic/Republican artists such as Protogenes and Iaia of Kyzikos commanded large sums of money for their work.56 Whatever their accuracy, these anecdotes demonstrate that such elevated payments were in the realm of ancient possibility. Artists such as the fourth-century bce Pamphilos enjoyed another source of income: he taught students for money, charging the high tuition of 500 drachmas per year.57 This wealth was incredibly visible – and thus especially well documented – in the Classical and Hellenistic world. Many sculptors dedicated statues at Athens and Delos.58 And some artists were wealthy enough to afford donating their labor and materials, as Telesinos did on Delos in the Hellenistic period.59 Prominent artists also undertook sponsorships and received honors for their active civic life. Hellenistic sculptors were granted local honors and held varied positions such as mint magistrate, priest, and proxenos.60 Similarly, the

THE ROLE OF ARTISTS

Hellenistic architect Sostratos of Knidos received many honors on Delos and Delphi.61 Telesinos was honored by the Delians as well.62 These affluent backgrounds suggest that many artists received excellent educations as children. And such educations even included art, as we learn from Pliny’s discussion about Pamphilos: huius auctoritate effectum est Sicyone primum, deinde in tota Graecia, ut pueri ingenui omissam ante graphicen [hoc est picturam] in buxo, docerentur recipereturque ars ea in primum gradum liberalium. semper quidem honos ei fuit, ut ingenui eam exercerent, mox ut honesti, perpetuo interdicto ne servitia docerentur. ideo neque in hac neque in toreutice ullius, qui servierit, opera celebrantur.63 It was brought about by his authority, first at Sikyon and then in the whole of Greece, that children of free birth be taught drawing on boxwood – which had been neglected before – and that the art be welcomed in the first stage of the liberal arts. It always indeed had the honor of being practiced by people of free birth, soon afterwards by people of good families, constantly a forbidden thing for slaves to be taught. Therefore, neither in this nor in any bronze sculpture are works celebrated of any person who was a slave.

Here, Pliny tells us that art instruction was part of an ancient liberal arts education – and that celebrated artists were both privileged and well educated. What is more, Aristotle advocates art practice in school because he deems it useful for judging artists and artworks.64 Pliny and Aristotle indicate that both art practice and art appreciation were considered ancient markers of status, enabled by the financial means required for schooling. After getting such a good education, some artists and architects conspicuously displayed their rhetorical prowess and general erudition in adulthood. Politically active artists employed their rhetorical skills when speaking in public. In fact, the fourth-century bce architect Philo of Eleusis was so famous for his rhetorical skills that Cicero notes his ability centuries later.65 Artists, moreover, appear to have been recognized intellectuals by the fourth century bce, and σοφία (sophia, or “wisdom”) was associated with both poets and artists.66 This intellectualism was not limited to art. The painter Pamphilos’s comprehensive education was celebrated because it included arithmetic and geometry.67 And the well-rounded intellectualism of the Hellenistic Metrodoros was even more noteworthy: a painter and a philosopher, he both painted the triumphal procession of Lucius Aemilius Paullus and tutored his children.68 Artists’ erudition was also seen in the books that Apelles and many others wrote about art-making in conjunction with teaching.69 Later, Vitruvius’s Roman architectural handbook echoes such well-roundedness when he suggests that architects should receive training in all the arts and sciences.70 With all this in mind, we may conclude that many Greek artists were prominent, wealthy, educated, and intellectual. They were, to be sure, the

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main creative forces behind the rhetorically informed art of the Hellenistic age. Yet they did not act alone. So let us now turn our attention to their relationships with some of their partners in artistic production, the patrons – monarchs – at the Hellenistic courts. THE ROLE OF THE COURTS

The most innovative examples of Hellenistic art were created in a context that was teeming with sophisticated viewers and wealthy patrons: the court. In order to understand Hellenistic innovation more fully, we must consider how artists worked within the courts – and how these courts helped to propagate new forms of rhetorically informed Greek art throughout the Mediterranean world. Recent work in aulic studies informs any new foray into the world of the Hellenistic courts. Most scholarship has focused on the European courts of the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and the Early Modern period, with Norbert Elias’s pioneering study leading the way.71 Elias and his followers established the “court” as a legitimate subject of historical inquiry and sought to explain its system of power relations. Applying Elias’s sociological methodology to ancient history, several scholars have provided a basic understanding of court structure and politics in the Hellenistic age.72 Let us review some basic facts that Gabriel Herman and others have established. Courts were the great political and cultural centers of the Hellenistic age. Such institutions were designated by three Greek terms: ἡ αὐλή (aule), τὸ βασίλειον (basileion), and τὰ βασίλεια (basileia). The words basileion and its plural form basileia usually denoted physical space, but aule encompassed the concepts of both “palace” and “court.” Yet the two were not necessarily one and the same: the aule, for example, could exist outside the confines of the palace, even on the battlefield.73 The court was thus both a built environment and a social space. Major palaces of monarchs were located at Ptolemaic Alexandria, Antigonid Pella, Attalid Pergamon, and Seleukid Antioch. And minor palaces of governors and the elite were spread throughout the kingdoms.74 To be sure, each court had its own peculiarities. The Antigonid court, for example, drew upon ancestral Makedonian traditions of kingship and ruled Greeks and Makedonians. The courts of the Seleukids and the Ptolemies, on the other hand, possibly experienced more influence from Eastern monarchies and ruled both Greeks and non-Greeks alike. Despite these differences, however, the Hellenistic courts all stemmed from Alexander’s entourage and thus had the same Makedonian roots.75 Moreover, they also shared and promoted many Panhellenic characteristics, and ancient historians such as Polybios thought them cut from the same cloth. Thus we can make some generalizations. The Greek phrase οἱ περὶ τὴν αὐλήν (“those around/belonging to the court”) describes the concept of

THE ROLE OF THE COURTS

“courtiers.”76 Polybios, at least, thinks that these people participated in their fair share of rises, falls, and conspiracies.77 Those closest to the monarch included family, bodyguards, royal pages, and politicians. Of this entourage, the most prominent members were the φίλοι (philoi, or “friends”) who were, for the most part, elite Greeks recruited from cities throughout the Mediterranean.78 But many other types of people comprised life at the court, including slaves; skilled support staff such as doctors, cooks, and scribes; and intellectuals, especially those at the libraries of Ptolemaic Alexandria and Attalid Pergamon.79 So what drew artists to court, and how did they “belong” to it? As environments obsessed with τρυφή (tryphe, or “luxury”), courts needed artists. Their handiwork was displayed in many settings: palace, library, temple, tent, ceremonial procession, even riverboat.80 And there was no shortage of appreciative viewers. With their musty libraries and raging social life, the courts attracted elite, well-educated people – often philosophers, poets, and scholars – who surely knew rhetoric, aesthetics, and the history of art.81 Hellenistic monarchs valued the work of artisans, acquiring luxurious goods and visiting local workshops – much to the glee of smug detractors, who held craftsmen well below the monarch’s station.82 What is more, monarchs prized the more sophisticated work of famous artists and built up their historical collections through foreign plunder and purchase. The Attalids were especially keen, acquiring works by such artists as Apollodoros of Athens, Aristeides of Thebes, Boupalos, Kephisodotos II, Myron, Onatas, Praxiteles, Silanion, and Xenokrates.83 And they also made their own version of Pheidias’s Athena Parthenos.84 The Ptolemies, for their part, collected Sikyonian paintings by Pamphilos and Melanthios, famously displaying them in the Procession of Ptolemy II of 279 bce.85 More importantly, however, Hellenistic monarchs engaged many contemporary artists, following Makedonian tradition. In the fifth century bce, for example, Archelaos I of Makedon hired Zeuxis.86 And Alexander enjoyed well-known associations with the painter Apelles, the sculptor Lysippos, and the gem-cutter Pyrgoteles.87 After Alexander’s death, Apelles and the school of Lysippos continued their association with Alexander’s Successors.88 The Hellenistic monarchs then widened their artistic circle, too. We know, for example, that the Ptolemies employed the painters Antiphilos and Galaton, the sculptor Bryaxis (II), and the architects Sostratos and Timochares.89 The Attalids used the mosaicists Sosos and Hephaistion as well as the sculptors Antigonos, Epigonos, Nikeratos, Phyromachos, and Stratonikos.90 They also sent workmen to Athens, Delphi, and sites within their kingdom.91 The Antigonids were painted by Philoxenos of Eretria, Protogenes, and Theoros – perhaps drawing on the long-standing Makedonian connection with painting.92 Finally, the Seleukids hired (or at least were represented by) the

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painters Artemon and Aristodemos, the sculptors Bryaxis (II) and Telesinos, and the architect Xenarios.93 Yet how long these artists stayed at court – or whether all of them actually set foot in a palace – is unclear. To my knowledge, ancient sources mention only one artist who actually resided at court: Pliny says that a certain Dikaiogenes – otherwise unknown – lived with a Demetrios.94 So we must consider not only what drew the artist to court but also what pulled him away. Here, a series of all-but-ignored literary anecdotes may help, since they share a topos involving a relationship between artist and monarch. Perhaps apocryphal, they include direct social contact and even court life. Yet whatever their veracity, they indicate how relationships between king and artist could be presented, if only in fiction: they suggest that the king knew the artist personally – and grappled with the notion of being equals. Some anecdotes merely highlight the king’s admiration – and indulgence – of raw talent. Demetrios I (r. 307–285 bce), for example, allegedly refrained from setting fire to Rhodes in order to protect Protogenes.95 And Ptolemy II (r. 285–246 bce) allowed the architect Sostratos to inscribe his name on the Lighthouse at Alexandria.96 Other stories, though, show an adept artist who outsmarted the king: a second version of the Lighthouse story says that Sostratos originally hid his own signature with a gypsum inscription of the king’s name – a covering sure to disappear with time.97 In these anecdotes, the artist, in fact, often has such an upper hand. For example, the topographical painter Demetrios lodged a down-and-out Ptolemy VI (r. 180–145 bce) in Rome, recalling the hospitality that he had received at the Ptolemaic court.98 Robust finances appear in two versions of another story as well: the painter Nikias had the means to refuse a sale of 60 talents to a Ptolemy or an Attalos.99 A final group of anecdotes, though, presents a more volatile relationship. In one, Stratonike (wife of Eumenes II, r. 197–159/8 bce) refused to give the painter Ktesikles an honorable reception, and he retaliated by painting her with her alleged fisherman-lover. The painting was so lifelike, however, that Stratonike kept it on display at Ephesos harbor.100 Another story details Ptolemy I’s (r. 304–283 bce) interaction with Apelles. They did not get along during their time with Alexander, and their relationship remained sour while Ptolemy was king. On one occasion, weather forced Apelles to land at Alexandria, and he was given a false invitation to dinner. When Ptolemy demanded to know who issued it, Apelles drew a perfect likeness of the culprit, whom Ptolemy recognized.101 Once again, the artist’s skill shines forth – and, despite personal conflict, the king cannot ignore it. Such anecdotes highlight the push and pull of an artist’s court experience. On the one hand, these stories adhere to court etiquette, incorporating intrigue, dinner invitations, and reciprocal hospitality. But, on the other, they exhibit what appears to be παρρησία (parrhesia, or “frank speech”). The

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Makedonian kings and Alexander had allowed parrhesia among their circles.102 In fact, Alexander supposedly permitted Apelles to speak freely.103 But such parrhesia was increasingly strange in a Hellenistic context, as the courts took their cues from Near Eastern monarchs and courtiers grew increasingly obsequious.104 So ancient writers apparently did not consider artists subject to all rules of court behavior – at least in literature. Suggestively, artists are not the only intellectuals excused from court behavior in topoi. Stories also construct parrhesia between kings and philosophers.105 We must ask, then, why these scholars, too, are not bound by court etiquette in literary anecdotes. Perhaps the strength of their ties to monarch and court in real life – especially financial ones – provides an answer. Scholarly aid appears to have been limited. First and foremost, intellectual jobs in the Hellenistic courts were hard to come by. Ptolemaic Alexandria was home to the most celebrated examples: librarians such as Zenodotos and Apollonios held positions whose tasks sometimes included tutoring the royal family’s children.106 Unfortunately, the nature of their financial compensation is unclear. At least some intellectuals, however, received maintenance allowances. Panaretos, a student of the philosopher Arkesilaos, supposedly received 12 talents per year from Ptolemy III (r. 246–221 bce).107 Surely this outrageous sum was hyperbole, if not outright fiction. But an Apollonios and a Bion – names of poets – are among courtiers said to have received a σύνταξις βασιλική (syntaxis basilike, or “royal stipend”).108 And many scholars took assistance in the form of food and drink. Most famously, Timon Phliasios pokes fun at the philosophers who were fed in the cloistered “bird coop” of the Mouseion that accompanied the Library.109 During the Roman period, at least, the Mouseion’s scholars ate in a dining hall and were exempt from taxation.110 Still, some Hellenistic intellectuals complained about the stinginess of court hospitality.111 The Ptolemies did not please everyone. Now, many scholars might have broken bread with the king, but they could not live on bread alone. So we may speculate that most court intellectuals worked for the king in another capacity, enjoyed financial independence, or moonlighted. They joined the king’s army: a girded Antagoras cooked ἐν στρατοπέδῳ (“in camp”) with Antigonos, serving on a campaign with an enslaved person.112 They were rich: Kallimachos came from an elite family, had a father who was a friend of the king, and grew up as a νεανίσκος τῆς αὐλῆς (neaniskos tes aules, or “youth of the court”) in Ptolemaic Alexandria.113 And they hustled for commissions from multiple sources: Theokritos addresses his flattery not only to Ptolemy II but also to Hieron II of Syracuse (r. 270–215 bce) and families from Miletos and Kos.114 Perhaps court patronage for most scholars, then, was limited to library holdings, dining privileges, and (possibly) tax breaks. Their actual ties to particular courts were probably looser than we imagine. Moreover, rulers

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outside the main kingdoms also hosted them. Ariarathes V of Kappadokia (r. 163–130 bce), for example, oversaw a particularly renowned cultural center.115 Some intellectuals such as Theokritos appear to have traveled among the intellectual centers.116 And itinerant poets – with, perhaps, especially precarious finances – sang the praises of monarchs and the elite throughout the Mediterranean.117 All this argues against the existence of permanent court jobs for artists-inresidence. Artists undoubtedly welcomed lucrative commissions and sometimes enjoyed court hospitality. But, like many other intellectuals, they could not rely upon monarchs for their entire livelihoods. Artists needed personal wealth or employment outside the court. And, either way, they maintained a degree of independence. As we saw in the previous section, even Apelles – the most famous court artist in antiquity – also taught pupils and wrote books, thereby sustaining his wealth, fame, and self-sufficiency. Similarly, we also learned that Sostratos came from a prominent family and received civic honors. Their societal positions were independent of the court, and they had the luxury of standing up to the king in both life and literature – within reason, of course, if they wanted to secure the next big court commission. Court structure and society, in fact, made Hellenistic artists and their artworks exceedingly mobile. Artists traveled from court to court at least as much as scholars did – and probably much more. Bryaxis (II), for example, worked for both the Ptolemies and their rivals the Seleukids, while Lysippos’s family had associations with both the Seleukids and their rivals the Antigonids.118 What is more, monarchs had to distribute political images on a variety of media well outside palace walls, both around their kingdoms and at sanctuaries.119 And cities within the monarch’s influence needed portraits of the royal family for political reasons, too.120 “Court” artists thus were in demand throughout the entire Mediterranean. HELLENISTIC ART ARO UND THE MEDITER RANEAN

So far, we have explored how a shift in fourth-century bce rhetorical education helped to increase rhetorical awareness by the start of the Hellenistic age and trigger an explosion of innovation. We have also seen how both artist and court contributed to the production of Hellenistic art, observing how courts drew artists and their innovative works around the Mediterranean. We can easily spot the effects of such travel and networks in surviving Hellenistic art. Multiple styles and types coexisted, but they transcended geographic, temporal, and political boundaries. For example, sculpture at Limyra, Pergamon, and Athens all employed the same Baroque style.121 In Figure 1.4, we see a metope from the Ptolemaion at Limyra in Lykia, a region ruled by the Ptolemaic Kingdom during the third century bce. This

HELLENISTIC ART AROUND THE MEDITERRANEAN

1.4 Battle between the Lapiths and the Centaurs. Metope from the Ptolemaion at Limyra (southern Turkey); ca. 282–246 bce. Limestone; height 72 cm. Antalya, Antalya Müzesi. (Photo: author)

monument probably was constructed in honor of King Ptolemy II during his reign (285–246 bce). Its extant metopes represent a battle between the Lapiths and the Centaurs in which musculature is bulging; contorted figures display pained expressions; and texture abounds in drapery, hair, beards, and tails. A century later, the Attalids, too, used the Baroque style in their sculpture, most notably at Pergamon and Athens. The Gigantomacy Frieze of the Great Altar at Pergamon is the most famous example of such Attalid use. In Figure 1.3, we see the segment of it that shows Athena fighting the Giant Alkyoneus. Its Baroque elements recur elsewhere throughout the frieze: grimacing faces, strained bodies, overdeveloped musculature, and an overthe-top assortment of hair, scales, and feathers. In the same way, brilliantly realistic mosaics were set in Alexandrian, Delian, and Pergamene floors alike.122 The Royal District in Ptolemaic Alexandria was home to captivating second-century bce images such as a dog with an expressive face (Fig. 1.5). Meanwhile, the Royal District in Attalid Pergamon had its own tours de force, including second-century bce depictions of a parakeet with variegated plumage (Pl. VIIa) and an artist’s signature on parchment with a curled edge (Pl. VIIb). More affordable types of artworks, too, had similar appearances

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1.5 Dog with askos. From the Royal District in Alexandria (site of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina); second century bce. Mosaic; 3.25  3.25 m. Alexandria, Bibliotheca Alexandrina Antiquities Museum inv. 32044. (Photo: age fotostock [Alain Guilleux])

throughout the Hellenistic world. For instance, painted grave stelai in Antigonid Makedonia (Fig. 1.6) resembled ones in Ptolemaic Egypt (Fig. 1.7), with differing uses of marble and limestone necessitated by the local availability of materials.123 All this suggests that the codification of rhetorical techniques, coupled with the mobility of artists, standardized the range of Greek art throughout the Hellenistic kingdoms. Perhaps we could say that homogeneity – and not heterogeneity, as commonly thought – is actually the hallmark of Hellenistic art. Tellingly, philologists have recognized a similar Hellenistic phenomenon in the evolution of Attic Greek into a κοινή (koine, or “common”) language.124 For the Greeks, this meant that lexis, or style, was no longer just the result of artists’ technological progress, competitive one-upmanship, and local workshops. Rather, it was now chosen for effect, in accordance with rhetorical principles. Artists could use, say, the archaistic style to conjure the past, while they could employ the Baroque and classical styles to convey different narrative atmospheres.125 Nowhere was the use of style more obvious or important than in Egypt. Here, the Ptolemies used style according to political need. Decrees, for example, stipulated that certain artworks be done in the Egyptian style.126 Thus even a cultural style – indeed, a non-Greek one – was now a

ART AND RHETORIC AT PERGAMON AND ALEXANDRIA

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deliberate choice, too. And once again we find a similar phenomenon in the Greek language: Alexandrian poets used dialects for effect and not because of their own cultural identities.127 We certainly benefit from thinking about Hellenistic art in terms of rhetoric, innovation, and the courts. By doing so, we discover that an underlying uniformity is the quality that makes it notoriously difficult to date and to attribute. And our recognition of this sameness can help us to continue deconstructing the local schools of art that scholars developed in the nineteenth century.128 Most importantly, though, we find that the seemingly disparate art of the Hellenistic period now appears only superficially diverse. THE REMAINDER OF THIS BOOK: ART AND RHETORIC AT

1.6 Grave stele of Stratonikos; third century bce. From Demetrias. Marble with paint. Volos, Athanasakio Archaeological Museum inv. Λ 9. (Photo: age fotostock/DEA/G DAGLI ORTI/De Agostini Editore)

PERGAMON AND ALEXANDRIA

Although the range of Hellenistic art was uniform throughout the Mediterranean, it did include noteworthy examples of innovation – most of which were directly associated with the seats of the courts, particularly at Attalid Pergamon and Ptolemaic Alexandria. This association is easy to understand. With ample resources, sophisticated viewers, and complex projects, the courts provided the biggest stages for dazzling performances. Luckily for us, recollections of these showstoppers survive. Pergamene and Alexandrian built environments set the stage by placing libraries and their supporting structures at the centers of court life and visual culture. At Pergamon (Figs. 1.8–1.10), a building that has been identified as the Library sat in the Sanctuary of Athena Nikephoros, directly across from the palaces in the Basileia, or Royal District, at the very top of the akropolis.129 The palaces and the sanctuary had a wealth of visual culture, and the most impressive Pergamene monument, the Great Altar, was close by, just outside the Royal District’s gate (Figs. 2.2–2.5).130 The situation was similar at Alexandria (Figs. 1.11–1.13). We know from literary descriptions that the Library and the Mouseion – a scholarly institute – were in its Royal District, too, and archaeological and textual evidence suggests that it was lavishly decorated.131 No remains of the ancient Library are visible today, but a new Library of

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1.7 Grave stele; late fourth–early third century bce. From Alexandria. Limestone with paint; 74.3  47.6 cm. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art inv. 04.17.2. (Photo: Metropolitan Museum of Art)

Alexandria has been constructed at the site of the ancient Royal District, on the modern Corniche along the harbor (Fig. 1.14). These court environments were spaces that encouraged the sophisticated viewing and interpretation of Greek art. The prevalence of such rhetorically informed art appreciation, in fact, is suggested by a parody of it written by the Alexandrian poet Herodas in the third century bce. In his fourth Mime, two women analyze a temple’s artwork: ⟨ΦΙ.⟩ οὐκ ὀρῆις, φίλη Κυννοῖ; οἶ᾿ ἔργα κεῖ ᾿ νῆν· ταῦτ᾿ ἐρεῖς Ἀθηναίην γλύψαι τὰ καλά – χαιρέτω δὲ δέσποινα. τὸν παῖδα δὴ ⟨τὸν⟩ γυμνὸν ἢν κνίσω τοῦτον

ART AND RHETORIC AT PERGAMON AND ALEXANDRIA

1.8 The Pergamene Akropolis. (Photo: author)

οὐκ ἔλκος ἔξει, Κύννα; πρὸς γάρ οἰ κεῖνται αἰ σάρκες οἶα †θερμα† πηδῶσαι ἐν τῆι σανίσκηι. τὠργύρευν δὲ πύραυστρον οὐκ ἢν ἴδηι Μύελλος ἢ Παταικίσκος ὀ Λαμπρίωνος, ἐκβαλεῦσι τὰς κούρας δοκεῦντες ὄντως ἀργύρευν πεποιῆσθαι; ὀ βοῦς δὲ κὠ ἄγων αὐτὸν ἤ τ᾿ὀμαρτεῦσα κὠ γρυπὸς οὖτος κὠ ἀ̣ν ̣άσιλλος ἄνθρωπος οὐχὶ ζοὴν βλέπουσι κἠμέρην πάντες; εἰ μὴ ἐδόκευν τι μέζον ἢ γυνὴ πρήσσειν, ἀνηλάλαξ᾿ἄν, μή μ᾿ ὀ βοῦς τι πημήνηι· οὔτω ἐπιλοξοῖ, Κυννί, τῆι ἐτέρηι κούρηι. (ΚΥ.) ἀληθιναί, Φίλη, γὰρ αἰ Ἐφεσίου χεῖρες ἐς πάντ᾿ Ἀπελλέω γράμματ᾿· οὐδ᾿ ἐρεῖς ῾κεῖνος ὤνθρωπος ἒν μὲν εἶδεν, ἒν δ᾿ ἀπηρνήθη᾿, ἀλλ ᾿ ὦι ἐπὶ νοῦν γένοιτο καὶ θέων ψαύειν ἠπείγετ᾿. ὂς δ᾿ ἐκεῖνον ἢ ἔργα τὰ ἐκείνου μὴ παμφαλήσας ἐκ δίκης ὀρώρηκεν, ποδὸς κρέμαιτ᾿ἐκεῖνος ἐν γναφέως οἴκωι.132 Phile: Don’t you see, dear Kynno? What works are here: you’d say that Athena carved the beautiful things – greetings, mistress. This naked boy, if I scratch him – won’t he have a wound, Kynno? For the flesh is laid on him, throbbing like [hot springs], in the panel. And the silver fire tongs, if

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1.9 Plan of the Royal District on the Pergamene Akropolis by Wolfram Hoepfner. (Drawing: Wolfram Hoepfner)

ART AND RHETORIC AT PERGAMON AND ALEXANDRIA

1.10 Model of the Pergamene Akropolis, after second century ce. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. (Photo: bpk Bildagentur/Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin/Christa Begall/Art Resource, NY)

1.11 Alexandria, view of the Corniche facing west. (Photo: author)

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1.12 Plan of Ptolemaic Alexandria by Wolfram Hoepfner. (Drawing: Wolfram Hoepfner [with additions by Günter Grimm])

ART AND RHETORIC AT PERGAMON AND ALEXANDRIA

1.12 (cont.)

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1.13 Reconstruction of ancient Alexandria, view of Canopic Street facing west. (Watercolor: After J.-Y. Empereur, Alexandria Rediscovered [New York: George Brazillier Publisher 1998], p. 47 [reconstruction by J.-C. Golvin].)

Myellos or Pataikiskos, son of Lamprion, sees them – won’t they lose their eyes, thinking them actually made of silver? And the ox, and the man leading it, or the woman keeping pace, and this hook-nosed man, and the bristle-haired man – don’t they have the look of life and day? If I didn’t think I were acting too loudly for a woman, I would’ve cried aloud, in case the ox might harm me: he squints so, Kynno, with the one eye. Kynno: Yes, Phile, the handiwork of the Ephesian Apelles looks real in all pictures, nor would you say that man beheld one thing and rejected another, but whatever came into his mind he hastened to lay his hands on. And anyone who’s looked on him or his works without the proper amount of excitement should hang by the foot in the fuller’s house.

This over-the-top dialogue about realistic, descriptive details was surely considered laughable by ancient standards, spoken by the least-expected critics in the clumsiest meter. Through such a mix of the high and the low, Herodas skewered ignorant viewers and lampooned “properly” excited overeducated

ART AND RHETORIC AT PERGAMON AND ALEXANDRIA

1.14 Bibliotheca Alexandrina (the new Library of Alexandria) on the site of the ancient Royal District, along the Corniche; opened in 2002. (Photo: author)

ones. Without a doubt, Herodas was sending up a popular trend at court that was enabled by artists’ and viewers’ awareness of ekphrasis (description) and the other rhetorical techniques that we saw at the beginning of this chapter. There was no shortage of such people around the courts who could express informed opinions about the rhetorically informed art that the monarchs sponsored – though perhaps they sometimes were a bit too clever for their own good, if we can go by Herodas’s playful mocking of them. It is difficult, if not impossible, to ascertain all the ethnic and cultural identities of courtiers.133 But ascertaining all of their identities is not necessary for our purposes, and people with various identities assuredly participated in Greek culture as they saw fit.134 Whatever their backgrounds, many courtiers had a familiarity with Greek culture and rhetorical techniques that is easy to detect. Greek was the language most often used at court, and many people associated with the courts received Greek educations that included rhetorical instruction.135 Kings and their sons were especially well educated. At Ptolemaic Alexandria, we know that both Apollodoros and Helenos were a τροφέυς (tropheus, or “tutor”/“foster-father”) for King Ptolemy X Alexander I (r. 110–109 and 107–88 bce), and, as we have already seen, librarians also served as teachers for the royal family’s children.136 The Attalids at Pergamon employed teachers for the royal family as well, and their rhetorical experience

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could be noted publicly.137 Children in royal families outside of Alexandria and Pergamon were well educated, too. Queen Kleopatra Thea (r. ca. 150–120 bce), for example, sent her sons from Seleukid Antioch to Athens and Kyzikos to further their educations, and the Antigonid court of King Perseus of Makedonia (r. 179–168 bce) included both tutors and διδάσκαλοι (didaskaloi, or “teachers”).138 We may also suppose that courtiers were, in effect, multigenerational, and that children, including the βασιλικοὶ παῖδες (basilikoi paides, or “royal pages”), σύντροφοι (syntrophoi, or “foster-brothers”) and ἀδελφοί (adelphoi, or “brothers”), and the παιδίσκαι (paidiskai, or “young girls”/“subservient women”), were educated in the Greek manner.139 These children could have become adult royalty and courtiers who were erudite (if not pedantic) at Pergamon and Alexandria, encouraged by their rival libraries, communities of scholars and teachers, and generally intellectual atmospheres.140 To be sure, these are the people who were among the intended viewers of Greek court art in the Royal Districts at Pergamon and Alexandria. In the remainder of this book, I address the interplay of such intellectual court contexts and rhetorical awareness in the production and reception of extraordinary Attalid and Ptolemaic artworks. In Chapters 2–4, I explore how each one of the Hellenistic innovations that we noted at the beginning of this chapter – diegema, prosopopoiia, and ekphrasis – helps an artwork convey an important message about the monarch’s role in the court experience at Pergamon and Alexandria. Since they are central to the study of Hellenistic art and deserve to be thoroughly reexamined, I deal with specific details of date, reconstruction, context, and iconography, and I present new technical evidence and historical interpretations. I draw heavily upon close examinations of these artworks as well as interdisciplinary research in art, archaeology, history, and literature. Chapter 2 examines the use of diegema (narrative) in the storytelling techniques of the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon. I investigate literary sources and the placement of the frieze’s slabs in order to consider both individual scenes and what its entire narrative conveys about kingship. Next, in Chapter 3, I look at the use of prosopopoiia (characterization) in the Archelaos Relief originally from Alexandria. I explore its context as well as its technical details, iconography, and rhetorical structure, paying particular attention to what it expresses about patronage. Chapter 4 then studies the use of ekphrasis (description) in Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic from a palace at Pergamon. In this chapter, I ascertain the mosaic’s original location, reconstruct its original configuration, and determine what its descriptive details communicate about the king’s role in court life. Finally, Chapter 5 considers the bigger picture: why Hellenistic monarchs and their artists used, even needed, rhetorical techniques such as diegema, prosopopoiia, and ekphrasis in court art. So now it is time to pick up where the beginning of this chapter left off: the Telephos Frieze.

CHAPTER TWO

NARRATIVE IN THE TELEPHOS FRIEZE

INTRO DUCTION

The Telephos Frieze (Fig. 2.1) asks a lot of its spectators.1 Today, the modern viewer must use the Pergamonmuseum in Berlin as a stand-in for the frieze’s original architectural context, the second-century bce Great Altar at Pergamon (Figs. 2.2–2.5). Thinking away the gaps of missing sculpture, and employing the museum’s multilingual handouts, she must figure out the correct order of the frieze’s panels before she can appreciate its narrative. In antiquity, the task of viewing was of course much easier – the frieze was complete and contextualized – but it was far from unchallenging. For centuries, Greek spectators had been accustomed to viewing single moments of action in architectural sculpture. But here, they instead were asked to journey through both time and space in order to follow the life story of one hero, Telephos. After ascending the stairs to the Great Altar, the ancient spectator would have caught his first glimpses of the frieze through the partially built colonnade that lined the monument’s inner courtyard (Figs. 2.4–2.5). If he were interested in viewing the frieze up close, he would have turned to his left and entered the space between colonnade and frieze. First, along the left-hand west spur wall and the north wall, he would have viewed the story of Telephos’s childhood in Arkadia. Here, he would have encountered Telephos’s parents, Herakles (Figs. 2.8 and 2.10) and Auge (Fig. 1.2), and Telephos as a baby 31

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2.1 Reconstruction of the Telephos Frieze by Wolf-Dieter Heilmeyer. (Drawing: Marina Heilmeyer)

(Fig. 2.10). Then, along the wider east wall, he would have surveyed Telephos’s adventures in Mysia. Battle scenes (Fig. 2.12) would assuredly have caught his eye. Continuing along the south wall, he next would have examined Telephos’s trip to Argos (Fig. 2.14) and his deeds at Pergamon (Fig. 2.15). And, finally, on the right-hand west spur wall, he would have seen Telephos’s death and thus the conclusion of the story (Fig. 2.16). A highlight of every handbook on Greek art, the Telephos Frieze is the perfect starting point for a discussion about Hellenistic narrative and its relationship with rhetorical education. Excavated in late nineteenth-century Turkey, reconstructed in twentieth-century Berlin, and scrutinized in recent exhibitions, the frieze continues to excite both scholars and the public.2 Its known subject matter and context contribute to this interest by offering a wealth of architectural and historical information. And, most significantly, it

INTRODUCTION

2.1 (cont.)

has featured prominently in the scholarship concerning Greek pictorial narrative, often cited as the most revolutionary example. Following the frieze’s discovery in 1878, early studies by Carl Robert (1887 and 1888), Hans Schrader (1900), and Hermann Winnefeld (1910) were primarily concerned with the reconstruction of its fragmentary panels.3 Throughout the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, scholars such as Christa Bauchhenss-Thüriedl (1971), Wolf-Dieter Heilmeyer (1997), Huberta Heres (1974 and 1997), Wolfram Hoepfner (1997), Volker Kästner (1997 and 2000), Françoise-Hélène Massa-Pairault (1998), and François Queyrel (2005) have continued to revise the exact order of these fragments and to clarify architectural details.4 Other scholarship focused on the frieze’s narrative technique. The newly discovered frieze appeared in the first modern study of ancient pictorial narrative, Robert’s Bild und Lied (1881), which

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2.2 Foundations of the Great Altar on the Altar Terrace at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. East side. (Photo: author)

2.3 Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Reconstruction of the west side, with central staircase. Originally 36.80  34.20 m (entire monument). Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. (Photo: bpk Bildagentur/Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin/Johannes Laurentius/ Art Resource, NY)

INTRODUCTION

2.4 Plan of the Great Altar at Pergamon by Wolfram Hoepfner. (Drawing: Wolfram Hoepfner)

established basic narrative strategies for classical art and literature. Franz Wickhoff (1895) and, later, Kurt Weitzmann (1947 and 1957), Peter von Blanckenhagen (1957), and Paul G. P. Meyboom (1978) then associated the frieze’s technique with Graeco-Roman manuscript illumination, refining Robert’s tripartite system and eventually settling on (more or less) the complementary method, which uses a central scene that could refer to more than one moment of the story; the cyclic method, which uses separate scenes with a thematic relationship; and the continuous method, which uses a recurring protagonist in a continuous series of scenes.5 As classical scholars grew more interested in the frieze’s narrative techniques, literary critics were developing the “science of narrative” called narratology: first, with a structuralist focus on typology, and, later, with a contextual

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2.5 Model of the Great Altar at Pergamon by Wolfram Hoepfner. Corian; 35.1  175.7  168.7 cm. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. Re 2005, 1. (Photo: bpk Bildagentur/Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin/Johannes Laurentius/ Art Resource, NY)

emphasis on conversation analysis, gender, and ideology as well as with applications in media studies and cognitive linguistics. Following these general humanistic trends, art historians and archaeologists such as J. J. Pollitt (1986), Henner von Hesberg (1988), Andrew Stewart (1996 and 2006), Brunilde Ridgway (2000), and Judith Barringer (2014) examined narrative strategies in Greek art with renewed enthusiasm in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, exploring the frieze’s narrative technique and situating it within the established development of storytelling in Greek and Roman art.6 Such observations have indeed been instructive. Yet modern terminology such as “continuous narrative” perhaps does not fully describe ancient narrative methods. And we have yet to understand completely what the ancient Greeks themselves thought about the practical instruction of such techniques – or why the Attalid court and its artists needed these strategies to produce the revolutionary appearance of the Telephos Frieze. CONTEXTUALIZING THE FRIEZE

The Telephos Frieze was at the very heart of the so-called Great Altar, a pishaped monument that consisted of a podium surmounted by a colonnaded courtyard, with a central stairway that served as its entrance (Figs. 2.2–2.5). It sat

CONTEXTUALIZING THE FRIEZE

2.6 Odysseus’s homecoming. Hellenistic relief bowl; ca. 150 bce. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 3161. (Drawing: After C. Robert, Homerische Becher [Berlin: Georg Reimer 1890], p. 8 fig. A)

within a large enclosed terrace on the Pergamene citadel, past the Upper Agora, to the left of the road that led up to the Royal District (Fig. 1.9). Its measurements (36.80  34.20 m) adhered to the form of a hekatompedon, a building that was 100 Ionic feet square, and a wealth of sculpture embellished it from top to bottom. Akroteria that represented gods, horses, lions, tritons, griffins, and centaurs sat on its roof, leaving marks on the extant roof blocks that prove their ancient presence. The next register had an Ionic colonnade, and at least one of its columns carried a scroll with Zeus’s thunderbolt. Below this, encircling the monument’s exterior, a Baroque sculptural frieze represented a Gigantomachy, or battle of the gods and giants, who were the children of Gaia (Earth) and Ouranos (Sky). Although some portions are lost, its basic order is known from the extant inscribed blocks that gave identifications of the (somewhat) obscure gods and giants who are best known from the stoic philosopher Kleanthes’s On Giants (ca. 250 bce); inscriptions also gave the names of artists below. Inside the courtyard, an Ionic colonnade stood in front of the Telephos Frieze on the courtyard’s walls. In the center of the courtyard was the “altar” proper.7 The monument was assuredly conceived and begun during the reign of Eumenes II (r. 197–159/8 bce), the Attalid king also renowned for his other architectural projects on the citadel such as the reorganization of the Sanctuary of Athena Nikephoros, the Theater, and Palace V.8 The dates of pottery in construction fill, the style of its column capitals, and the first known dedication

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on the terrace suggest that the Great Altar was built between the mid-160s bce and 149/8 bce but was left unfinished, undoubtedly owing to Eumenes II’s death in 159/8 bce and the subsequent attack on Pergamon by Prousias II of Bithynia in 156–154 bce.9 Eumenes II’s dedicatory inscription to Zeus and Athena Nikephoros on the architrave is phrased in the language that the Attalids used to commemorate victory: [ΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣ ΕΥΜΕΝΗΣ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΩΣ ΑΤΤΑΛΟΥ ΚΑΙ ΒΑ]ΣΙ[Λ]ΙΣΣ[ΗΣ ΑΠΟΛΛΩΝΙΔΟΣ ΕΠΙ ΤΟΙΣ ΓΕΓΕΝΗΜΕΝΟΙ]Σ ΑΓΑΘ[ΟΙΣ ΔΙΙ ΚΑΙ ΑΘΗΝΑΙ ΝΙΚΗΦΟΡΩΙ] [King Eumenes son of King Attalos and Q]uee[n Apollonis fo]r the blessing[s befallen us to Zeus and Athena Nikephoros].10

Moreover, spolia – a jumble of arms and armor – would have fit the dowel holes and the irregular cuttings atop the interior altar’s cornice blocks (Fig. 2.7).

2.7 Reconstruction of spolia on the interior altar/base in the Great Altar at Pergamon by Andrew Stewart. (Drawing: Chris Link)

CONTEXTUALIZING THE FRIEZE

It is thus worth considering the possibility that this interior “altar” served more as a base for display in the Hellenistic period – and that the original function of the monument was forgotten by later Roman times.11 A display of weaponry certainly would have fit well within the intended plan of the Great Altar’s central courtyard, for its planned (but unfinished) colonnade made the area famously resemble a stoa.12 The placement of the Telephos Frieze behind the courtyard’s colonnade also increased the effect, making the arrangement appear similar to the programs of paintings in such structures as the Stoa Poikile in Athens with its murals depicting mythical and historical battles.13 Significantly, the Great Altar’s display of spolia echoed the representations of weaponry depicted on the balustrades of the stoas in the Sanctuary of Athena Nikephoros on the Pergamene akropolis.14 And, interestingly, a stoa appears to have previously existed on the Great Altar’s terrace.15 Its configuration also proved to be a standard for victory monuments for years to come: its general pi-shaped form, podium, and stoa-like colonnades were repeated in later constructions such as the Actium Monument at Nikopolis and the Parthian Monument at Ephesos. In fact, the Actium Monument’s courtyard even had an interior “altar” with sculptural reliefs that depict spolia.16 So the Great Altar’s dedicatory inscription, spolia, and allusion to a stoa all point to its association with militaristic commemoration.17 But which victory did it commemorate? Here the militaristic iconography on the Great Altar’s Gigantomachy Frieze appears to offer some help. Allusions to Eumenes II’s wars with the Celts, the Makedonians, the Seleukids, and even the Bithynian and Pontic Kingdoms have been recognized in its mythological battle scenes.18 All these references, though, are plausible, and the association of the monument with just one victory is thus extremely difficult. Is it possible, then, that the Great Altar alluded to all of them? The monument’s historical circumstances, I think, suggest that it did. Let us review what we know about the monument’s historical context. At the time of its probable construction in the 160s bce, Eumenes II was both losing favor with Rome and gaining praise from the Greek world.19 Eumenes II and Rome had been allies throughout the early second century bce, but their relationship became strained with the close of the Third Makedonian War in 168 bce. Especially insulting was the Roman Senate’s refusal to see him – and its granting autonomy to the Celts, whom he had conquered in 189, 183, and 166 bce.20 Yet at this time Eumenes II was also enjoying a warm Greek reception in Asia Minor. Most notably, the Ionian League paid tribute to him in 167/6 bce. In his response to the League, he mentioned his “battles with barbarians” and constructed himself as a benefactor of the Greeks. In typical Attalid fashion, he also took charge of setting up the golden statue

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that the League promised him, and he put his response to the League on its base in Miletos.21 It is very tempting to associate the construction of the Great Altar with Eumenes II’s broader attempt to assert his importance for Ionian Greeks in the mid-160s bce. It was not unusual for the Attalids to refer to multiple victories in their monuments – sometimes doing so vaguely, as we just saw in Eumenes II’s response to the Ionian League. In this monument, then, Eumenes II appeared to be celebrating his ability to be an autonomous Greek benefactor. The Great Altar’s form and elaborate sculptural program, too, suggest that it was more than a mere victory monument. It resembles earlier structures in Asia Minor such as the Nereid Monument at Xanthos and the mausolea at Halikarnassos and Belevi.22 These monuments had celebrated the lives of the dynasts Arbinas, Maussollos, and Lysimachos in the fourth/third centuries bce, the so-called Ionian Renaissance. Thus it is interesting to speculate whether the Great Altar’s emulation of their forms served to commemorate Eumenes II’s achievements and to embed them within a Greek – but Asian – tradition. RECONSTRUCTING THE FR IEZE

With this broader architectural context in mind, we can now turn to the extant fragments of the Telephos Frieze itself in order to explore how and why they construct Telephos’s life story. As it exists today, the Telephos Frieze is a jigsaw puzzle – with many missing pieces. Just a third of the original frieze is preserved, and reconstruction is only possible because the Telephos story appears elsewhere in classical literature and art. For well over a century, scholars have attempted to piece the frieze back together. Much progress has been made: the architectural setting within the altar’s courtyard has been established, and the basic arrangement of Telephos’s life has been set forth.23 But there is still work to do. Careful examination of the ancient sources about Telephos suggests an alternate explanation, identification, and placement for some panels, and ancient rhetoric may help to explain why his entire life story – and not, say, just a statue or one of his exploits – was displayed on the Great Altar.24 It is useful, then, to go back to the basics and review the Telephos story as it appears on the frieze. Some pieces of the frieze’s puzzle can be fitted on the Great Altar owing to archaeological and architectural evidence. The frieze was probably carved out of marble from Naxos or, more likely, Marmara. Its length was originally 26 m on the east wall; 15.50 m on the north and south walls; and 1.30 m on the west spur walls. It consisted of about seventy-four panels in total, with each panel measuring 1.58 m high and 0.67 to 1.06 m wide. Some panels have mitered edges, which necessitate their placement in corners.25 Just about all of

RECONSTRUCTING THE FRIEZE

the frieze’s major fragments then fall into place in accordance with the ancient texts and images that deal with Telephos. My reconstruction of the frieze’s panels generally follows that of Wolf-Dieter Heilmeyer, whose arrangement is reproduced with permission in Figure 2.1.26 To indicate how my reconstruction compares with recent configurations, I list the inventory numbers of panels in Heilmeyer’s drawing as well as François Queyrel’s scene numbers. I also have explained each side of the frieze using the literary sources that mention events in Telephos’s life, noting how a few of the well-preserved panels fit within the frieze’s narrative: West Spur Wall: Arkadia [Missing Scene? King Aleos receives Delphic oracle] [Missing Scene? King Aleos makes Auge a priestess] North Wall: Arkadia 1. [Inv. 2–3 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 1] CORNER: The court of King Aleos in Tegea (Fig. 2.8) 2. [Inv. 3 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 1] Herakles in an oak grove (Fig. 2.8) 3. [Inv. 11 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 2] Auge in the sanctuary of Athena Alea [Missing Scene? Herakles’s relations with Auge] 4. [Inv. 53] Telephos as (abandoned?) infant 5. [Inv. 5–6 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 4] The building of Auge’s boat (Fig. 1.2) 6. [Inv. 4 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 5] Shepherd and Shepherdess + [Inv. 44] King Korythos (?) 7. [Inv. 44 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 17–18] Sanctuary of Dionysos Mystes (?) + [Inv. 7 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 6] maenad (Fig. 2.9) 8. [Inv. 44–46 = Queyrel 2005, Scenes 17–18] Pan’s sanctuary on Mount Parthenion (?) + [Inv. 89 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 5] a satyr (?) (Fig. 2.9) 9. [Inv. 12 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 6] Herakles with a lioness suckling Telephos (Fig. 2.10) 10. [Inv. 119, 89, 7–8, 12 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 6] CORNER: Women preparing a bath, while a seated woman looks on + head of infant East Wall: Mysia 1. [Inv. 9 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 7] CORNER: Telephos as a youth (?) [Missing Scene? Telephos consulting oracle about mother’s whereabouts] 2. [Inv. 13, 32–33, 14b, 90?, 107 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 9] Telephos’s voyage to Mysia 3. [Inv. 10, 107 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 10] Teuthras and his entourage meeting Telephos’s boat 4. [Inv. 16–17 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 12] Telephos’s armament 5. [Inv. 17–18, 186a = Queyrel 2005, Scene 12] Telephos’s departure to fight Idas 6. [Inv. 27–29 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 14] Telephos’s battle against Idas

41

2.8 The court of King Aleos in Tegea and Herakles in an oak grove. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 2–3. (Photo: author)

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2.9 Pan’s sanctuary on Mount Parthenion (?). From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 44–46. (Photo: author)

7. [Inv. 20–21 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 15–16] Auge’s betrothal to Telephos and prevention of his murder (Fig. 2.11) 8. [Inv. 22–24 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 19] The battle between Hiera and Nireus (Fig. 2.12) 9. [Inv. 51 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 28] Hiera’s funeral, with a Greek and a Mysian by the bier (Fig. 2.13) 10. [Inv. 25 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 20] Two slain Skythian warriors, Heloros and Aktaios 11. [Inv. 30–31 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 21] Achilles’s wounding of Telephos with Dionysos’s help 12. [Inv. 1 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 22] Telephos’s consultation of Lykian Apollo’s oracle + [Inv. 92] lyre of Apollo statue (?) 13. [Inv. 34–35 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 23] CORNER: Telephos’s landing in Greece South Wall: Argos and Pergamon 1. [Inv. 36–38 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 24] CORNER: Telephos meeting the Argive entourage (Fig. 2.14)

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2.10 Herakles with a lioness suckling Telephos. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 12. (Photo: author)

RECONSTRUCTING THE FRIEZE

2.11 Auge’s betrothal to Telephos and his recognition of her. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 20–21. (Photo: author)

3. [Inv. 38–40 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 25] The court of Agamemnon at Argos (Fig. 2.14) 4. [Inv. 42 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 26] Telephos with Orestes at an Argive altar [Missing Scene? The healing of Telephos] [Missing Scene? Telephos leading the Greeks to Troy] 5. [Inv. 49–50 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 29] Telephos consecrating a (Pergamene?) altar (Fig. 2.15) 6. [Inv. 47 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 29] CORNER: A woman rushing to Telephos’s deathbed (Fig. 2.16) West Spur Wall: Pergamon 1. [Inv. 48, 43 = Queyrel 2005, Scene 29–30] CORNER: Telephos on his deathbed and his apotheosis (Fig. 2.16)

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2.12 The battle between Hiera and Nireus. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 22–24. (Photo: author)

Unplaced major fragments include: Inv. 68. Small statue of Athena – from an Arkadian scene? Inv. 14a = Queyrel 2005, Scene 3. Woman with a boy near an aniconic pillar – may not belong to frieze.27

West spur wall and north wall: King Aleos of Tegea in Arkadia received a Delphic oracle that said his sons would be killed by his daughter Auge’s child. Aleos therefore made Auge a priestess of Athena and told her that she would be executed if she had relations with a man. When Herakles stopped at the court of Aleos, he was welcomed by Aleos in the Temple of Athena. There, (a drunken) Herakles impregnated Auge.28 Such a sense of place is evident in extant portions of the frieze. For example, in Figure 2.8, we see Queen Neaira enthroned at the court of her consort Aleos and then, in the next scene, Herakles, who wears his lionskin, holds his club over his shoulder, and stands under a tree. Aleos discovered the pregnancy and gave Auge to his friend Nauplios to drown.29 En route to Nauplia, Auge gave birth to Telephos on Mount Parthenion.30 Afterwards (with Nauplios’s help), she eventually sailed to Mysia.31 The preparations for this travel are depicted in panels on the

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2.13 Hiera’s funeral. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 51. (Photo: author)

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2.14 The court of Agamemnon at Argos. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 38–40. (Photo: author)

frieze: a mourning Auge observes workmen build her boat (Fig. 1.2). Meanwhile, on Mount Parthenion, Herakles and King Korythos’s shepherds found Telephos as a hind was suckling him – changed to a lioness on the frieze – and Korythos then raised Telephos as his own son.32 Mount Parthenion may be represented in, for example, the panels that perhaps represent Pan’s sanctuary there (Fig. 2.9). And we certainly can discern the environs of Mount Parthenion in Figure 2.10: this panel shows Herakles leaning on his club and lionskin by a tree as he observes a lioness suckle the baby Telephos. East wall: After consulting the Delphic oracle about the whereabouts of his mother, the adult Telephos sailed to Mysia in Asia Minor.33 King Teuthras promised that he would give both his kingdom and his adopted daughter Auge in marriage if Telephos should protect the kingdom from the invader Idas.34 Victorious, Telephos eventually became king.35 He married Auge, and she was set to kill Telephos in their marriage chamber. But a snake appeared between them and made her drop her sword. She then told her murderous intentions to Telephos. He was about to kill her when she called to Herakles for help. It was only then that Telephos recognized her as his mother.36 In Figure 2.11, we see this marriage and its aftermath: Teuthras leads Auge by the arm to her wedding, and, in the

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2.15 Telephos consecrating a (Pergamene?) altar. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 49–50. (Photo: author)

next scene, Telephos and a snake appear in a marriage chamber with a luxurious bed. Later, the Mysians, together with the Skythians, fought the Achaians when they mistakenly landed in Mysia during the Trojan War.37 Telephos and his (then) wife Hiera were among the participants. Mysian women fought alongside the men as Amazons did, and Nireus killed Hiera in battle.38 The Achaians were instructed to respect her dead body.39 One of the frieze’s scenes represents this battle between Nireus and Hiera, who is on horseback (Fig. 2.12), and another shows a Greek soldier and a Mysian soldier standing by Hiera’s funerary bier (Fig. 2.13). During the battle, the two most renowned fighters – the Skythians Heloros and Aktaios – were killed.40 Dionysos’s vine root also trapped Telephos during the fighting, allowing Achilles to wound him in the thigh.41 But his wound did not heal, so he visited the oracle of the Lykian Apollo for advice. It said that he could

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2.16 Telephos on his deathbed and his apotheosis. From the Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon; ca. 166 bce. Marble; original height 1.58 m. Berlin, Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin inv. 48, 43. (Photo: author)

RECONSTRUCTING THE FRIEZE

only be healed by the thing that wounded him.42 He then sailed to Greece to find Achilles – and his spear – at Argos. South wall and west spur wall: At the court of Agamemnon at Argos, Telephos disguised himself as a Greek beggar.43 He asked for Klytemnestra’s assistance, and at her suggestion he took baby Orestes and threatened to kill him at an altar if the Achaians did not help.44 An oracle had told the Achaians that they could not take Troy without Telephos’s leadership, so they asked Achilles to heal him with filings from his spear; after some debate, Achilles agreed. (Interestingly, modern science tells us that a decorated bronze-tipped spear could heal an injury because verdegris kills bacteria by causing static electricity when scraped over a wound.)45 Telephos did not participate in the attack against Troy (because he was now married to Priam’s daughter), but he did guide them there before returning to Mysia.46 In Figure 2.14, we see Argives greeting Telephos upon his arrival and then, in the next scene, Telephos seated at the Argive court. After this episode, extant literary sources fall silent about Telephos’s life. The frieze appears to have concluded with such scenes as Telephos’s founding a Pergamene cult by setting a capstone on an altar (Fig. 2.15a and b) as well as his deathbed and apotheosis (Fig. 2.16).47 Although this reconstruction generally follows recent arrangements, it differs in one significant detail. I believe that the literary sources for Telephos’s life suggest a possible rearrangement of three panels: Panels 44–46 (Fig. 2.9). They are now usually thought to depict a Pergamene cult and are placed on the South Wall (for example, in Heilmeyer’s reconstruction in Fig. 2.1). But perhaps we should resurrect Carl Robert’s nineteenth-century placement of these slabs on the North Wall.48 The slabs contain no overtly Pergamene content, their landscape elements fit well on the North Wall, and they actually depict two distinct scenes, separated by the frieze’s usual method of division: turned backs and an architectural element, in this case a column that supports a statue of a lion. The presence of both satyrs and a rocky landscape to the right of the column, I think, suggests that this scene possibly could depict Pan’s sanctuary on Mount Parthenion, which is described by the second-century ce travel writer Pausanias. The area to the left of the column perhaps thus could contain a scene involving another sanctuary on Mount Parthenion, that of Dionysos Mystes.49 Two figures stand to the left of the column and lion: a male sacred official marked by his stlengis – a tiara-like headdress overlaid with metal – and a young female participant who holds a double-torch.50 To be sure, there is enough room on the North Wall to incorporate the addition of these slabs in the frieze’s reconstruction of the Arkadian scenes: even with these slabs, the extant reconstructed material takes up only 8.75 m out of the 15.50 m width of the interior wall. In this placement, these scenes effectively would establish

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the setting of Telephos’s birthplace on Mount Parthenion: Pan is generally associated with Arkadia, and the character Telephos even mentions Pan, Arkadia, and Mount Parthenion in the same speech from Euripides’s fifthcentury bce play Telephos.51 Without this scene on the South Wall, there is only one extant scene that probably depicts Telephos’s involvement with a Pergamene cult: Telephos’s placing the capstone on an altar (Fig. 2.15a and b). Two reclining figures may be identified as the river gods Selinos and Ketios, thereby indicating Pergamon. In fact, these river gods flank the altar just as the rivers themselves run along the eastern and western sides of the Pergamene akropolis. The scene, moreover, appears to follow ancient practices of consecration: a seated goddess (?) observes the proceedings, and the location is suggested via an omen – in this case, an eagle.52 Therefore, significantly, the only (extant) Pergamene cultic scene depicts Telephos as a founder. Although the depiction of Telephos’s entire life on the frieze looks familiar, indeed conventional to us, it must have seemed bizarre to an ancient audience. Most of the frieze’s extant panels represent key elements of Telephos’s life as it is known elsewhere, particularly in literature and vase-painting. But the frieze does not unimaginatively follow those texts and images. It presents scenes so that they have the greatest visual impact. For example, we do not see King Aleos hand Auge over to Nauplios; instead, we see the building of Auge’s boat (Fig. 1.2). Moreover, with an upside-down infant, Telephos’s abduction of Orestes is far more menacing than similar images represented in vase-painting.53 Even more unusual than individual scenes was the presentation of Telephos’s complete biography. Earlier Greek monuments such as the fifth-century bce Temple of Zeus at Olympia and smaller works such as the so-called Theseus Cups had represented the individual deeds of the heroes Herakles and Theseus. Monuments in Asia Minor such as the Nereid Monument at Xanthos, the Belevi Mausoleum, and the Heroön at Gjölbaschi-Trysa had depicted individual scenes from the lives of rulers. And metopes from the Temple of Athena Alea at Tegea had shown at least part of Telephos’s life.54 But, as far as we can tell, no previous monument had told the entire life story of its hero. We must ask, then, why the frieze took such an unusual narrative form. To answer that, we perhaps should look to Greek theories of narrative – and what educated Hellenistic patrons, artists, and viewers would have learned about storytelling in school.

DIEGEMA

Although extant ancient sources do not explicitly label the narrative techniques in visual culture, the second-century ce author Plutarch provides some help with understanding how pictorial narrative was conceived:

DIEGEMA

Πλὴν ὁ Σιμωνίδης τὴν μὲν ζῳγραφίαν ποίησιν σιωπῶσαν προσαγορεύει, τὴν δὲ ποίησιν ζῳγραφίαν λαλοῦσαν. ἃς γὰρ οἱ ζῳγράφοι πράξεις ὡς γιγνομένας δεικνύουσι, ταύτας οἱ λόγοι γεγενημένας διηγοῦνται καὶ συγγράφουσιν. εἰ δ᾿ οἱ μὲν χρώμασι καὶ σχήμασιν, οἱ δ᾿ ὀνόμασι καὶ λέξεσι ταὐτὰ δηλοῦσιν, ὕλῃ καὶ τρόποις μιμήσεως διαφέρουσι, τέλος δ᾿ ἀμφοτέροις ἓν ὑπόκειται, καὶ τῶν ἱστορικῶν κράτιστος ὁ τὴν διήγησιν ὥσπερ γραφὴν πάθεσι καὶ προσώποις εἰδωλοποιήσας.55 Simonides, however, calls painting “silent poetry” and poetry “chattering painting.” For while painters show actions as they are happening, words narrate and record these actions after they happened. Even if the ones show the same things through colors and forms, and the others through phrases and words, they differ in material and manners of imitation. But one aim of both is established, and the best of the historians is the person who, by emotions and characters, makes his narrative like a painting.

By comparing historical writing with painting, Plutarch acknowledges that both text and image use analogous techniques to tell their stories. And through the words διήγησις (diegesis, or “narration”) and διηγέομαι (diegeomai, or “narrate”), Plutarch points to the school exercise that would have taught future artists and other students how to construct and to appreciate narrative in the Hellenistic and Roman periods: διήγημα (diegema). Diegema is a rhetorical exercise of narration that is set forth in the surviving handbooks of progymnasmata and Quintilian’s first-century ce Institutes of Oratory.56 A diegema is an exposition of real or fictive action – in other words, a “story” or “tale.”57 Ancient rhetoricians draw a distinction between diegema and the related term διήγησις (diegesis). Some connect diegesis with judicial material and diegema with historical material, while others suggest that diegesis refers to real events and diegema to fiction. Most handbooks, however, agree that a diegema differs from diegesis as a ποίημα (poiema, or “poem”) differs from ποίησις (poiesis, or “poetry”). Thus it is perhaps best to think of diegema as “a narration” and of diegesis as “narrative.”58 Although Theon’s first-century ce progymnasmata is the first extant use of the word diegema in connection with rhetorical exercises, the term itself dates to the Hellenistic period. Its earliest preserved uses appear in the third-century bce new comedy of Phoinikides and the second-century bce Histories of Polybios, where it carries the meaning of “story” there, too.59 Yet in the ancient world, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey were renowned for their obvious storytelling techniques, and theorization about narrative reached as far back as Isokrates, Theodektes, Aristotle, and the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum in the fourth century bce.60 The term diegesis even appears in both Plato and Aristotle.61 Such narrative theories appear to have been transmitted through Hellenistic educational practices, and they were eventually preserved in the progymnasmata. There, the diegema exercise is considered basic, usually coming second or third in the sequence of graded lessons.62

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The diegema exercise consists of imitation and composition. Theon, for example, advises teachers first to collect good examples of diegemata for their students to learn by heart. After rote memorization of such stories, students were then ready to compose their own narratives. They began with subjects that had been tackled by Classical authors so that they could compare their success.63 The handbooks agree on the makings of a successful diegema. It is thought to have six (and sometimes seven) elements: person, action, place, time, manner, cause, and sometimes material.64 And it is said to have three main virtues – clarity, conciseness, and credibility – as well as Hellenism, charm, and grandeur.65 A diegema is also flexible. The story can be told by a narrator, by characters, or by a combination of both.66 And its order of events is mutable. A diegema can be modified or combined with other diegemata to fit different rhetorical and literary contexts.67 The handbooks, moreover, recognize that such contexts can be mythological, fictitious, historical, or political.68 And they affirm that the diegema exercise is particularly good preparation for writing speeches, history, and the diegemata in summaries of great works called hypotheses.69 Thus the diegema exercise provides a heightened awareness of how a story is told, how events unfold in time, and how individual narrations link together to form a greater narrative. Quite simply – anticipating twentieth-century literary criticism – it turned Greek students into skilled writers, readers, and listeners. A consideration of the Telephos Frieze suggests that it also might have helped to produce sophisticated artists and viewers, for many of the frieze’s characteristics correspond with the handbooks’ descriptions of a successful diegema. Its prominent protagonist, obvious landscapes, clear passage of time, realistic clothing and weaponry, and even classicistic style all match up with some of the special elements of a diegema: person, place, time, credibility, and Hellenism. But does this adherence to ancient theory mean that the Telephos Frieze is a “continuous narrative”? Discussions of “continuous narrative” usually place the frieze within a continuum of artworks that begin in the Late Archaic period and end in the Roman Empire. Such artworks are thought to have a recurring protagonist as well as sequential scenes that tell a continuous story. Greek examples traditionally include the fifth-century bce “Theseus Cups” that depict the exploits of the hero Theseus; the Iliadic scenes in Hieron II’s third-century bce royal barge; the second-century bce “Megarian bowls” that illustrate works by Homer and Euripides alongside portions of their texts (Fig. 2.6); and the Telephos Frieze.70 Yet it is unclear whether any of these examples can, in fact, be considered a “continuous narrative.” First of all, “continuous narrative” is a modern phrase, with no basis in ancient art criticism or rhetorical theory. And a closer look at the traditionally cited examples of it challenges our assumptions about the supposed technique. Hieron II’s boat had mosaics that showed images from the Iliad, and this

BIOS

themed decor extended to the cabin’s other details. But Athenaios, who describes the boat in his third-century ce Deipnosophistae, mentions nothing about sequential scenes that told a story.71 The Theseus Cups and the bowls do not tell stories, either. They merely depict individual episodes or scenes – which are not always placed sequentially. Consider, for example, a relief bowl in Berlin that represents scenes from Odysseus’s discovery of his wife’s suitors upon his return home (Fig. 2.6). In Homer’s version of Odysseus’s homecoming, Melanthios steals weapons, and Eumaios and Philoitios tie him and hang him upside down as punishment. Then Athena – disguised as Mentor – helps Odysseus and Telemachos.72 The bowl’s scenes, though, do not follow this order: first Melanthios steals the weapons; he is bound; Athena then helps Odysseus and Telemachos; and, finally, Melanthios is hung. The viewer also runs into another problem when trying to view these scenes as a continuous narrative: Athena is disguised in the Odyssey, but the bowl illustrates her familiar helmet, shield, and spear, thus revealing her identity and rendering her misplaced scene even more illogical. The bowl’s scenes, then, do not make sense as components of an intelligible story. Rather, they merely recall a famous Homeric episode. Indeed, their full meaning is dependent upon the accompanying verses on the bowl. The images’ effect derives from the viewer’s recognition – and recollection – of this textual context.73 The only preserved instance of a continuously told story in Greek art – in other words, a series of sequential scenes or diegemata – is the Telephos Frieze. The frieze, then, is so far a unique example of visual storytelling. Thus we must ask why Attalid patrons had their artists invent such an apparently innovative technique. Perhaps looking more closely at one form that uses a diegesis – the βίος (bios, or “life”) – can help. BI OS

The origins of the bios reach far back in Greek cultural production – though, early on, such biographical writing had no set terminology. The word biographia is late, first appearing in the fifth-century ce author Damascius, but the term βίοι (bioi, or “lives”) was used in the Hellenistic period.74 Biographical writing appears in Greek literature as early as Homer in, for example, funerary speeches.75 Interest in the lives of heroes seems to have grown in the sixth century bce with such authors as Pisander of Kamyros, who records Herakles’s labors.76 The fifth century bce then saw a developing interest in the lives and anecdotes of cultural figures such as Homer, Hesiod, and Sophokles.77 Biographical writing about political figures seems to have started in the fifth century, too. Most famously, Herodotos includes biographical elements about the Persian kings Cyrus and Cambyses in his Histories, and Skylax of Karyanda writes about figures such as the Athenians Kimon and Perikles.78

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Biographical writing came into its own during the fourth century bce and, especially, the Hellenistic period. Isokrates, for example, includes biographical elements in his speech about the Cypriot king Euagoras, and Plato and Xenophon include them in their works about Sokrates.79 Xenophon, moreover, wrote full-fledged bioi of the Spartan king Agesilaos and the Persian king Cyrus.80 And there is even a connection with Pergamon: Antigonos of Karystos worked in the Pergamene library and was, perhaps, the most noted Hellenistic life-writer.81 One wonders whether such local biographical research helped to prompt the idea for the unusual form of the Telephos Frieze. Such life-writing appears to have drawn upon rhetorical elements that are associated with praise. Extant progymnasmata address biographical writing. Theon considers it to be a subset of historical writing to which students should be exposed: he recommends that students read examples of such writing aloud, after they had read aloud simple classic orations accompanied by their teachers’ rhetorical explanations.82 The progymnasmata also teach students how to present biographical material such as virtuous actions and other good qualities – for example, good birth, official position, or death – in the ἐγκώμιον (enkomion) exercise.83 Such praise was placed within a larger narrative using additional rhetorical techniques, for the typical ancient literary bios tended to follow the general τάξις (taxis, or “arrangement”) of a successful speech, as set forth in rhetorical theory: προοίμιον (prooimion, or “introduction”), διήγεσις (diegesis, or “narrative of the facts”), πίστις (pistis, or “proof”), and ἐπίλογος (epilogos, or “conclusion”).84 The introductory material often includes background and childhood, sometimes tracing the subject’s family back for generations or dealing with the circumstances surrounding conception and birth.85 The facts are related according to their importance or their ability to provide proof of character, with one military campaign often taking a disproportionate amount of space.86 And the conclusion of the story – usually the subject’s death and its aftermath – sums up his life.87 We can easily see how the Telephos Frieze follows this structure. It begins with scenes such as the court of Aleos (Fig. 2.8), the building of Auge’s boat following Telephos’s birth (Fig. 1.2), and Herakles with a lioness as it suckles the baby Telephos (Fig. 2.10). These scenes stress Telephos’s ancestry, birth, and childhood. It then shows Telephos’s deeds, including his quest to heal his wound during the Trojan War (Fig. 2.14) and his founding a cult at Pergamon (Fig. 2.15a and b), demonstrating his character in the process. And it ends with Telephos’s death in bed and apotheosis, which reveals his true nature (Fig. 2.16). Previous scholarship has suggested that the form and the subject matter of the Telephos Frieze correspond with those of the ancient novel.88 Perhaps it is interesting to consider an additional possibility, too, one that affirms the fundamental importance of rhetorical instruction in the Hellenistic period: both the

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novel and the Telephos Frieze preserve the structure of a speech and thus ultimately derive from one source, rhetorical instruction. Ancient authors are clear about the advantages of telling a life story. First and foremost, it can be polemical, setting the facts straight as the author sees them.89 Once again, we can find evidence of such rhetorical considerations on the frieze. Eumenes II had good reason for wanting the artist to make a polemical statement – in other words, to set the record straight about Telephos’s life. Spectators must have encountered many variants of Telephos’s story elsewhere, in texts that were widely known: differing stories about Telephos and his family appear in, for example, Homer, the Kypria, the Little Iliad, and Archilochos’s poetry, not to mention the plays of Euripides and Sophokles. The frieze sets forth a complete and definitive version of his life. And, unlike other versions of the story, the frieze establishes without a doubt that Telephos is the founder of Pergamon, as we see most clearly when he puts a capstone on an altar in Figure 2.15. These affirmed biographical facts serve a greater purpose, too. Let us explore what the most famous ancient life-writer of antiquity, the second-century ce Plutarch, has to say about the matter: οὔτε γὰρ ἱστορίας γράφομεν, ἀλλὰ βίους, οὔτε ταῖς ἐπιφανεστάταις πράξεσι πάντως ἔνεστι δήλωσις ἀρετῆς ἢ κακίας, ἀλλὰ πρᾶγμα βραχὺ πολλάκις καὶ ῥῆμα καὶ παιδιά τις ἔμφασιν ἤθους ἐποίησε μᾶλλον ἢ μάχαι μυριόνεκροι καὶ παρατάξεις αἱ μέγισται καὶ πολιορκίαι πόλεων. ὥσπερ οὖν οἱ ζωγράφοι τὰς ὁμοιότητας ἀπὸ τοῦ προσώπου καὶ τῶν περὶ τὴν ὄψιν εἰδῶν, οἷς ἐμφαίνεται τὸ ἦθος, ἀναλαμβάνουσιν, ἐλάχιστα τῶν λοιπῶν μερῶν φροντίζοντες, οὕτως ἡμῖν δοτέον εἰς τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς σημεῖα μᾶλλον ἐνδύεσθαι καὶ διὰ τούτων εἰδοποιεῖν τὸν ἑκάστου βίον, ἐάσαντας ἑτέροις τὰ μεγέθη καὶ τοὺς ἀγῶνας.90 For neither do we write history, but lives, nor in the most remarkable actions is there always a manifestation of excellence or badness, but a small thing – not only a phrase but also childish play – makes an outward appearance of character more than countless dead in battles and mighty marshaling and sieges of cities. Therefore, just as painters take up likenesses from the face and the expression of the eye (in which character becomes visible), considering very few of the remaining parts, so one must allow us to go rather into the signs of the soul and through these to formulate the life of each man, leaving to others the great deeds and contests.

Thus for Plutarch – not to mention other ancient authors – life-writing is ultimately a means of establishing the subject’s ἦθος (ethos, or “character”).91 We find many attempts to establish Telephos’s ethos in the frieze. Most obviously, we see artistic “likenesses,” or portraits, of Telephos that document his changes in age and status. The frieze follows him from infancy in Arkadia

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(Fig. 2.10); through childhood and young adulthood; onto bearded maturity (as the seated figure on the right in Fig. 2.14); and finally to old age (on his deathbed in Fig. 2.16). This range of life stages can be described in Greek as a νήπιος (nepios, or “infant”), a παῖς (pais, or “child”), an ἔφηβος (ephebos, or “ephebe”), an ἄνηρ (aner, or “man”), and a γέρων (geron, or “old man”).92 More importantly, though, we also see actions that reveal character: for example, we see that Telephos chooses to go to Mysia, to protect Teuthras’s kingdom, to fight with the Mysians against the Achaians, to hunt for a cure for his wound (as at Argos in Fig. 2.14), and to found a Pergamene cult (Fig. 2.15a and b). The frieze, then, narrates the life of Telephos from before conception to death and establishes his character in accordance with ancient biographical techniques – all within an apparent victory monument whose closest comparanda celebrated the lives of dynasts during the Ionian Renaissance. So we must ask why. WHY TELEPHOS?

Telephos, to be sure, was an important local hero for the Attalids.93 And they certainly had a demonstrated interest in monumentalizing their connections with the local heroes of the legendary past. For example, a dynastic group erected at Delos after Attalos I’s victory over the Celts in 237/6 bce depicted at least Eumenes I and Attalos I, together with such Mysian heroes as Teuthras, Teuthras’s father Midios, and Phaleros.94 But the Attalids’ interest in commemorating their heroes does not fully explain the form that the Telephos Frieze takes. Eumenes II’s – and his artists’ – choice of Telephos is interesting. Although Telephos is Pergamon’s mythical founder in the Great Altar, it is important to remember that this choice deviates from the traditional Attalid use of myth. The original Attalid choice of heroic forebear was, in fact, Pergamos. Pergamos was a possible carryover from Alexander the Great’s cultural program who appears to have lacked a Mysian connection until the Attalids created one.95 Born in Epiros, Pergamos was Andromache’s son and Achilles’s grandson through Pyrrhos. He thus established Pergamene ancestral links with both the Trojans and the Greeks. He was also the friend of Telephos’s grandson Grynos, who was at war with Mysian Teuthrania and asked for help. Pergamos killed the Teuthranian king, Areius, took control, and renamed the Teuthranian capital as Pergamon. Attalos I reinforced this association with Pergamos by placing his stoa – the Stoa of Attalos – near the heroön of Pyrrhos-Neoptolemos at Delphi.96 The Attalids, moreover, appear to have built a heroön for Pergamos at Pergamon in the third century bce.97 And they set up a statue of him there a century later.98

WHY TELEPHOS?

Given that Pergamos was so valued by the early Attalids – and his ancestors can be traced back to both sides of the Trojan War – his omission on the Great Altar is surprising. Philetairos perhaps had erected a sculptural group with Telephos at Mount Helikon in Greece.99 But Eumenes II took a more serious interest in Telephos, perhaps even at the expense of Pergamos. It is tempting to speculate that Eumenes II advanced Telephos as an alternate founding hero owing to his direct participation in the Trojan War – and the visual opportunities to highlight the complexities of Attalid identity on the frieze. Eumenes II, of course, drew from a long-standing Attalid interest in the Trojan War. Troy was arguably the most famous place in Mysia. So perhaps unsurprisingly, the Attalids emphasized Troy – Ilion – and its environs. Philetairos (r. 283–263 bce) or Eumenes I (r. 263–241 bce) established a military settlement at the foot of Mount Ida.100 Attalos I (r. 241–197 bce) counted Ilion, Lampsakos, and Alexandria among his allies during his conflict with Achaios in 218 bce.101 Soon after, Ilion named one of its tribes after him.102 Eumenes II (r. 197–159/8 bce) and Attalos II (r. 159/8–139/8 bce), moreover, both held property for animal husbandry in the Troad.103 And Eumenes II might have sponsored two stoas in the agora of Assos.104 Eumenes II, Queen Stratonike, and Attalos II are mentioned in a decree from Adramyttion that honors an Attalid official.105 And, most notably, Attalos II was celebrated for his patronage of the sanctuary of Athena Ilias, whose cult had been mentioned by Homer.106 To be sure, though, Eumenes II was the Pergamene king with the strongest interest in affirming the Attalid links with the Trojan War. He was a wellknown Greek benefactor.107 And his cultural program was no less present in Pergamon itself. For example, a dedicatory inscription tells us that he left his mark on the Sanctuary of Athena Nikephoros by erecting a propylon and stoas that framed the north and east sides of its terrace.108 This complex constructed associations with both contemporary victory and the mythical past. Mythical figures such as Prometheus, Herakles (bearing the portrait of Attalos I), Kaukasos, and perhaps Telephos were dowelled to the walls of the stoas’ niches.109 And relief panels depicting spolia from Attalid battles adorned their second-story balustrades.110 Other panels illustrating mythical history have been associated with the propylon: a Gigantomachy that includes Zeus and Athena; the Greeks building the Trojan Horse; and Athena with Telephos, or his father Herakles.111 Today, the propylon’s façade is reconstructed in the Pergamonmuseum in Berlin, but the three reliefs that it now carries in its second story are actually casts of weapon reliefs from the stoas. It thus is possible that the façade originally carried the mythological scenes. Although they sometimes have been attributed to Palace V, there is good reason to keep their association with the Nikephoros propylon. First of all, close autopsy shows that their backs are

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finely finished – in keeping with panels whose backs would have been visible inside the stoa-like façade. Moreover, they have the same height and depth as the other Nikephoros panels. And their varying lengths fit the special dimensions of the façade, which has space for three scenes: a longer central relief flanked by two narrower ones. In their fragmentary states, the scene with the Trojan Horse is now 1.04 m long, while those with the Gigantomachy and Athena and Telephos/Herakles are 0.72 m and 0.84 m, respectively. In the Athena Nikephoros sanctuary, then, we see the same imagery that appears on the Great Altar. References to the Trojan War appeared in literary culture during the reign of Eumenes II, too. Lykophron’s Alexandra, for example, perhaps can be dated to the early second century bce, when Pergamon and Rome were strong allies just after the Second Makedonian War.112 This poem takes the form of prophecies that predict the Trojan War and the rise of Rome, celebrating ties among Troy, Rome, and (perhaps) Pergamon along the way. The poem’s possible Attalid inventions include Telephos’s sons Tarchon and Tyrsenos, who fought with Aeneas in Italy.113 Suggestively, when Eumenes II perhaps wanted to sunder these links among Troy, Rome, and Pergamon in the 160s, he possibly returned to the Alexandra’s imagery for help. Close autopsy affirms that a lioness suckles Telephos on the North Wall of the Telephos Frieze (Fig. 2.10). Yet other representations of this scene involve a deer.114 Herakles, of course, famously acquires the skin of the Nemean lion, and the Alexandra associates Telephos with a lion as well.115 Since the Roman myth of Romulus and Remus uses the image of a wolf suckling a baby, and the deer was venerated by the hated Celts, it is probable that Eumenes II changed the animal on the frieze in order to demonstrate political strength: the Attalid lion is more formidable than the Roman wolf or the Celtic deer.116 Thus the Trojan imagery in the art and literature produced during the reign of Eumenes II would have established strong ties between Telephos and Eumenes in the mind of a Pergamene viewer. And these ties would have emphasized the similarities between mythical hero and king. Telephos’s wars with Idas and the Achaians could have been viewed as the mythical equivalents of Eumenes II’s victories over the Celts and Makedonians. Both Telephos and Eumenes II, of course, had a questionable Greek identity. Consider, for example, the most widespread accounts of Telephos in the classical world. Telephos was a popular focal point for discussions of cultural identity.117 His Greekness – and Arkadian origin, which established that Greekness – were of utmost concern. Telephos’s Arkadian background had a long history in Greek literature, appearing as far back as Archilochos’s poetry in the seventh century bce.118 We see the best meditation on these origins, though, in the prologue-speech from Euripides’s Telephos in the fifth century bce:

WHY TELEPHOS?

Ὦ γα[ῖα πατρὶς] ἣν Πέλοψ ὁρίζεται, χαῖρ᾿, ὅς τε πέτραν Ἀρκάδων δυσχείμερον Πὰν ἐμβατεύεις, ἔνθεν εὔχομαι γένος· Αὔγη γὰρ Ἀλέου παῖς με τῶι Τιρυνθίωι τίκτει λαθραίως Ἡρακλεῖ· σύνοιδ᾿ ὄρος Παρθένιον, ἔνθα μητέρ᾿ ὠδίνων ἐμὴν ἔλυσεν Εἰλείθυια, γίγνομαι δ᾿ εγώ. καὶ πόλλ᾿ ἐμοχθησ᾿, ἀλλὰ συντεμῶ λόγον· ἦλθον δὲ Μυσῶν πεδίον, ἔνθ᾿ ερὼν ἐμὴν μητέρα κατοικῶ, καὶ δίδωσί μοι κράτη Τεύθρας ὁ Μυσός, Τήλεφον δ᾿ ἐπώνυμον καλοῦσί μ᾿ ἀστοὶ Μυσίαν κατὰ χθόνα· τηλοῦ γὰρ οἰκῶν βίοτον ἐξιδρυσάμην. Ἕλλην δὲ βαρβαροῖσιν ἦρχον ἐκπονῶν πολλοῖς σὺν ὅπλοις πρίν Ἀχαϊκὸς μολὼν στρατὸς τὰ Μυσῶ[ν πε]δί᾿ ἐπ[ι]στρωφᾶι ποδί.119 O land of my fathers, which Pelops marked out for himself, and Pan – you dwell in the stormy rock of Arkadia, from where I brag descent: for Auge, child of Aleos, secretly bore me to Herakles of Tiryns. Privy is Mount Parthenion, where Eileithuia released my mother from birth pangs, and I was born. And I suffered much, but I’ll cut the story short. I came to the plain of the Mysians, where, finding my mother, I settled, and Teuthras the Mysian gives his powers to me. The citizens throughout the Mysian country call me the significant name of Telephos: for I was living “far away” when I settled. A Greek, I led barbarians, working hard in great armor till the Achaian army came over the plain of the Mysians by foot.

In this speech, Telephos appears to refer to rocky Arkadia as his “ancestral land” and clearly identifies himself as a Greek in opposition to the Mysians whom he finds in Asia Minor. We see this same concern over origins later in the play, when the chorus sings σὲ γὰρ Τε[γ]εᾶτις ἡμῖν, / Ἑλλάς, οὐχὶ Μυσία, τίκτει (“For the land of Tegea, Greece not Mysia, gave you birth”) – and, of course, when Telephos is called Μυσὸν Τήλεφον (“Mysian Telephos”).120 This concern was indeed acknowledged in the Hellenistic period. For example, a Ptolemaic-era papyrus from the Serapeion in Memphis, Egypt bears an excerpt of the play’s prologue along with the transcriber’s assertion that he is a Makedonian – in other words, he quotes the play as a way to emphasize his complex Makedonian-Greekness in a multicultural Graeco-MakedonianEgyptian context.121 It is easy to see why Eumenes II, too, wanted to use this image of Telephos from Greek poetry and theater, for many of these same things could have been said of him. As we saw in his response to the Ionian League, he constructed himself as a Greek benefactor who fights barbarians, despite his being part of a

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Mysian – barbarian – dynasty. Adding to his anxiety, of course, was the possibility that the Attalids were not even Greek.122 While the frieze constructs this parallel between Telephos and Eumenes II, it also offers proof of their Greekness through an emphasis on location. Among the Arkadian scenes, in particular, there is an overwhelming sense of place and nature. Several segments, for example, show trees with differentiated leaves. Herakles rests by an oak tree (Fig. 2.8), and plane trees stand in the sanctuary of Athena, near the shepherds and Korythos, and with Herakles, Telephos, and the lioness (Fig. 2.10). Others, moreover, depict a rocky landscape. Such crags are found with Auge’s boat (Fig. 1.2), Telephos and the lioness (Fig. 2.10), Pan’s sanctuary (Fig. 2.9), and Telephos’s bathing preparations.123 Arkadia was a famously bucolic place in classical literature – but that literary construct was created in Roman times by Vergil’s Eclogues. Indeed, the most famous writer of bucolic poetry in the Hellenistic period, Theokritos, actually set his Idylls in Sicily. Nevertheless, Arkadia did have a definite regional identity in Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic Greece. Often singled out by ancient authors for their antiquity, the Arkadians had a strong sense of cultural unity as well as ties to specific geography. Their mythical history was separate from that of the other Greeks, and they often were described as autochthonous, or born from the land. This land was also marked by its association with the god Pan, who was born in Arkadia and enjoyed special connections with mountains and forests.124 The frieze’s landscape elements, then, assuredly connect the frieze with the historical Arkadia and its people. The acorns in the oak tree by Herakles (Fig. 2.8) may even reference the Arkadians’ ancient nickname, βαλανηφάγοι (balanephagoi, or “acorn-eaters”).125 But is there a more specific geographical association, too? The extant scenes can all be associated with one place: Tegea. Aleos’s court and the sanctuary of Athena Alea were in Tegea, and Mount Parthenion was in its environs. The Great Altar generally worked hard to construct this Tegean link. The closest comparandum for the molding on the interior “altar”/base, for example, is actually from the altar at the Temple of Athena Alea at Tegea. The western pediment of this temple and, possibly, its metopes are the only other known monumental representations of the Telephos story.126 And so we must ask, why do these explicit links occur? The Telephos story could be read as a colonizing narrative, constructing historical ties between a “mother” city (Tegea) and a “colony” (Pergamon).127 But Pergamon never was such a literal Greek colony: the city started out as a Classical fort, and it suddenly came to prominence with the Attalids in the Hellenistic period. Although the frieze reinforced a shared mythical history, spectators perhaps did not have to look so far into the mythical past for ties between Tegea and Pergamon. Such relations were important for contemporary diplomatic reasons – and were not just ancient history.128 Tegea, then, is proof that both Telephos and Eumenes II are Greek.

WHY TELEPHOS?

Interestingly, although the frieze reaffirms Telephos’s Greek identity, it does not shy away from his – and, by extension, Eumenes II’s – coexisting Mysian identity.129 We see signs of his Mysian identity, for example, in the choice of clothing on the frieze. One set of figures dons a typical Greek military uniform: a short chlamys and high-strapped krepides with heel tabs and laces wrapped around the lower leg. The three standing Argive figures on the far left in Figure 2.14 wear this outfit. But the Mysian figures – including Telephos, his companions, and Teuthras – wear the typical footwear of Asia Minor: embades, or low boots with elaborate lacing and piloi. Teuthras wears these in Figure 2.11.130 Suggestively, then, Telephos is represented as a Mysian on the frieze – and not as the Greek that he claims to be in Greek tragedy. The frieze has additional references to multiple identities, too, most noticeably in the treatment of Hiera, Telephos’s wife (Figs. 2.12–2.13).131 We see her both in battle and on her funerary bier. In battle, she appears on a horse, with the sort of Skythian weaponry that Amazons use in Greek art (Fig. 2.12). On her bier, she is laid out with both a Greek and a Mysian – identified by their clothing – standing at her side (Fig. 2.13). These images are certainly provocative. Hiera was only one of Telephos’s wives: among the different versions of his myth, he also wed at least Auge and Laodike, Priam’s daughter.132 It is suggestive that the artist highlights this particular woman, even going so far as to represent her funeral. In the ancient world, moreover, Amazons were thought to be hostile to marriage and usually took the form of parthenoi, or unmarried girls – not wives. They usually were portrayed as barbarians who battled Greeks, and this image of the Amazon was particularly important in Asia Minor. Most famously, the Mausoleum of Halikarnassos carried an Amazonomachy. And the Attalids themselves portrayed conquered Amazons in the so-called Lesser Attalid Dedication on the Athenian Akropolis.133 We must ask, then, why the frieze emphasizes Hiera and her Amazon-like qualities. The earliest extant account of Hiera in Greek literature may offer some help. According to the third-century ce Philostratos: φησὶ δὲ ὅτι καὶ Μυσαὶ γυναῖκες ἀφ᾿ ἵππων ξυνεμάχοντο τοῖς ἀνδράσιν, ὥσπερ Ἀμαζόνες, καὶ ἦρχε τῆς ἵππου ταύτης Ἱέρα γυνὴ Τηλέφου. ταύτην μὲν δὴ λέγεται Νιρεὺς ἀποκτεῖναι (τὸ γὰρ μειρακιῶδες τοῦ στρατοῦ καὶ οὔπω εὐδόκιμον πρὸς αὐτὰς ἔταξαν), πεσούσης δὲ ἀνέκραγον αἱ Μυσαὶ καὶ ξυνταράξασαι τὴν ἑαυτῶν ἵππον ἐς τὰ τοῦ Καΐκου ἕλη ἀπηνέχθησαν. τὴν δὲ Ἱέραν ταύτην ὁ Πρωτεσίλεως μεγίστην τε ὧν εἶδε γυναικῶν γενέσθαι λέγει, καλλίστην τε ἁπασῶν ὁπόσαι ὄνομα ἐπὶ κάλλει ἤραντο. Ἑλένην μὲν γὰρ τὴν Μενέλεω γυναῖκα ἰδεῖν οὔ φησιν ἐν Τροίᾳ, νυνὶ δὲ ὁρᾶν μὲν αὐτὴν τὴν Ἑλένην καὶ οὐ μέμφεσθαι τὸ ὑπὲρ αὐτῆς ἀποθανεῖν· εἰ δὲ ἐνθυμηθείη τὴν Ἱέραν, τοσοῦτον αὐτήν φησι πλεονεκτεῖν τῆς Ἑλένης, ὅσον κἀκείνη τῶν Τρωάδων. καὶ οὐδὲ αὕτη, ξένε, Ὁμήρου ἐπαινέτου

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ἔτυχεν, ἀλλὰ Ἑλένῃ χαριζόμενος οὐκ ἐσηγάγετο ἐς τὰ ἑαυτοῦ ποιήματα θείαν γυναῖκα, ἐφ᾿ ᾗ καὶ παθεῖν τι Ἀχαιοὶ καὶ πεσούσῃ λέγονται, καὶ παρακελεύσασθαι πρεσβύτεροι νέοις μὴ σκυλεύειν Ἱέραν μηδὲ προσάπτεσθαι κειμένης.134 [Protesilaos] says that even the Mysian women fought from horses alongside the men, just as the Amazons, and the leader of this cavalry was Hiera, wife of Telephos. Nireus is said to have killed her (for the young men of the army who did not yet have honor drew up for battle against the women). When she fell, the Mysian women cried out, stirring up their horses, and were carried off course into the marshes of the Kaikos. Protesilaos says this Hiera was the biggest woman whom he ever saw, and the most beautiful of all who took a name for beauty. He doesn’t say that he saw Helen the wife of Menelaos in Troy, but that he now sees Helen herself and does not blame her for his death. If he ponders Hiera, he says that she has advantage over Helen as much as Helen has advantage over the Trojan women. Not even she, O stranger, fell in with the praiser Homer, but showing Helen favor he did not introduce this divine woman into his own poems. Even the Achaians are said to have been affected with passion for Hiera when she fell, and the old men exhorted the young men neither to strip Hiera of her arms nor to meddle with her as she lie dead.

Here we see that Philostratos mentions Hiera’s corpse, and so we can assume that her death was well known in Greek culture. The identification of Hiera’s funeral on the frieze is often contested in modern scholarship, since both Greek and Mysian are represented by her side. But Philostratos clearly states that the Greeks were instructed to be respectful of her dead body. This passage thus confirms the identification of the scene on the frieze. Philostratos also highlights Hiera’s similarity to an Amazon. A Byzantine source even adds that she is more formidable than the famous Amazon fighter Penthesileia.135 It appears as though Hiera’s Amazon-like qualities, too, were famous in the ancient world. Lastly, Philostratos tells us that Hiera surpasses the epitome of Greek beauty, Helen. Thus on the frieze, Hiera is shown as a figure of alterity who is fighting for the Mysian cause against the Greeks. Yet in some respects – for example, her beauty – she is more admirable than the Greeks themselves. Indeed, her status as a figure with multiple identities is stressed by the inclusion of both Greek and Mysian alongside her funerary bier. Her presence on the frieze, then, helps to emphasize the possibility of multiple identities and thus Telephos’s – and Eumenes II’s – secure dual status of both Greek and Asian. Now that we have explored the choices that are associated with depicting Telephos on the frieze, only one question remains: why did Eumenes II and his artists use revolutionary rhetorical techniques to depict his full biography?

CONCLUSION: A SYNKRISIS?

CONCLUSION: A SYNKRISIS?

With his local associations and obvious similarities to Eumenes II, Telephos is, to be sure, the most fitting mythological figure for the frieze. But perhaps there is a greater reason for his presence than mere suitability. The key, I think, to understanding Telephos’s function is his presentation in relation to Eumenes II. The Great Altar did not just hint at their similarities. Rather, it actively encouraged viewers to compare them. First and foremost, it set Eumenes II center stage: as the viewer approached the monument, he spotted the prominent name of Eumenes II in its dedicatory inscription, and, as he ascended the central staircase and entered the courtyard, he saw spolia from Eumenes II’s military victories on the central altar. This initial view of the courtyard set up the viewer’s experience of the Telephos Frieze: facing the viewer, behind the spolia, were Telephos’s wartime activities on the frieze’s long east side. With just one glance, then, the viewer surveyed the military exploits of both Eumenes II and Telephos before he inspected the details of Telephos’s life more closely. He thus viewed the Telephos Frieze with Eumenes II already in mind. Given that the Great Altar’s antecedents are the monuments that celebrated the lives of dynasts in Asia Minor, this emphasis on Eumenes II is not surprising. What is remarkable is that the Great Altar made Eumenes II compete with Telephos for the viewer’s attention. Once again, we may look to a rhetorical exercise that is preserved in the progymnasmata and Quintitlian’s Institutes of Oratory for assistance with understanding this striking choice. The σύγνκρισις (synkrisis), or comparison, exercise teaches students how to construct such juxtapositions between two figures.136 This technique was established by the fourth century bce and thus the start of the Hellenistic period: both Isokrates and Xenophon use it, and Aristotle explains it.137 Often associated with enkomia and other biographical writing, it compares and contrasts similar subjects, especially people who are not clearly superior to one another. The most famous ancient examples are the Synkriseis that accompanied most of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, paired biographies of Greeks and Romans written in the early second century ce.138 As Aristotle notes, the technique emphasizes similarities, and, by critiquing equals, it invites discussion about who is, in fact, better. He is clear about the goal: the amplification of the main subject’s virtues.139 We can see how the Telephos Frieze perhaps uses this technique. The chronological order of the frieze’s episodes adheres to the progymnasmata’s general guidelines. The frieze also follows their recommendation to emphasize actions that are performed at crucial moments by choice – the very deeds, in fact, that demonstrate Telephos’s ethos. And by leading the viewer past Eumenes II’s inscribed name and spolia on the way to the frieze, the Great Altar invited comparisions between Eumenes II and Telephos. The elite

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well-educated courtiers who frequented the Pergamene citadel, to be sure, could recognize these rhetorical cues and draw their own comparisons of the two kings. Such comparisons are all to Eumenes II’s great benefit. Although Telephos is a figure from Pergamon’s mythical history and Eumenes II was a living person, the monument presents them as similar subjects: kings. Telephos is indeed constructed as a worthy rival. The frieze depicts Telephos as a model king with the ultimate mark of success, a death in bed and even an apotheosis. It also demonstrates that such a model king can have the positive coexistence of Greek and Asian identities. Yet a detailed comparison of the two kings reveals that Eumenes II was responsible for many victories while Telephos was, at times, associated with the losing side in the Trojan War. The tangible proof of Eumenes II’s superiority was irrefutable: the Great Altar’s dedicatory inscription and the spolia in its courtyard. So, in the end, the Great Altar and its rhetorically informed Telephos Frieze affirmed that Eumenes II could keep company with – indeed surpass – mythical model kings such as Telephos, thus amplifying the virtues of his successful – and complex – Hellenistic kingship.

CHAPTER THREE

PERSONIFICATION IN THE ARCHELAOS RELIEF

INTRO DUCTION

When the modern spectator tries to work out the imagery on the Archelaos Relief (Fig. 3.1), she quickly realizes that it thwarts a straightforward interpretation.1 Consisting of a lower interior scene surmounted by an upper mountainous landscape, the Archelaos Relief produces a constructed space that looks quite different from most ancient representations of the real world. The relief’s directed composition, moreover, draws the spectator’s eye up and down through its many levels, zigzag or boustrophedon fashion. And, what is more, the relief explicitly announces its rhetorical technique. For not only does it name an artist, Archelaos of Priene, it also glosses the figures in its bottom scene: personifications of abstract concepts. In the left corner of this bottom scene, a diademed Oikoumene and Chronos crown an enthroned Homer, while Ilias and Odysseia kneel by his side. To the right of this group, Mythos, Historia, and a humpbacked ox gather around a central altar in sacrifice. Next come Poiesis, Tragoidia, and Komoidia, arms extended toward Oikoumene, Chronos, and Homer. Finally, at the far right, a cluster of Arete, Mneme, Pistis, and Sophia huddle together with gestures of apprehension, while the child Physis tugs at their garments. From this group, the relief then draws the viewer’s eye immediately above to the rocky landscape. Here, at its right edge, a statue stands on a base in front of a tripod. To its left, a man, a woman, and an omphalos are in a cave. And, 67

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3.1 The Archelaos Relief. From Bovillae; ca. 200 bce. Marble; height 1.15 m. London, British Museum 2191. (Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum)

lastly, a succession of women continues further left and upwards, zigzagging to a bearded, reclining man at the apex of the mountain. Without question, this Hellenistic artwork constructs its twenty-firstcentury spectators as outsiders. Even if the modern spectator reads ancient

INTRODUCTION

Greek, she surely finds Homer’s interaction with personifications bizarre. The unmarked figures in the rocky landscape, of course, are meaningless to the uneducated eye and cannot be readily identified as Apollo, the Muses, and Zeus. And the relief’s literary images could suggest a preferred audience of the intellectual elite in a Hellenistic court. While personification and allegory have not been considered expressly Hellenistic phenomena, scholars have traditionally attributed the supposed upsurge of allegorical discourse to the same intellectualism that produced both recherché poetry and the three major libraries at Pergamon, Antioch, and Alexandria. But we must ask whether the relief was so exclusionary and allegorical in the Hellenistic world. The ancient spectator was well acquainted with both personifications and unlabeled mythical figures. And, while the Iliad and the Odyssey are elite reading material today, Homer and his poems were well known to just about everyone in classical antiquity: Homer, after all, was Greek culture’s greatest cultural icon. A fresh look at the Archelaos Relief, then, questions many of our long-held beliefs about Hellenistic personification and allegory – and begs for a general reassessment. Discovered in the mid-seventeenth century and present throughout the modern history of classical scholarship, the Archelaos Relief is the ideal focal point for an examination of personification, rhetoric, and artistic production in the Hellenistic courts. Indeed, in many ways it has become the modern symbol of Greek personification and, by extension, allegory. The relief gained its modern fame first in Italy and later in Britain, where it is now in the British Museum. Its archaeological details continue to stimulate interest, too, because even after more than three centuries, questions about dating, provenance, and thus contextual importance persist: proposed dates span the third through first centuries bce, and possible origins include three Hellenistic kingdoms as well as Imperial Roman Italy. Such unanswered questions certainly make the Archelaos Relief worthy of study, but its status as a cause célèbre in the historiography of Greek personification and allegory also makes it a helpful focal point when exploring the association of personification and Hellenistic court art. By the time the Archelaos Relief was found in the seventeenth century, Renaissance scholars had long participated in allegorical readings and viewings. Many antiquarians such as Athanasius Kircher (1671) and Ezechial Spanheim (1717) decoded the supposedly symbolic attributes of the relief as part of their larger interpretative and methodological efforts, and Bernard de Montfaucon (1719) attributed the allegorical nature of the work to the presence of literary personifications. Participating in the Romantic discourse about the distinction between symbol and allegory, Enlightenment scholars such as J. J. Winckelmann (1766) and Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1766) then debated whether personifications such as those on the relief were symbolic or allegorical.2

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When this question was settled in the nineteenth century, the relief’s use of personification once again became its defining allegorical feature. It was then included in the two works that have formed the basis for later twentiethcentury work on Greek allegory – and on the Archelaos Relief. Hugo Blümner (1881) and Roger Hinks (1939) argued that personification was an expression of Greek thought, and they established a continuum of increasing Greek intellectual sophistication that manifested itself first in symbol and myth and later in allegory. For them, Greek allegory was based on the presence of personifications, and the Archelaos Relief’s presumed mental subject – the poet and his muse – was particularly well suited to it. Together, they helped to identify the modern significance of ancient personification: the building block of Greek allegory. And their work also provided the general foundation for scholars who dealt with personification and allegory as expressions of the Greek mind.3 Drawing upon this modern scholarship as well as a reconstructed Hellenistic Zeitgeist, J. J. Pollitt (1986) wrote what is, perhaps, the most cited contemporary interpretation of the Archelaos Relief: Thanks to its didactic inscriptions the “lesson” of the Archelaos Relief is not difficult to read: Inspiration springs from Zeus (and one must remember that to Hellenistic intellectuals, particularly Stoics, “Zeus” meant something like “cosmic mind”) and Memory and is passed from heaven to earth by the Muses. Its foremost recipient was Homer, who is both a patron god and symbolic ancestor of the victorious poet for whom the relief was made. Homer’s epics will last for all time and are universal, hence he is crowned by Chronos and Oikoumene; they celebrate both myth and history; they are the fountainhead of the literary genres that came after epic (lyric poetry, tragedy, and comedy, arranged, in an appropriately learned fashion, in the historical order of their invention); and they have bestowed, like all worthy poetry, essential moral virtues upon human nature. In essence, the relief describes a literary man’s cosmos and is the sort of work which must have appealed to the elite group who dwelt in the comfortable security of the Museum [at Ptolemaic Alexandria].4

So, for late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century scholars, the relief was made for a victorious poet, and its literary personifications create an erudite allegory.5 T. B. L. Webster (1967), moreover, suggested that the relief takes the form of the victorious poet’s poem, complete with invocations of Zeus and the Muses.6 And Zahra Newby (2007) has continued such stimulating discussions in the twenty-first century, investigating the ways in which word and image on the relief contribute to “an allegory of poetic inspiration” that relates to its function as a victorious poet’s dedication in a sanctuary.7 Such thoughtprovoking scholarship explores many fascinating issues about Hellenistic art

ORIGINS

and literature. But is there more to discover about personification, allegory, and the Archelaos Relief? And is the relief associated with intellectual pursuits at a Hellenistic court? First and foremost, we must go back to antiquity itself and investigate the relief’s context. OR IGINS

Seventeenth-century documentary sources – together with twentieth-century topographical analyses – point to the probable findspot of the Archelaos Relief. In 1671, Athanasius Kircher noted that the relief was found among the ruins of a villa in the Italian municipality of Marino. These ruins have been convincingly identified as those of a villa outside the town of Bovillae that was known as Tor Ser Paolo in the Middle Ages. Tor Ser Paolo, as excavations and surveys have revealed, had a long life span, with a core of Republican masonry as well as medieval additions. Kircher reported that the Archelaos Relief was found within vaulted substructures that also contained other statuary. Several seventeenth- and eighteenth-century antiquarian authors – if their reports are accurate – perhaps give a good idea as to the extent of this sculptural assemblage. In 1690, for example, Raffaelo Fabretti said that the Archelaos Relief was found together with such notable artworks as the Iliac Tablet now in the Capitoline Museum and a bust of Claudius once in Madrid. Nineteenthcentury excavations discovered more (unworked) marble, architectural sculpture (for example, columns, bases, capitals), and statuary, including two male torsos, a relief with a Galatomachy and a sacrifice, a marble tripod, and three male “athletes.” Twentieth-century topographical surveys, furthermore, continued to note columns and other marbles in situ.8 It thus appears as if Tor Ser Paolo had a sizable and diverse sculptural collection, and so there is no reason to assume that its owners had a specific interest in Homer – or that they commissioned the Archelaos Relief. There is, in fact, no way to determine the point in Republican, Imperial, or even medieval history at which the relief entered the villa’s holdings. And so it seems most prudent, then, to assume that the villa was a secondary or even tertiary context for the relief in the Late Antique period, when such caches for sculpture were common. Close autopsy of the relief itself, then, can provide the only clues to original context. The relief consists of a single block of medium-grained, yellowish marble with dark striations. Taking the overall shape of a rocky mountain, the relief’s diminishing width and thickness correspond to the landscape’s rising tiers. The back is roughly worked with a point. The bottom has a flat surface with rasp and chisel marks that match similar tooling on the front. But the treatment of the sides is inconsistent. Although portions are finished with more rasping and chiseling, a vertical strip of broken marble indicates that at least the right side was cut down from a wider composition. The break is especially noticeable on

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the front of the relief, where the tripod on the second tier almost abuts the relief’s right edge; this awkward proximity suggests that the tripod was carved before the break occurred. In addition, modern and ancient square, rectangular, and circular cuttings appear on both sides and seemingly postdate the break. The modern, circular cuttings were assuredly made for a marble frame that once surrounded the relief.9 The function of the ancient cuttings, though, is puzzling. These ancient cuttings could indicate that the relief was set inside a structure such as a small naiskos at some point in antiquity, but the holes have no obvious comparanda in Greek and Roman art. Ancient installations of lighter wooden panels, for example, appear to have been affixed from the rear – an impossible arrangement for the relief, since it has no cuttings on its back.10 In the end, then, the technical details of the relief give little solid evidence for its ancient display, and we unfortunately are still left with more questions than answers. Epigraphical evidence, then, may offer some suggestions for a context. The relief carries an artist’s signature, Ἀρχέλαος Ἀπολλωνίου ἐποίησε Πριηνεύς (“Archelaos of Priene, son of Apollonios, made [me]”) as well as labels under the figures in its bottom scene. In Priene, comparable letter forms date to ca. 125 bce. Elsewhere in Asia Minor they appear somewhat earlier: around the turn of the third to second century bce.11 The inscriptions thus may suggest a date within the late third/second centuries bce. But such contradictory results demonstrate that the relief’s epigraphical evidence may not be as helpful as it at first appears, indeed it might even be misleading. We cannot be sure that Archelaos himself cut the inscriptions. And we do not know where he learned his craft or spent his working life. Ancient sculptors were itinerant workers who traveled around the Mediterranean world.12 The addition of an ethnic, in fact, suggests that Archelaos was not a local where he produced his relief.13 The lettering on the Archelaos Relief, then, must be used with extreme caution when searching for a date. But art-historical analyses of style, subject, and iconography may provide a more precise answer to our question of origins. The relief’s figures are elongated, with disproportionately short torsos and long legs. Close autopsy, moreover, reveals that the relief’s heads have squarish proportions, full cheeks, and a particular fleshiness over the cheekbones and chin; bulbous eyeballs outlined by ridged upper and lower eyelids; hollowed-out eye sockets; and a flat mouth and chin that are at odds with the three-dimensionality of the nose and the rest of the face. Female heads, in addition, have a triangular brow. And female drapery is clearly articulated in over- and undergarments, often ending in thin, mannered (yet softly defined) zigzag folds that blend into the back plane of the relief. A clear preference for such distinct stylistic details can be found in especially one art-historical context: Ptolemaic Alexandria. As previous scholars have noted, there are two sets of late third-century bce Ptolemaic-era artworks

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that carry all-around parallels to the figures on the Archelaos Relief: paintings from the late third-century bce nekropolis of Moustafa Kamel and portraits on faience oinochoai, particularly those that depict Berenike II at the end of her reign (r. 246–221 bce) and Arsinoe III (r. 221–204 bce).14 The relief also shares another feature with Ptolemaic art, one that speaks to our charge: the use of personifications. This seemingly had its origins in the lavish processions that Ptolemy II famously sponsored in the 270s, which included personifications of both the cosmic order and cities.15 Such processions, of course, were not specific to the Ptolemaic dynasty. Antiochos IV’s procession at Daphne in 167 bce, for example, carried statues of Night, Day, Earth, Heaven, Morning, and Noon.16 But the Ptolemies had a unique penchant for monumentalizing such processions in stationary, permanent tableaux. Ptolemy I (r. 305–283 bce), for example, set up such a sculptural group in the Tychaion at Alexandria. Here, in a T-shaped composition, a statue of Alexander was crowned by Ge (Earth), who in turn was crowned by Tyche (Fortune), with two Nikai (Victories) flanking the group.17 And in Ptolemy IV’s late third-century bce Homereion at Alexandria, a statue of Homer stood with personifications of all the cities that claimed to be his hometown.18 This public artistic interest in personification also seems to have appeared in more private, perhaps court, Alexandrian art. Most famously, the Tazza Farnese cameo bowl (Fig. 3.2), probably best dated to the mid-second century bce, shows a much-contested scene that apparently uses personified figures to comment on Egyptian prosperity.19 The Archelaos Relief thus fits nicely in this Ptolemaic context. The relief’s connection with artistic preferences in Ptolemaic Egypt, however, may go beyond style and subject matter: the relief may also share some of its iconography. The Iliad and the Odyssey who kneel by the side of Homer at the bottom left of the relief (Fig. 3.3), for example, are similar to the common (but to my knowledge specifically Egyptian) motif of subservient figures such as wives or children who kneel at the foot of an enthroned superior.20 More notable, though, is the iconographic significance of the two figures at the extreme left of the relief’s first tier. They 3.2 The Tazza Farnese; ca. 150–30 bce. Sardonyx cameo bowl; diam. 0.20 m. Naples, Museo Nazionale are labeled Chronos and Oikoumene, inv. 27511. but they appear to bear the likenesses of (Photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY)

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3.3 The Archelaos Relief, detail of Oikoumene, Chronos, Homer, Ilias, and Odysseia. From Bovillae; ca. 200 bce. Marble; height 1.15 m. London, British Museum inv. 2191. (Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum)

ORIGINS

historical individuals. Various identities have been proposed, but Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III (r. 221–204 bce) seem the most likely candidates. The heads on the Archelaos Relief, as we have seen, are diademed and generally resemble those in Ptolemaic art, and the portrait-like Chronos is especially close to numismatic portraits of Ptolemy IV: they both share pudgy, bloated features and tightly curled hair bound by a diadem. The portrait-like Oikoumene, in addition, is similar to securely identified numismatic portraits of Arsinoe III: they both have a high forehead, a prominent nose with a slight bump, a full face, and puffy cheeks. One faience portrait head of Arsinoe III, furthermore, displays the same sort of polos that Oikoumene wears.21 And Oikoumene’s prominence on the Archelaos Relief is also similar to that of queens in Ptolemaic art. The image of the queen frequently appears and is often marked by attributes and an attention to individualized features formerly reserved for male likenesses.22 This presence of Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III on the relief, together with the rest of its iconography, easily fits with their known interests in literature, Homer, and the Muses. Previous Ptolemies had engaged in political patronage, but Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III’s level of literary participation was unique. Ptolemy IV, for example, wrote a tragedy called Adonis, for which his adviser, Agathokles, provided a commentary.23 Ptolemy IV’s specific interest in Homer, moreover, manifested itself most notably in his dedication of the Homereion. No remains of this Temple to Homer have been identified, but literary references indicate its basic appearance. Described as having both a neos and a temenos, the complex was large enough to house the sculptural assemblage of Homer and the personified cities. It also appears to have hosted later Homeric festivals, perhaps with performances by local Homeristai.24 The bottom tier of the Archelaos Relief, with its sacrifice to Homer in an architectural space marked sacred by drapes, could well allude to the Homereion. Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III also had a special interest in the Muses. In Alexandria, they were undoubtedly involved with the Mouseion founded by Ptolemy I.25 The Ptolemaic Mouseion, according to Strabo’s later account, was part of the royal complex and consisted of a covered walkway, an arcade, an exedra, and a common dining hall for the scholars.26 In the Hellenistic period, the Ptolemaic king appointed the priest who oversaw the Mouseion.27 And Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III might have been especially active in its events: the Roman architectural historian Vitruvius relates that a festival of Apollo and the Muses, complete with literary competitions, was held during their reign.28 Perhaps owing to this known interest in the Muses, the Thespians seem to have appealed to Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III for help with the reorganization of the Mouseia in the Valley of the Muses at Mount Helikon in Greece. This reorganization involved the modification of both competitions and physical environment, and extant architectural remains – including an altar, a theater,

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and at least one portico – are, in fact, dated to the last decades of the third century bce or shortly thereafter. Arsinoe III agreed to donate athla for competitions, and Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III funded the purchase of revenue-producing land.29 Arsinoe III, in particular, seems to have had a permanent presence at Thespiae. Pausanias reports seeing a humorous statue there of the apotheosis of an Arsinoe on an ostrich.30 And it is quite probable that Arsinoe III is portrayed as a Muse on Thespian coinage.31 Just as the relief’s bottom tier may allude to the Homereion, its rocky landscape, then, may refer (at least in part) to this patronage at Mount Helikon. The second-century ce travel writer Pausanias, for example, tells us that portraits of both political and cultural figures were erected there. He also relates that there were many tripods, the most famous of which was won by Hesiod. Last but not least, Pausanias says that Mount Helikon had statues that depicted the Muses: a group of all nine by Kephisodotos I, and three each by Kephisodotos I, Strongylion, and Olympiosthenes. There also was a group of Apollo and Hermes, fighting for the lyre.32 The Muses on the Archelaos Relief were once thought to reflect the so-called Muses of Philiskos, a highly speculative – and probably nonexistent – second-century bce sculptural group of nine Muses.33 But it is interesting to wonder instead whether some figures on the rocky tiers of the relief recall the statues and dedications that were seen by Pausanias and are thus markers of Helikonian space. The crypto-portraits on the relief, then, are assuredly Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III, and the relief’s imagery appears to refer to their cultural patronage. But what is the relief’s function within this Ptolemaic context? It is commonly thought to be a votive that was dedicated by a victorious poet who is represented by the statue on its second tier.34 And, accordingly, the relief’s unique form is viewed as a composite of two types of votive reliefs: a bottom register commonly seen in sacrificial scenes such as those dedicated to Asklepios and an upper, rocky register that evokes dedications to Pan and the Nymphs.35 Yet this explanation is not without problems. First of all, the borrowing of an artistic form need not be based on function. And, although the relief’s sacrificial scene is similar to others in Greek art, its upper tiers are actually quite different in conception from the Pan reliefs: the Archelaos Relief depicts a mountainous landscape, but the Pan reliefs represent caves. Second, it is odd that so many figures on the relief are labeled while the presumed dedicant – the statue on the base – is not. Finally, third (and most problematically), it is strange that a votive relief with so many inscribed legends would carry no dedicatory inscription.36 Thus there is no evidence to support a votive function for it. And so we must look elsewhere for a comparable form and function. The relief’s Italian findspot, signature, and legends all point to one probability: an association with the copying industry that supplied Roman homes with marble reliefs, statues, kraters, candelabra, altars, and bases. The majority of such works

ORIGINS

have been found in Italy, but suggestive assemblages have also been found in Peiraieus harbor and Mediterranean shipwrecks; they thus seem to have been produced at key centers and shipped throughout the Mediterranean. In full swing by 100 bce, this industry continued well into Roman imperial times.37 The Archelaos Relief shares many features with Italian copies. Signatures, for example, sometimes appear on the works themselves.38 Similar iconography – including Egyptian motifs, masks, and curtains – also is common. Italian villas clearly had a special taste for literary and dramatic subjects, particularly ones that were associated with Egypt. The Archelaos Relief appears to have a special technical affinity with one series of so-called Satyrspiel reliefs that display theatrical motifs.39 Like the Archelaos Relief, they were found in Italy, are carved in coarse-grained marble, and – most notably – have both a rocky tiered landscape and a stepped profile. Although the Archelaos Relief is probably a copy, it need not have been an Imperial Roman production. Here, a comparison with a relief from the Villa of Herodes Attikos at Loukou in Greece may be instructive. The Archelaos Relief and the Loukou relief both represent Muses in a rocky landscape and to some extent seem to have followed common models.40 But close autopsy reveals that their styles are very different. The figures on the Archelaos Relief are elongated, while those on the Loukou relief are stocky. More noticeably, their finishes vary. The treatment of the Archelaos Relief is soft, indeed blurred, but that of the Loukou relief is hard and crisp. The artists, then, assuredly produced their works in different contexts: the Loukou relief looks like a product of the copying industry in Roman Athens, but the Archelaos Relief is clearly Hellenistic. What is more, the Archelaos Relief was almost certainly not produced in Athens. While Athens is the best-documented center of the copying industry, the use of different types of marble among mass-produced Hellenistic and Neo-Attic reliefs – and not merely fine-grained marble quarried from Mount Pentelikon in Attika – perhaps suggests various centers of production.41 Several features point to the Archelaos Relief’s possible origins in the Greek islands or Asia Minor: most notably, the ethnic Prieneus, the coarse-grained marble that is associated with island quarries, and iconographical details such as the shape of altar that is represented on the bottom tier.42 Although, of course, we should not disregard this question of copies and the Roman use of Greek visual culture, we cannot ignore the important evidence that the Archelaos Relief provides for now-lost Ptolemaic art. And so, we must ask, what is the composition’s original context? The relief’s rocky landscape suggests a possible genre: topographical art.43 Ptolemaic topographical art is most famously – albeit tenuously – associated with one artist, Demetrios, whom Diodoros calls a topographos. Demetrios was an Alexandrian painter who lived in Rome ca. 165 bce, and the probable dates

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of his life suggest that topographical painting was an established genre in the late third/early second centuries bce.44 Ancient sources give no specific description of topographical painting, but Vitruvius appears to hint at its nature: he argues that the best wall-paintings for porticoes are landscapes that portray real subjects such as harbors, promontories, shores, rivers, springs, straits, sanctuaries, groves, hills, herds, and herdsmen.45 There also are topographical elements in extant Alexandrian art. Most notably, staggered ground lines, rocks, and trees are found on a third-century bce bronze cup from an assuredly Egyptian context and now in Alexandria.46 Since the scale of these Egyptian works is so small, the full effect of such Alexandrian topographical art is perhaps better observed in an extant artwork done in another medium: the Nile Mosaic (Fig. 3.4). Found in a Roman grotto in Praeneste and dated to the end of the second century bce, the Nile Mosaic’s Egyptian iconography implies an original Ptolemaic context. In Republican and Imperial Italy, Hellenistic paintings were commonly adapted to fit Roman mosaics, and the original Nilotic painting could well have been associated with the Ptolemaic court.47 The Nile Mosaic depicts a bird’s-eye view of Egypt and Ethiopia in a tiered composition that gives the allusion of slanting backward. In the lower, Egyptian part, we see a flooded Nile,

3.4 The Nile Mosaic. From Praeneste; ca. second century bce. Mosaic; 5.85  4.31 m. Palestrina, Museo Archeologico Nazionale. (Photo: Nimatallah/Art Resource, NY)

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complete with festivals, temples, and other architectural features. But in the upper, Ethiopian part, there is a zigzagging, rocky landscape with hunters and animals. The Nile Mosaic is thus very similar in conception to the Archelaos Relief. In both works, the bottom tier – the one notionally closest to the viewer – portrays the world of Graeco-Egyptian, Ptolemaic society, while the upper, rocky tiers depict (quasi-mythical) lands farther away: Ethiopia in the case of the Nile Mosaic, and Greece in the Archelaos Relief.48 Thus it is interesting to speculate that the relief’s composition similarly is derived from a Ptolemaic painting. Ptolemy IV was well known for his tryphe, or luxury.49 One wonders whether the relief is based on a painting that was once on display in the Ptolemaic court – perhaps even in a portico of the Mouseion or Library. Such a secluded – and Greek – display is indeed suggested by the relief’s use of the Greek style for its sacrificial scene and crypto-portraits. Ptolemaic sacrificial scenes were usually done in the Egyptian style, and so the relief’s original composition clearly was tailored to suit Greek tastes. Consider, for example, a limestone stela from the reign of Ptolemy IV that was found at Tanis (Fig. 3.5). It depicts three Egyptian deities – Wadjyt, Horus, and Min – on the stela’s left side, the place of importance in Egyptian art. On the right, we then see Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III represented as traditional Egyptian pharaohs. Here as elsewhere in Egyptianstyled art, the Ptolemies are depicted as worshippers and not as the recipients of worship.50 Public, monumental images of the early Ptolemies in stone most often favored the Egyptian style, too. Documents such as the Canopus, Rosetta, and Raphia decrees indicate that it was an important intentional aspect of these portraits.51 And most extant portraits, in fact, suggest that constructing a fictive dynastic resemblance with the last native Egyptian pharaohs, the Nektanebos of Dynasty 30, was a very significant element of early Ptolemaic political art. We see this most markedly in the fragments of colossal Ptolemaic 3.5 Min, Horus, Wadjyt, Ptolemy IV, and Arsinoe portraits reclaimed from Alexandria’s III on a stela. From San el-Hagar (Tanis); ca. 222–204 bce. Limestone; height 0.71 m. London, British harbor (Fig. 3.6), close to the site of the Museum inv. EA 1054. Royal District and the Pharos lighthouse. (Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum)

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3.6 Entrance to the Bibliotheca Alexandrina (the new Library of Alexandria), with an Egyptian-style portrait of an early Ptolemaic king that was found in Alexandria’s harbor; opened in 2002. (Photo: author)

These statues do have some Greek elements, but their primary style is indeed Egyptian – and thus so was the face that the Ptolemies presented to the world.52 Greek-style portraits of the early Ptolemies, by contrast, are only seen in large and small works that were apparently used by a cloistered group of Makedonians, Greeks, and others who were familiar with Greek culture. Suggestively, though, we do begin to see the beginnings of a more public preference for Greek style and iconography with Ptolemy IV. Ptolemy IV’s image on one copy of the Raphia decree, for example, portrays him in Makedonian armor on horseback.53 So far, we have established that the original context of the relief’s composition is associated with the court of Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III. To understand what the relief says about it, we must now turn to Ptolemy IV-Chronos, Arsinoe III-Oikoumene, and the other personifications on its bottom tier. PERSONIFICATIONS ON THE RELIEF

Chronos and Oikoumene The Archelaos Relief has been known as the Apotheosis or Deification of Homer since its rediscovery in the Renaissance, owing to the striking scene in

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the left corner of its bottom tier: the crowning of an enthroned Homer by Ptolemy IV-Chronos and Arsinoe III-Oikoumene (Fig. 3.3). Homer’s presence is indeed noteworthy, and the scale of the Ptolemies is clearly subordinate.54 But a reconsideration of Ptolemy IV-Chronos and Arsinoe III-Oikoumene highlights their roles in the scene. For when images of the king and the queen appeared in Hellenistic art, they undoubtedly were important elements of the composition. And, of course, when such political portraits are fused with personified abstractions, the spectator understands them to be especially significant. Despite the relief’s popular modern label, Ptolemy IV-Chronos and Arsinoe III-Oikoumene need not be deifying Homer. Homer’s Zeus-like enthronement, rather, suggests that he is already a god. And the representation of deification and apotheosis is a relatively rare occurrence in Hellenistic and Roman art: the deceased usually points to an omen in the sky, as we see on the Telephos Frieze in Chapter 2 (Fig. 2.16); disappears with a storm; or is flown to heaven, as we see on perhaps the most famous example, the Roman emperor Titus’s flight on the Arch of Titus.55 Without such a flight, then, the relief’s emphasis is assuredly not on Homeric deification. Instead, it appears to be on the Ptolemies’ ability to crown the divine Homer. The act of crowning held great significance in Greek culture. Crowns were famously given to victorious athletes at the Panhellenic Games, but they were also metaphorically bestowed to mark accomplishments such as military success. Such crowns may denote κῦδος (kudos, or “a talisman of supremacy”) and their metaphorical circulation symbolized the transferal of these powers and honors. The athletic victor, for example, could declare στεφανῶ δ᾿ ἄστυ (“I crown the city”) and thereby present kudos to his hometown.56 The crowning on the Archelaos Relief, then, appears to represent a similar transferal of kudos. But to what events in real-world Alexandria does this Homeric crowning refer? The Ptolemies certainly used their wealth and power to promote Greek literature. With them in control, the Library at Alexandria did nothing less than to consolidate and, perhaps more importantly, to reshape Greek literate culture. Relentless in their quest for literature, the Ptolemies bought books in the markets of Athens and Rhodes, they “borrowed” (but never returned) original copies of Aischylos, Sophokles, and Euripides from Athens, and they even seized books on ships in Alexandria’s harbor – keeping originals and returning copies.57 In all, the Library probably acquired as many as a half million scrolls.58 But it did more than merely collect extant and acknowledged Greek literature. By including both Greek translations of foreign-language texts and new works on non-Hellenic topics, the Library increased the scope of Hellenic literate culture.59 The Library also seems to have redefined traditional categories of literature. Once in the Library’s possession, all scrolls went through an elaborate accessions and cataloging

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process.60 And so the Library also established a disciplinarity that might not have existed so rigidly (if at all) before. Homer, of course, was not forgotten in this political and academic milieu. Like other aspects of the Library and Mouseion, Homeric scholarship was intertwined with Ptolemaic politics. And, in a very real sense, Ptolemaic Alexandria constructed its own Homer as it studied him. As we see in Alexandrian scholia, the line between reading and rewriting was indeed blurred or even erased: the verbs ἀναγιγνώσκω (“to read”), γράφω (“to write”), and μεταγράφω (“to rewrite”) were used interchangeably.61 The first two Alexandrian scholars to do substantial work on Homer were tutors to Ptolemaic children and the first heads of the Library: Zenodotos of Ephesos and Apollonios of Rhodes. Called the first διορθωτής (diorthotes, or “editor”) of Homer by later scholars, Zenodotos compiled a Homeric Glossary, wrote Homeric studies, and commented upon the authenticity of lines in his recensions of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Zenodotos’s successor at the Library, Apollonios, disputed aspects of these recensions in his Against Zenodotos, and he placed his Homeric scholarship on display in his epic poem the Argonautika.62 This was not merely scholarship for its own sake, and at least some ancient writers were skeptical of such apparent Ptolemaic altruism. As Seneca explains later in the first century ce: pulcherrimum regiae opulentiae monimentum alius laudaverit, sicut T. Livius, qui elegantiae regum curaeque egregium id opus ait fuisse. Non fuit elegantia illud aut cura, sed studiosa luxuria, immo ne studiosa quidem, quoniam non in studium sed in spectaculum comparaverant, sicut plerisque ignaris etiam puerilium litterarum libri non studiorum instrumenta sed cenationum ornamenta sunt.63 Let someone else praise this library as the most honorable monument to the wealth of kings, just as Titus Livius, who says that it was the most extraordinary work of the taste and the diligence of kings. There was no “taste” or “diligence” about it, but studious luxury; no indeed, not even “studious,” since they had collected not for study but for show, just as many who lack even a child’s knowledge of letters use books, not as tools of study but as decorations of the dining room.

Thus the Ptolemies could be said to promote the collections of the Library and the scholarly activities of the Mouseion for their own political ends. The Archelaos Relief clarifies this relationship. The relief tells the spectator that the Ptolemies were the first to secure the “crown” and that it is only through their kudos that Homer can obtain his own and flourish. But, according to the relief, what is the nature of this Ptolemaic supremacy? Perhaps exploring the nuances of its Ptolemaic portraits can shed some light on it. To the modern eye, the most striking aspect of Arsinoe III-Oikoumene and Ptolemy IV-Chronos is their portraits that combine ruler with personification.

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Personifications often were mere figures of speech, but they also were considered real deities in many religious situations.64 Arsinoe III-Oikoumene and Ptolemy IV-Chronos are, then, best described as “theomorphic” portraits. Such theomorphic portraits combined ruler with deity and were not uncommon in the Hellenistic age.65 The problem for the modern spectator, though, is determining how the ancient Greeks read these images: should they be understood as mortals in the guise of a divinity, metaphorical expressions of power, or full-fledged gods? Now, the Hellenistic world’s polytheism was fluid, and being human – and alive – was not incompatible with being divine. The cultic worship of deceased men, commonly called heroes, had a long history in Greek and Makedonian religion.66 Divine kingship, moreover, might have occurred in early Greece. And living men seem to have been worshiped and honored as gods during the Classical period, perhaps owing to their outstanding arete. It was in this context that Alexander appears to have been deified in his own lifetime. Thus we need not doubt that literal divinity was indicated when Hellenistic kings and their consorts were identified as θεοί (theoi, or “gods”) in documents and literature. Such divine kings, for example, had their own decidedly religious spaces such as temene and altars. And, moreover, the so-called ruler cult was not just imposed by the kings themselves: cities and priests also set such divine honors in motion.67 The case of the Ptolemies is especially clear-cut, for they were explicitly worshiped as gods. Ptolemy I, for example, established a priesthood of Alexander, and later Ptolemies associated themselves with it – and thus, in effect, with a state-run dynastic cult. Ptolemy II deified his parents, Ptolemy I and Berenike I, as the Theoi Soteres, and Ptolemy II and Arsinoe themselves joined the cult of Alexander as the Theoi Adelphoi. Ptolemy III and Berenike II next entered the cult as the Theoi Euergetai. Ptolemy IV then added not only himself and his wife Arsinoe III, the Theoi Philopatores, but also Ptolemy I and Berenike I retrospectively. He also started an eponymous state priesthood at Ptolemaïs, and the Ptolemies were worshiped outside Egypt, too. Ptolemaic queens and consorts, in addition, had their own individual cults.68 Moreover, they were “assimilated” to (other) deities. Arsinoe and Berenike, for example, were associated with such goddesses as Aphrodite and Tyche.69 This “assimilation” is perhaps best understood not as a ruler’s taking the guise of a god but rather as one god – the deified monarch – fusing with another. The Ptolemaic spectator, then, clearly would have had no problem understanding the fusion of Ptolemy IV-Chronos and Arsinoe III-Oikoumene. But what would these specific fusions have meant to him, and what do they say about Ptolemaic power? Representations of Oikoumene first appeared at the very start of the Hellenistic age, and this sudden arrival may be explained by the increased – and changing – significance of the concept of οἰκουμένη (oikoumene) in the Hellenistic world. Although images of Oikoumene first

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materialize in the late fourth century bce, the term oikoumene had a long history in Greek literature, reaching as far back as Xenophanes and Herodotos. From the start, oikoumene referred to the shared world bound by communication, socialization, indeed Greek culture; Xenophanes, for example, even writes of “us” when discussing it.70 The nature of the oikoumene, however, changed with Alexander’s campaigns in the east and the start of the Hellenistic age. The known world of the Greeks before Alexander was schematic and incomplete. When the historian Ephoros illustrated this physical oikoumene in the fourth century bce, the very Hellenocentric concept of the oikoumene was figured as a parallelogram, with Greeks at the center and Ethiopians, Celts, Skythians, and Indians at the outlying sides to the south, west, north, and east.71 But the concept of oikoumene took on greater geographical and political importance during the Hellenistic age. When Alexander’s campaigns sought but could not reach the eastern limits of the oikoumene, it became increasingly apparent that ἡ οἰκουμένη γῆ (“the known world”) and ἡ σύμπασε γῆ (“the entire world”) could no longer be so easily conflated. And so such geographers as Krates of Mallos proposed multiple oikoumenai, or habitable zones, on earth. Other thinkers such as Strabo, however, continued to insist on the primacy of their oikoumene within the broader world.72 Thus the political implications of a cultural concept such as oikoumene were highlighted and problematized, especially with Rome’s emergence as a power in the Hellenistic world. While Alexander and his early Successors sought to conquer the oikoumene, writers such as Polybios and Plutarch took Roman conquest of the oikoumene for granted. Rome’s designs were instead, as Livy says, to be head of the (by now multicultural) world.73 We see this clear progression in representations of Oikoumene in political art: the proscenium of the Theater of Dionysos in Athens pictured Demetrios Poliorketes driving his chariot toward Oikoumene in the late fourth century bce. By the time of Caesar’s triumphs in 46 bce, however, Oikoumene was completely conquered, represented by a bronze statue under his feet on the Capitolium steps in Rome.74 But perhaps most importantly there was a shift in cultural bias, as we can glean from reconstructions of the late third-century bce map drawn by Eratosthenes, the head librarian at Alexandria during the reign of Ptolemy IV.75 Using data gathered from Alexander’s campaigns as well as scientific and cartographical methods, Eratosthenes did not place Greece at the center of his map. Rather, he drew parallels that ran through the fixed points of major Hellenistic cities including, suggestively, his Alexandrian base. The concept of oikoumene, then, retained a Hellenocentric, increasingly Graeco-Roman cultural emphasis – but the center of this culture was no longer mainland Greece. It was the Alexandria of Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III.

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Ptolemaic Alexandria also had a special interest in the concept of chronos. Although there was a long-standing tradition of Oikoumene in Hellenistic and Roman art, the Archelaos Relief carries the only confirmed representation of Chronos.76 Chronos was a primal figure in Greek myth and philosophy. In the fifth century bce, Pindar calls Chronos ὁ πάντων πατήρ (“the father of all”), and, among the various ancient sources, he fathered at least Zeus, Eros, Aither, Day, Truth, and Fire, Wind, and Water.77 He was a fully realized figure in Orphic cosmology, often equated and conflated with Kairos (Opportune Time), and, especially, Kronos (the father of the universe).78 On the relief, Chronos’s image corresponds with one aspect of his ever-changing appearance in this mythical literature. His most prominent attributes – wings – are paralleled in Hieronymos’s and Hellanikos’s theogonies, where they denote swiftness. And, interestingly, Kairos also has wings on his shoulders when conflated with Chronos.79 By the Hellenistic period, though, the concept of chronos also carried specific temporal connotations. Plato and Aristotle, for example, distinguished chronos (measured time) from aion (eternity). For Plato, chronos came into being at the same time as the heavens: it is an image of aion that can be measured and broken down into smaller increments: days, nights, months, and years. The sun, moon, and stars then came into being in order to tell time.80 Representations of such measured time enjoyed some prominence in Ptolemaic Alexandria. Specific temporal increments were represented in, for example, the Procession of Ptolemy II: the beginning and end of the procession were marked by the Morning and Evening Stars, and Eniautos (the Cyclic Year), Penteteris (a Five-Year Span), and the Horai (Seasons) also appeared.81 But the closest comparanda for the Archelaos Relief’s theomorphic portrait of Ptolemy IV-Chronos are found during the reigns of Ptolemy IV and Ptolemy V. At this time, Ptolemaic kings assumed the imagery of one of Plato’s temporal markers, Helios (the Sun): radiate crowns appear on a posthumous numismatic portrait of Ptolemy III and on a miniature terracotta head that is plausibly identified as Ptolemy IV.82 Ptolemy V, moreover, even seems to have assumed the imagery of Chronos: a clay sealing preserves a winged portrait that bears his telltale nose.83 This Ptolemaic interest coincided with – and may even be attributable to – the scholarship that the Library and Mouseion produced. Eratosthenes’s Chronographiai (Chronographical Tables), for example, provided a series of tables that outlined the chronology of Greek history. Drawing upon Spartan fasti and Hippias of Elis’s Olympic victor lists, it began with the fall of Troy and ended with Alexander, thus giving Hellenocentric measurements – and later prompting Dionysios of Halikarnassos to call this “Greek” time.84 And so on the Archelaos Relief, Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III are fused with personified abstractions of Greek culture and Greek time. But this is a circular

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combination of powers: through sponsoring the scholarship of Eratosthenes, Ptolemaic patronage actually helped to construct these Hellenistic concepts of chronos and oikoumene. Thus the fusion in these theomorphic portraits does not enhance Ptolemaic power so much as it reinforces Ptolemaic mastery over Greek experience.

The Iliad and the Odyssey As we have just seen, Ptolemy IV-Chronos and Arsinoe III-Oikoumene crown Homer on the relief’s bottom tier, but the scene is especially striking because it contains not only this portrait of Homer but also personifications of the two epic poems attributed to him: the Iliad and the Odyssey. It is thus interesting to explore what these personifications can do that a mere portrait cannot – namely how personified text constructs an image of authorship and reception.85 Personifications of the Iliad and the Odyssey are both rare and varied, so their presence in ancient culture presents some interesting questions. They appear in at least five ancient artworks from around the Mediterranean that range in date from the Hellenistic through Late Roman periods. Their iconography is not fixed, and their appearance, furthermore, is not limited to any one medium. In addition to the Archelaos Relief, they appear with Homer on a Roman silver cup (Fig. 3.7); in a marble group from Roman Athens (Figs. 3.8–3.9); just possibly on a Roman sarcophagus; and, finally, in a Late Roman mosaic.86 Because the ancient world venerated Homer, it is easy to understand why it

3.7 The apotheosis of Homer, the Iliad (left) and the Odyssey (right). From Herculaneum; ca. first century ce. Silver kalathos; height 0.125 m. Naples, Museo Nazionale inv. 24301. (Drawing: After S. Reinach, Répertoire de reliefs grecs et romaines Vol. III [Paris: Ernest Leroux 1912], p. 76 fig. 1)

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continually sought to render him in art.87 But the ancient world depicted Homer visually in many different ways, most often preferring the mode of portraiture. In order to gain a better understanding of the nature of our rarely used mode, personification, on the Archelaos Relief, it may be helpful to begin by comparing and contrasting the uses, the roles, and the functions of the portrait, the metaphor, and the personification. Let us first take a look at what a portrait can do: it can construct an image of the author’s outward physical appearance. In portraits of the so-called Blind Homer type like that at the British Museum (Fig. 3.10), we see Homer’s wrinkles and sagging flesh, his open mouth, and perhaps even his blind eyes.88 These physical details may offer some comment on Homer’s psychology or intellect. But there are many other invisible aspects of the author, or rather of authorship, that such a portrait alone cannot address. A metaphorical image is much better suited to making the invis- 3.8 The Odyssey from the Athenian Agora, early ible visible. Consider a metaphorical second century ce. Marble; height 1.29 m. Athens, painting of Homer in Alexandria by Agora Museum S 2039. Galaton, attested by Aelian.89 Aelian tells (Photo: American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations) us that, in this now lost painting, Homer is vomiting and other poets are gulping it down.90 This humorously bizarre and famously disgusting artistic display is not without parallels, and perhaps stimuli, in literature: Homer often is figured as a font of inspiration by such authors as Dionysios of Halikarnassos, Ovid, Manilius, “Longinus,” anonymous sources from the Greek Anthology, and the writer preserved on an Alexandrian papyrus.91 As Quintilian says, Hic enim, quem ad modum ex Oceano dicit ipse amnium fontiumque cursus initium capere, omnibus eloquentiae partibus exemplum et ortum dedit.92 He is like his own conception of Ocean, which he describes as the source of every stream and river, for he has given us a model and an inspiration for every area of eloquence.

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Unlike the portrait, then, a metaphorical image can indeed address the invisible relationship between author and audience – in this case the reception of Homer by later authors. But this sort of metaphorical work has its limits, too: it cannot really construct a specific image of the text, of the relationship between text and author, or of the relationship between text and audience. If the portrait and the metaphor, then, are ill equipped to explore these relationships, perhaps the personification has better luck addressing such text-based aspects of authorship and reception. So let us see how the text itself is personified in an epigram from the Greek Anthology. It says: ᾿Ιλιάς, ὦ μέγα ἔργον, ᾿Οδυσσείης τε τὸ σῶφρον γράμμα, τὸ καὶ Τροίῃ θῆκεν ἴσην ᾿Ιθάκην, τόν με γέροντ᾿ αὔξοιτ᾿ ἐς ἀεὶ νέον· ἡ γὰρ ῾Ομήρου σειρὴν ὑμετέρων ῥεῖται ἀπὸ στομάτων.93

3.9 The “Iliad” from the Athenian Agora, early second century ce. Marble; height 1.43 m. Athens, Agora Museum S 2038. (Photo: American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations)

Iliad, great work, and Odyssey, self-controlled poem that made Ithaka the equal even of Troy, make me, the old man, grow young forever: for the Siren song of Homer flows from your mouths.

This epigram gives us an important insight into how the ancient world dealt with and understood the presence of literary personifications. It not only addresses the Iliad and the Odyssey directly, but it personifies them, giving them the power of speech. As we have seen, this power of speech is exactly how the ancient rhetoricians characterized the concept of personification. Other epigrams preserved in the Greek Anthology, though, yield information about the relationship between text and author. One epigram reads: Υἱὲ Μέλητος ῾Όμηρε, συ γὰρ κλέος Ἑλλάδι πάσῃ καὶ Κολοφῶνι πάτρῃ θῆκας ἐς ἀΐδιον, καὶ τάσδ᾿ ἀντιθέῳ ψυχῇ γεννήσαο κούρας, δισσὰς ἐκ στηθέων γραψάμενος σελίδας· ὑμνεῖ δ᾿ ἡ μὲν νόστον Ὀδυσσῆος πολύπλαγκτον, ἡ δὲ τὸν Ἰλιακὸν Δαρδανιδῶν πόλεμον.94 Homer, son of Meles, you established eternal glory for the whole of Hellas and your fatherland Kolophon, and through your godlike soul you begot these daughters, writing from the heart your two books. The one sings the

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3.10 Portrait herm of Homer. From Baiae; Roman copy after Hellenistic original. Marble; height 0.58 m. London, British Museum inv. 1825. (Photo: © The Trustees of the British Museum)

much-wandering return of Odysseus, and the other, the Trojan War of the sons of Dardanos.

A second epigram by Antiphilos takes the form of a question and answer session: – Αἱ βίβλοι,τίνες ἐστέ; τί κεύθετε; – Θυγατέρες μὲν Μαιονίδου, μύθων δ᾿ ἵστορες Ἰλιακῶν· ἁ μία μὲν μηνιθμὸν Ἀχιλλέος ἔργα τε χειρὸς Ἑκτορέας δεκέτους τ᾿ ἆθλα λέγει πολέμου, ἁ δ᾿ ἑτέρα μόχθον τὸν Ὀδυσσέος, ἀμφί τε λέκτροις χηρείοις ἀγαθᾶς δάκρυα Πηνελόπας. – ῾Ίλατε σὺν Μούσαισι, μεθ᾿ ὑμετέρας γὰρ ἀοιδὰς εἶπεν ἔχειν αἰὼν ἕνδεκα Πιερίδας.95 Q: Whose books are you? What have you inside? A: Daughters of Maionides, learned in tales of Troy: One of us recounts Achilles’s wrath and the deeds of Hektor’s hand and the trials of the ten years’ war; the other, the labors of Odysseus and good Penelope’s tears over her widowed bed.

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Q: Be gracious, in the Muses’ company, for after your songs, generations claimed to have eleven sisters of Pieria.

These epigrams, like our first example, give the Iliad and the Odyssey the power of speech: the poems both speak their minds and are interrogated. But these last two epigrams also add another dimension to our understanding, for they establish the status of the author in relation to his text. They construct a parental relationship by explicitly labeling the Iliad and the Odyssey Homer’s daughters. That the text provides the link between Homer and his audience is also made clear in visual culture. In a Late Roman mosaic found in Room 10 of the Agora in Seleukeia, for example, portraits of philosophers, poets, and orators surround a central panel that originally contained Homer, the Iliad, and the Odyssey. Most of this central scene is lost, but the labels for Homer, the Iliad, and the Odyssey – as well as the head and spear of the Iliad – are preserved. The familial relationship between Homer and his poems in art, furthermore, is confirmed by a sculptural group from the Athenian Agora. Two statues traditionally attributed to this group were found in 1869 at the southwest corner of the Stoa of Attalos, and it is likely that the group originally stood in the Library of Pantainos.96 One statue (Fig. 3.8) was signed by Jason the Athenian and is dated stylistically to the reign of Trajan or of Hadrian.97 Its cuirass shows a Skylla, and Aiolos, three sirens, and Polyphemos are depicted on its lappets. This figural decoration must represent the Odyssey. The other statue (Fig. 3.9) has been identified as the Iliad. But perhaps we should reconsider this identification, since the two statues are so dissimilar. The socalled Iliad’s scale is larger, its body is more muscular, and its cuirass does not display symbols of an Homeric epic. It is very doubtful, then, that this second statue is indeed the Odyssey’s companion, the Iliad, and it perhaps should best be understood as another female cuirassed figure. Its raised left thigh suggests that it followed representations of Roma that trampled something – usually a globe or a prow – underfoot.98 But the original presence of an Iliad – as well as the reconstruction of the entire group – is certified by the inscription on a plinth found in 1953. This inscription reads: Ἰλιὰς ἡ μεθ᾿ ῾Όμηρον ἐγὼ καὶ πρόσθεν Ὁμήρ[ου Πάρστατις ἵδρυμαι τῶι με τεκόντι νεῶ[ι99 The Iliad, I that was after Homer and before Homer have been set up beside the one who bore me in his youth.

This plinth obviously refers to a now-lost statue of the Iliad that was erected near a now-lost statue of Homer. If we associate the statue of the Odyssey with this plinth, the Agora group appears to have originally displayed Homer with

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personifications of his two epic poems. The inscription on the plinth explicitly says that Homer bore the Iliad, and also explicit is the female gender of ἡ Ἰλιάς. The gender of the Odyssey statue also is unquestionably female. There thus seems to be little doubt that the Homer of this Agora group was meant to be viewed as a father and the personifications were to be considered his daughters. While these literary, artistic, and epigraphic examples are the most explicit essays on the familial relationships of our personifications, they are not the first instances in which a parental relationship was established between the ancient author and his creation – or even, specifically, between Homer and his poems. This relationship reaches far back in Greek literature to at least Plato. Plato writes about this parental relationship in the Phaedrus, the Republic, and the Thaeatetus. But he is most specific about the mechanics of the relationship in the Symposium. Here Plato discusses the parentage of ideas and even of Homeric poetry when he tackles the pregnancy of the author’s soul – the very trope that one of our epigrams uses. Diotima relates that there are persons οἳ ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς κυοῦσιν ἔτι μᾶλλον ἢ ἐν τοῖς σώμασιν, ἃ ψυχῇ προσήκει καὶ κυῆσαι καὶ τεκεῖν· τί οὖν προσήκει; φρόνησίν τε καὶ τὴν ἄλλην ἀρετήν· ὧν δή εἰσι καὶ οἱ ποιηταὶ πάντες γεννήτορες καὶ τῶν δημιουργῶν ὅσοι λέγονται εὑρετικοὶ εἶναι.100 who in their souls conceive still more than in their bodies that which befits the soul to conceive and to bear. And what is fitting? Both prudence and the rest of excellence. The begetters of these are all the poets and those craftsmen who are said to be inventors.

She goes on to state: καὶ πᾶς ἂν δέξαιτο ἑαυτῷ τοιούτους παῖδας μᾶλλον γεγονέναι ἢ τοὺς ἀνθρωπίνους, καὶ εἰς ῾Όμηρον ἀποβλέψας καὶ Ἡσίοδον καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ποιητὰς τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς ζηλῶν οἷα ἔκγονα ἑαυτῶν καταλείπουσιν, ἃ ἐκείνοις ἀθάνατον κλέος καὶ μνήμην παρέχεται αὐτὰ τοιαῦτα ὄντα.101 Everyone would choose to beget children such as these rather than human ones from gazing upon Homer and Hesiod and the other good poets, emulating the sort of offspring they leave behind that provides them with immortal glory and remembrance.

So far, we have seen that the mode of personification may establish a relationship between author and text that constructs the author as father and the text as child. The author seemingly is always gendered male, and thus out of biological, metaphorical, and perhaps Platonic necessity gives birth through his soul. But the gender of the child – the personified text – is not so clearly defined. We must ask ourselves, then, how feminine are the Archelaos Relief’s Iliad and Odyssey? Of course, they are indeed biologically female. I should like to suggest that this adoption of a female gender comments directly on the

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relationship between text and audience. But the content of the Iliad and Odyssey, one would think, lends itself more readily to masculine imagery. We see this trend in the artworks themselves since most personifications of the Iliad and the Odyssey wear typically male dress or carry weaponry and tools usually associated with men. The Iliad’s spear, for example, is preserved in the fragmentary Late Roman mosaic from Seleukeia. And in the Archelaos Relief, both the Iliad and the Odyssey appear somewhat militaristic. Here, the Iliad, to Homer’s right, carries a sword, and the Odyssey, to Homer’s left, holds up what appears to be an aphlaston from the stern of a ship. The personifications of the Iliad and the Odyssey on a silver kalathos (Fig. 3.7), though, wear more items of military garb. This kalathos was found in Herculaneum. It is dated to the first century ce and now resides in the Museo Nazionale in Naples. Encircling this cup is a scene that depicts a central apotheosis of Homer flanked by two mourning women. On the left, we see a figure with helmet, shield, spear, and sword. This land-based battle gear suggests that she is the Iliad. The other figure on the right, though, wears a sword and a pileus (or sailor’s cap), and she holds a rudder. These objects seem more appropriate to the Odyssey. More explicitly militaristic is perhaps the statue from the Agora. The Agora Odyssey (Fig. 3.8), as we have seen, is indeed dressed to kill in her cuirass. But the presence of this male iconography creates a tension. Despite all their male accoutrements, the fact does indeed remain that these personifications have assuredly female bodies. And, moreover, they are explicitly called Homer’s daughters in our epigrams. They are, then, most definitely women. But how can we explain this apparently illogical, even weird, choice of gender? First of all, we know that the grammatical genders of the words Ilias and Odysseia are feminine.102 But more than just grammar may be involved in the choice of gender. Scholars studying medieval art, for example, have argued that personifications are abstract concepts encompassing a range of gendered aspects; one grammatically male medieval personification, Bel Accueil or Fair Welcome, is in fact represented as both male and female at different points in the same illuminated manuscript of the Roman de la Rose.103 The recognition of this explicit medieval choice helps us to see the gender of classical personifications in a new light. We can begin to think about our personified Iliad and Odyssey as ideas or concepts that may in fact have both male and female characteristics. That the militaristic and naval content of the Iliad and the Odyssey is masculine is, of course, clear enough. But what is it about the nature of the poems that is particularly feminine, especially in Ptolemaic Alexandria? The relationship between text and audience often is articulated in gendered and even sexualized terms in Greek and Latin literature. The reader and the lover are said to behave in an analogous fashion, objectifying text on the one

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hand and beloved on the other.104 The direct connection between publication and prostitution is a topos established by Plato in the Phaedrus, where Sokrates makes the distinction between the two different kinds of writing: the base and the noble. Of the base, he says: ὅταν δὲ ἅπαξ γραφῇ, κυλινδεῖται μὲν πανταχοῦ πᾶς λόγος ὅμοίως παρὰ τοῖς ἐπαΐουσιν, ὡς δ᾿ αὕτως παρ᾿ οἷς οὐδὲν προσήκει, καὶ οὐκ ἐπίσταται λέγειν οἷς δεῖ γε καὶ μή· πλημμελούμενος δὲ καὶ οὐκ ἐν δίκῃ λοιδορηθεὶς τοῦ πατρὸς ἀεὶ δεῖται βοηθοῦ· αὐτὸς γὰρ οὔτ᾿ ἀμύνασθαι οὔτε βοηθῆσαι δυνατὸς αὑτῷ.105 And once written, every word is circulated everywhere, alike among those who understand just as among those whom it by no means befits, and it does not know to whom it ought to speak or not to speak. When neglected and unjustly abused, it always needs its father as ally: for it has power neither to protect nor to help itself.

But, the noble, he says, is ῾Ός μετ᾿ ἐπιστήμης γράφεται ἐν τῇ τοῦ μανθάνοντος ψυχῇ, δυνατὸς μὲν ἀμῦναι ἑαυτῷ, ἐπιστήμων δὲ λέγειν τε καὶ σιγᾶν πρὸς οὓς δεῖ.106 That which is written with intelligence in the mind of the learner, able to defend itself, and knowing before whom it ought both to speak and to be silent.

Base writing may be used for ephemeral amusement, says Sokrates, but noble writing contributes to and withstands serious discourse. The Iliad and the Odyssey, like other writings, are indeed objectified through the act of reading, and the reader, according to literary convention, is gendered male. But the Iliad and the Odyssey, unlike the other personified texts that appear in such authors as Kallimachos and Horace, are not promiscuous, indeed they are – to use the construct of our epigrams – “self-controlled” or “chaste” daughters.107 So the Iliad and the Odyssey may be read, but they are of the noble sort of literature: they withstand the test of time, and they do not allow themselves to be used or ravaged. It is visually jarring to see these women dressed in armor when they are represented in art, but this discomfort actually serves to focus the reader-viewer’s attention. While the militaristic allusions of their dress suggest the women’s identification as the Homeric poems, they also serve a visual purpose as well, for these figures do indeed look like empowered women who can well take care of themselves. The description of Homer as “the source from which all the rivers flow and all the seas, and every fountain,” sums up the ancient attitude to Homer the author.108 And it also points to the fact that his poems were the most read – and emended – in antiquity. The visual iconography of the personified Iliad

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and Odyssey speaks directly to this reality: they display a seductive invitation, but protection and a strong defense always frustrate the reader’s attempts to grow too familiar. The poems never allow themselves to be violated – an essential trait amidst all the editing and recensions in Ptolemaic Alexandria. It now may be a little clearer why the Archelaos Relief chose the mode of personification instead of just the more popular portrait to convey its ideas about Homeric authorship and reception in Alexandria. It is obvious that the mode of personification was indeed rare in this instance and that the artist had to start from scratch each time this mode was chosen. The copyist even seems a bit unsure of whether these choices will be read correctly, and so, for example, the personifications are labeled. The conscious and deliberate choice of personification is acknowledgment that the portrait alone simply cannot address the agency through which Homer gained his great renown and was institutionalized in the Library and Mouseion of Alexandria. What is more, the Iliad and the Odyssey provide the link – as texts – between Homer and his literary succession: the genres of history, tragedy, and comedy.

The Nature of Literary Production Unlike the Iliad and the Odyssey who kneel by Homer, the other personifications in the bottom tier participate more directly in the sacrificial scene: Poiesis, Tragoidia, and Komoidia salute the gods; Mythos and Historia prepare a sacrifice; and Physis, Arete, Mneme, Pistis, and Sophia observe the proceedings. Scenes of Greek sacrifice on, for example, Attic vase-painting are often (mis)interpreted as if they were straightforward photographs that record actual events. But the Archelaos Relief cannot be mistaken for such a window to reality. With the personifications, it instead implores the spectator to think about how such a scene establishes the invisible relationships among gods and participants in the sacrifice – the elements of literary production in Ptolemaic Alexandria – and how they are perceived and remembered. First of all, it may be helpful to review the basic elements of a Greek animal sacrifice. As it is typically reconstructed, the ritual consists of four main parts: the procession, the prayer, the killing of the sacrificial animal, and the consumption by fire and mouth.109 Advancing from profane to sacred space, the procession carries containers with the accessories needed for the sacrifice: barley, water, and a knife. Once the procession arrives, a brand from the altar is dipped into the water and then sprinkled on the participants, the animal, and the altar. Next, a sacrificer recites a prayer as barley is thrown on the animal and the altar. The women shout the ritual lament as the animal’s front hair is cut and burnt and the animal is killed. Finally, the animal is butchered, the sacrifice is burnt, and the rest of the meat is cooked and eaten by the group.

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Keeping these reconstructed steps in mind, then, let us consider the sacrificial scene on the relief’s bottom tier. Here, we see that the procession has gathered around an altar, standing within a sacred space that is marked by drapery suspended between columns. Mythos carries two containers, including an oinochoe for water, while Historia sprinkles barley on the altar. We may recognize this scene, then, as a representation of the sacrificial prayer. It is interesting to think about what such a prayer does – and why this specific moment was chosen for the relief. Recited aloud, the prayer is addressed to gods and participants alike, and it is thus the moment when everyone’s status is most clearly defined. The participants demonstrate their dependency on the gods, giving thanks and requesting something in return for their sacrificial gift.110 The elements of literary production on the relief clearly have much for which to thank both Homer and the Ptolemies. As we have seen, Ptolemaic patronage not only helped the Library to preserve individual scrolls, it also allowed Alexandrian scholarship to define the canon of Greek literature. The mice that nibble at the scroll near Homer’s footstool (Fig. 3.3) demonstrate the potential for disaster without such Ptolemaic help.111 And they also suggest that the concept of literature can transcend the ephemeral scroll. It is little wonder, then, that Greek literature asks the Ptolemies for their continued support, just as it asks Homer for his continued inspiration. Because it requires an assortment of duties, the sacrificial prayer also reaffirms the hierarchal relationships among its participants. Indeed, we see this hierarchy on the relief. The largest and most prominent figures are Poiesis, Tragoidia, and Komoidia. Next in scale and, presumably, importance, are Mythos and Historia. Last are Physis, Arete, Mneme, Pistis, and Sophia, who stand discreetly off to the side. First and foremost, the bottom tier presents personifications of the literary genres at work in the Library and the Mouseion: Poiesis, Tragoidia, and Komoidia. Their order coincides with the development of genres in Aristotle’s Poetics.112 We know that the Poetics was well established in Ptolemaic circles and influenced Alexandrian scholarship. For Aristotle – and just about everyone else in antiquity – recorded Greek literature began with Homer. Aristotle argues that, after Homer’s epic poems, ποίησις (poiesis, or “poetry”) branched in two: τραγῳδία (tragoidia, or “tragedy”) and κωμῳδία (komoidia, or “comedy”). Tragoidia was the superior form, surpassing even epic.113 The figures’ iconography also suggests a familiarity with this Aristotelean program. These genres clearly act as a unit, but they exhibit slight iconographical differences. Poiesis carries torches, Tragoidia and Komoidia wear theatrical masks, and Tragoidia stands tallest. Poiesis’s two torches not only provide a focal point but also suggest a bifurcation. The masks, moreover, allow Tragoidia and Komoidia to be recognized as a pair. And Tragoidia’s height asserts its superiority over not only Komoidia but also Ilias and Odysseia, and thus epic.

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This sacrificial scene also includes a relatively new genre in the Hellenistic period: Historia. In the Poetics, Aristotle explains how ἱστορία (historia, or “history”) differs from poiesis: ὁ γὰρ ἱστορικὸς καὶ ὁ ποιητὴς οὐ τῷ ἢ ἔμμετρα λέγειν ἢ ἄμετρα διαφέρουσιν· εἴη γὰρ ἂν τὰ Ἡροδότου εἰς μέτρα τεθῆναι καὶ οὐδὲν ἧττον ἂν εἴη ἱστορία τις μετὰ μέτρου ἢ ἄνευ μέτρων· ἀλλὰ τούτῳ διαφέρει, τῷ τὸν μὲν τὰ γενόμενα λέγειν, τὸν δὲ οἷα ἂν γένοιτο. διὸ καὶ φιλοσοφώτερον καὶ σπουδαιότερον ποίησις ἱστορίας ἐστίν· ἡ μὲν γὰρ ποίησις μᾶλλον τὰ καθόλου, ἡ δ᾿ ἱστορία τὰ καθ᾿ ἓκαστον λὲγει.114 The historian and the poet differ not in writing verse or prose: the writings of Herodotos could be put into verse and yet would still be a kind of history, whether with meter or without meter. The difference is this: that one relates what happened, and the other what might happen. For this reason poetry is more philosophical and serious than history: since poetry relates more of the universal, while history relates particulars.

Here, Aristotle not only sets up a hierarchy but also offers a new definition: his use of the term historia approaches the modern sense of a genre based on content. While earlier instances of historia in, for example, Herodotos, mean something akin to “inquiry” or “scientific investigation,” later writers follow Aristotelean usage.115 In the late fourth century bce, Alexander’s Successor Lysimachos cites “histories” as evidence when writing about a territorial dispute.116 Third-century historians also follow suit, and, by the time of Polybios, the word historia means “history” in more or less the modern sense.117 On the relief, Historia has the appearance of such a fledgling genre: her size indicates that she does not have quite the status or, perhaps, the maturity of the other figures. Yet the personifications on the bottom tier do more than merely recount generic development. They also show how narrative literature functions. Key to its construction is Mythos. In previous discussions of the relief, Mythos has been translated as “Myth.” But the word μῦθος (mythos) in Greek literary theory carried a specialized critical meaning: “plot.” For Aristotle, it is the ruling principle of tragedy, even taking precedence over meter.118 As he explains, μέγιστον δὲ τούτων ἐστὶν ἡ τῶν πραγμάτων σύστασις. ἡ γὰρ τραγῳδία μίμησίς ἐστιν οὐκ ἀνθρώπων ἀλλὰ πράξεως καὶ βίου, καὶ εὐδαιμονία καὶ κακοδαιμονία ἐν πράξει ἐστίν, καὶ τὸ τέλος πρᾶξίς τις ἐστίν, οὐ ποιότης· εἰσὶν δὲ κατὰ μὲν τὰ ἤθη ποιοί τινες, κατὰ δὲ τὰς πράξεις εὐδαίμονες ἢ τοὐναντίον. οὔκουν ὅπως τὰ ἤθη μιμήσωνται πράττουσιν, ἀλλὰ τὰ ἤθη συμπεριλαμβάνουσιν διὰ τὰς πράξεις· ὥστε τὰ πράγματα καὶ ὁ μῦθος τέλος τῆς τραγῳδίας, τὸ δὲ τέλος μέγιστον ἁπάντων.119 The most important of these things [the six components of tragedy] is the structure of events. For tragedy is mimesis not of men but of action and life, and happiness and unhappiness consist in action, and the goal is a

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kind of action, not a qualitative state: it is according to characters that men have certain qualities, but it is through their actions that they are happy or the opposite. Therefore, they do not act to provide mimesis of character but rather the characters are included for the sake of the actions. Thus the events and the plot are the goal of tragedy, and the goal is the most important thing of all.

Through words such as πρᾶξις (praxis, or “action”), Aristotle depicts plot as an active agent of poetry – in other words, a worker that serves the piece of literature. As a defining element of literary composition, furthermore, plot is also what separates historical lists and chronologies – embryonic histories – from mature, narrative works.120 On the relief, Mythos performs a similarly important role. He is the servant who carries the water into which the brand will be dipped and sprinkled on all participants. And his proximity to Historia highlights his contribution to making her a proper genre. So far, we have examined personifications that have an obvious connection with literary production, Homer, even the Ptolemies. The significance of our final group of personifications, however, is less immediately apparent. If addressed at all in previous discussions of the relief, Physis, Arete, Mneme, Pistis, and Sophia usually have been considered personifications of basic moral qualitites: Human Nature, Excellence, Mindfulness, Trustworthiness, and Wisdom. But our review of the sacrificial scene begs for a reconsideration: we now must ask why these personifications observe this sacrifice – and what their observation tells us about Ptolemaic patronage. The relief’s collection of these personifications is not unique. In various combinations, they also appeared in other Graeco-Roman monuments such the first-century bce monument of C. Julius Zoilos at Aphrodisias and the second-century ce Library of Celsus at Ephesos. Owing to Zoilos’s known ties with Rome and his beneficence, the Zoilos Frieze’s Arete, Mneme, and Pistis (and a host of other personifications) perhaps refer to his civic merits. And such legends as ΣΟΦΙΑ ΚΕΛΣΟΥ (sophia Kelsou, or “Wisdom of Celsus”) clearly indicate that the statues of Arete and Sophia in the Library represent the personal virtues of Celsus himself.121 But do these personifications also have a more nuanced significance? Iconography and context suggest that they do. Two of the personifications on the Zoilos Frieze, for example, have specialized rhetorical meanings that may be particularly significant. The word μνήμη (mneme) refers to a memorial: from a monument in stone to poetry that remembers the past. And a πίστις (pistis) is a proof that persuades the audience.122 On the frieze, both Zoilos and Mneme carry a scroll, and Zoilos also displays a rhetorical gesture. Zoilos, then, is depicted as an orator, while Mneme is also explicitly associated with this rhetorical and literate sphere. It is interesting to speculate that the frieze’s use of such imagery is pointedly self-referential on a “rhetorical” monument that

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celebrates the life of a distinguished man and gives proof of his deeds. We may ask whether these personifications communicate more than just their most basic meanings on the Archelaos Relief, too. Arete, Mneme, Pistis, and Sophia do more than merely observe the sacrifice on the relief’s bottom tier. Through bearing witness, they are able to preserve proof of the excellence and wisdom in the proceedings. Yet we must ask whose excellence and wisdom are remembered. Two obvious possibilities present themselves: Homer or the Ptolemies. The apprehensive body language on these personifications suggests that their choice is not clear-cut. The exhortation of Physis seems to indicate which option is preferable. φύσις (physis) broadly means “nature” and appeared in many aspects of Greek philosophy, including discussions about its role in literary production. In particular, there was an ongoing debate concerning the extent to which human nature – including Homer’s – determines genius and the success of literary production.123 In the fifth century bce, the advent of widespread literacy prompted interest in the natural origins of wisdom and the extent to which education helps to augment it. On the one hand, Pindar offers skepticism: σοφὸς ὁ πολλὰ εἰδὼς φυᾷ· μαθόντες δὲ λάβροι παγγλωσσίᾳ κόρακες ὣς ἄκραντα γαρύετον Διὸς πρὸς ὄρνιχα θεῖον·124 Wise is he who knows many things by nature: but learners boisterous and wordy are like a pair of crows, fruitless, that sing against the divine bird of Zeus.

But as the Classical period progressed, education became an established means of refining natural aptitude.125 Such shifting Greek attitudes are preserved in Aristophanes’s plays. In the Frogs, for example, the chorus reassures Aischylos and Euripides that the audience is qualified to judge their dramatic competition because βιβλίον τ᾿ ἔχων ἕκαστος μανθάνει τὰ δεξιά· αἱ φύσεις τ᾿ ἄλλως κράτισται, νῦν δὲ καὶ παρηκόνηνται.126 each one has a book and knows the fine points: their natures are otherwise strongest, but now even sharpened.

By the Roman period, “Longinus” argues that physis is merely the starting point for successful literature.127 But the very existence of his argument presupposes the need to persuade some members of his audience that literary production is dependent upon more than just poetic genius. The image of Physis on the Archelaos Relief is in keeping with these ideas. But by depicting Physis as a child, the relief suggests that nature is subservient

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to other elements of literary construction: Physis may exhort the others to action, but it is only with limited and immature power. She demonstrates, then, that a natural genius such as Homer is subservient to the educational and intellectual opportunities of the Ptolemaic court. Its patronage is equally – if not more – responsible for the constructs of Homer and other authors. In Alexandria, more than just the poet’s genius was at work: in many ways, the Library and the Mouseion themselves created the poetry that the classical world came to know as Homer’s. We have seen the roles of Ptolemy IV-Chronos, Arsinoe III-Oikoumene, the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the rest of the personifications on the bottom tier. Now it is time to discover how these personifications are used rhetorically in the relief’s broader program. Let us start by taking a look at a rhetorical technique – προσωποποιία (prosopopoiia) – that educated Hellenistic patrons, artists, and viewers would have first learned as children. PROSOPO POIIA

No extant ancient source uses a specific term to describe the personified abstractions that appear in art. But one first-century ce author, Dio Chrysostom, nevertheless provides a clue as to how they were categorized: Φέρε οὖν καθάπερ οἱ κομψοὶ τῶν δημιουργῶν ἐπὶ πάντα ἔμβραχυ φέρουσι τὴν αὑτῶν ἐπινοιαν καὶ τέχνην, οὐ μόνον τὰς τῶν θεῶν ἀπομιμούμενοι φύσεις ἀνθρωπίνοις εἴδεσιν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἕκαστον, ποταμούς τε ἐνίοτε γράφοντες ἀνδράσιν ὁμοίους καὶ κρήνας ἔν τισι γυναικείους εἴδεσι, νήσους τε καὶ πόλεις καὶ τὰ ἄλλα μικροῦ δεῖν ξύμπαντα, ὁποῖον καὶ Ὅμηρος ἐτόλμησεν ἐπιδεῖξαι Σκάμανδρον φθεγγόμενον ὑπὸ τῇ δίνῃ, κἀκεῖνοι φωνὰς μὲν οὐκ ἔχουσι προσθεῖναι τοῖς εἰδωλοις, εἴδη δὲ οἰκεῖα καὶ σημεῖα ἀπὸ τῆς φύσεως . . .128 Come, then, the clever men of craftsmen give their inventiveness and art to all, faithfully representing not only the various gods in human forms but everything else as well, sometimes painting rivers in the likenesses of men and springs in certain feminine shapes, and islands and cities and practically everything else, just as Homer dared to show Skamandros speaking under the flood. And although they cannot give voices to their figures, they give shapes and signs appropriate to their natures . . .

Dio’s passage is instructive. Advocating that orators ought to imitate craftsmen, he equates the constructedness of rhetoric and art, and he argues that their techniques of characterization are analogous. Although he does not mention it by name, Dio assuredly has the rhetorical technique of προσωποποιία (prosopopoiia) in mind; he takes its application to both word and image for granted. It may be helpful, then, to review what we know about the technique – and its relationship with allegory.

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Prosopopoiia is a rhetorical technique of characterization, most fully explained in the surviving handbooks of progymnasmata and Quintilian’s Institutes of Oratory.129 It literally means “person-making” and is broadly defined as speech that is spoken in character.130 Ancient rhetoricians considered prosopopoiia to be a schema, or figure, of thought. Such “figures” of thought, based on corporeal metaphors, were said to make language more active and alive.131 Prosopopoiia referred to both general speechmaking and a more specialized technique. When differentiated, the term ἠθοποιία (ethopoiia, or “charactermaking”), for example, designated speeches that were composed for a real person. But prosopopoiia and εἰδωλοποιία (eidolopoiia, or “image-making”), described the process through which nonexistent people were created and given speech. Prosopopoiia denoted speeches composed for inanimate things, while eidolopoiia specified speeches that were composed for the dead.132 The earliest extant use of the term prosopopoiia is found in Demetrios’s On Style, best dated to the first century bce.133 But speechmaking stretches as far back in Greek culture as Homer, appearing in literature, drama, and – most notably – oratory. Starting with the boom in rhetorical theorization of the fourth century bce, the technique was emphasized and treated from a methodological standpoint. Aristotle, for example, discusses it in the Poetics and the Rhetoric.134 Fourth-century and Hellenistic rhetorical educational practices, then, seem to have presented the technique within their curricula. By the time elementary rhetorical education was collated and standardized in the progymnasmata handbooks in the first century ce, the prosopopoiia/ethopoiia exercise was recognized as one of the more advanced – and useful – exercises.135 As preserved in the handbooks, the prosopopoiia/ethopoiia exercise always takes the same form: “What would X say about Y?” Suggested topics for speeches – taken from everyday life, history, and myth – are divided into three types: ethical, pathetic, and mixed. In the ethical speech, the ethos (character) of the speaker is dominant: for example, the exercise “What a farmer would say when first seeing a ship.” In the pathetic speech, however, pathos (emotion) is dominant: for example, “What Andromache would say when seeing her dead husband Hektor.” And in the mixed, there is a combination of both ethos and pathos: for example, “What Achilles would say when seeing his dead companion Patroklos and planning for war.” The structure of the speeches, too, remains constant: present, past, and future were always treated in the same sequence, ensuring a tumultuous emotional experience for the audience.136 This prosopopoiia/ethopoiia exercise had many recognized uses both inside and outside the classroom. Handbooks stress that it could be modified within the curriculum to suit the level of the student: it could stand by itself or be part of other, more sophisticated exercises that incorporated speeches.137 Similarly, this classroom technique could also be combined with others in the actual practice of oral and literate discourse.138 Eventual employment in the encomiastic,

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protreptic, and epistulary discourse of adulthood, for example, was its Roman goal.139 Suggestively, the handbooks and treatises also cite its usefulness for artistic and more specialized sorts of writers: future poets and historians.140 The sophistication, or difficulty, of the prosopopoiia/ethopoiia exercise was due to the complicated task of creating appropriate words for a speaker. As Aristotle argues, this skill was dependent upon constructing outward σημεία (semeia, or “signs”) to signify the invisible ethos of a speaker. Key to their construction, for Aristotle, is assembling the background information of the would-be speaker: age, gender, origin, level of education as well as the occasion. And the handbooks later echo his suggestions. They have students consider not only these things but also the speaker’s status and occupation and the speech’s subject and place.141 Aristotle’s student, Theophrastos, puts this theoretical discussion into practice in the Characters, offering concrete examples that sketched the telltale signs in word and deed of particular traits. While the purpose of the Characters is uncertain, its eventual inclusion with the progymnasmata handbooks in Byzantine collections is suggestive, though not proof, of an original rhetorical association.142 Aristotle recognized this influence that rhetorical training exerted on Greek cultural production. In the Poetics, for example, he says that tragedians used to make their characters speak “politically” in plays, but in his day they made them speak “rhetorically.”143 Historical evidence supports this claim since we know with certainty that several fourth-century bce poets did have rhetorical training.144 Moreover, Theophrastos’s specific types of character traits appear in theoretical discussions about drama, and his influence on characterization can be felt, for example, in the plays of his supposed student, Menander.145 But can we detect a similar influence upon characterization in visual culture? Rhetorical theory itself emphasizes the visuality of prosopopoiia/ethopoiia. Implicit in the construction of a speech is the construction of the flesh-andblood character who recites it. As Quintilian says in the Roman period, nam certe sermo fingi non potest ut non personae sermo fingatur (“we cannot of course imagine a speech except as the speech of a person”). And so, he adds, commode etiam aut nobis aliquas ante oculos esse rerum personarum vocum imagines fingimus (“it may be convenient also to pretend to have before our own eyes images of things, persons, or utterances”).146 Thus although prosopopoiia/ethopoiia is most concerned with speechmaking, such technical discussions as Quintilian’s indicate that images – and not just mere words – were considered. Indeed, even in fourth-century bce Athens, such theoretical discussions were increasingly put into practice. Gestures, expression, eye contact, physical appearance, deportment, and clothing were all emphasized in the lawcourts. And bodies, gestures, costumes, and masks similarly gained increasing prominance in the theater. Most notably, the masks’ exaggerated facial features were systematized, even stereotyped, during the fourth century bce in order to signify set character

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types.147 This increased awareness about the visuality of characterization is seen in aesthetic criticism, too: it emphasized the semeia that art uses to signify the invisible ethos (and pathos) of the people whom it depicts.148 So far, we have seen that the technique of prosopopoiia was applied to both rhetoric and art, indeed theoretical discussions use the same language of signification as Dio. But we have yet to come across an ancient precedent for the modern association of personification and allegory. It is thus worth turning our attention to allegory. Scholars traditionally have used the etymology of the Greek term ἀλληγορία (allegoria: ἄλλος, or “other” + ἀγορέυω, or “speak openly in the marketplace or assembly”) to develop the standard definition universally applied to both ancient and modern allegory: “saying one thing publicly while meaning another privately.”149 This reductive modern definition, however, contributes to a great misconception: there is only one type of ancient allegory, which is marked by obfuscation. In antiquity, however, there were actually two types of (what we call) allegory: allegorical interpretation and allegorical production. The ancient language that describes allegorical interpretation does share the modern emphasis on concealment and veiling – in fact, it is often the terminology on which modern hermeneutics is based. Such language appeared first with Homeric interpretation and, later, with biblical exegesis, often as a means of looking for “hidden” meanings that the authors had supposedly embedded in their texts.150 Allegorical interpretation thus provided a means for critics to give updated, contemporary readings of old texts through “finding” what had been hidden to previous generations. But allegorical production consisted of metaphorical tropes and was discussed by rhetorical and literary theorists.151 The many ancient words and phrases that they used to describe allegorical production and metaphor – for example, μεταφορά (metaphora, or “transference or metaphor”), αἴνιγμα (ainigma, or “riddle”), ἀλληγορία (allegoria, or “allegory”), and translatio (“a transfer or metaphor”) – do not share the modern emphasis on hiding. Rather, ancient allegory and metaphor were communicative devices that stimulated and focused the audience’s attention. For instance, when Aristotle discusses metaphora, he notes that it prompts the listener to exclaim ὡς ἀληθῶς, ἐγὼ δ᾿ ἥμαρτον (“How true, but I missed it!”).152 And so when employed intentionally and purposefully by ancient orators and poets, allegory and metaphor were anything but obfuscating. There is no ancient evidence, furthermore, to suggest that allegorical production was dependent upon the use of personification. Rhetorical and literary treatises simply do not equate personification with allegory and metaphorical discourse. The association of Greek personification and allegory, rather, was largely a construct of Renaissance antiquarian scholarship that sought to

PROSOPOPOIIA

3.11 Personifications on a hydria attributed to the Meidias Painter. From Populonia; ca. 410 bce. Attic Red-figure. Florence, Museo Archeologico inv. 81948. (Drawing: After G. Nicole, Meidias et le style fleuri dans la céramique attique [Geneva: Librarie Kündig 1908], pl. 3.2)

decode the attributes of personified figures, which it considered secretive and thus allegorical. We can understand this more clearly if we consider the work of a Greek vase-painter typically connected with personification and allegory: a hydria by the Meidias Painter in Florence (Fig. 3.11). On the hydria, dated to ca. 400 bce, we see Aphrodite, Adonis, and a full complement of personifications: Hygeia (Health), Paidia (Play), Eutychia (Good Luck), Eudaimonia (Happiness), and Himeros (Desire). This scene is commonly considered an allegory, as Emma Stafford explains: The Meidias Painter offers a feast for those inclined to allegorical interpretation. Children’s Play is good for their Health, or at least dependent upon it. Hygieia’s most constant association is with Happiness (Eudaimonia), once reinforced by Good Luck (Eutychia), which might point to the uncertainty of the blessings of Health.153

But is this really “allegorical”? The personifications represent what they are: Paidia is Paidia, and Eudaimonia is Eudaimonia. There is no hidden, or double, meaning. Taking human form merely allows the imagined abstract concepts to be visualized and placed in a narrative. The Hellenistic period is commonly thought to have prompted the zenith of personified abstractions in allegorical art.154 Yet the Archelaos Relief is no

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more “allegorical” than this hydria. Both artworks represent a group of personifications. The only difference between the works is that the Archelaos Relief makes a greater effort to differentiate them. Both works label their personifications, but the hydria needs these legends much more: while the hydria’s personifications take the form of women who lack both attributes and individuality, those on the Archelaos Relief are clearly defined characters with differentiated clothing, ages, statuses, and relationships. The relief employs the technique of prosopopoiia that had been increasingly refined since the Meidias Painter’s floruit. In this gradual change, we see evidence of Hellenistic innovation. For the past 300 years since Bernard de Montfaucon associated personification, allegory, and the Archelaos Relief, scholars have assumed that the relief has an allegorical meaning. Yet reviewing the literary sources about ancient allegory compels us to dissociate ancient personification and allegory. No other element of the relief, to my mind, demands an allegorical interpretation. Instead of searching for a possible allegorical meaning in the relief that is not dependent on personifications, we perhaps should look more closely at an ancient rhetorical form that undoubtedly incorporated them: the enkomion. CONCLUSION: AN ENKOMI ON?

Although we have examined the relief’s individual personifications and the rhetorical technique prosopopoiia, we still do not have a good sense of how it should be viewed and understood as a whole. To the modern eye, it has a strange composite structure of mountain and sacrifice. The mountainous tiers, moreover, have apparently odd shifts of place: with Zeus, the Muses, and Apollo, we must question whether they represent Mount Olympos, Mount Helikon, or Delphi. And the bottom tier’s presentation of Ptolemaic patronage is fraught with tension and contradiction. But is there in fact a way of explaining the relief as an integrated, coherent, and overtly political artwork? Perhaps exploring one rhetorical form that used personifications – the ἐγκώμιον (enkomion) – can offer some help. Encomiastic, or celebratory, discourse was present throughout the history of recorded Greek culture.155 But the enkomion flourished as a literary form in the Classical and Hellenistic periods. Its popularity was surely spread by professional itinerant rhapsodes who traveled throughout the Hellenistic world, reciting enkomia about cities, islands, gods, and living people.156 And at court, Alexander and the Hellenistic kings also patronized poets who composed epic poetry about kingly exploits and epic-style hymns to gods and royalty.157 Beginning in the fourth century bce, the enkomion was increasingly theorized by philosophers such as Aristotle, and rhetorical exercises gave students – including future kings, courtiers, and artists – specific guidelines for

CONCLUSION: AN ENKOMION?

composition. By the time that the progymnasmata were preserved in Theon’s handbook, three types of praise are discussed under the broad heading of enkomion: praise for the living (enkomion), praise for the dead (epitaphios), and praise for the gods (hymnos).158 Later, Menander Rhetor (ca. 300 ce) includes advice for constructing the hymn for gods and the imperial oration (basilikos logos) for emperors.159 These rhetorical handbooks make distinctions among ethical, physical, and external virtues, arguing that the enkomion is most effective when highlighting achievements.160 And they usually advocate a rigid structure: prooemia with invocations to the gods and the Muses as well as divisions that list achievements, beginning with those in the native country of the honorand.161 What is more, they state that prosopopoiia is an especially effective rhetorical device for listing the deeds.162 Let us review the relief’s structure with these rhetorical guidelines in mind. The relief consists of two well-delineated parts. The top tiers represent Zeus and the Muses, and the bottom tier illustrates the elements of Ptolemaic literary patronage. This compartmentalized structure, then, is perhaps explained by the encomiastic guidelines preserved by Menander: Zeus and the Muses may function as prooemia, the sacrifice as a list of achievements in the native country, and even the tiers themselves as the headings and divisions. Menander’s advice is late (and reductive), but contemporary comparanda for the relief’s epideictic strategies are found in the encomiastic poetry of the Ptolemaic court.163 It is thus worth exploring the relief’s poetic associations. The most striking feature of the relief’s “prooemia” is their obvious association with poetic invocations to Zeus and the Muses. Indeed, for Webster, the relief is a literal illustration of such poetry.164 But it is interesting to consider whether something more sophisticated than mere illustration is at work. The relief appears to have a special relationship with a specific invocation: the proem of the Theogony, in which Hesiod asks the Muses for their assistance with his cosmology.165 The top of the relief, for example, represents the Hesiodic parents of the Muses, Zeus and Mnemosyne, the large Muse to his left.166 The lack of individualized legends under the Muses, moreover, affirms that they are in the Hesiodic tradition of being ὁμοφρονέουσαι (homophroneousai, or “of one mind”).167 And closer inspection of their iconography allows the spectator to understand that they proceed in a general Hesiodic order from top to bottom: Klio (with a diptych), Euterpe (seated, with auloi), Terpsichore (dancing), Erato (with a lyre, a high-girt chiton, and a mantel), Ourania (with a globe), Polyhymnia (leaning on a rocky support), and Kalliope (with a scroll).168 The relief’s apparent changes in location also may be understood in light of the Theogony. There, the shifts in locale are not literal. The Muses are Olympian when they are identified as the daughters of Zeus and

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Mnemosyne. But they are called Helikonian when they interact with mortals at the foot of Mount Helikon. Apollo, moreover, need not refer to Delphi; he appears, rather, as the leader of the Muses and the patron of poets. These references to different locations, then, may be read as a gradual transition from the world of gods to the world of men.169 It is interesting to speculate that the apparent shifts on the relief should be interpreted in the same way. In the Theogony, moreover, Hesiod refers to himself as “Hesiod” at the boundary between these worlds.170 On the relief, the statue and the tripod likewise signal the final transition to the world of men, the representation of Ptolemaic patronage on the bottom tier. By depicting the only mortal on the relief – perhaps Hesiod himself – as a statue, the relief demonstrates a Hesiodic reflexivity. And in this instance, the self-awareness incorporates both word and image. These mountainous tiers, then, appear to refer to the Theogony, but why? I would like to suggest that they do more than merely serve as a transition from gods to men: they also announce the relief’s participation in a Hellenistic discourse about kingship and patronage. During the reign of Ptolemy II (285–246 bce), such encomiastic poetry as Kallimachos’s Hymn to Zeus and Theokritos’s Idyll 17 (the so-called Enkomion of Ptolemy) alludes to Hesiod’s proem when discussing the authority of the king.171 Kallimachos treats Ptolemaic kingship while hymning Zeus, and Theokritos devotes his whole idyll to praise for the king. With its obvious Hesiodic reference and original court context, the relief seemingly alludes not only to Hesiod but also to these Ptolemaic poets who employ his imagery. Both Kallimachos and Theokritos refer to the Hesiodic lines that directly follow the naming of the Muses. Their focal point is the following: ἐρχόμενον δ᾿ ἀν ἀγῶνα θεὸν ὣς ἱλάσκονται αἰδοῖ μειλιχίῃ, μετὰ δὲ πρέπει ἀγρομένοισιν· τοίη Μουσάων ἱερὴ δόσις ἀνθρωποισιν. ἐκ γάρ τοι Μουσέων καὶ ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνος ἄνδρες ἀοιδοὶ ἔασιν ἐπὶ χθόνα καὶ κιθαρισταί, ἐκ δὲ Διὸς βασιλῆες· ὃ δ᾿ ὄλβιος, ὅν τινα Μοῦσαι φίλωνται· γλυκερή οἱ ἀπο στόματος ῥέει αὐδή.172 And when he [the king] goes through an assembly, they appease him as a god with gentle reverence, and he is distinguished among the assembled: such is the holy gift of the Muses to men. For it is through the Muses and far-shooting Apollo that there are men who are singers and harpers upon the earth. But from Zeus are kings. And happy is he whom the Muses love: sweet voice flows from his mouth.

Kallimachos and Theokritos apparently use this passage to justify the authority of Ptolemaic kingship.173 They omit mention of the Muses’ gift to the king – eloquence – and refer instead to the Hesiodic aspects of kingship that are more

CONCLUSION: AN ENKOMION?

appropriate in court circumstances: the divine origins of kingly power and the parallels between Zeus and king. Kallimachos, for example, quotes Hesiod nearly word for word, saying that singers belong to Apollo, ἐκ δὲ Διὸς βασιλῆες (“but from Zeus are kings”).174 He then details this transmission of authority.175 Theokritos, though, is more pointed in his praise. Stressing Ptolemy II’s special relationship with Zeus, he says, Διὶ Κρονίωνι μέλοντι/αἰδοῖοι βασιλῆες, ὃ δ᾿ ἔξοχος ὅν κε φιλήσηι/γεινόμενον τὰ πρῶτα (“To Zeus, the son of Kronos, are reverend kings dear, but eminent is he whom Zeus loves from the first moment of birth”).176 And his imagery and structure emphasize the similarities between Zeus and king.177 Similarly, the relief plays with the affirmation that kings come from Zeus, and it sets up a parallel between Zeus and king. It first establishes the importance of Zeus by placing him at the very top. And it also shows his preeminence through its directed viewing. Logic may dictate a viewing that starts at the top and proceeds to the bottom – but the spectator’s eye then seems to be forced back up, zigzagging through the rocky landscape and on to Zeus. The viewing of the relief thus begins and ends with Zeus. This emphasis on Zeus’s preeminence is also seen in encomiastic poetry. Zeus often appears around the beginning of poems, going back to the Archaic period.178 Yet Kallimachos and Theokritos especially highlight his presence. Kallimachos for example, literally begins with Ζηνὸς, the genitive form of “Zeus.”179 And the structure of Theokritos’s idyll is especially similar to that of the relief, perhaps even serving as its model. The poem begins: ἐκ Διὸς ἀρχώμεσθα καὶ ἐς Δία λήγετε Μοῖσαι, ἀθανάτων τὸν ἄριστον, ἐπὴν † ἀείδωμεν ἀοιδαῖς· ἀνδρῶν δ᾿ αὖ Πτολεμαῖος ἐνὶ πρώτοισι λεγέσθω καὶ πύματος καὶ μέσσος· ὃ γὰρ προφερέστατος ἀνδρῶν.180 From Zeus let’s begin and from Zeus cease, Muses, best of the immortal ones, whenever we raise our voices in song. But of men let Ptolemy be named in the first place and last and middle: for he is the greatest of men.

And it ends: χαῖρε, ἄναξ Πτολεμαῖε· σέθεν δ᾿ ἐγὼ ἶσα καὶ ἄλλων μνάσομαι ἡμιθέων, δοκέω δ᾿ ἔπος οὐκ ἀπόβλητον φθέγξομαι ἐσσομένοις· ἀρετήν γε μὲν ἐκ Διὸς αἰτεῦ.181 Farewell, Lord Ptolemy: you, equally with the other demigods, will I remember, and I believe that which I speak will not be thrown away by those who come after. For excellence make you request from Zeus.

Thus Ptolemy is said to be first among men, but the poem – like the relief – begins and ends with Zeus, constructing a ring composition with Ptolemy in the middle.

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The relief then demonstrates the mechanism for the transfer of authority from Zeus to king: the eagle by Zeus’s side. In Greek literature, the eagle is Zeus’s traditional messenger.182 In the Hellenistic period, it is considered the special liaison between Zeus and kings. Poseidippos, for example, writes of the eagle’s import as omen for the Argead kings and Alexander.183 And for Kallimachos and Theokritos, it is messenger to the Ptolemies.184 As such a symbol, the eagle also has a definite presence in Hellenistic visual culture. The reverses of Alexander’s coinage, for example, bear Zeus and/or an eagle, which the Ptolemies then continue on their coins.185 And Ptolemy II puts golden eagles on the skene for his symposion.186 The special effectiveness of the eagle as an image both in poetry and on the relief, then, is dependent upon the audience’s intertextual associations of eagles in other Ptolemaic media.187 Yet the relief challenges its Hesiodic model and even surpasses Theokritos when setting up a parallel between Zeus and Ptolemy IV. Like Theokritos, the relief prompts the audience to see the similarities between Zeus and Ptolemy. Both Zeus and Ptolemy IV are first in their sections, or realms, and they both are paired with their consorts. This parallel between Olympian and royal couples is present elsewhere in Hellenistic praise for the king, indeed the Ptolemies seem to encourage its construction. At the marriage of Ptolemy II and Arsinoe, for example, a rhapsode brought attention to the Olympian precedent for their incestuous marriage.188 Theokritos, too, holds nothing back when speaking of this marriage and its similarity to that of Zeus and Hera.189 Yet the relief does not stop there: while Theokritos only calls Ptolemy II a ἡμίθεος (hemitheos, or “demigod”), the relief depicts a fully deified Ptolemy IV fused with another god, the personified Chronos.190 This fusion with Chronos is perhaps the strongest challenge to Zeus’s superiority. As we have seen, Chronos (Time) was often conflated with Kronos (the father of the universe) in Greek culture. The relief plays off this confusion to great effect. Its spectators were undoubtedly aware that Hesiod, Kallimachos, and Theokritos repeatedly identified Zeus as the son of Kronos.191 While the relief may be upholding the trope that kings come from Zeus, it also flirts with suggesting the opposite, that Zeus comes from Kronos/Chronos – and thus Ptolemy IV. Allusion to the Theogony perhaps serves an additional function in the relief, too. In his proem, Hesiod conveys the divine source for the singer’s – or the encomiast’s – authority: the Muses and Apollo. This authority, however, may not be as straightforward as it seems: the Hesiodic Muses are known for their ability to tell lies that are like the truth.192 Thus one wonders whether Kallimachos, Theokritos, and the relief imply that their praise similarly plays with both fiction and reality. If so, allusion to this Hesiodic passage is perfectly suited to enkomia produced through – and perhaps grappling with – the

CONCLUSION: AN ENKOMION?

demands of court patronage. And it ultimately questions how seriously the spectator ought to take the relief’s claims that Zeus – or Homer – comes from Ptolemy IV. In the Theogony, moreover, the scepter denotes authoritative speech.193 Thus on the relief, the scepters in the hands of Zeus and Homer link the two figures, affirming that Zeus is actually the real source of Homeric literature and resolving the tensions of the bottom tier’s sometimes contradictory views of patronage.

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CHAPTER FOUR

EKPHRASIS IN SOSOS’S UNSWEPT ROOM MOSAIC

INTRO DUCTION

The modern spectator’s first contact with Sosos’s now lost Unswept Room mosaic whets her appetite.1 Many handbooks illustrate it with a detail of a mosaic in the Vatican’s collections (Pl. I). Decontextualized, this close-up looks like a distinct composition, and it seems divorced from the rest of the mosaic in the Vatican Museums (Pl. II); from its ancient context in a Roman house; and from the lost mosaic in Pergamon on which the whole Vatican mosaic is based. What is more, this close-up contains modern restorations and additions – including its most famous and memorable feature, a mouse nibbling on a cracked nut.2 Yet it is intriguing. Here, the spectator sees hyperrealistic representations of all manner of discarded scraps from the table, complete with the shadows that they cast: a lobster shell, a crab leg, grapes, grape stalks, chicken bones, sea shells, nuts, and a fig. This small excerpt, then, leaves her hungry for more. Indeed, the Unswept Room’s descriptive details have been savored since antiquity. The only surviving report appears in Pliny’s Natural History, which recorded its depiction of a meal’s detritus, Pergamene location, and association with another scene that represented birds.3 This account has enabled the identification of extant Roman and Late Antique copies since 1833, when the Vatican copy was discovered on the Vigna Achille Lupi in Rome (Pls. I–III). Additional copies were found at Aquileia in 1860 (Pls. IV–V); at 110

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Uthina in 1896 (Pl. VIa); and at Thysdrus (Pl. VIb) in 1960. Two copies in the Byzantine basilica at Uppenna, moreover, were documented in the twentieth century. And numerous Roman and Late Antique copies of the avian scene, too, have been recognized and discussed.4 The Vatican and Aquileia copies give us a helpful general impression of Sosos’s original mosaic. The Vatican copy takes the form of a square that once surrounded a now lost central emblema (Pl. II). Three sides illustrate table scraps, while the fourth depicts theatrical masks and presents the name Herakleitos. A Nilotic scene appears in the border that originally separated these sides from the inner emblema. Most of the mosaic – including its mouse – consists of modern restorations, but some portions of it are assuredly ancient. The best-preserved ancient portion of trash is seen in the close-up view in Plate III: the approximately triangular area bounded by the sea shell and nut at the top, the lobster leg and fish skeleton on the bottom left, and the grape stalk on the bottom right.5 The Aquileia copy (Pl. IV) is square, too, with table scraps on three sides and grape leaves on the fourth. In its center is a small portion of a central emblema that preserves representations of feathers and, possibly, cat paws. The mosaic has many lacunae, but some areas are preserved well enough to show entire bits of refuse: in Plate V, for example, we see fish heads, an eggshell, an apple, and a chicken foot, among other items. To my knowledge, all the mosaic’s tesserae, or cubes, are ancient. Some elements of the Vatican and Aquileia mosaics – such as the Nilotic scene, the theatrical masks, and the grape leaves – are almost certainly Roman additions to Sosos’s design. The existence of all these copies prompts us to ask: Why was the mosaic so popular that Romans wanted copies of it for their dining rooms? For a start, it looked completely different from every other Greek mosaic that had gone before it – and even from the ones that followed it. Greek dining rooms usually had floors with mosaics displaying such images as geometric patterns, theatrical representations, or hunting scenes.6 Nothing looked like the Unswept Room, with its trompe l’oeil effects, its ability to make the eye see “real” threedimensional table scraps on the pavement. So this revolutionary mosaic’s innovations also prompt another question. Quite simply, why did Sosos make the mosaic? Modern scholars have offered some possible answers. J. J. Pollitt (1986) and John R. Clarke (2007), for example, have argued that humor is the goal of such trompe l’oeil, such tricking of the eye.7 Scholars such as Michael Donderer (1986), Paul Zanker (1998), and Graham Zanker (2004), moreover, have linked the mosaic’s details – the leftovers of a lavish, expensive banquet – with conspicuous consumption.8 Others have gone one step further, exploring the details’ relationship with the genre of still life, appreciating them as precursors to the foodstuffs represented in Roman and Dutch art. Norman Bryson (1989), for example, offers one of the most stimulating explanations:

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To further its deception, trompe l’oeil pretends that objects have not been prearranged into a composition destined for the human eye: vision does not find the objects decked out and waiting, but stumbles into them as though accidentally. Thrown together as if by chance, the objects lack syntax: no coherent purpose brings them together in the place we find them. Things present themselves as outside the orbit of human awareness, as unorganized by human attention, or as abandoned by human attention, or as endlessly awaiting it. Each school interested in trompe l’oeil discovers its own particular style of disregarded objects: at Pompeii it is the litter of the kitchen, in The Unswept Floor, after Sosos of Pergamum.9

Here, Bryson discusses the mosaic in terms of the trivial and sordid objects in still life that he associates with female space. Yet his context for the Unswept Room is problematic. Neither the original mosaic nor the Vatican copy was laid in Pompeii. And it did not stand in a “feminine” kitchen. We must question Bryson’s claim about a lack of syntax. It may be, in fact, that the Unswept Room is all about syntax. But understanding that syntax, that context, is challenging. Pliny does not report the Pergamene room – or even building – that housed the original mosaic. The relationship between the Unswept Room and the avian scene is unclear. And, since the original mosaic is lost, its exact appearance is unknown. Furthermore, pursuing the Unswept Room’s connection with still life may mislead us, blinding us to the possibility that it actually narrates a story. And so we must ask whether there is a way to explain both the mosaic’s trompe l’oeil effect and its possible participation in a narrative – and to determine how its Pergamene context was related to court life.

PERGAMENE CONTEXT

Today, there are several extant copies of Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic – and no two look exactly alike. They represent different bits of rubbish. They have diverse filler elements and borders. They are assorted shapes and sizes. And they were laid in disparate primary and secondary contexts – from houses to churches – at various Italian and Tunisian sites. So they yield little consistent information about the appearance of Sosos’s original and even less about its context. With so many differing representations of Sosos’s original mosaic, the best place for us to begin is Pliny’s description of it. In his Natural History, Pliny relates: celeberrimus fuit in hoc genere Sosus, qui Pergami stravit quem vocant asaroton oecon, quoniam purgamenta cenae in pavimentis quaeque everri solent velut relicta fecerat parvis e tessellis tinctisque in varios colores. mirabilis ibi columba bibens et aquam umbra capitis infuscans; apricantur aliae scabentes sese in canthari labro.10

PERGAMENE CONTEXT

Most celebrated in [the field of mosaics] was Sosos, who at Pergamum laid what they call an unswept room, because by means of tiny cubes tinted in various colors he had represented refuse from a meal on a pavement, and whatever things usually are swept out, just as if they were left behind. A marvelous thing in that place is a pigeon drinking and casting a shadow of his head on the water; others sun themselves and preen themselves on the rim of a cantharus.

To be sure, Pliny’s passage is helpful: he indicates that the original mosaic stood in Pergamon. But his details about its architectural context are vague. Modern scholarship, too, has not pinpointed its exact Pergamene location. Can we be more precise? First of all, let us take a moment to explore the meaning of the architectural term that Pliny uses. He writes that the Greeks called the mosaic the ἀσάρωτος οἶκος (asarotos oikos, or “unswept room”). In antiquity, the word οἶκος (oikos) carried general meanings of “house,” “household,” “estate,” and “room.”11 When used architecturally, the word often was associated with dining spaces.12 And it even maintained this association when describing rooms of various purposes: space often was measured by the number of klinai, or dining couches, that a room could fit. For example, a medium-size room sometimes was called an οἶκος ἑπτάκλινος or δεκάκλινος (oikos heptaklinos or dekaklinos, or “eightcouch room” or “ten-couch room”).13 Thus Pliny’s use of the term oikos and his description of the mosaic’s imagery indicate that the mosaic was laid in a Pergamene dining room. But can we ascertain which one? Archaeologists have uncovered evidence for many dining rooms in Pergamon. We can narrow down the list of possibilities because some rooms preserve other mosaics in situ; some were extremely small; and some were open to inclement weather. The most likely candidates, then, are: 1. House of Attalos, small hall14 2. Building Z, small hall 3. Library, hall 4. Palace IV, Room E 5. Palace V, Room A 6. Palace V, Room B 7. Palace V, Room C 8. Palace V, Room D 9. Palace V, Room E 10. Palace V, Room F 11. Palace V, Room I

Of these possibilities, Room I in Palace V is the most probable. Eumenes II (r. 197–159/8 bce) built Palace V in the second century bce, during the height of artistic production in Pergamon (Figs. 4.1–4.3). It was unified visually with

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4.1 The palace area at Pergamon. (Photo: author)

the rest of Eumenes II’s building program on the Pergamene citadel (Fig. 1.9) that we saw in Chapter 2: the two-storied colonnades around Palace V’s courtyard appear to have resembled the stoas in the Sanctuary of Athena Nikephoros and the Great Altar’s interior colonnade. Large and well decorated with marble, mosaics, and sculpture, Palace V was almost certainly Eumenes II’s main seat in the Royal District.15 Owing to archaeological evidence, we know that the rooms in Palace V had very fine, often hyperrealistic mosaics. Fragments from Room H suggest that two emblemata depicted theatrical masks above the main composition of three small emblemata, one of which represented a hyperrealistic parakeet (Pl. VIIa).16 Room K’s excavations, moreover, yielded one mosaic that was made by a known hand: it is “signed” in tesserae by an artist named Hephaistion (Pl. VIIb). His signature appears on a piece of parchment that appears to be fluttering off the pavement. And an especially lifelike grasshopper is represented among one band’s vegetation in the mosaic’s border.17 Thus the palace had a demonstrated interest in high-quality mosaics, and Eumenes II certainly would have had the resources to employ fine artists such as Sosos. Room I is the largest, presumably most important dining room in the palace, with space for 22 klinai – an undeniable showcase for an extraordinary mosaic. It lacks evidence of a floor, so no remains preclude it as the original site of the Unswept Room mosaic. And the Romans knew the artistic and

PERGAMENE CONTEXT

4.2 Plan of Palace V at Pergamon by Wolfram Hoefpner. (Drawing: Wolfram Hoefpner)

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4.3 Reconstruction of Palace V at Pergamon by Wolfram Hoepfner. (Drawing: Wolfram Hoepfner)

architectural details of Palace V: Augustus apparently used it as a model for his house on the Palatine Hill.18 This knowledge could explain the popularity of copies of the Unswept Room in the Roman world, indeed Pliny’s inclusion of it in his encyclopedia.19 Now, although the floor of Room I did not survive antiquity, we can reconstruct its layout. Room I was rectangular, with a slightly off-center door that allowed klinai, or dining couches, to stand along all four sides. We glean more information if we consider other dining rooms in the Greek world (Fig. 4.4).20 Some extant examples preserve a band for klinai that encircled three or four of the walls.21 And in some Hellenistic rooms, this band was raised.22 What is more, during the various courses of meals, tables stood in front of the klinai. Room I probably followed this general configuration. The Unswept Room possibly served as the band for klinai.23 But it probably was laid after the klinai, toward the center of the room; the tables stood on top of it or on the next band toward the center. Since copies in Aquileia (Pl. IV), Rome (Pl. II), and Thysdrus preserve a pi-shaped configuration of debris, the original Unswept Room possibly was laid around three sides of Room I, too – though, to be sure, the pi-shaped configuration of the copies may be explained by changing dining practices and arrangements of klinai in the Roman world.24 In addition to locating the mosaic in Pergamon, Pliny gives a description of its appearance. He says that it depicts the refuse from a meal that was left on the

PERGAMENE CONTEXT

4.4 Reconstruction of a Greek dining room (in South Stoa I at the Athenian Agora) by Piet de Jong. (Drawing: American School of Classical Studies at Athens: Agora Excavations)

floor, waiting to be swept up. In the copies, we see all manner of debris: shells, bones, vegetables, and fruit. And this debris is quite specific.25 For example, in the Aquileia copy, spectators can discern, among other things, grape leaves, calamari, a ladle, nuts, fish heads, an apple, chicken feet, rib bones, and an egg (Pls. IV–V).26 The Roman copy, moreover, has other sorts of debris that are more surf than turf: lobster legs, lobster tails, fish skeletons, lobster shells, chicken bones, grape stalks, sea shells, and crab legs (Pls. I–III).27 And the copy from Thysdrus has yet another assemblage: horns, fish bones, calamari, cuttlefish, shrimp, lobster shells, rooster spurs and crests, fruits, vegetables, and eggshells (Pl. VIb).28 The copies, then, appear to adapt Sosos’s basic design to fit local culinary tastes and significance. In addition, most copies have a white background, but the copy from Uthina has a black one (Pl. VIa).29 Because these copies differ in their details, we cannot retrieve the exact appearance of Sosos’s original. Rather, it is best to consider the copies as representations of its basic concept. But we can learn much about this basic concept. The copies exhibit a degree of specificity and description that was unknown in previous Greek art. Adding to the effect was exquisite technique: surviving original mosaics from the Pergamene akropolis have astoundingly small tesserae. Close autopsy reveals that the palace’s mosaics, such as the one depicting a parakeet (Pl. VIIa), have

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tesserae that are less than 1 mm2 – mere slivers of stone and glass that allowed for an extraordinary richness of detail. It is all but certain that Sosos’s original Unswept Room mosaic followed suit. The copies of Sosos’s mosaic, though, do not meet the exacting standards of Pergamene mosaics. Yet close autopsies of the finest ones are instructive. The tesserae depicting debris on the Aquileia mosaic, for example, are 3–5 mm2 (Pls. IV–V). And the ones depicting the debris on the Roman copy are 1–3 mm2 (Pls. I–III). So these copies nevertheless describe a great amount of detail, especially compared with other mosaics made in the Roman Empire. Not only do we see the individual pieces of trash, but we also see the shadows that they cast on the floor. Thus some copies of the Unswept Room represent three-dimensionality and try to trick the eye. And in this, too, the Unswept Room must have been similar to other mosaics from Palace V such as the ones with the parakeet (Pl. VIIa) and Hephaistion’s signature (Pl. VIIb). Such Pergamene mosaics exhibit what I like to call the Pergamene aesthetics of space. They emphasize three-dimensionality within a bound architectural area because of their hyperrealistic details. Throughout the Pergamene built environment, we see this same tendency to intellectualize space. Pergamon was divided into broad spatial zones. Construction worked in concert with the akropolis’s steep verticality. And the exterior Gigantomachy Frieze on the Great Altar violates the aesthetic to great effect by thrusting its figures off the frieze and onto the monument’s central staircase (Fig. 2.3). The Attalid intentionality of this aesthetic is suggested by a passage quoted by Strabo. In it, Attalos I (r. 241–197 bce) describes a good-looking pine tree by dividing it into defined three-dimensional parts and then discussing their mathematical relationships.30 The Unswept Room’s three-dimensional representation of the dinner table’s scraps was extraordinary, and Pliny indicates that another scene was associated with the mosaic, too: at least three pigeons cavorting around a kantharos. Many ancient and Late Antique representations of this scene survive in different media: mosaics, painting, sculpture, gems, even textiles.31 But they vary in their details, portraying different types of vessels and various numbers of birds. Three groups of representations, though, may give the best ideas of the original: (1) representations with a kantharos, including a painting in the House of Attalos at Pergamon (Pl. VIIIa); (2) representations with at least three birds (Pl. VIIIb); and (3) representations that convey a threedimensionality similar to that found in extant Pergamene mosaics and the finest copies of the refuse (Pl. VIIIb). Sosos’s original composition probably combined all of these elements.32 Thus we can retrieve the basic configuration of the scene’s original appearance. But what is its relationship with the refuse? Although debate continues in modern scholarship, Pliny’s wording is quite clear: the avian scene was a

EKPHRASIS

marvelous thing ibi, or “in that place.” The scene thus was certainly part of the Unswept Room’s composition. Most scholars recognize the scene as the mosaic’s emblema, or central panel. Indeed, close autopsy of the copy in Aquileia even reveals fragmentary bird feathers there (Pls. IV–V).33 Yet we should not overlook this scene’s relationship with another type of mosaic on display in many Greek dining rooms. Some rooms had a threshold panel that carried images of the symposion, including drinking vessels such as kantharoi.34 Sosos, then, appears to have incorporated such imagery by including a kantharos in his design. Thus the Unswept Room mosaic was originally located in Eumenes II’s dining room, and it depicted hyperrealistic trash surrounding a scene with pigeons on a kantharos. Pliny, moreover, indicates that this garbage was understood to be the result of a previous meal. The mosaic, therefore, conveyed a sense of duration that was integral to its meaning in the ancient world. To understand how and why the mosaic took this particular form, it may help to examine a rhetorical technique that would have enabled Sosos to represent the trash and to convey the passage of time so vividly: ἔκφρασις (ekphrasis), which educated Hellenistic patrons, artists, and viewers first encountered in their progymnasmata exercises as children. EKPHRASIS

Ancient authors discuss the technical features of hyperrealistic artworks such as the Unswept Room. Consider, for example, what Aelian says about a painting by Theon of Samos: Θέωνος τοῦ ζωγράφου πολλὰ μὲν καὶ ἄλλα ὁμολογεῖ τὴν χειρουργίαν ἀγαθὴν οὖσαν, ἀτὰρ οὖν καὶ τόδε τὸ γράμμα· ὁπλίτης ἐστὶν ἐκβοηθῶν, ἄφνω τῶν πολεμίων εἰσβαλλόντων καὶ δῃούντων ἅμα καὶ κειρόντων τὴν γῆν· ἐναργῶς δὲ καὶ πάνυ ἐκθύμως ὁ νεανίας ἔοικεν ὁρμῶντι εἰς τὴν μάχην, καὶ εἶπες ἂν αὐτὸν ἐνθουσιᾶν, ὥσπερ ἐξ Ἄρεος μανέντα . . . οὐ πρότερόν γε μὴν ὁ τεχνίτης ἐξεκάλυψε τὴν γραφὴν οὐδὲ ἔδειξε τοῖς ἐπι τὴν θέαν συνειλεγμένοις πρὶν ἢ σαλπιγκτὴν παρεστήσατο . . . ὁ στρατιώτης ἐβλέπετο, τοῦ μέλους ἐναργεστέραν τὴν φαντασίαν τοῦ ἐκβοηθοῦντος ἔτι καὶ μᾶλλον παραστήσαντος.35 Many works attest the good handicraft of the painter Theon, especially this picture: a hoplite coming to the rescue when the enemy suddenly invades and ravages and destroys the land. The young man vividly looked as if he were setting out in battle spiritedly, and you’d say that he was inspired, just as though he were enraged by Ares . . . The artist didn’t reveal the painting, nor did he show it to the people gathered at the viewing before he presented a trumpeter . . . The soldier was seen, with the music making the mental impression of the man coming to the rescue even more vivid.

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Here we see that Aelian uses visual terms that are associated with ἐνάργεια (enargeia, or “vividness”) to describe the painting’s hyperrealistic technique and its effect on the spectator. Such terminology, in fact, is associated with one rhetorical exercise, ἔκφρασις (ekphrasis). Εkphrasis is a rhetorical technique of description.36 The progymnasmata give the best instructions for the technique, which uses descriptive language to bring what is portrayed before the eyes. Ekphraseis describe people, animals, events, places, periods of time, and things that fall under more than one category. Often, an ekphrasis describes an inanimate thing, eschewing moral judgment about whether it is good or bad.37 The earliest use of the verb ἐκφράζω (ekphrazo, or “describe”) appears in Demetrios’s On Style, best dated to the first century bce.38 Theon’s progymnasmata document the use of the term ekphrasis about a century later.39 Yet ancient Greek authors always had employed description in their works. And, beginning in the fourth century bce, theorists such as Aristotle and, later, Dionysios of Halikarnassos, emphasize its dependence upon the concept of enargeia: in other words, putting the facts before the eyes.40 So rhetorical instruction appears to have highlighted the technique of description – and its relationship with the sense of sight – by the start of the Hellenistic period. The progymnasmata handbooks codified the composition of various types of ekphraseis. In general, their instructions emphasize logic. For example, they suggest that the writer draw upon the narrative account of the subject in order to obtain starting points about what is noble, useful, or pleasant. Similarly, they maintain that the writer should describe people from head to toe. And they also emphasize causality: they advise that the writer embed descriptions of things, events, and occasions within their contexts. So the writer should describe what proceeded them, what is in them, what will result. And, accordingly, he should describe what surrounds places and what they include.41 Some progymnasmata also list the virtues of ekphrasis: clarity, vividness, omitting useless details, and using language that corresponds with the subject.42 The progymnasmata considered ekphrasis to be a complex and versatile technique. Theon places it in the middle of his progymnasmata, but the other handbooks place it at the end – after, for example, prosopopoiia/ethopoiia (characterization) – owing to its sophistication. It is considered more sophisticated than, for example, diegema (narrative) because diegema gives a plain description of events but ekphrasis attempts to turn the audience into spectators.43 An ekphrasis, moreover, is adaptable: it can be used individually or in combination, depending upon need.44 The progymnasmata also emphasize the usefulness of the exercise as preparation for Greek cultural production in adulthood. For example, Nikolaos affirms that it prepares students for all forms of adult speechmaking: the persuasive descriptions in deliberative speeches; the amplifications that result

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from descriptions in judicial speeches; and the entertaining descriptions in panegyrical speeches.45 The handbooks also teach students how to compose ekphraseis of artworks and monuments. Aphthonios, for example, provides a sample ekphrasis of the Serapeion at Alexandria.46 In addition, Nikolaos gives explicit instructions for describing statues, pictures, and other artworks. He advises that ekphraseis follow a set order: for example, they should describe human figures from head to toe, part by part. And he suggests that writers give explanations of the artist’s choices, especially those involving the rendering of emotion, because they contribute to enargeia.47 What is more, the progymnasmata and other rhetorical handbooks stress the technique’s origins in – and usefulness for – historiography and poetry.48 The progymnasmata mention instances of ekphrasis and enargeia in early Greek historians, but, starting in the Hellenistic period, historians themselves highlight their use of the technique and its related theory of visuality. Polybios, for example, explicitly stresses the importance of eyewitness accounts and the evidence of enargeia in history-writing.49 Dionysios of Halikarnassos emphasizes the role of visuality in historical texts.50 And, later in the second century ce, Plutarch and Lucian continue to affirm the importance of such vivid description. When Plutarch discusses the importance of enargeia in history-writing, he asserts that Thucydides tries to make his reader a spectator.51 Yet Lucian makes the link between history and visuality – indeed, art – the clearest. He likens successful historians to the Greek sculptor Pheidias. For Lucian, Pheidias handled his materials – gold and ivory – properly and made his artworks vivid. Historians, too, must finely arrange their materials – in their case, events – and make them vivid enough for people think that they are “seeing” the events after they have been described.52 Given all this instruction and theorization about vivid description starting in the fourth century bce, perhaps it is understandable that we see a change in the descriptive properties of Greek art. For example, starting in the Hellenistic period, sculptors depict old age with a new-found delight in rendering wrinkles 4.5 Copy of the “Drunken Old Woman,” detail. and sagging flesh, as we see in the so-called Roman copy of ca. late third- to late second-century bce original. Marble; height 0.92 m. Munich, Drunken Old Woman type (Fig. 4.5).53 Glyptothek inv. Gl. 437. They also delight in rendering drapery: it (Photo: © Vanni Archive/Art Resource, NY)

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now includes horizontal creases that were the result of extravagant pressing, as we see in an Athenian funerary monument (Fig. 4.6).54 And individual works exhibit a level of detail that previous Greek artists and spectators would never have imagined. Consider, for example, the socalled Terme Boxer, a seated figure with pugilistic accouterments such as gloves and results of combat such as cuts and trickling blood (Fig. 4.7).55 The artists who made these works all appear to have benefited from ekphrastic theory, for these details do not constitute description for its own sake. Rather, these details are integral elements of the artworks’ narratives. Conforming to ekphrastic theory, they give a sense of duration, showing what has gone before. Old age implies a long life lived up to that point. The folds point to the posh history of the garment and thus the privileged life experience of its wearer. And the cuts and blood are evidence of the fight that has just occurred. To explore how Sosos, too, uses ekphrasis to convey such a sense of time and narrative, we now must return to the Unswept Room and its context at the Pergamene court. TIME AND EKPHRASIS IN TH E 4.6 Slab of a funerary monument. From Athens; ca. 325–300 bce. Marble; height 2.07 m. Athens, National Museum inv. 966. (Photo: National Archaeological Museum, Athens. Copyright: © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Archaeological Receipts Fund)

DINING R OOM

For first-time diners of Room I in Palace V, Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic must have been a talking point, undoubtedly prompting questions of who the apparently gluttonous “previous” diners were – and at what point in the festivities did they leave the room in such a state. In order to understand the mosaic’s context, then, we must explore the goings-on of Room I. Room I likely was the setting for symposia, or banquets, with Eumenes II. The symposion was an important Greek institution, and all strata of society

TIME AND EKPHRASIS IN THE DINING ROOM

4.7 Terme Boxer, detail. From Rome; ca. second–first century bce. Bronze; height 1.28 m. Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano (Palazzo Massimo) inv. 1055. (Photo: © Vanni Archive/Art Resource, NY)

enjoyed it – or at least were familiar with it.56 Initiated in the Archaic period, it was still practiced in the Hellenistic age.57 Indeed, Hellenistic kings, beginning with Alexander, were active hosts and participants. Their guests were exclusively male, and many were philoi, or friends, of the king.58 Slaves, male and female entertainers, and hetairai, or female “companions,” attended the functions, as did wine-pourers who often were young men associated with the court.59 Since the exact order of events is vague in most previous scholarship about the symposion, it is worth taking a moment to reconstruct the basic proceedings. Broadly speaking, the symposion consisted of two phases: the deipnon, or main meal, and the drinking.60 First, servants did the shopping.61 Then they prepared the room, the klinai, and the wine before the guests arrived.62 Sometimes Hellenistic symposia began with a trumpet fanfare.63 Once at their klinai, guests often washed their hands with soap and water before eating.64

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Next servants brought out tables of food, and the guests ate their meals. When the guests finished, servants removed the tables and swept the floor. Guests then washed their hands with water, soap, perfume, and towels.65 After the deipnon concluded, servants prepared both the guests and the room for the drinking during the second half of the evening. They adorned the guests with garlands, and they brought perfumes, incense, flowers, and containers of wine into the room. They followed with additional tables of food throughout the remainder of the evening.66 A libation often was poured.67 And, while drinking, guests participated in competitive forms of amusement, in which they tried to outdo each other in drinking games, recitation, philosophizing, riddles, and edgy jokes.68 Moreover, guests sang drinking songs called skolia, and performers also entertained them with music, dance, and theatrics.69 The celebration usually ended with a hymn. Afterwards, guests sometimes brought the party elsewhere, continuing to revel in a komos.70 And, following the guests’ departure, servants usually cleaned the room and swept the floor.71 Given this order of events and our general impression of Sosos’s depiction of discarded food, our first inclination may be to place the mosaic’s representation of table scraps at the end of the deipnon, before the servants swept the room. Yet ancient viewers probably would not have assumed that moment in time. As they well knew, food was eaten throughout the symposion, so the presence of food was not especially indicative of timing. Thus we should look to the other clues that we can find in the original mosaic and its copies. Let us review what we know about the appearance of Sosos’s original Unswept Room mosaic. From Pliny’s description, we established that it depicted both a band with refuse and a central panel with birds around a kantharos. The exact configuration of rubbish in the original mosaic is unknown, but the Aquileia copy (Pls. IV–V) represents grapevine leaves and a ladle for dispensing wine, both of which were used in the drinking portion of the symposion. More importantly, though, Sosos included a kantharos in his central panel, and its significance was obvious for ancient viewers: in antiquity, the kantharos was a standard vessel in the drinking portion of the symposion, particularly because of its association with Dionysos.72 Thus by including both the refuse and the kantharos, Sosos left no doubt that his mosaic represented the state of the dining room after the drinking portion of the evening’s festivities. So the mosaic assuredly represented the trash that accumulated by evening’s end. But we must question why Sosos chose to depict the event’s conclusion. The answer, perhaps, may involve the mosaic’s technique – and what Sosos wanted to express about the event’s host. First, the technique. The Unswept Room’s many descriptive details indicate that Sosos appears to have employed the rhetorical technique of ekphrasis. To be sure, the mosaic’s hyperrealism in dealing with table scraps was incredibly vivid. But perhaps more cleverly, Sosos also followed the rhetorical

TRASHING THE KING

handbooks’ dictates for representing not just objects but also events: as we learned earlier, the handbooks suggested that ekphraseis should relate what has gone before, what is included, and what results from the action. Indeed, the mosaic appears to have described the history and future of the objects in the room – and thus the stages of the symposion that took place there. Through depicting the refuse, the mosaic constructed a sense of duration. The bare fish bones, for example, are evidence of the time that it took to catch, clean, cook, and eat the fish. Thus Sosos masterfully described the preparation for the symposion, the symposion itself, and what resulted: trash. But this result, trash, is both puzzling and provocative – especially since it was associated with the evening’s host, Eumenes II. Perhaps exploring the significance of sympotic trash in the Greek world will elucidate Sosos’s seemingly weird choice. TRASHING TH E KING

It now may be a little clearer why Sosos used the result of the symposion – its remnants – as a means of describing the entire event: Sosos followed the dictates of ekphrastic technique. But we have one major question left to answer: why did Sosos propose that trash was the lasting result of partying with the king? First of all, we can clearly see that Sosos intended for the Unswept Room’s trash to shock viewers. Most Greek mosaics, we must remember, had no apparent relation to the dining room’s function, carrying such images as geometric patterns and mythological figures.73 Some mosaics, though, were more obviously appropriate for a dining room. For example, they depict Dionysos, the god of (among other things) wine and cavorting, or they show hunt scenes, theatrical scenes, and accouterments that could be associated with the symposion’s entertainment, if viewers were so inclined as to make the connection. Yet very few Greek mosaics directly refer to the symposion. Representations of individual sympotic items such as a kantharos or a garland appear on mosaics, but they were rare. And, suggestively, none of these representations of sympotica offers the sort of eye-catching, confrontational image that the Unswept Room did. Sosos included a (more or less) mundane kantharos – but he surrounded it with the king’s trash. So, we must ask, what would Sosos have anticipated his audience’s reaction to be? He probably was aware of an aspect of the mosaic that held resonance for a second-century bce Pergamene spectator: garbage collection. The mosaic’s emphasis on it could not have been more topical. In fact, a Hellenistic law provided specific orders for Pergamene trash collection, indicating that there had been a messy and smelly problem before it was enacted.74 The Unswept Room mosaic brought this issue before the eyes but mercifully not before the nose.

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More importantly, though, Sosos also certainly knew that his Greek audience was preoccupied with the structure and etiquette of sympotic ritual – to such an extent that manuals were written during the Hellenistic period. For example, Persaios, an associate of King Antigonos Gonatos of Makedonia (r. 277–274 and 272–239 bce), wrote the Sympotic Notes, which outlines appropriate behavior for hosts and guests.75 Sosos, moreover, would have understood that cleanliness played a huge role in sympotic routines. Greek literature provides ample evidence of such practices. Both Xenophon and the comic playwright Plato, for example, emphasize that cleaning commonly occurred throughout the evening, especially in the break between deipnon and drinking.76 And Pliny’s description of the Unswept Room, after all, indicates that the floor looks as though it is awaiting the customary cleanup at the end of the festivities.77 Such cleaning was indeed necessary because food often landed on the floor during dining and drinking – and it piled up, because guests were reluctant to touch it. Some diners refrained from picking up fallen food because they considered it to be nourishment for heroes and other dead.78 And others emphasized the rudeness of deliberately throwing food to the pavement. One practice that they particularly frowned upon was using bread to wipe dirty fingers and then tossing it to the floor: Athenocentric authors even propose that it is uncouth and Spartan. Here, once again, custom prevented guests from tampering with it: at Sparta, for example, dogs were the sole beneficiaries of such discarded bread.79 Sosos, then, appears to have made his mosaic with his audience’s sense of etiquette in mind. He depicted repulsive garbage that fell to the floor. And he even showed the animals that profited from the evening’s feast: the pigeons on the kantharos. Their inclusion surely recalled the Spartan dogs that devoured scraps of fallen bread at meal’s end – but they were more fitting in a palatial context. Some ancient kings were known to keep dovecotes, and their pigeons usually were free to roam in order to obtain their own food.80 In this case, they also were free to obtain their own wine – and perhaps even to get a bit tipsy. Now, at this point, we must question the purpose of Sosos’s potentially offensive mosaic. A first-century bce quote from Cicero may help us to find an answer. When discussing an opponent in his In Defense of Quintus Gallus, he says: Videbar videre alios intrantis, alios autem exeuntis, quosdam ex vino vacillantis, quosdam hesterna es potatione oscitantis. Humus erat inmunda, lutulenta vino, coronis languidulis et spinis cooperta piscium.81 I seemed to see some people going in, some going out, some people tottering from wine, some passed out after yesterday’s drinking. The floor was filthy, dirty with wine, covered with wilting garlands and fishbones.

CONCLUSION: A GREEK SYMPOTIC GAME?

It is interesting to consider the possibility that Cicero had the Unswept Room – or one its copies – in mind when he constructed his speech. But, whatever his familiarity with Sosos’s work, his description’s context is suggestive: it contributes to an attack on a host who was his client’s opponent. What is more, the secondary context of this quotation is interesting, too: Quintilian cites this as a good example of enargeia and description. Cicero and Sosos apparently were great minds who thought alike. Since Cicero’s description of a dirty floor was a criticism of a banquet’s host, we must consider the probability that Sosos employed his mosaic in the same way. If so, he participated in a long-standing discourse about the well-ordered (royal) symposion.82 Now only one question remains. Why did Sosos implicitly criticize the king – who was, after all, his patron? CONCLUSION: A GREEK SYMPOTIC GAME?

We have just seen how Sosos’s mosaic could have been viewed as an insult to Eumenes II. Yet we still do not know why – or whether the apparent affront is part of a larger effort to taunt the king. Sosos’s use of ekphrasis suggests that it was indeed part of a greater strategy. By Sosos’s day, the use of ekphrasis – especially when associated with art – had become contentious, for it was part of a discourse involving a struggle between word and image. So it is helpful to explore some uses of art-related ekphraseis in the Hellenistic world in order to understand the context in which Sosos made his mosaic.83 One popular ekphrastic motif was the description of a hyperrealistic artwork. At first glance, this motif seems to address the artist’s effectiveness: for example, descriptions often comment that a given sculptor was so good at rendering lifelike details that his statue could get up and walk away. But such ekphraseis are complex, and these descriptions perhaps may help us to learn about the author’s skills more than they do about the artist’s. The numerous ekphraseis of Myron’s cow are the best-known examples of this motif. Myron was a fifth-century bce sculptor who, as countless Greek and Latin authors affirm, created an exceedingly realistic sculpture of a cow on the Athenian akropolis.84 Leonidas wrote the first epigram about the statue in the Hellenistic period: οὐκ ἔπλασέν με Μύρον· ἐψεύσατο, βοσκομέναν δὲ ἐξ ἀγέλας ἐλάσας δῆσε βάσει λιθίνῳ.85 Myron didn’t sculpt me: he lied, but he drove me pasturing from the herd and bound me to a stone base.

Later authors followed this lead, and the end result was a competition as to who could write the most creative epigram about the cow’s realism. So these epigrams actually highlight their authors’ own skills more than they do Myron’s.

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Of course, not all ekphraseis describe real artworks, and descriptions of imagined artworks appear in classical literature from Homer’s Shield of Achilles to Achilles Tatius. Perhaps the most interesting examples are the Hellenistic pattern poems, particularly those by Simias. These highlight the possibilities of describing, creating, and even producing an imagined image, one that does not exist in the real world but exists, rather, only in and of the words themselves. The words of these poems take the form of what they describe: Axe is about the axe used to make the Trojan Horse; Wings is an ekphrasis of Eros; and Egg (Fig. 4.8) is itself.86 All three are about artistic production and, ultimately, the nature of ekphrasis. These pattern poems bring attention to what we could call the anxiety of ekphrasis, which is, really, to attempt the impossible: to make a physical object come to life through only a speech act.87 The pattern poems seem to be keenly aware of this anxiety about attempting an impossible feat – they both try to quell this anxiety and demonstrate, in the end, that it can never be quelled. The poems produce the objects that they describe in two ways: by making them both the subjects of the poems and the physical pattern that their words form. But, in the end, words arranged in an oval cannot contribute much to making an omelet. Both the epigrams about Myron’s cow and the pattern poems seem to play with this tension between μίμησις (mimesis, or “imitation”), on the one hand, and φαντασία (phantasia, or “imagination”) on the other.88 Indeed, much ancient literature appears to have been aware of this tension. Philostratos, for example, offered a thought-provoking discussion about it his third-century ce Life of Apollonios of Tyana: “οί Φειδίαι δέ,” εἶπε, “καὶ οἱ Πραξιτέλεις μῶν ἀνελθόντες ἐς οὐρανὸν καὶ ἀπομαξάμενοι τὰ τῶν θεῶν εἴδη τέχνην αὐτὰ ἐποιοῦντο, ἢ ἕτερόν τι ἦν, ὃ ἐφίστη αὐτοὺς τῷ πλάττειν;” “ἕτερον,” ἔφη, “καὶ μεστόν γε σοφίας πρᾶγμα.” “ποῖον;” εἶπεν, “οὐ γὰρ ἄν τι παρὰ τὴν μίμησιν εἴποις.” “φαντασία,” ἔφη, “ταῦτα εἰργάσατο, σοφωτέρα μιμήσεως δημιουργός· μίμησις μὲν γὰρ δημιουργήσει, ὃ εἶδεν, φαντασία δὲ καὶ ὃ μὴ εἶδεν . . .”89 “Did artists such as Phidias,” [Thespesion] said, “and Praxiteles, after going up to heaven and taking impressions of the forms of the gods, make them through skill, or was there something else that was imposing upon them in molding?” “Something else,” [Apollonios] said, “and a thing full of wisdom.” “What?” he said. “Wouldn’t you say that it was anything besides imitation?” “Imagination,” he said, “made these, a workman wiser than imitation: for imitation will work that which is seen, but imagination will work that which is not. . .”

Here, we see what is perhaps the ancient world’s clearest articulation of the agonistic nature of ekphrasis. So, for ancient Greeks and Romans, ekphrasis was a sort of game. And, of course, there was no better ancient playground for games than the symposion.

CONCLUSION: A GREEK SYMPOTIC GAME?

4.8 Simias, Egg. Pattern poem from the Hellenistic period. (After A. S. F. Gow, Bucolici Graeci [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1952], p. 178)

We have many literary descriptions of games.90 The give-and-take of such court life in literature, in fact, sometimes trades in the type of trompe l’oeil that Sosos employed. For example, in one anecdote King Ptolemy IV (r. 221–204 bce) set wax pomegranates on the table to try to trick the philosopher Sphairos, who fell for the gag but made a witty philosophical comeback. He said that he was duped into thinking not that they were real pomegranates but merely that there are good grounds for thinking that they were pomegranates.91 Indeed, following in the tradition of Plato’s and Xenophon’s fourthcentury bce sympotic literature, Greek authors in the Hellenistic and Roman

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world such Epikouros, Parmeniskos, Plutarch, and Lucian are often keen to insert themselves into their sympotic narratives, through the voices of their own characters who are serving as hosts or through characters who are philosophers.92 And they sometimes contemplate what the lasting takeaway from a symposion is: not food and drink but recollections of philosophical discussions.93 I would like to suggest that Sosos, too, played a similar game with his viewers in order to insert himself into the Unswept Room’s syntax – the competitive festivities of Eumenes II’s symposia. On the surface, Sosos constructed his ekphrastic mosaic with hyperrealistic details that seemingly recalled real-world objects: the refuse of the symposion. With his kantharos and pigeons, moreover, he might even have alluded to a famous piece of literature: Aesop’s fable about the thirsty pigeon that mistook a hyperrealistic, mimetic painting of a krater for the real thing.94 Such an allusion, in fact, might have been a warning – or a signal – to his viewers. For Sosos appeared to draw upon theories of mimesis. But the joke might have been that he was, in fact, employing phantasia: he imagined a filthy room that was overseen by a disorganized, overindulgent host. Eumenes II might have found humor in this if, in reality, he ran a well-ordered symposion. Thus Sosos seems to have played with the concepts of mimesis and phantasia, teasing the viewer into thinking that the mosaic depicts the hyperrealistic garbage from a meal and, perhaps, eventually persuading him that it actually is a sophisticated, eye-dazzling creation of Sosos’s own mind. Yet Sosos appears to have given one last dig to the “other” symposiasts – one that involved the ekphrastic tension between art and text. The symposion, of course, was known for its oral culture. So, in effect, Sosos proposed that his contribution to the proceedings – the mosaic – was more lasting and effective than the symposion’s speech-acts. Sosos, then, constructed himself as the ultimate victor of the symposion’s competitive games. Sosos’s motivation for being a sophisticated, cutting-edge artist is easy enough to understand. And he does indeed fit well within court culture that also saw writers tease the king.95 More perplexing, though, are Eumenes II’s motivations for enabling Sosos’s rhetorical cheekiness. We therefore should take a moment to consider the symposion’s cultural role in court life. Symposia and other dining activities did evolve over the course of the Archaic through Hellenistic periods. New Makedonian practices were introduced.96 And large banquets that could accommodate seemingly countless guests were added to the range of Greek dining options beginning with Alexander.97 But Hellenistic symposia continued many Classical Greek sympotic practices: for example, notional equality among symposiasts, proper sympotic behavior, and an emphasis on conversation, even in large spaces that could be subdivided into smaller conversation nooks.98 And, as Hellenistic symposia displayed an

CONCLUSION: A GREEK SYMPOTIC GAME?

increasing attention to both food and drink, wine retained its status as both a focal point and a marker of being Greek.99 So Hellenistic symposia reinforced – even helped to construct – the Greek culture of their participants. The Unswept Room and its built environment assuredly facilitated such participation. With space for twenty-two klinai, the room was impressive but not cavernous. More dinner party than state dinner, a symposion held within its walls could have easily facilitated witty rough-and-tumble banter among symposiasts. While the mosaic’s table scraps were surely a talking point, the kantharos in its central panel let symposiasts know what was central to the festivities: drinking wine. Indeed, the mosaic’s Hellenocentricism is apparently emphasized by its Greek title: ἀσάρωτος οἶκος (asarotos oikos, or “unswept room”). This seems to be a play on the words ἄκρατος οἶνος (akratos oinos, or “unmixed wine”): wine that is not diluted with water.100 Pliny reports that the Unswept Room depicted a kantharos and not a krater, the vessel that was used for mixing wine with water in the Classical period. Yet the existence of such a kantharos would not have precluded mixed wine at a symposion; Hellenistic symposiasts mixed wine with water in their own cups. The mosaic therefore depicted current drinking practices.101 Such practices were considered to be a clear marker of cultural identity. Greek writers maintain that non-Greeks – including Eumenes II’s enemies, the Celts – ran into inebriated trouble when drinking unmixed wine because of its potency.102 The Celtic chieftain Brennos, for example, is said to have committed suicide by drinking unmixed wine after his defeat at Delphi in 279 bce.103 More generally, in contrast with the Greeks, the Celts not only drank unmixed wine but also drank beer, sat in a circle, and had a chorus leader during their festivities.104 There is even an explicit connection between drinking mixed wine and Greek culture in Alexis’s fourth-century bce comedy Aesop. A character tellingly calls the practice Ἑλληνικὸς πότος (Hellenikos potos, or “Greek drinking”) because it facilitates lively conversation at a social gathering.105 Mindful of such Greek sympotic practices and the expectations of court life, king and courtiers alike were undoubtedly in on Sosos’s joke of depicting a messy dining room in the palace. Eumenes II surely hosted a proper, orderly, and tidy Greek symposion. At his symposia, akratos oinos (unmixed wine) never led to an asarotos oikos (unswept room) and the garbled conversation of symposiasts. Therefore, through the imaginative Unswept Room, Eumenes II and Sosos drew attention to the king’s promotion of Greek culture in real court life.

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R

hetorical education – specifically, the advent of the progymnasmata, or preliminary rhetorical exercises – taught students how to be Greek, and it appears to have been the root of many Hellenistic innovations in both art and literature. The wealthy and elite backgrounds of some Greek artists enabled them to be well educated, and their intellectualism aided their adult pursuits in oratory, teaching, and scholarship, not to mention art. Kings and courtiers, too, received Greek rhetorical educations, which allowed them to appreciate the rhetorically informed art in the courts. The courts also played a role in Hellenistic artistic production by drawing Greek artists around the ancient Mediterranean. The result of all this seems to be a standardization of Greek art that is analogous to a linguistic koine. The intellectual contexts of the courts at Attalid Pergamon and Ptolemaic Alexandria produced especially noteworthy examples of rhetorically informed art. The Telephos Frieze in the Great Altar at Pergamon, for example, used the rhetorical exercise of diegema (narrative). In its original complete state, the frieze took the form of a bios (life story) of the Pergamene hero Telephos, and it constructed a synkrisis (comparison) between the parallel lives of Telephos and Eumenes II with a view to emphasizing their similarities. They both experienced military success, and, more importantly, they both had a complex Asian-Greek cultural identity owing to their associations with Asia Minor and mainland Greece. Ultimately, the frieze’s synkrisis amplified the virtues of Eumenes II’s form of Greek kingship. 132

CONCLUSION

Similarly, the Archelaos Relief from Alexandria uses the rhetorical technique of prosopopoiia (characterization). It was produced in a court that drew a sharp distinction between Greek-style and Egyptian-style artworks, and its subject matter is also unquestionably Greek: Homer, Chronos (bearing a portrait of Ptolemy IV), Oikoumene (bearing a portrait of Arsinoe III), literary personifications, the Muses, and Zeus. The relief functions as an enkomion that uses personifications in accordance with rhetorical guidelines to praise the Greek literary patronage of Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III. Sosos, too, used rhetorical techniques. He employed ekphrasis (description) in his now lost Unswept Room mosaic from a Pergamene palace. Pliny’s description of it and Roman copies indicate that the mosaic represented descriptive, hyperrealistic table scraps from a symposion. Sosos’s inclusion of this trash referred to his viewers’ sense of Greek sympotic etiquette that disapproved of fallen food and messy dining rooms. He drew upon rhetorical techniques and aesthetic theory to play a game with them, thereby inserting himself into the mosaic’s context – the competitive festivities of Eumenes II’s Greek symposia in court life. All three of these artworks used Greek rhetorical techniques to convey key aspects of the monarch’s role in the courts: kingship, patronage, and court life. In them, we clearly see how monarchs and artists constructed an association with Hellenism as it relates to negotiating Greek identity, serving as a custodian of Greek culture, and hosting Greek social activities at court. We could say, then, that monarchs and their artists used Greek rhetorical techniques in order to create innovative Greek art for the new monarchic circumstances of the Hellenistic world. Their artworks helped to construct the monarchs’ Hellenism, continuity with historical Greek culture, and participation in the contemporary Greek-speaking world of the Hellenistic age. What is more, the primary intended viewers of these artworks – the royal family and other courtiers, broadly defined – need not have been of Greek descent or otherwise identified solely as Greek. Their own agency allowed them to engage with Greek culture, the courts, and these artworks as they saw fit. The knowledge of the Greek language that enabled them to function at court – and that entailed Greek education with its stress on rhetorical instruction – would have been all that was required for them to appreciate the artworks’ messages about the monarch and Greek culture. As this review suggests, investigating the connection between Hellenistic art and rhetoric is important for several reasons. First of all, establishing a clear association between art and text confirms a dynamic relationship between forms of cultural production and their contributions to Greek culture. Therefore, it may be best to draw fewer distinctions among the types of ancient cultural production as well as among the modern disciplines that study them. Although at various times one may inform the other, art and text are two equal

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and related forms of discourse – as well as historical evidence – so we should not privilege the study of word over that of image. We also see that Greek artists displayed autonomy and assertiveness, even if they were on the king’s payroll. Some were elite, rich, and well educated. They seem to have felt no qualms about challenging the authority or the views of their patrons, especially if they were participating in cheeky discourse that was a literary (and artistic) topos about relationships with the monarch. Today we know nothing about the artist who planned the Telephos Frieze, and Archelaos and Sosos are just names without accompanying biographical information or anecdotes. Such apparent autonomy, then, was not restricted to celebrity artists whose names and biographies were preserved for posterity. Rather, it appears to have been widespread within the intellectual communities at the courts. Most significantly, we see that cultural change can come from within a society and need not be contingent upon external forces. Our study demonstrates that Hellenistic monarchs at Pergamon and Alexandria worked to reinforce their Hellenism and, perhaps, Greek cultural insularity in certain aspects of cultural production at court. Greek education, to be sure, served as the mechanism for the reproduction and the reception of this deliberately constructed Hellenism. Ever since Droysen identified cultural fusion as the hallmark of the Hellenistic period, scholars have been keen to discern what is Greek and what is “other” about various elements of Hellenistic art. And they are now especially eager to think seriously about what they mean by terms such as fusion, syncretism, hybridity, and middle ground.1 Such scholarship is a valuable and much-needed endeavor. Yet, in addition to addressing this question of fusion, we also should think about the choices and mechanisms that are involved with constructing Hellenism. It is worth considering how the deliberately Greek art of the Hellenistic courts was, at least in part, a response to the kingdoms’ routine dealings with other cultures – and even to producing their own art in other cultural styles, as we see in Ptolemaic Egypt. In the end, we may find that it is fruitful to question our Droysenian assumption that fusion was the only reaction to cultural interaction in the Hellenistic world.

NOTES

1 R HETOR IC, INNO VATION, AND TH E COURTS 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

6.

7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13.

For the Parthenon Frieze, see especially Neils 2001. For the Telephos Frieze, see especially essays in Dreyfus and Schraudolph 1996–1997. Plin. HN 34.52. For the historiography of Hellenistic art, see especially Bieber 1961, 3–6; Ridgway 1990, 3–12; Stewart 2003; Stewart 2004, 11–80. Winckelmann 1766. Droysen 1877–1878. For the term ἑλληνισμός (hellenismos)/hellenismus and related terms, see, e.g., Acts 6.1; Apth. Prog. 2; Athenasius 11.56.4, 41.25.568; Basil. 1.9.6, 3.30.77; Diog Laert. 7.59; Dion. Hal. Pomp. 3; Julian Ep. 84a (ed. Bidez-Cumont); II Macc. 4.13; Origen C. Cels. 5.10.40; POxy. VII 1012.17; Sext. Emp. Math. 1.176–240; Strab. 14.2.28; Theagenes of Rhegium 1(5) no. 8 (DK); Bichler 1983; Dionisotti 1995; Gruen 1998, 1–40; Hall 2002; essays in Boys-Stones, Graziosi, and Titchener 2009; Whitmarsh 2011; Gruen 2016, 113–131; Martin 2017, 35–39. For Droysen, see especially Momigliano 1970; Hengel 1974, 1–5; Bosworth 2006; Canfora 2009; Porter 2009; Prag and Quinn 2013, 3–10; Assis 2014 (with previous bibliography). Following Droysen, scholars usually discuss Hellenistic culture in terms of fusion. For a reconsideration of the concept of such “syncretism,” see Gruen 1998 (especially xiv–xv) and Gruen 2016, 113–131 (especially 114–115, 131). For problems with Droysen’s conception of Hellenismus, see especially Momigliano 1970. For twentieth-century histories of Hellenistic art see, e.g., Dickins 1920; Lawrence 1927; Bieber 1955; Webster 1967; Havelock 1971; Charbonneaux, Martin, and Villard 1973; Pollitt 1986; Ridgway 1990; Smith 1991; Ridgway 2000; Ridgway 2002. For a different view, see Robertson 1993. For a reevaluation of artistic changes in the fourth century and the terminology used to describe them, see Brown 1973, especially 1–4. For comparisons of Hellenistic art and literature see, e.g., Webster 1964; Pollitt 1986; Fowler 1989; Zanker 2004. Cf. Manakidou 1993. See especially Pollitt 1974, 58–63; Pollitt 1990, 224–226; Stewart 1993b; Stewart 2004, 228–232; Tanner 2006, 250–254. Seaman 2009, 6–12. See especially Morgan 1998; Schiappa 1999; Walker 2000; Wilson 2000; essays in Too 2001; essays in Worthington 2007; essays in Gunderson 2009; essays in Kremmydas and Tempest 2013; Kremmydas 2016. Isoc. Antid. 267; Isoc. C. soph. 10; Pl. Prt. 325d–326a; Pl. Chrm. 159c. Aeschin. In Tim. 9–12 (cf. Pl. Cri. 50c–51c); Ar. Nub. 412–19; Arist. Pol. 1337a–1324b; Arist. Eth. Nic. 10.9.8–23; Isoc. Antid. 180–81; Pl. Leg. 764c–e, 795d–e; Pl. Meno 94b–c; Pl. Resp. 376e. Ath. 4.184b; Diog. Laert. 6.103–04, 7.32; Diod. Sic. 33.7.7; Philo, De Cong. 12 (includes grammar, geometry, astronomy, rhetoric, music, and other intellectual pursuits); Plin. HN praef. 14 (general range of subjects implied); [Plut.], De mus. 1135d 13; Quint. Inst. 1.10.1 (encyclion paedian); Vitr. De Arch. 6 pr. 4 (general background knowledge). Variations: Arist. Cael. 1.279a 30 (ἐν τοῖς ἐγκυκλίοις φιλοσοφήμασι); Diog. Laert. 6.103–04 (ἐγκύκλια μαθήματα); Philo De Cong. 12 (τὴν μέσην παιδείαν); Ps.-Plut. De lib. educ. 7c (τῶν ἄλλων τῶν καλουμένον ἐγκυκλίων παιδευμάτων); Plut. Alex. 7.1 (περὶ μουσικὴν καὶ τὰ

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14. 15.

16.

17. 18.

19.

20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

NOTES TO PAGES 9–11

ἐγκύκλια παιδευταῖς); Strabo 1.122 (ἐγκύκλιος). Vitr. De Arch. 6 pr. 4 (sine litteraturae encyclioque doctrinarum omnium disciplina). See especially Morgan 1998, 25 n. 72, 33–39. Stephanus, Paris Lat. 6503; POxy. LXIV.4441, col. IV.18–20; POxy. LVIII.3952; POxy. III.471; P.Par. 63; SB III.7268; UPZ I.78.9–14; Morgan 1998, 17–18, 27, 255–261; Cribiore 2001a, 15–83. For the difference between basic and advanced cultural study, see, e.g., Ar. Nub. 1030; Ar. Ran. 967; Ar. fr. 206 (PCG); Eup. Kolakes fr.172 (PCG); Eur. Aiolos fr. 16; Eur. Med. 294–97; Pl. Prot. 318d–e, 326a; Soph. Ant. 324; Pfeiffer 1968, 54; Ford 2001. E.g., Lib. Ep. 25.48, 35.13, 44.1–2, 55.26, 58.10–11, 60, 129, 285, 172, 287.2, 373, 428, 547, 549, 600, 660, 1005, 1141.1, 1165, 1352.1–2; Lib. Or. 55.28; Zacharias Rhetor Vita Severi; BGU I.38; PColon. X.279; POxy. III.531; P Osl. III.153; POxy. X.1296; POxy. XVIII.2190; SB V.7567; SB III.6262. See Cribiore 2001a, 102–123. E.g., Diod. Sic. 12.12.4; Quint. Inst. 1.1.16. E.g., Polyb. 31.31.1; SIG3 577; SIG3 578; SIG3 672. Other possible beneficence: Cousin and Diehl 1889, 334–340, no. 4; IG VII 1861. State intervention via taxation: PHal. 1.260–65; Wilhelm 1910, 46–48. Laws referring to education: IG XII 3.171 and Suppl. 1286; Inscr.Prien. 113; SIG3 577.53–54; SIG3 578.32–33. Roman endowment at Xanthos: SEG 30.1535 = Balland 1981, no. 67. See Nilsson 1955, 57–59; Harris 1989, 129–139; Morgan 1998, 25–27. E.g., Herod. Didaskalos 22–26; CIG 3185; PAthen. 60; PEnteux. 26; SIG3 578.9–10; UPZ I.59 (= P London I.42, Atlas I pl. 17); UPZ I.78.9–14. See Harris 1989, 136–137, 239–240; Cribiore 2001a, 74–101; Bagnall and Cribiore 2015. Havelock 1982. For Theon, see Quint. Inst. 3.6.48, 9.3.76; Codex Pariensis 2918; Suda, s.v. Theon. (Ps.-)Hermogenes: Cassius Dio 71.1.2; Philostr. V S 577–78; Syrianus in Hermog.; Sopater Rhetor Scholia eis tas staseis 5.8.1 ff. (ed. Walz 1832.5); Codex Pariensis 1983 f. 7v and 2977; Suda, s.v. Hermogenes. For the progymnasmata generally, see especially Patillon and Bolognesi 1997; Webb 2001; Heath 2002; Hock and O’Neil 2002; Kennedy 2003; Gibson 2008; Penella 2015. Contra early date of Theon: Heath 2002. See especially Gibson 2008. Cf. Cribiore 2007; Cribiore 2013. Theon Prog. 1 (Spengel, Rhet. p. 59.15–16, 59.18 ). [Arist.]. Rh. Al. 1436a 26. E.g., Arist. Rhet. 1.9, 2.21, 3.16–17; Cic. Orat. 14.46. Ashmolean Museum. P2 2655, Z 169, D 373; Cribiore 1996, no. 344. PMich. inv. 4832c; Cribiore 1996, no. 355. E.g., Quint. Inst. 1.9, 2.4–5, 3.849, 6.2.17, 10.5.11–12; Suet. Rhet. 1. Kennedy 2003, x. Suet. Gram. 25.4; Quint. Inst. 1.8.6, 1.9, 2.1.2, 2.4.2. Theon Prog. 2 (Spengel, Rhet. p. 71.2–26). Quint. Inst. 2.4.28–29; [Dion. Hal.] Rhet. 10 (370.3–12, 372); [Dion. Hal.] Rh. 261 (= Men. Rhet. 365); Sopater Rhetor Diairesis zetematon 249.20–21 (ed. Walz 1832.8); Webb 2001, 290–291. Theon Prog. 2 (Spengel, Rhet. p. 70.24–29). Bourdieu 1984; Bourdieu 1988; Bourdieu and Passeron 1990. Apth. Prog. 2. This is echoed in, e.g., Diog. Laert. 7.59. For an overview of hellenismos in ancient scholarship about the Greek language, see Pagani 2015. For an overview of performativity, see especially Loxley 2007. For performativity and identity, see especially Butler 1997; Butler 2006. Sext. Emp. Math. 1.176–240. ἀνδριαντοποιική and ζωγραφία: Sext. Emp. Math. 1.182. See, e.g., Cribiore 1997; Loftus 2000; Cribiore 2001a, 9, 178–180, 205; Cribiore 2001b; Webb 2001, 301–302; Morgan 2003; Gibson 2004. E.g., POxy. XXII.2331: Cribiore 2001a, 138–139 + fig. 19. Apth. Prog. 12; Theon Prog. 1, 2. Sen. Controv. 8.2, 10.5. Webb 1997; Webb 2001. For a more extensive discussion about the social and educational background of elite Greek artists, see Seaman 2009, 12–26; Seaman 2017. This section presents a summary of their main points. For the status

NOTES TO PAGES 12–13

44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54.

55. 56.

57.

58.

59. 60.

61.

62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

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of Greek artists, see Guarducci 1958; Guarducci 1962; Stewart 1979, 101–114; Smith 1988, 26–27; Stewart 1990, 69–72; Tanner 2006, 141–204; Schultz 2007; Hurwit 2015; essays in Seaman and Schultz 2017. Contra, e.g., Schweitzer 1925; Carpenter 1960; Bianchi Bandinelli 1961, 46–65; Himmelmann 1979; Ridgway 1997, 267. See, e.g., Carpenter 1960, v–vi. E.g., Cic. Off. 1.150; Cic. Brut. 73.257; Isoc. Antid. 15.2; Plut. Cim. 4.6. E.g., Pheidias: Ar. Pax 605–18. Zeuxis: Ar. Ach. 991–92. Pheidias and Zeuxis: Isoc. Antid. 2. See, e.g., the anecdotes compiled by Douris of Samos and Antigonos of Karystos. See Pollitt 1990, 6; Stewart 1990, 21. Herod. 4.20–26; Theoc. Id. 5.104–05; Posidipp. AB 62–70. See, e.g., Pl. Meno 91d (Protagoras); Plin. HN 35.62 (Zeuxis), 35.132 (Nikias). See especially Davies 1971, 288; Stewart 1979, 106; Lauter 1980; Goodlett 1989, 175; Stewart 1990, 66. For the collected evidence, including inscribed bases and stamped roof tiles, see especially Themelis 1996, 184–185; Sève 2008. For artists’ fees, see Burford 1969; Burford 1972; Stewart 1990, especially 65–67; Loomis 1998, 93–95; Feyel 2006; and Schultz 2007, 163–179. For the organization of workshops and production, see Blondé and Muller 2000. IG3 476.144–181. Randall 1953; Stewart 1990, 66; Loomis 1998, 91, 117–119. See, e.g., Arist. Ath. Pol. 24.25; Plut. Alc. 25.5; Thuc. 8.45.2. See Loomis 1998 (especially 232–239) and Schultz 2007 (especially 163–179) for discussions about “standard” wages and hierarchies of pay for ancient Greek craftspeople and artists. Messene, inv. 1048: Lykosoura decree, ll. 1–21. For a discussion of this decree and Damophon’s payment, see especially Themelis 1996, 169; Sève 2008, no. 1. Protogenes: Plin. HN 35.88. Iaia of Kyzikos: Plin. HN 35.148. Cf. Ael. VH 4.12 (Zeuxis); Harpokration, s.v. Mikon (Mikon); Plin. HN 34.55 (Polykleitos); 35.55 (Bularchos), 36.10 (Dipoinos and Skyllis), 35.92 (Apelles), 35.107 (Asklepiodoros, Theomnestos); Simon. fr. 157 (PLG) (Arkesilaos). Plin. HN 35.36. Cf.: Pl. Prt. 311c–d (Pheidias and Polykleitos); Pl. Prt. 318b–c (Zeuxippos). Pupils: e.g., Dio Chrys. Or. 55.1.282; Plin. HN 34.50–51, 34.55, 34.57, 34.61, 34.72, 34.83, 34.85, 34.87, 35.54, 35.61, 35.76, 35.77, 35.110, 35.111, 35.123, 35.130, 35.137, 35.140, 35.145, 35.146, 35.148, 36.16–17, 36.34; Tz. Chil. 7.929. Paus. 1.2.5 (Euboulides); ID 1 (Euthykartides), 2466 (Adamas); IG II2 3864 (Pandion and Balakros), 3876 (Kephisodotos III and Timarchos IV), 4298 (Euboulides), 4902 (Sthennis); Richter 1968, no. 110 (Nearchos). Telesinos: IG 11.4 514. See also, e.g., Plin. HN 35.59 (Polygnotos), 35.62 (Zeuxis), 35.132 (Nikias); Plut. Cim. 4.6 (Polygnotos). Honors: IG II2 2452.22; Meritt 1974, no. 49. Positions: Thompson 1961, 58–61 (mint magistrate); FD 3.2 48.19 (kitharistas), 95 (proxenos); ID 2594.10 (ephebe); IG II2 1534.B268 (priest), 1746.35 (prytanis), 1886 (tessera iudicialis), 1926.92 (arbitrator), 2726 (priest), 4440 (priest); IG IX2 I 29.17 (proxenos); SEG 17.15 (ephebe); SIG5 585.28 (proxenos), 587 (proxenos); Haussoullier 1882, 237, no. 76; Crosby 1937, 448–453, no. 3 l. 23. See Stewart 1979, 106–109. See, e.g., IG XI 4 536; IG XI 4 1038 (= OGIS 67); IG XI 4 1130 (= OGIS 68); IG XI 4 1190; Amandry 1940–1941, 63–65, no. 3. Cf. Sext. Emp. Math. 1.276 (the diplomatic mission of a Sostratos to Antigonos). On the question of whether Sostratos was an architect or just a wealthy courtier who dedicated the Lighthouse at Alexandria, see especially Fraser 1972, 1.18–20; Bing 1998, 21–29. IG 11.4 no. 514. Plin. HN 35.76–77. Arist. Pol. 1337b23–1338a20. Cic. De or. 1.14.62. Xen. Mem. 1.42–44. Cf. Arist. Eth. 1141a9–13. Plin. HN 35.76; Suda, s.v. Pamphilos. Plin. HN 35.135.

138

NOTES TO PAGES 13–16

69. Kanon: see Leftwich 1987 (literary testimonia: 80–96, nos. 1–26); DNO 1234–1246. For other books, see, e.g., Ath. 5.21; Diog. Laert. 4.18 (Melanthios), 9.28 (Demokritos of Abdera); Plin. HN 34.68 (artists), 34.83 (Xenokrates), 35.68 (Antigonos, Xenokrates), 35.79 (Apelles), 35.111 (Apelles), 35.128 (Euphranor), 36.39 (Pasiteles); Suda, s.v. Protogenes; Vitr. De arch 7. praef. 11 (Agatharchos, Demokritos of Abdera), praef. 14 (Demophilos, Euphranor, Leonidas, Pollis, Silanion). 70. Vitr. De arch. 1.3. Cf. 1.15 (importance of both theory and craftsmanship). 71. Elias 1969, with the corrected version, Elias 2002. 72. E.g., Völcker-Janssen 1993; Weber 1993; Herman 1997; Spawforth 2007; Strootman 2014; essays in Erskine, Llewellyn-Jones, and Wallace 2017. Cf. Weber 2009. 73. E.g., Polyb. 5.26.9, 4.77.1, 5.81. For these terms, see LSJ9, svv. αὐλή, βασίλειον, and βασίλεια; Herman 1997, 204–205. 74. See Nielsen 1999; Strootman 2014, 54–90; Morgan 2017. 75. Walbank 1984, 65. 76. E.g., App. Syr. 45; Joseph AJ 12.215; Polyb. 5.41.3, 5.50.14. 77. E.g., Polyb. 4.82.3, 4.87.4–5, 5.2.7, 5.26.13, 5.34.10, 5.39, 5.41.3, 5.50.10–14, 5.56.12. 78. E.g., Polyb. 5.35–40; 5.67.11; 8.15.1; IG II2 838; Dürrbach 1921–1922, no. 47; Merkelbach and Nollé 1980, no. 2003; SEG 1.364; SEG 1.365; Habicht 1958; Herman 1980–1981; Walbank 1984; Herman 1987, 154–156; Herman 1997, 213–215. 79. Herman 1997, 215. For proper names associated with, e.g., the Ptolemaic court, see Peremans et al. 1968, especially nos. 14479–14737. 80. For tryphe, see especially Ath. 537d–540a; Murray 1996; Stewart 2006, 160–162; Lapatin 2015; Lightfoot 2016. 81. For overviews of the intellectual atmosphere of the courts and patronage, see Krevans and Sens 2006; Tanner 2006; Strootman 2014, 159–164; Strootman 2017; essays in Erskine, Llewellyn-Jones, and Wallace 2017. 82. E.g., Ael. VH 8.7, 9.3; App. Mithr. 7.115; Ath. 1.17–18, 4.155d, 5.193c–206d, 11.466b–c, 12.535f–536a, 12.536e, 12.537d–538c, 12.549d–e; Letter of Aristeas 41–99, 182–83, 317–21; Plut. Alex. 70.3; Polyb. 26.1.1–3. 83. E.g., Inscr.Perg. 48–50, 135–40; Paus. 8.42.7, 9.35.6; Plin. HN 35.60, 35.100, 36.24. See also Plin. HN 35.24 for a thwarted purchase. 84. Berlin, Staatliche Museen inv. P 24. Picón and Hemingway 2016, no. 39 (Niemeier). 85. Ath. 5.196a; Plut. Arat. 12. 86. Ael. VH 14.17. 87. E.g., Anth. Plan. 16.119–21; Ael. VH 2.3; Apul. Flor. 7; Chorikios of Gaza Dialexeis 34.1–3, 37.3; Cic. Acad. Pr. 2.26, 85; Cic. Fam. 5.12.7; Himer. Meletai kai logoi 31.5; Himer. Or. 48.14; Hor. Epist. 2.1, 232–44; Plin. HN 7.125, 34.63–64; 35.85, 35.92–94; Plut. Alex. 4.1–7, 40.4–5; Plut. De Alex. fort. 2.2; Plut. De Is. et Os. 24; Stat. Silv. 1.1.84–90; Tzetz. Epistulae 76; Tzetz. Chil. 8.200, 416–27, 11.368, 97; Val. Max. Factorum et dictorum memorabilia 8.1, ext. 2; Schol. ad Hor. Epist. 2.1.239–40; Vell. Pat. Historia Romana 1.11.3–4. 88. Quint. Inst. 2.13; Plin. HN 35.89–90, 35.96; Strabo 14.2.19. Seleukos: Moreno 1974, inscription no. 17. Tyche: Paus. 6.2.7. Cf. John Malalas Chronographia 2. 276 (ed. Dindorf ); Plin. HN 34.67. 89. Antiphilos: Plin. HN 35.138. Bryaxis (II): Clem. Al. Protr. 4.34. Galaton: Ael. VH 13.22. Sostratos: Lucian Hist. conscr. 62; Plin. HN 36.83; al-Mas’udi pp. 55–56 (ed. Thiersch) (Arabic source). Timochares: Plin. HN 34.148. 90. Plin. HN 34.84, 34.88, 36.184; Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011, no. 5.43 (Salzmann). 91. See Winzor 1996, 261–263, 326–327, 339–340, 342–343, 346–349, 357–358. 92. Apelles: Plin. HN 35.89–90, 35.96; Quint. Inst. 2.13; Strabo 14.2.19 (King Antigonos). Euthykrates: Plin. HN 34.67 (King Demetrios). Protogenes: Plin. HN 35.106 (King Antigonos). Theoros: Plin. HN 35.144 (King Demetrios). Philoxenos: Plin. HN 35.110. Zeuxis (Archelaos): Ael. VH 14.17. 93. Artemon: Plin. HN 35.139 (Queen Stratonike). Aristodemos: Plin. HN 34.86 (King Seleukos). Bryaxis (II): Plin. HN 34.73 (King Seleukos); Cedrenus Compendium Historiarum 306 B (ed. Migne); Lib. Or. 61, Vol. 3.334; John Malalas Chronographia 10.234 (ed. Dindorf ), Theodoret Historia ecclesiastica 3.10. Lysippos: IG 14 1206 (King Seleukos). Telesinos: IG II.4 no. 514 (Queen Stratonike). Xenarios: Tzetz. Chil. 7.118.176–80 (King Seleukos).

NOTES TO PAGES 16–23

94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105.

106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113.

114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123.

124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132.

139

Plin. HN 35.146. Plin. HN 35.104–05. Plin. HN 36.83. Lucian Hist. conscr. 62. Diod. Sic. 31.18.2; Val. Max. 5.1.1. Plin. HN 35.132 (he substitutes Attalos for Ptolemy); Plut. Epicurus 1093e. Plin. HN 35.140. Plin. HN 35.89–90. E.g., Arr. 5.27.2–9; Polyb. 5.27.6; Anson 1985, 314–315; Murray 1996; Foucault 2001; Spawforth 2007, 86–87; Strootman 2007, 157–158; Strootman 2014, 173–174. Ael. VH 2.3. See Völcker-Janssen 1993, 32–48. E.g., Ael. VH 9.26; Ath. 211a. For fraternization among kings and intellectuals, see, e.g., Ael. VH 9.26; Ath. 1.15c, 1.19c–d, 13.603e. For a different interpretation of similar anecdotes, see Hunter 2003, 24–45. For a list of the Alexandrian librarians, see POxy. 1241. Ath. 12.552c. Ath. 11.493f–494b. Ath. 1.22d; SH 786. Strabo 17.1.8; OGIS 714. E.g., Ath. 6.242a–b. Ath. 8.340f. E.g., AP 7.415, 7.525.3–4; Schwyzer 1923, 234; SEG 9.1.84 and 87; Suda, s.v. Kallimachos; Tzetz. Prolegomena de comoedia II Scholia in Aristophanem I.1A, pp. 23.1, 32.11 (ed. Koster). For this reconstruction of Kallimachos’s life and background, see Cameron 1995, 4–11. Theoc. Epigr. 8; Theoc. Id. 7, 11, 13, 16, 28. Diod. Sic. 31.19.8. For the court at Kappadokia, see Gabelko 2017. See especially Theoc. Id. 15–17. See Hardie 1983, 15–30. Bryaxis: Plin. HN 34.73. Lysippos’s family: Paus. 6.2.7; Plin. HN 34.51, 34.67; Moreno 1974, inscription no. 17. For overviews of royal iconography, see, e.g., Kyrieleis 1975; Smith 1988; Fleischer 1991; Fleischer 1996. E.g., the statues mentioned in OGIS 6 and OGIS 332. For the Attalid use of the Baroque style at Athens and Pergamon, see Stewart 2004, especially 218–220. For the metopes at Limyra, see Webb 1996, 125–126. See Dunbabin 1999; Empereur 2000, 5 + fig. 3; Bibliotheca Alexandrina 2003, 20–21 + illus.; Hassan 2002, 158–159 + illus.; Hawass 2002, 53, 858–859 + illus. Stelai at Alexandria: Empereur 2000, 9 + fig. 12; Hassan 2002, 136–137, 176–177 + figs.; Hawass 2002, 69, no. 246 + illus.; Picón et al. 2007, 447, nos. 213–215 + illus. Stelai at Demetrias: BatziouEfstathiou 2002 + figs. 14, 54–57. Stelai at Vergina: Andronicos 1984, 85 + fig. 4; Drougou and Saatsoglou-Paliadeli 2004, 41 + figs. 49, 63. See especially Morpugo Davies 1987; Horrocks 1997, 32–70; Colvin 2011. For the Hellenistic uses of the archaistic and classicistic styles, see Pollitt 1986, 164–184; Kousser 2008; Hallett 2012; Hallett 2015. For the Baroque style, see Stewart 2004, 218–220. OGIS I.90, 140–66: l. 23 of the Demotic inscription; see also, e.g., OGIS I.56, 89–110 (ll. 61–62). For a discussion of dialect in Hellenistic poetry, see, e.g., Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 371–377. For skepticism about local Rhodian and Alexandrian styles, see Stewart 1996a; Pollitt 2000. For overviews of the Royal District and the Library, see Seaman 2016, 412–415; Morgan 2017, 43–46. See Seaman 2016, 415–417 for an overview of the Great Altar. Ath. 14.654b–c; Strabo 17.8. For overviews of the Royal District, see Strootman 2014, 74–81; Morgan 2017, 46–51. Herod. 4.57–78.

140

NOTES TO PAGES 29–39

133. See Clarysse 1985; Clarysse 1992; Strootman 2014, 124–135; Savalli-Lestrade 2017, 110–112; Thompson 2017. For Greek identity, Hellenism, and related concepts, see Gruen 1998; Hall 2002; essays in BoysStones, Graziosi, and Titchener 2009. For identity in the ancient Mediterranean, see essays in Gruen 2011a ; Gruen 2013; essays in McInerney 2014. 134. For the individual’s agency when participating in Greek culture, see Gruen 1998, xiv–xv; Gruen 2009; Mairs 2014, 184–185; Gruen 2016, 113–131. 135. For education at court, see Hansen 1971, 390–395; Savalli-Lestrade 2017, 103–105. 136. Van’t Dack 1989/1990. 137. IEph 202. 138. Kleopatra Thea’s sons: App. Syr. 68. Antigonid teacher and tutors: Plut. Aem. 33. 139. For families, see, e.g., Polyb. 5.56.15. Youth of the court: e.g., Polyb. 16.22.5. Royal pages: e.g., Polyb. 5.82.13, 30.25.17. Foster-brothers/brothers: e.g., Polyb. 5.79.12, 5.87.1. Young girls/subservient women: e.g., Polyb. 15.33.11–12. See especially Hammond 1990; Cameron 1995, 3–11; Herman 1997, 213; Strootman 2014, 136–144; Savalli-Lestrade 2017, 103–108. 140. For overviews of the intellectual atmospheres, see Hansen 1971, 390–433 (Pergamon); Strootman 2017 (Alexandria).

2 NAR RATIVE IN THE TELEPHOS FR IEZE 1.

2.

3. 4.

5. 6.

7. 8. 9.

10. 11.

Found in Bergama, Turkey. Panels on display at the Pergamonmuseum, Berlin, with 700+ fragments in storerooms in Berlin and Bergama (I thank Volker Kästner for this figure). Select bibliography: essays in Dreyfus and Schraudolph 1996–1997; Queyrel 2005; Picón and Hemingway 2016, nos. 126–127 (Kästner). For excavations, display, and recent exhibitions, see essays in Dreyfus and Shraudolph 1996–1997; essays in Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011; essays in Pirson and Scholl 2014; essays in Picón and Hemingway 2016. Robert 1887; Schrader 1900; Winnefeld 1910, 155–228, 237–241. E.g., Bauchhenß-Thüriedl 1971; Heres 1974; Heilmeyer 1997; Heres 1997; Hoepfner 1997b; Kästner 1997; Massa-Pairault 1998, 93–157; Kästner 2000; Queyrel 2005, 79–101. See also other essays in Dreyfus and Schraudolph 1996–1997. For a useful chart of the recent reconstructions, see Queyrel 2005, 95–100. Robert 1881, 47–48; Wickhoff 1895; Weitzman 1947; von Blanckenhagen 1957; Weitzman 1957; Meyboom 1978. E.g., Pollitt 1986, 198–205; Froning 1988; von Hesberg 1988, 342–349; Stewart 1996b; Ridgway 2000, 67–102; Stewart 2006, 176–177; Barringer 2014, 354–358; Lorenz 2016, 12–14; Plantzos 2016, 247. For ancient pictorial narrative, see especially Stansbury-O’Donnell 1999; Giuliani 2003; Squire 2011. For narrative and narratology, see essays in Herman 2007; essays in Phelan and Rabinowitz 2008. For reconstructions of the Great Altar, see 2000; Queyrel 2005; essays in Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011; essays in Pirson and Scholl 2014; essays in Picón and Hemingway 2016; Seaman 2016, 415–417. For an overview of Pergamene architecture, including construction under Eumenes II, see Seaman 2016. For overviews of dating and previous bibliography, see Stewart 2000, 39–41; Coarelli 2016, 143–157. Unfinished state: Kästner 1997, 72–73, 77. Unfinished portions of the frieze are particularly visible on panels 5–6, and 20. I thank Volker Kästner for discussing this issue with me and for allowing me to see the architectural evidence in the Pergamonmuseum’s storerooms. Eumenes II’s death: Strabo 13.4.2; Hansen 1971, 127 n. 189, with a modification of Strabo’s chronology. Prousias II of Bithynia: e.g., Appian, Mithr. 3; Diod. 31.35; Polyb. 33.1, 33.12–13; Hansen 1971, 133–135. After Fränkel 1890, no. 69. See Green 2000, 177–179; Stewart 2000, 34–41. Spolia: Stewart 2000, 46–49. For the interior altar, see also: Hoepfner 1997b, 64–67; Kästner 1997, 77–82; Kästner 1998, 156–159; Queyrel 2005, 44–45, 116; Kästner 2011, 207; ThesCRA 4, s.v. Altar no. 13 (Sinn). Roman references to the monument, which indicate that the interior altar had a baldacchino and an apparent sacrificial function in Roman times: Lucius Ampelius, Liber Memorialis

NOTES TO PAGES 39–49

12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36.

37.

141

8.14; BMC Mysia (Pergamon), p. 152 no. 315. Kästner 2011, 207 reconstructs a (now lost) fire-resistant layer of plaster on the interior altar as well; I thank Volker Kästner for discussing the probability of this layer with me. Similarity of the Great Altar and a stoa: e.g., Smith 1991, 164; Hoepfner 1997a, 46; Stewart 2000, 49. Display of spolia in stoas: e.g., Dio Chrys. Or. 2.36; Diod. Sic. 12.70.5; Paus. 1.15.4, 10.11.6, 10.21.6; Thuc. 4.120. 4.131, 5.32; Pritchett 1979, 293–295. For ancient viewing of the Stoa Poikile’s paintings through columns, see Apul. Met. 1.4. For the sculptural program, see Webb 1998. Rheidt 1992. Actium Monument: Zachos 2003; Lange 2016, 125–154. Parthian Monument: Winkler-Horacˇek 2009. For the Great Altar as victory monument, see Hoepfner 1989; Hoepfner 1993; Linfert 1995; Hoepfner 1997a, 53–57; Green 2000, 179. For overviews of such allusions, see Brogan 1999, 288–299 no. II.A.40; Stewart 2000, 39–41; Queyrel 2005, 128–136. For the reign of Eumenes II, see especially Hansen 1971, 70–129; Gruen 1984, 543–584; Gruen 2000, 19–20; Kosmetatou 2003, 163–165. Senate’s refusal to see Eumenes II: Polyb. 30.19.1–6; Livy Per. 46. Celtic autonomy: Polyb. 30.28. OGIS 763. See especially Stewart 2000, 43–46; Sturgeon 2000; Kuttner 2005, 174–184. For an overview of previous reconstructions of the frieze, see Queyrel 2005, 79–101. For versions of the Telephos myth, iconography, and previous bibliography, see Stewart 1996b; Heres 1997; Preiser 2000; Jouan and Van Looy 2002, 91–132; Kannicht 2004, 680–718; Scheer 2011, 17–19; Dignas 2012; LIMC, s.v. Telephos (Heres and Strauss). For the limits of portrait statues, see, e.g., Isoc. Evagoras 73–77; Polyb. 10.21.3–5; Xen. Ages. 11.7. Architectural details: Heilmeyer 1997; Kästner 1997. Marble: Cramer et al. 1997; Cramer et al. 1998; Cramer et al. 2003. Kästner 1997, 73–74. Mitred edges: Panels 2, 8, 9, 35, 36, 47, and 48. Heilmeyer 1997; Queyrel 2005. For its possible dissociation from the frieze, see Heilmeyer 1997, 127. E.g., Alcidamas Odysseus 13. For Herculean paternity, see also Apollod. Bibl. 2.7.4; Diod. Sic. 4.33.7; Eur. Tel. fr. 696; Hekataios fr. 29 (FGrH); Hygin. Fab. 99–101; Lycoph. Alex. 1248–1249; Paus. 8.4.9; Philostr. Her. 23.9; Ps.-Hes. fr. 165 (ed. Merkelbach-West); Strabo 13.1.69. E.g., Alkidamas 13; Diod. Sic. 4.33.9. Travel to Nauplia: e.g., Alkidamas 13; Diod. Sic. 4.33.9. Mount Parthenion: e.g., Apollod. Bibl. 2.7.5; Diod. Sic. 4.33.9; Eur. Tel. fr. 696; Hygin. Fab. 99. E.g., Alcidamas Odysseus 16; Apollod. Bibl. 2.7.4; Diod. Sic. 4.33.10; Eur. Tel. fr. 696; Hygin. Fab. 99; Paus. 8.4.9; Strabo 12.8.4. Herakles’s finding Telephos: e.g., Moses v. Choren. Progym. 3.3; LIMC, s.v. Telephos nos. 18–42 (Heres and Strauss). Korythos and his shepherds: e.g., Diod. Sic. 4.33.11. Shepherds and doe: Hygin. Fab. 99. Telephos suckling a doe: LIMC, s.v. Telephos nos. 5–17 (Heres and Strauss). Delphic oracle: e.g., Hygin. Fab. 100. Sailing to Mysia: e.g., Paus. 1.4.6. E.g., Hygin. Fab. 100. E.g., Apollod. Bibl. 3.9. For his becoming king, see also Anth. Pal. 16.110; Eur. Tel. fr. 696; Strabo 12.8.5, 13.69; Sen. Troades 215. Recognition: Hygin. Fab. 100. It should be noted that Hyginus’s version is the only extant ancient source that may help us to explain the presence of the snake on the frieze. But he often is unreliable and embellishes previous versions of myths. So it is possible that the snake appears on the frieze for another reason (e.g., an omen). It is interesting to consider the possibility that the snake is related to Apollo – and that its appearance serves as a warning about the nature of the marriage. Apollo, of course, has other connections with Telephos on the frieze: Telephos asks the oracle of Lykian Apollo for advice about his wound, and King Aleos receives a Delphic oracle. For Apollo’s association with snakes, see, e.g., Burkert 1985, 143–149. Accius Tel. fr. 619; Anth. Pal. 16.110; Eur. Tel. fr. 696, 705a; Paus. 1.4.6, 8.5.14; Philostr. Her. 23.2–30; Pind. Ol. 9.71–75; POxy. LXIX 4708 = Obbink 2006. Cf. Accius Tel. fr. 619.

142 38. 39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

66. 67. 68. 69.

NOTES TO PAGES 49–54

Philostr. Her. 23.26–30. Philostr. Her. 23.30. Philostr. Her. 23.13, 23.22. Vine root: Lycophr. Alex. 206–215; Daux and Bousquet 1942. Vine-clad plain of Mysia and implied help from Dionysos: Pind. Isthm. 8.49–51. Dionysos’s help in a battle scene with Achilles and a fallen warrior: LIMC, s.v. Telephos no. 48 (Heres and Strauss). Wound in thigh: Anth. Pal. 16.110; Pind. Isthm. 5.41–42; Hygin. Fab. 101; Philostr. Her. 23.24. Hygin. Fab. 101; Eur. Tel. fr. 700. Accius Tel. frr. 629–32, 633–35 (?); Eur. Tel.; Hygin. Fab. 101; Enn. Tel. frr. 339, 341. Cf. Ar. Nub. 921–24; Ar. Ran. 840–55. Eur. Tel.; Hygin. Fab. 101; LIMC, s.v. Telephos nos. 51–80 (Heres and Strauss). Cf. Comedic scenes: Ar. Ach 204–625; Schol. Ach. 332; Ar. Thesm. 466–764; LIMC, s.v. Telephos nos. 81–83 (Heres and Strauss). Eur. Tel.; Hygin. Fab. 101; LIMC, s.v. Telephos nos. 84–88 (Heres and Strauss). For the modern science, see, e.g., Geroulanos and Bridler 1994, 86–87; Pikoulis et al. 2004, 430. Hygin. Fab. 101. For other scenes that depict Telephos as a hero, see LIMC, s.v. Telephos nos. 89–91 (Heres and Strauss). Robert 1888, 89–90. For the sanctuaries of Pan and Dionysos Mystes, see Paus. 8.54.6. For the identification of the stlengis, see Massa-Pairault 1998, 133. Eur. Tel. fr. 696. See Stewart 1996b, 42. For the consecration of altars and additional bibliography, see ThesCRA 3, s.v. Consecration, Foundation Rites p. 339 (Lambrinoudakis et al.). Seated goddess: e.g., Paus. 8.26.6. Omen: e.g., Suda, s.v. Κυνόσαρες. See also IG XII 3.1336 (altar consecrated after a dream); FGrH 257 F 40.3 = Zos. 2.3 (altar consecrated after a vision); IDidyma 504 (request for a god’s permission to consecrate altar). E.g., London, BM inv. E 382. See Stewart 1977a, 30–32, 57–58, 62–66. Plut. De glor. Ath. 3. Diegema: Apth. Prog. 2; Nikolaos Prog. 3; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 2; Quint. Inst. 4.2; Theon Prog. 5; Patillon 1988, 34–39; Patillon and Bolognesi 1997, lx–lxiv; Lausberg 1998, nos. 289, 1193, 1112; Van RossumSteenbeek 1998, 18–19, no. 13 (P. Mich. inv. 1319); Webb 2001, especially 294–300, 306–307, 311–312; Cameron 2004, especially 70–78. Latin equivalent narratio: e.g., Cic. Inv. rhet. 1.27; Quin. Inst. 4.2; Lausberg 1998, s.v. narratio. Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 2; Theon Prog. 5. Diegema and diegesis: Nikolaos Prog. 3. Analogous to poiema/poiesis: Apth. Prog. 2; Nikolaos Prog. 3; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 2. Narration and narrative: used in, e.g., Kennedy 2003. Phoenicid. 4.15 = FAC 3A.249; Polyb. 1.14.6. Arist. Rhet. 3.16.1416a–1417b; Isoc. in Quint. Inst. 4.2.31; Theodektes in Quint. Inst. 4.2.63; Rhet. Alex. 30.1438a–1438b. E.g., Arist. Poet. 19.1456b.11, 24.1495b.34; Arist. Rhet. 3.16.1416b.1; Pl. Phdr. 246a; Pl. Resp. 3.4.392d. Cf. Arist. Poet. 23.1459a.1, 24.1459b.36. Nikolaos Prog. 3. Theon Prog. 2. Apth. Prog. 2; Nikolaos Prog. 3; Theon Prog. 5. For material, see Nikolaos Prog. 3. Theon Prog. 5. Apparently following Isoc.: see also Rhet. Alex. 30.1438a; Rhet. Herr. 1.14; Cic. Inv. rhet. 1.28; Anony. Sequierianus 63 (Dilts-Kennedy 21); Quin. Inst. 4.2.31. Hellenismos: Apth. Prog. 2. Charm and grandeur: Nikolaos Prog. 3. Nikolaos Prog. 3. Cf. Theon Prog. 5. Theon Prog. 2. Nikolaos Prog. 3; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 2. Apth. Prog. 2, however, only gives three: dramatic, historical, and political. Speech-writing: Anon. Prolegomenon to Apth. (ed. Rabe 1926 p. 75). Hypotheses: Theon Prog. 1.

NOTES TO PAGES 54–59

70.

71. 72. 73. 74.

75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81.

82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91.

92. 93. 94. 95.

96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104.

143

Theseus cups: Small 2003. Hieron II’s barge: Ath. 5.207d–e; Stewart 1996b, 47. Megarian Bowls: Small 2003, 80–90. For additional discussions of these works, see also Giuliani 2003, 263–280; Squire 2011, 249, 254–255, 285. Ath. 5.207d–e. Hom. Od. 22.135–240. On these points, see Small 2003, 80–81. See also Giuliani 2003, 263–280; Squire 2011, 254–255. Biographia: Damascius fr. 6A (ed. Athanassiadi). Bioi: e.g., Eun. VS 454; Plut. Alex 1.2; Plut. Per. 2.4; Satyrus Βίων Ἀναγραφή; Momigliano 1993, 12. For ancient biography, see Hägg 2012; Tsakmakis 2016. E.g., Hom. Il. 24.720ff. Theoc. Epigrammata 22. Homer and Hesiod: see Hägg 2012, 134–146 for ancient sources and dating. Sophokles: Ion of Chios preserved in Ath. 13.603e–604d. Hdt. 1.107–30, 177–88, 201–44 (Cyrus), 3.1–66 (Cambyses). Skylax preserved in: Plut. Cim. 5.3, 9.1–6, 16.8–10; Plut. Per. 5.3, 28.7. Isoc. Evagoras; Pl. Ap.; Xen. Mem. Xen. Ages.; Xen. Cyr. Preserved in, e.g., Ath. 10.419e–420a, 12.547d–548b; Diog. Laert. 2.136. For an overview, see Hägg 2012, 89–93. For the question of whether this Antigonos was an artist, see Stewart 2004, 217; Tanner 2006, 214; Vollkommer 2001–2004, s.v. Antigonos (Onasch). Theon Prog. 13. Apth. Prog. 8; Nikolaos Prog. 8; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 7; Theon Prog. 8. For the arrangement of the bios and its relationship with the Progymnasmata, see Burridge 2001, 378–382. E.g., Isoc. Evagoras 1, 12–20; Luc. Demon. 3; Nep. Att. 1; Philo Moses 1.5, 1.8–17; Philostr. VA 1.4–6; Suet. Aug. 1–6; Tac. Agr. 4; Xen. Ages. 1.2–4. For disproportionate military campaigns, see, e.g., Xen. Ages. 1.6–2.31; Tac. Agr. 29–38. E.g., Nep. Att. 22; Luc. Demon. 67; Philo Moses 2.291; Plut. Cat. Min. 66–71; Satyr. Vit. Eur. fr. 39.21; Philostr. VA 8.30–31; Suet. Aug. 97–101; Tac. Agr. 43; Xen. Ages. 10.3–4, 11.16. E.g., Stewart 1996b, 43. For the rhetorical structure of the novel, see Hock 1997. E.g., Aristox. Pl.; Aristox. Pythagoras; Aristox. Soc.; Philostr. VA 1.3; Plut. Cat. Min. 11.4, 52.4; Tac. Agr. 42.4; Xen. Ages. 2.21, 4.4, 5.6, 8.7. See especially Cox 1983, 3–12; Burridge 2004, 147, 183. Plut. Alex. 1.2–3. Cf. Xen. Ages. 1.6. For ethos, see especially Wisse 1989; Russell 1990; Fortenbaugh 2007. For characterization, see De Temmerman 2010; Nikolaidis 2014; essays in Ash, Mossman, and Titchener 2015. See LSJ9, svv. νήπιος, παῖς, ἔφηβος, ἄνηρ, and γέρων. For the Attalid significance of Telephos, see especially Heres 1997; Gruen 2000, 22–24; Kosmetatou 2003, 167–168; Scheer 2003, 220–226. IG XI.4, 1206–1208; Gruen 2000, 21; Scheer 2003, 221–222; Kuttner 2005, 144. For Pergamos, see especially Paus. 1.11.1–2; Servius in Verg. Ecl. 6.72; Schol. in Eurip. Andr. 24, 32; FGrH 772 IIIC pp. 556–560 (Proxenos), 772 IIIC pp. 766–767 (Nikomedes); IvP 289; Kosmetatou 1995; Gruen 2000, 23–24; Scheer 2003, 22–23. Paus. 1.24.6; Kosmetatou 1995, 141–142; Gruen 2000, 21; Scheer 2003, 222–223; Seaman 2016, 418. IvP 289: [ΗΡ]ΩΙΠΕΡ[ΓΑΜΩΙ]. See Paus. 1.11.1; Kosmetatou 1995, 141. Ramsay 1884, 261; Kosmetatou 1995, 141. See Paus. 9.31.2; Stewart 2000, 42–43; Kuttner 2005, 147. OGIS 266; Kosmetatou 2001, 110–117. Livy 23.38.3, 24.57.2, 25.45.2; Polyb. 4.48.2–13, 5.57, 5.74, 5.77.1–5, 5.107.4, 18.52.1–2; Strabo 13.143; Kosmetatou 2001, 117–119. CIG 3615–17 (= Frisch 1975, nos. 121–122); Kosmetatou 2001, 120. Ath. 9.375b; Strabo 12.61, 13.1.5; FGrH 234 F10; Kosmetatou 2001, 123. Kosmetatou 2001, 123; Seaman 2016, 420.

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105. SEG 37 (1987) no. 1006; Kosmetatou 2001, 123. 106. Hom. Il. 6.269–311; Welles 1934, no. 62 = Frisch 1975, no. 41; Frisch 1975, no. 43; Kosmetatou 2001, 123–124. 107. Livy 42.5.3; Polyb. 22.8.5; Seaman 2016, 417–420. 108. Propylon and terrace: Kästner 2011; Seaman 2016, 414. 109. See especially Hintzen-Bohlen 1990; Webb 1996, 59–60; Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011, no. 5.31. 110. See especially Webb 1996, 57–59. 111. Berlin, Pergamonmuseum Inv. 356 (Gigantomachy), Inv. P 357 (Trojan Horse), Inv. 358 (Athena with Herakles/Telephos). See Webb 1996, 60–61; Hoepfner 1997a, 39; Kuttner 2005, 156; Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011, nos. 6.24–26; Seaman 2016, 414. 112. Lykophron’s association with the Attalids: see Kosmetatou 2000; Kosmetatou 2001, 128–130. See also Hornblower 2015 and McNelis and Sens 2016, who do not emphasize Attalid associations. 113. Lycophr. Alex. 1232–80. 114. LIMC, s.v. Telephos (Heres and Strauss), nos. 5–42. 115. Lykophr. Alex. 211. For images of Herakles, see especially LIMC, s.v. Herakles (Boardman et al.). 116. Romulus and Remus: e.g., on the Temple of Apollonis at Kyzikos (Anth. Pal. 3.19). For the deer in Celtic mythology, see, e.g., MacKillop 2004. Wolf: after Strauss 1990. Celtic deer: I thank Andrew Stewart for alerting me to this possibility. 117. See especially Hall 1989, 174–176, 221–223; Collard et al. 1995, 24. For identity in the Greek world more generally, see essays in Gruen 2011a; Gruen 2011b; Gruen 2013; essays in McInerney 2014. 118. POxy. LXIX 4708 = Obbink 2006. 119. Eur. Tel. fr. 102. 120. “Land of Tegea”: Eur. Tel. fr. 727c. “Mysian Telephos”: Eur. Tel. fr. 704. This phrase also appears in Aristophanes: Ar. Ach. 430; Ar. Nub. 922. Cf. Olympiodoros on Pl. Grg. 521b 1 (ed. Westerink p. 235). See Collard et al. 1995, 52 (fr. 704). 121. P. Med. I 15; Thompson 1987, 116–117. 122. See, e.g., Ath. 13.577b; Lucian Macr. 12.7; Paus. 1.81; Strabo 12.3.8. For Attalid identity, see especially Gruen 2000, 17; Kosmetatou 2003, 159–160; Kuttner 2005. 123. For these landscape elements, see especially Carroll-Spillecke 1985, 19–20. 124. For Arkadia, see essays in Nielsen and Roy 1999; Nielsen 2002; Preztler 2005; Scheer 2011. 125. E.g., Herod. 1.66. Cf. Plut. Mor. 286a, 993f; Nielsen 2002, 71. 126. For the comparandum at Tegea, see Kästner 1997, 78. Pediment and metopes: Stewart 1977a, 30–32, 53–58, 63–66. 127. For the frieze as a colonizing narrative, see, e.g., Hansen 1971, 5–6; Stewart 1997b, 111. 128. IvP I, 156, ll. 17–24; Gruen 2000, 23; Scheer 2011, 18. 129. For multiple identities in the ancient Mediterranean, see Gruen 2006; Gruen 2011b; Gruen 2013. 130. See Dohan Morrow 1985, 109–110, 136–137. 131. For Hiera, see especially Philostr. Her. 23.26–30; Schol. Lycophr. 1245, 1248–49; Tzetz. Antehom. 268–85; Tzetz. posth. 558; Bauchhenß-Thüriedl 1971, 56–67; LIMC, s.v. Hiera (Simon); RE 8 (1913), s.v. Hiera; RE 5 (1934), s.v. Telephos no. 1. 132. Auge: e.g., Hygin. Fab. 100. Laodike: e.g., Hygin. Fab. 101. 133. For Amazons in art, see especially Stewart 1997a, 196–199, 260; Cohen 2012, 460–463, 475–478. Mausoleum at Halikarnassos: see Cook 2005. Lesser Attalid Dedication: see Stewart 2004. 134. Philostr. Her. 23.26–30. 135. Tzetz. Antehom. 268–85. 136. Apth. Prog. 10; Nikolaos Prog. 9; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 83; Quint. 2.4.21; Theon Prog. 9. For this technique, see also Aris. Rh. 1.9.38–39; Men. Rhet. 2.372.21–25; Plut. Mul. Virt. 243b–d. 137. Aris. Rh. 1.9.38–39 (using the verb συγνκρίνω or “compare”); Isoc. Helen; Isoc. Paneg.; Xen. Ages. 138. See especially Swain 1992; Duff 1999, 243–309; Pelling 2002, 349–363; Larmour 2014. For the role of identity in Plutarch’s synkriseis, see Preston 2001. 139. Aris. Rh. 1.9.38–39.

NOTES TO PAGES 67–73

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3 PER SONIFICATION IN TH E AR CHELAOS RELIEF 1.

2.

3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

12. 13. 14.

London, BM Inv. 2191. Found in Bovillae, Italy. Select bibliography: Pinkwart 1965a; Stewart 1990, 217–218; Schneider 1999, 183–187; Ridgway 2000, 207–208; Ridgway 2002, 117–118; Picón and Hemingway 2016, no. 44. For antiquarians, symbol, and allegory: see especially Kircher 1671; Cuper 1683; Bellori and Bartoli 1693; Gronovius 1697; Spanheim 1717; de Montfaucon 1719, 169. Symbolic reading of ancient art by antiquarians: Allen 1970, 249–278. Allegorical interpretation and production in the Renaissance: especially essays in Whitman 2002. Enlightenment scholars: especially Lessing 1766, 59–60; Winckelmann 1766; D’Hancarville 1984, 296–312. A notable Romantic author, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, discussed the Archelaos Relief, but his references to the Archelaos Relief (Goethe 1827 in Grumach 1949, 573) did little to bring Greek art into the symbol/allegory debate. In unexpectedly technical discussions that arose from his purchase of casts taken from the relief, Goethe referred to all the main antiquarian discussions of the work. Yet he used the terms Allegorie and symbolische interchangeably. For the Romantic distinction between symbol and allegory, see especially essays in Whitman 2002. For personification as expression of thought, see Blümner 1881; Hinks 1939. Archelaos Relief’s subject: see especially Hinks 1939, 99–101. As building block of allegory: see especially Onians 1979; Shapiro 1986; Shapiro 1993; Stewart 1993b; essays in Herrin and Stafford 2005. As expression of mind: Webster 1954; Aellen 1994; Stafford 2000; Borg 2002. Pollitt 1986, 16. E.g., Stewart 1990, 217; Small 2003, 91–93; Barringer 2014, 345–347; Plantzos 2016, 268. Webster 1967, 110. Newby 2007. For this site, see Tibull. 1.7.57; CIL XV 7849–7850; Pinkwart 1965b, n. 1; De Rossi 1979, no. 432, 382–387. Kircher: Kircher 1671, 81. Unworked marble: Archivo di Stato di Roma, Camerlengato, parte II, tit. IV, b. 278, fasc. 3031. Architectural sculpture and statuary: Archivo di Stato di Roma, Min. Lav. P., b. 397, anno 1855; Fabretti 1690, 316 and 384. Twentieth-century survey: Ashby 1910, 285. P. S. Bartoli (1741, 351), moreover, reported that the site yielded nineteen statues (as well as forty-eight columns and thirty-three bases and capitals), but one cannot be certain that he describes the specific site of Tor Ser Paolo and not other ruins in the environs of Bovillae; his description of a circular room and theater, for example, does not match the remains of our villa. For other assemblages of marbles in vaulted substructures, see Lanciani 1906; Vermeule 1977, 48; Häuber 1991; essays in Cima and La Rocca 1998. My thanks to Peter Higgs, Curator of Hellenistic Sculpture at the British Museum, for information concerning the restoration history of the relief. He informs me that the relief had both a marble frame and marble restorations when it arrived at the British Museum. The restorations were removed in the 1930s and, like the remnants of the frame, are presently stored in the British Museum. Close autopsy questions whether all the restorations were removed. The dowels for these additions appear in old photographs of the relief: see Pinkwart 1965b, figs. 1–2. E.g., the wooden panels in the Stoa Poikile at Athens and the Stoa of Attalos at Delphi: Synesius Epistulae 54, 135; Roux 1952; Shoe Meritt 1970, 249–250; Brulotte 1994, 2.267–268. Similarly, a niche in the Forum of Augustus has cuttings on its back plane: Moreno 1987, fig. 25; my thanks to Antonio Corso for alerting me to this example. Richter 1965, 54: Richter notes that Peter Fraser dates the relief between 220 and 170 bce and Margherita Guarducci to the first quarter of the second century bce. Archelaos: Vollkommer 2001– 2004, s.v. Archelaos (Vollkommer); DNO 3429. See, e.g., Philostr. VA 5.20; Burford 1972, 65–67, 218; Stewart 1990, 33. See McLean 2002, 208–210 for the omission of an ethnic. Oinochoai: Thompson 1973, 111 + nos. 29, 33, 42, 68, 84, 109, 115, 122. Painting: Venit 2002, 58. It should be noted that much of the paint now visible in the scene from Tomb I, Moustafa Kamel cemetery is a twenty-first-century addition; I thank Jean-Yves Empereur and Marie-Dominique Nenna for alerting me to the details of this modern restoration.

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15. For the Ptolemaic preference for personification, see especially Stewart 1996a. Procession of Ptolemy II: Ath. 197c–303a; Hazzard 2000, 60–79; Thompson 2000. 16. Ath. 5.197d; Diod. Sic. 31.16.2–3; Edmondson 1999, 84–88. 17. Ps.-Libanios, Prog. 25 (ed. Foerster); Stewart 1993a, 243–246; Messerschmidt 2003, 122–125. 18. Ael. VH 13.21; Stewart 1996a, 243. 19. See Pfrommer 2005; Belozerskaya 2012. 20. Ridgway 2000, 207–208. 21. This identity is favored by, e.g., Pollitt 1986, 16; Stewart 1990, 217–218; Smith 1991, 186–187. Numismatic portraits: Kyrieleis 1975, 42–44 + pl. 30.1–4, 102–104 + pl. 88.1–2, with Kyrieleis 2005. Faience portrait: Thompson 1973, no. 273 + pl. 64. 22. On the powerful representation of queens in art, see Ashton 2001, 37; Stanwick 2002, 36–37. For the question of the actual power of Ptolemaic queens, see Hazzard 2000, 115–122. 23. Schol. Ar. Thesm. 1059. Ptolemies and Adonis: see especially Hunter 1996, 123–138. 24. For the Homereion, see especially Ael. VH 13.22; Page 1981, 465–468, no. 151(b); Lloyd-Jones and Parsons 1983, no. 979; Fraser 1972, 1.611, 2.862 n. 423; ThesCRA 2, s.v. Heroization and Apotheosis no. 166 (Damaskos). Neos: Ael. VH 13.22. Temenos: Lloyd-Jones and Parsons 1983, no. 979. General configuration: Ael. VH 13.22. Homeristai: Wessely 1901–1924, vol. 20, no. 85, i (l. 10) = SB 7336; Fraser 1972, 2.862 n. 423. 25. On the Mouseion, see especially Ath. 1.22d = Timon, fr. 60 W; Diog. Laert. 5.78; Strabo 17.1.8; Fraser 1972, 312–319; Delia 1992; Erskine 1995; Maehler 2003; Strootman 2017. 26. Strabo 17.1.8 27. Strabo 17.1.8. 28. Vitr. 7, praef. 8. 29. For the Ptolemaic involvement with reorganization, see IG VII 1735A, 1735B, 1788–90, 2410; SEG 15.321, 23.272; Feyel 1942, 88–117; Schacter 1986, 164–168. Architectural remains: Roux 1954. Athla and purchase of land: SEG 15.321. 30. Paus. 9.31.1. 31. BMC Central Greece, 92, 14–93, 26, p. xvi, 12–13; Schachter 1961. 32. Portraits: Paus. 9.30.2–4, 9.31.1–2. Tripods: Paus. 9.31.3. Muses: Paus. 9.30.1; Corso 2004, 66–72, 75–77. Apollo and Hermes: Paus. 9.30.1. 33. E.g., Pinkwart 1965a. For the Muses of Philiskos, see especially Plin. HN 36.34–35; Pollitt 2000, 102–103. 34. E.g., Pollitt 1986, 16; Ridgway 1990, 257–258; Stewart 1990, 217–218; Smith 1991a, 186–187; Ridgway 2000, 207–208; Ridgway 2002, 117–118; Newby 2007. 35. Asklepios reliefs: e.g., Athens, NM 1377: Kaltsas 2002, no. 442 + fig. Pan reliefs: e.g., Athens, NM 4466 + 4466a: Kaltsas 2002, no. 459 + fig. 36. On this point, see Pedley 1968. 37. For Neo-Attic works, see especially essays in Gazda 2002; Ridgway 2002, 226–240. The Mahdia Shipwreck, which contained Neo-Attic works, can be dated to ca. 100 bce; see especially essays in Salies et al. 1994. 38. For examples, see, e.g., Candilio et al. 1979, no. 81 + fig.; Palma and de Lachenal 1983, no. 73 + fig.; Moreno 1994, 739–740m + fig. 909; De Caro 1996, 333 + fig.; Hallett 1998, no. 1; Ridgway 2002, 157–158, 193, 189–191, 226–227, 230, 239, 250 n. 35, 193, 189–191. For signatures on works made for export, see especially Stewart 1977b, 89 n. 119. For workshops and signatures, see Fuchs 1999. See also Conlin 1997, 27–44, for an overview of sculptors and workshops. 39. See especially Schreiber 1909; De Caro 2000, 80. It should be noted that close autopsy reveals that the style and techniques of many of the copied “Satyrspiel” reliefs, though, date to the first century ce. 40. Loukou relief: Tripolis, Arch. Mus. Inv. 18. Illus.: Spyropoulos 1993, fig. 10. See especially Spyropoulos 2001, 26 no. 16; Ridgway 2002, 117–118. Common models: Cohon 1991–1992. 41. See, e.g., Sampson 1974: Supplement no. 50 is even identified as “Marble of Asia Minor.” 42. For a possible origin in Asia Minor, see Pinkwart 1965a, 42–47. 43. For landscapes in Alexandrian art, see especially Adriani 1959; Meyboom 1995, 181–190; Stewart 1996a.

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44. Diod. Sic. 31.18.2; Val. Max. 5.1.1. Pollitt 1986, 207–208; Pollitt 1990, 178; Meyboom 1995, especially 100–101, 189; DNO 3566. 45. Vitr. 7.5.2. 46. Bronze cup: see Adriani 1959; cf. Walker and Higgs 2001, no. 99. For discussions about the Alexandrian representation of nature, see also Gallazi and Settis 2006, especially 110–123 (Adornato). 47. Palestrina, Museo Archeologico. From Praeneste. See especially Andreae 2003, 78–109; SwetnamBurland 2015, 150–154. 48. Seaman 2009, 166. 49. E.g., Polyb. 5.34. 50. London, BM 1054. See especially Beck, Bol, and Bückling 2005, 578–579, no. 151. The representation and placement of the Ptolemaic king in relation to Egyptian deities seems to have been highly regulated in the Egyptian style. See especially OGIS I.90.140–166 (l. 23 in the Demotic); Ashton 2001, 19. 51. OGIS I.90, 140–166: l. 23 of the Demotic inscription; OGIS I. 56, 89–110 (ll. 61–62); Ashton 2001, especially 13–24; Stanwick 2002, 66–68; Ashton 2004. 52. See especially Stanwick 2002, 17–18, nos. C21–27 + figs. 111–115. Note also the similar colossi from other locations around Alexandria: Stanwick 2002, 18, nos. B10, C2, C19, E1–2, G1; Goddio and Clauss 2006, nos. 106–107, 463. 53. For Greek-style portaits in different media, see especially Thompson 1973; Plantzos 1999, 24–29, 42–54, 71–73, 80–83, nos. 1–69, 340–375; Ashton 2001, 8–10, 59, 60–62; Stanwick 2002, 56–61. Cairo, Museum 22183. Raphia stelai, see especially Thissen 1966, 71–73; Ashton 2001, 16 + fig. 4 (Pithom stele); Hölbl 2001, 163–164 + fig. 6.1 (Memphis stele). 54. Cf. the smaller scale of the sculpted Ptolemies in relation to Sarapis at the Sarapeion in Memphis; see Zanker 1995, 172. 55. See Kleiner 1992, 189 + fig. 157. For deification and apotheosis, see especially Zanker 2004; ThesCRA 2, s.v. Heroization and Apotheosis (Athanassiadi et al.). 56. Kurke 1993. Athletic and military victory: Anth. Pal. 7.251; Hdt. 4.88; Tertullian de corona militis 7. “Talisman of supremacy”: Benveniste 1973, 348. Kudos to hometown: Anth. Pal. 16.2. Cf. Anth. Pal. 13.15; CEG 834 (= Ebert 1972, no. 58); Ebert 1972. no. 64.4; I. Olympia 225. For kudos in poetry associated with the Ptolemaic court, see Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 377–403. 57. Athen. 1.3b; Euseb. Hist. eccl. 5.8.11; Gal. In Hipp. Epid. 3.17a 605–08; Plin. HN 13.21.70; Sen. Tranq. 9.5; Fraser 1972, 1.325–326; Delia 1992, 1457; Erskine 1995, 39. 58. Tzetz. CGF 19.20, 21.29; Gell. 7.17.3 (who cites 700,000); Fraser 1972 1.328–329; Collins 2000, 89–92. 59. Translations: Epiph. De mens. et. pond. 270–80; Euseb. Hist. eccl. 5.8.11–15; Joseph AJ 12.11–118; Letter of Aristeas 38; Plin. HN 30.4; FGrH 244 (Apollodoros); Sync. 516.3; Tzetz. Ploutos 19, 31–32; Fraser 1972, 1.320–321, 330–331, 505–511, 689–690; Collins 2000; Gruen 1998, 206–222; Gruen 2002, 74, 219, 227–228; Gruen 2017, 311–312. Non-Hellenic topics: FGrH IIIC 609; Fraser 1972, 1.674–716; Gruen 2017. 60. Gal. In Hipp. Epid. 3.17a 606–07; Fraser 1972, 1.326–327; Erskine 1995, 45. 61. Nickau 1977, 26–30; Porter 1992, 69. 62. On Zenodotos, see especially Peri Aristarchou semeion Iliados praefationis fragmentum (ed. Erbse 1969, xlv); Suda, s.v. Ζηνόδοτος; Tatian ad Graecos 31; Tzetz. Prolegomena; Fraser 1972, especially 1.449–453, 464, 472–473, 476–477; Nickau 1977; Van Thiel 1992. On the scholarship of Apollonios Rhodios, see especially Vita 2 (ed. Wendel); POxy. 10.1241, ii.1; Schol. Ven. A on Hom. Il. 13.657; Suda, s.v. Ἀπολλώνιος; Pfeiffer 1968, 140–148; Fraser 1972, 1.452; Rengakos 2008. 63. Sen. Tranq. 9.5. 64. On this phenomenon, see especially Stafford 2000; Stafford 2007. 65. For discussions of theomorphic imagery, see Stewart 1993a, 191–209; Bergmann 1998; Thomas 2002; Hallett 2005, 237–240. 66. For an overview, see Ekroth 2010. 67. For divine kings and the Hellenistic ruler cult generally, see Chaniotis 2003. 68. For the cults of the Ptolemies, see especially BGU VI 1264, 1275–76, 1278; P. BM 10.026, 10.071, 10.377, 10.389; 10.463; P. Bol. 3172; P. Eleph. II; P. Grenf. 15 v. 5; P. Hausw. 25; P. Hib. II 199; SB III 6283; Fraser 1972, 1.219–220; Koenen 1993; Hölbl 2001, 77–123, 170.

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69. For assimilation, see especially Tondriau 1947, 109–112; Fraser 1972, 1.236–246, 1.263–264; Fishwick 1987, 32; Hölbl 2001, 96. Aphrodite: Austin and Bastianini 2002, nos. 39, 116, 119, 141 (Poseidippos); Breccia 1976, no. 12; SB 7785 = SEG VIII 361; PEnt. 13; PPetr. iii.1. Tyche: Smith 1994. 70. For the concept of oikoumene, see especially Xenophanes fr. 41; Hdt. 3.106; Corso and Romano 1997, 2.875–877; Nicolet 1991, 29–56; Romm 1992, especially 37–41, 121–171; Clarke 1999, especially 118, 147, 207–208; Geus 2003. For representations of Oikoumene, see especially LIMC, s.v. Oikoumene (Canciani). 71. For Ephoros, see especially Strabo 1.2.28; Cosmas Topographie chrétienne 2.80; Geus 2003, fig. 14.1 (modern reconstruction). 72. Reconstruction of the map of Krates: Nicolet 1991, fig. 25. Strabo: Strabo 2.5.34, 2.5.8 and 13. 73. Polyb. 1.1.5; Plut. Ti. Graech. 9.6; Livy 1.16.7. 74. Theater of Dionysos: Ath. 12.50; FHG II, p. 477; FGrH 76 F 14; Nicolet 1991, 39–40; Kuttner 1995a, 90; LIMC, s.v. Oikoumene (Canciani) no. 6. Capitolium: Dio 43.14.6, 43.21.2; Nicolet 1991, 38–41; Kuttner 1995a, 90; LIMC, s.v. Oikoumene (Canciani), no. 9. 75. See especially Fraser 1972, 1.520–553; Aujac 2001; Geus 2002; Geus 2003. For a reconstruction of the map of Eratosthenes, see Nicolet 1991, fig. 23. 76. For Chronos, see especially West 1971, 10, 12–14, 22–23, 26, 28–29, 54, 30–33, 70, 83, 216; Kirk, Raven, and Schofield 1983, 22–28, 50–71; West 1983, 190–194; Schibli 1990, especially 14–18, 27–33, 87–92, 135–139; Martin 1997; LIMC s.v. Chronos (Galan). 77. Pind. O. 2.17. Zeus: [Arist.] Mund. 7.401a.15. Aither: Orph. frr. 60, 66, 70. Eros: Orph. fr. 37; cf. Orph. A.13. Day: Bacch. 7. Truth: Plut. Quaest. Rom. 11.266D–E; Gell. NA 12.11.7; cf. Eur. fr. 223. Water: Pherec. 7 A 8 9 (DK). 78. For the Orphic cosmologies, see West 1983. For the conflation/reinterpretation of Lysippos’s Kairos as Chronos, see Cedren. Comp. Histor. p. 322 C; Tzetz. Chil. 8.428; Stewart 1978, 171 n. 44; Moreno 1987, 129–130; Moreno 1995, 191, 195 (no. 4.28.4); LIMC, s.v. Kairos, 921, 925–926 (Moreno). Father of the universe: [Arist.], Mund. 7.401a.15; Cornutus 6; Pind. Ol. 2.17 (by association); Plut. De Is. et Os. 363D.32; Plut. Quest. Rom. 11.266 D–E, 12.266F; Macrob. Sat. 1.8.7; Schibli 1990, 135–139. 79. Wings: FGrH 4 F87. Also, his chariot was pulled by winged horses (Nonn. Dion. 2.420–22). Kairos: Stewart 1978, 171 n. 44; Moreno 1987, 129–130; Moreno 1995, 191, 195 (no. 4.28.4); LIMC, s.v. Kairos, 921, 925–926 (Moreno). 80. Plato and Aristotle: Arist. Cael. 1.9.279a; Arist. Ph. 219b1, 223a28; Pl. Ti. 37D–39E. Aion: Alföldi 1977; Zuntz 1989; Zuntz 1992; Keizer 1999; LIMC s.v. Aion (Le Glay). Smaller increments: Pl. Ti. 37D–39E. See also Plotinus Enn. 3.7; Procl. In Ti. 38B (ed. Diehl). See also Plut. De E apud Delphios 19a–e; Plut. Mor. 392 F. 81. Ath. 197D and 198B; Rice 1983, especially 49–50. 82. Coin: Mørkholm 1991, 108–109, no. 316; contra Smith (1988, 42) who sees not an association with Helios but rather with the epithet epiphanes. Terracotta head: Thompson 1973, 96–97 + pl. 72f; Kyrieleis 1975, no. D9, 49 + pl. 39.3–4; Svenson 1995, no. 347, 128 + pl. 59. On radiate crowns and Helios, see: Svenson 1995, 19–27; Thomas 2002, 43–44. 83. Sealing: Thompson 1973, 99 + pl. 74.k; Alföldi 1977, 12 + pl. D.5 (who identifies the portrait as Ptolemy V with the wings of Aion). 84. See, e.g., Censorinus, DN 21.3 (= FGrH 241 F1c); Clem. Al. Strom. 1.21, 117, 138.1–3 (= FGrH 241 F1a), 139.4 (= FGrH 241 F1d); Dion. Hal. 1.74.2 (= FGrH 241 F1b); Harpocr. s.v. Euenos (= FGrH 241 F3); Plut. Lyc. 1.3 (= FGrH 241 F2). For Eratosthenes’s chronographical work, see especially Fraser 1972, 1.456–457; Geus 2002, 309–332. 85. A previous version of this section about the personifications of the Iliad and the Odyssey was published as Seaman 2005. This is the preferred version. 86. Cup: Naples NM Inv. 24301; see especially Pannuti 1984, with previous bibliography; De Caro 1996, 233 + illus. Marble group: Athens, Agora Mus. S 2038, S 2039, and I 6628; see especially Travlos 1971, 233–234 + figs. 308–310; Thompson and Wycherley 1972, 114–116; Stemmer 1978, 115–116, no. XII 1 + pl. 78.1; Merkelbach 1979; Jones 1985; Kapetanopoulos 1987. Sarcophagus: Paris, Louvre Ma 1497 and 1500; see especially Baratte and Metzger 1985, 282–284, no. 186 + illus., with previous bibliography. On the right lateral face of this sarcophagus, an older bearded man with scroll in hand is

NOTES TO PAGES 87–93

87.

88.

89. 90.

91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

97. 98.

99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104.

105. 106. 107. 108.

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flanked by two women who prop their feet on the prows of ships. Since none of the three figures has any obviously Homeric attribute, the association of this sarcophagus with Homer, the Iliad, and the Odyssey is far from certain. For the cup, the marble group, and the sarcophagus, see also EAA, svv. Iliade (Conticello), Odissea (Conticello); LIMC, svv. Ilias (Lygouri-Tolia), Odysseia (Lygouri-Tolia). Mosaic: see especially Bingöl 1997, 123–125 + fig. 88, pl. 26.1; Inan 1998, 86–91 + figs. 78–86. On the ancient construct of Homer, see especially Graziosi 2002, with previous bibliography. On the image of Homer in material culture, see especially Boehringer and Boehringer 1939; Richter 1965, 1.45–56; Zanker 1995, 166–171; Schefold 1997, 92, 156, 172, 272, 274, 276, 312, 336, 348, 356, 392, 400, 402, 404. On the cults and shrines of Homer, see especially Pinkwart 1965a, 169–173; Brink 1972; Clay 2004, especially 74–75, 82. E.g., London, BM Inv. 1825. On the “Blind Homer” type, see especially Boehringer and Boehringer 1939; Richter 1965, 50–53, nos. 1–22 + figs. 58–106; Richter 1984, 147–150; Stewart 1990, 223 + fig. 801; Zanker 1995, 166–171 + figs. 89–90; Schefold 1997, 142, 213. Ael. VH 13.22. Homer also appears with poets, writers, and philosophers in other ancient art: e.g., a late third/early second-century bce sculptural group from the Serapeion at Memphis (Zanker 1995, 172 + fig. 91, with previous bibliography); a Roman wall-painting cycle from Pompeii (Schefold 1997, 304–306 + figs. 183–188, with previous bibliography); a Roman mosaic from Jerash (Lancha 1997, 399–400; Schefold 1997, 384 + figs. 251–252, with previous bibliography); the Roman “Monnus Mosaic” from Trier (Hoffmann, Hupe, and Goethert 1999, 138–141, no. 103 + pls. 64–69, with previous bibliography); a sculptural assemblage in the Baths of Zeuxippos at Constantinople (Bassett 1996, 504–505, with previous bibliography); the Late Antique glass mosaic panels from Kenchreai (Ibrahim, Scranton, and Brill 1976, especially 168–178, nos. 29–31 + figs. 32–33, 136–152, drawings 24–25; Dunbabin 1999, 257, 266–268, 289 + figs. 282–283; Rothaus 2000, 70–83 + fig. 16). Dion. Hal. Comp. 24; [Long.] Subl. 13.2–3; Manilius 2.8–11; Ov. Am. 3.9.25–26; Anth. Pal. 9.184; Powell 1925, no. 10 = Page 1942, no. 93a. Quint. Inst. 10.1.46–49. Original Homeric passage: Il. 21.196. On this metaphor, see Brink 1972, 553–555; Williams 1978, 87–89, 98–99; Giangrande 1982; Cameron 1995, 403–407. Anth. Pal. 9.522. Anth. Pal. 16.292. Anth. Pal. 9.192 On the group’s probable location in the Library of Pantainos, see Thompson 1954, 64 and Thompson and Wycherley 1972, 114–116. Miller (1972, 95) proposes that the figures might have stood atop the “Roman Monument” in the Athenian Agora. Travlos 1971, 233–234, however, suggests that the group was instead related to the Gymnasium of Ptolemy. I thank Geoffrey Waywell for discussing the gender of this group with me. E.g., Treu 1889; Stemmer 1978, 115–116. With raised legs: e.g., LIMC, s.v. Roma nos. 54, 55, 89 (di Filippo Balestrazzi). Cuirassed: e.g., LIMC, s.v. Roma no. 204 (di Filippo Balestrazzi). Cf. a cuirassed statue of a Hadrian that tramples a barbarian underfoot: Istanbul, Archaeological Museum 585 (illus: Stewart 2004, fig. 173). Thompson 1954, 63. Pl. Symp. 209a. Pl. Symp. 209c–d. For the gender of classical personifications, see Stafford 1998 and Stafford 2000, 27–35. E.g., Bodl. MS Douce 364, fol.24r and fol. 28r. Fleming 1969, 43–46 + figs. 13 and 14. On such objectification of text generally, see, e.g., Barthes 1975. On the eroticization of personified text in Greek and Latin literature, see Belmont 1980, 1–20; Connor 1982, 145–152; Fraenkel 1957, 356–363; West 1967, 17–19; Wyke 1987, 47–61; Harrison 1988, 473–476; Oliensis 1997, 151–171; Oliensis 1998, 174–181; Pearcy 1994, 457–464. Pl. Phdr. 275e. Pl. Phdr. 276a. Callim. Epigr. 30; Hor. Ep. 1.20. E.g., Dion. Hal. Comp. 24 (after Hom. Il. 21.196).

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NOTES TO PAGES 94–100

109. See especially Hom. Od. 3.419–63, 14.418–56; Eur. El. 790–843; Stengel 1920, 108–115; Burkert 1983, 1–12; Peirce 1993; Van Stratten 1995; Graf 2002; ThesCRA 1, s.v. sacrifice (van Andringa et al.). 110. For sacrifice, prayer, and reciprocity see especially Pl. Euthyphr. 14c; Eur. Hel. 754 ff.; Eur. IA 1186; Pl. Plt. 290c–d; Thuc. 8.70.1; Lys. 6.51; Dem. 21.52; Seaford 1994; Burkert 1996, 129–155. 111. For the connection of these mice with Ptolemaic patronage, see Stewart 1990, 218. 112. For this observation, see Stewart 1990, 218. 113. Arist. Poet. 4.1448b.19–1449b.30. For the importance of the Poetics in Alexandrian scholarship, see especially Gallavotti 1969; Porter 1992, 74–76. 114. Arist. Poet. 9.1451a39–1451b8. 115. Hdt. 1.1, 2.99, 2.118–19, 7.96. For historiography and the use of the term historia, see especially de Ste. Croix 1975; Halliwell 1987, 105–112; Hornblower 1987, 8–12; Hornblower 1994, 33–34; LSJ9, s.v. ἱστορέω. 116. OGIS 13. 117. Third-century bce historians: e.g., FGrH 76 F1, 10, 12 (Douris of Samos); FGrH 77 F1 (Eumelos), FGrH 79 F1 (Eudoxos of Rhodes); FGrH 80 F1 (Pythermos of Ephesos); FGrH 81 F3 (Phylarchos). Polybios: e.g., Polyb. 1.1, 1.57. 118. Plot: LSJ9, s.v. μῦθος; Ricouer 1984, 1.31–51. Ruling principle: Arist. Poet. 6.1450a37. Precedence over meter: Arist. Poet. 9.1451b27–30. Cf. 1.1447b26–28. 119. Arist. Poet. 6.1450a14–23. 120. Active agent: Ricoeur 1984, 1.40. For the importance of plot and narrative in historical writing, see especially White 1973, 1–42; Ricouer 1984, 1.91–225. 121. Zoilos monument: Smith 1993. Library of Celsus at Ephesus: Vienna, Antikensammlung, Kunsthistorisches Museum Inv. nos. I 948, I 852, I 928, I 881; Oberleitner 1978, 113–115, nos. 159–162 + figs. 94–95. 122. Mneme: see especially Smith 1993, 48–50; RE 15.2 (1932) 2257, s.v. Mneme (Eitrem); EAA 5 (1963), s.v. Mneme (Canciani); LIMC, s.v. Mneme (Elettra Ghiandoni). Pistis: Arist. Rh. 1.1355b27–1356a. 123. For physis, see especially LIMC, s.v. Physis (Hosek); RE 20.1 (1941) 1129–64, s.v. Physis (Bernert and Leisegang). Relationship among physis, learning, and rhetoric: Woodbury 1976, 351–352; Ford 2002, 161–172, 216–226, 258–266; O’Gorman 2004. Human nature and genius: e.g., Ar. Ran. 810; Ar. Thesm. 167; Arist. Poet. 1448b22–42, 1449a2–6, 1455a32–34; Pl. Ap. 22c; Pl. Leg. 682A, 700D; Pl. Phd. 269D; Halliwell 1987, 78–88; Ford 2002, 161–172. 124. Pind. Ol. 2.86–88. Cf. Ar. Ran. 805–13; Pind. Nem. 3.40–42; Protagoras B 3 (DK). 125. E.g., Protagoras B3 (DK). 126. Ar. Ran. 1113–16. 127. [Longinus] Subl. 2, 36. 128. Dio Chrys. Or. 4.85. 129. See especially Apth. Prog. 11; Nikolaos Prog. 10; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 9; Quint. Inst. 1.8.3, 2.1.2, 3.8.49, 4.1.69, 4.2.106, 6.1.25, 9.2.29–37, 11.1.41; Pomponius Porphyrio Commentum in Horati Carmina 1.28; Theon Prog. 8; Chantraine 1974, s.v. prosopopoeia; Rollinson 1981, 160–169; Lausberg 1998, 366–372 (nos. 820–829), 495–496 (nos. 1131–1132); Stafford 2000, 1–44. For later periods and theoretical discussions, see especially Fletcher 1964, 26–41; Arthos and Brogan 1993; Paxson 1994. 130. Quint. Inst. 9.2.29–37; Theon Prog. 8. 131. Figure of thought: Alex. Peri schematon ιβ’ (Spengel, Rhet.); Demetr. Eloc. 265; Phoebammon Peri schematon rhetorikon 2.3 (Spengel, Rhet.); Polybius Sardianus Peri schematismou 7–22 (Spengel, Rhet.); Tiberius, Peri schematon 11 (Spengel, Rhet.). Corporeal metaphors in figures of thought: Cic. Orat. 22.75 and Quint. Inst. 9.1.10. 132. Ethopopoiia: Alex. Peri schematon ιβ’, ιε’ (Spengel, Rhet.); Phoebammon Peri schematon rhetorikon (Spengel, Rhet.); essays in Amato and Schamp 2005. Speeches for inanimate things: XXIX Anon. Peri poietikon tropon (Spengel, Rhet.); Apth. Prog. 11; Giorgios Choiroboskos Peri tropon poietikon (Spengel, Rhet.); Nikolaos Prog. 10; Phoebammon, Peri schematon rhetorikon (Spengel, Rhet.); Polybius Sardianus Peri schematismou 7–22 (Spengel, Rhet.); Prisc. Inst. 12.6.18 (= conformatio); Prisc. Praex. 9.27; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 9. The dead: Apth. Prog. 11; Prisc. Praex. 9.27 (= simulacra factio); Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 9. Fictitious people and the dead: Zonae. Peri schematon ton kata logon (Spengel, Rhet.) and XXVII Anon. Peri ton

NOTES TO PAGES 100–105

133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145.

146. 147.

148. 149. 150. 151.

152.

153. 154.

155. 156. 157.

158.

151

schematon tou logou (Spengel, Rhet.). Inanimate things and the dead: Alex. Peri schematon ιβ’, ιε’ (Spengel, Rhet.). Inanimate things, people not present, and the dead: Asp. Ars Rhetorica 10.5. Inanimate things and people not present: Rhet. Her. 4.53.66 (= conformatio). Inanimate things, the dead, and animals: Cocondrinus, Peri tropon (Spengel, Rhet.). For the dating of Demetrios, see especially Kennedy 1997, 27–28. Arist. Poet. 6.1450a.19–25; Arist. Rh. 3.7. For the difficulty of the technique (fictiones personarum in Latin), see Cic. Orat.; Quint. Inst. 3.8.49–50, 9.2.29. Apth. Prog. 10; Nikolaos Prog. 10; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 9. Sardianus Prog. 11. Quint. Inst. 9.2.37–39. Nikolaos Prog. 10; Sardianus Prog. 11. Quint. Inst. 3.8.49–50; Theon Prog. 8. Signifying ethos of speaker: Arist. Rh. 3.7. Cf. Dion. Hal. Lys. 7–8. Assembling background information: Arist. Rh. 3.1–7; Theon Prog. 8; Sardianus Prog. 11; cf. Ps.-Dionysios Rhet. 10–11. For the Characters’s connections with rhetoric, see especially Fortenbaugh 2003; Diggle 2004, 12–16. Arist. Poet. 6.22–23. Suda, svv. ᾿Αφαρεύς, Ἀστυδάμας, Θεοδέκτης; [Plut.] vit. X orat. 4.16.838 B, 839 C. For the influence of rhetoric on fourth-century tragedy, see Xanthakis-Karamanos 1979. Influence of Theophrastus on characterization: e.g., Tractatus Coislinianus 12. For comparisons between Theophrastus and Menander, see especially Quint. Inst. 10.1.69; Scodel 1997, 497; Fortenbaugh 2003; Diggle 2004, 8. Quint. Inst. 9.2.32–33. For theatrical costumes, masks, and gestures, see especially Wiles 1991; Green 1994, 105–141; Green 2002, 93–105; Valakas 2002. For the visuality of the law court and its links with rhetoric and theater, see especially essays in Worthington 1994; Hall 1995; Goldhill 1997, 132–133; essays in Cairns and Knox 2004. E.g., Ael. VH 4.3; Arist. Int. 1.16a3–8; Arist. Poet. 6.1450a15; Arist. Pol. 1340a12–39; Callistr. Stat. 8.3; Diod. Sic. 26.11; Plin. HN 35.98–100; Plut. Alex. 1.3; Plut. De Alex. fort. 2.2; Xen. Mem. 3.1–10. Seaman 2009, 152–155. For the standard definition of allegory, see, e.g., Fletcher 1964; Whitman 1987; essays in Whitman 2002. For ancient allegorical interpretation, see especially essays in Whitman 2002; essays in Boys-Stones 2003; Ramelli and Luchetta 2004. For ancient allegorical production, see especially Lausberg 1998, s.v. allegoria nos. 895–901, metaphora nos. 558–654, tropi nos. 552–557; Stafford 2000; essays in Whitman 2002; essays in Boys-Stones 2003; Ramelli and Luchetta 2004. For metaphor, see especially Kövesces 2002. Arist. Rh. 3.1412a6. A passage in Demetrios (Eloc. 99–101) that recalls this Aristotelean passage uses the word allegoria. It is often cited as evidence for a Greek preference for hidden meaning – Demetrios says that allegoria is not unlike darkness and night – but it should be noted that Demetrios cites a specific, mystical use of allegoria with a purposeful obfuscation. See Stafford 2000, 162. For discussions of allegory in Hellenistic art, see Onians 1979, 95–118; Pollitt 1986, 13–16; Stewart 1993b; Stewart 1996a; Stewart 2006, 159, 179; Newby 2007. For personifications in Hellenistic art, see Kershaw 1986; Messerschmidt 2003. For personifications in other periods of Greek art, see Shapiro 1993; essays in Stafford and Herrin 2005; Smith 2011. See especially Hardie 1983, 15–30, 74–102; Pernot 1993; Nightingale 1995, 93–132; Webb 1997, 359–366; Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 350–403. E.g., IG VII 373; SIG3 622; Hardie 1983, 15–30. E.g., Alexander: Arr. 4.9.9; Curtius 8.5.6, 8.5.9; Hor. Ep. 2.1.232–44; Hor. Ars 357. Antigonos Gonatas: Ath. 340e. Antiochos: Suda, s.v. Σιμωνίδης. The Attalids: Suda, svv. Λέσχη and Μουσαίος. Cf. Callim. Aet. 1.3–5. See esp. Hardie 1983, 86–87. Hymns: Powell 1925, 82–89 (ArsinoeAphrodite); Schol. in Nic. (ed. Dübner-Bussemaker), p. 173 (Attalos). Cf. Powell 1925, 173–175 (Demetrios Poliorketes). See Hardie 1983, 87. Theon Prog. 8.

152

NOTES TO PAGES 105–108

159. See especially Heath 2004. 160. Virtues: e.g., Apth. Prog. 8; Arist. Rh. 1.9.33–36; Ps.-Hermog. Prog. 7; Rhet. Alex. 35.1440b; Rhet. Her. 3.15; Sardianus Prog. 8; Theon Prog. 8. Achievements: Arist. Rh. 1.9.33. 161. E.g. (with slight variations among specifications) Apth. Prog. 8; Hermog. Prog. 7; Sardianus Prog. 8; Nikolaos Prog. 8; Theon Prog. 9. For details about the prooemion: Men. Rhet. Peri epideiktikon 368–69. 162. Nikolaos Prog. 10; Sardianus Prog. 11. 163. For the relationship between rhetoric and such encomiastic poetry, see especially Cairns 1972, 100–120; Russell and Wilson 1981, 76–95; Webb 1997; Hunter 2003, 20–22. 164. Webster 1967, 110. 165. Hes. Theog. 1–115. For the proem, see especially West 1966 at 1–115; Clay 2003, 49–72. 166. Hes. Theog. 53–62. Cf. Apollodoros 1.3.1. Iconography of Zeus and Mnemosyne: LIMC, svv. Zeus (Voutiras et al.), Mnemosyne (Ghiandoni). 167. Hes. Theog. 60. On this term in Hesiod, see Trimpi 1983, xvii; Barchiesi 1991, 7; Spentzou 2002, 4. 168. Hes. Theog. 77–79. For the iconography of the Muses, see Schneider 1999; LIMC, s.v. Mousa, Mousai (Queyrel). See Cohon 1991–1992 for the order of the Muses on the Archelaos Relief and other Hellenistic art; contra Small 2003, 91–93. 169. In the Theog. the Muses are called “Olympian” (l. 15) as well as “Helikonian” (l. 1) and are even associated with Apollo (l. 94). On such shifts of place in the Hesiodic mountain, see Thalmann 1984, 134–156. For the iconography of Apollo, see especially LIMC, s.v. “Apollo” (Lambrinoudakis et al.). 170. E.g., Theog. 21–22. On Hesiodic reflexivity and this boundary, see especially Arthur 1983, 100; Thalmann 1984, 134–136. For Hesiod’s references to the first person, see: Theog. 1, 33, 36, 114; Thalmann 1984, 134–156; Calame 1995, 78–86; Spentzou 2002, 6–7. 171. On the Hymn to Zeus (and other hymns), see especially Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 350–371. On Id. 17, see especially Hunter 2003. On this point generally, see Hunter 1996, 81. 172. Hes. Theog. 91–97. 173. For the use of such Hesiodic authority to justify Hellenistic kingship, see Bing 1988, 76–83. 174. Callim. H. 1.77–78. 175. Callim. H. 1.67–90. 176. Theokritos: Theoc. Id. 17.73–75. 177. For the “rhetoric of similarity,” see Hunter 2003, especially 94–96. 178. See especially Gow 1952, 2.327; McLennan 1977, 25–26; Rossi 1989, 8–10. 179. Call. H. 1.1. 180. Theoc. Id. 17.1–4. Other classical poetry follows this pattern at the beginning: e.g., Aratus Phaen. 1. Vergil (Ecc. 3.60), following suit, uses Ab Iove principium, Musae. Scholia to Theokritos and to Vergil, in fact, attribute the origin of this formula to Aratus: see, e.g., McLennan 1977, 25–26; Rossi 1989, 8–10. 181. Theoc. Id. 17.34–36. 182. E.g., Hom. Il. 8.245–48, 13.821; Philostr. Her. 35.6; Pind. Isthm. 6.49–50. 183. Austin and Bastianini 2002, no. 31. 184. Callim. H. 1.68–69; Theoc. Id. 17.72–73. 185. Zeus and eagle on Alexander’s coinage: Mørkholm 1991, nos. 9–10, 13, 16–23, 27, 29, 31, 35–37, 39–43. Lone eagle on Alexander’s coinage: Mørkholm 1991, nos. 5–6. Ptolemaic use of the eagle: e.g., Mørkholm 1991: nos. 97–101, 284–286, 291–293, 296, 300–306, 309–310, 312, 314–315, 317–321, 324–326, 328 + figs. 186. Ath. 5.197a. Later, Ptolemy IX or X is pictured with an eagle scalp headdress on sealings from Edfu; see, e.g., Smith 1988, 43–44, 95–96 + pl. 75.18. 187. For intertextuality, see Allen 2000, especially 174–181 (involving mixed media). 188. Plut. Mor. 736F (quoted from Hom. Il. 17.356). Cf. Callim. fr. 75.4–7; Sotades, fr. 1 (ed. Powell). 189. Theokritos: Theoc. Id. 17.128–34. The Ptolemies appear to have promoted this. See also coins with the jugate busts of the Ptolemies and the legend ΘΕΩΝ ΑΔΕΛΦΩΝ (Mørkholm 1991, nos. 297–298) and coins and gems with jugate busts of Sarapis and Isis (Mørkholm 1991, 317; Plantzos 1999, nos. 368–374);

NOTES TO PAGES 108–116

190. 191. 192.

193.

153

emphasizing divine similarity was not limited to the Olympians. For other possible allusions: Diod. Sic. 10.31; Theoc. 15.84; Lloyd-Jones and Parsons 1983, no. 961. Theoc. Id. 17.135. Call. H. 1.60; Hes. Theog. 4, 53, 73; Theoc. Id. 17.24, 17.73. Hes. Theog. 27–28. For the Muses, speech, and truth, see especially Pucci 1977, 8–44; Pucci 1980; Arthur 1983; Ferrari 1988; Nagy 1992; Calame 1995, 58–74; Détienne 1996, 39–52; Collins 1999; Spentzou 2002, 5–6. Hes. Theog. 30. On the use of the scepter in Greek poetry, see also Hom Il. 1.15, 1.28, 1.279, 2.86, 3.218, 7.277, 18.497, 23.568; Hom. Od. 9.90. See Stoddard 2003, 6–11, with previous bibliography.

4 EKPHRASIS IN SO SOS’S UNSWEPT ROOM MOSAIC 1.

2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21.

Plin. HN 36.184. For Sosos, see Vollkommer 2001–2004, s.v. Sosos (Salzmann). For an overview of the mosaic and its copies, see especially Parlasca 1963; Westgate 1995, 100; Moormann 2000; Salzmann 2011; Fathy 2017. Aquileia: Donderer 1986, 42–43; Manzelli and Racagni 2005. Rome: Werner 1998, 260–275; Andreae 2003, 46–51. Thysdus (El Djem): Foucher 1961; Ben Osman 1990, 74–75; Ennaïfer 1996, 73, 78. Uthina (Oudna): Renard 1956, 309–310; Deonna and Renard 1961, 118–119; Ben Osman 1990, 23; Ennaïfer 1996, 73, 78; Ben Abed-Ben Khader 2006, 60, 147. Uppenna (Sidi-Abich): Renard 1956, 310; Duval 1976, 116–117; Ennaïfer 1996, 73, 78. On this point, see Werner 1998, 260–275. Plin. HN 36.184. For the avian scene, see especially Parlasca 1963; Meyer 1977; Donderer 1991; Andreae 2003, 161–174. We may add other copies: e.g., Kołątaj, Majcherek, and Paradowska 2007, 59–62 + fig. 56 (in the Villa of the Birds, Alexandria); Torlo 2005, 23–24 + illus. (from a house in the CAL field, Aquileia). Donderer 1991 argues that one copy in the Capitoline Museum is Sosos’s original, which was transferred from Pergamon to Tivoli. Close autopsy, however, reveals many differences in technique between the Capitoline copy and extant Pergamene mosaics: e.g., the Capitoline copy has standardized square tesserae, while the Pergamene mosaics have slivers of stone and glass. The Capitoline copy differs from Pliny’s description of the original (HN 36.184), too: the vessel is not a kantharos, and the drinking bird casts no shadow. For a discussion of the restorations, see Werner 1998, 260–275. For an overview of Greek mosaics, see Westgate 2012. E.g., Pollitt 1986, 221–223; Clarke 2007, 57–60. E.g., Donderer 1986, 42–43; Zanker 1998, 87–89; Zanker 2004, 128. Bryson 1989, 140. Pliny HN 36.184. For the term oikos: LSJ9, s.v. oἶκoς; Nevett 1999, 4–20. See, e.g., Hellmann 1982, 302; Dunbabin 1998, 88–89. E.g., Phryn. Com. 66; Xen. Oec. 8.13; Xen. Symp. 2.18. House of Attalos: Wulf 1999, 165–168. Building Z: Wulf 1999, 168–169. Library: Radt 1998, 16–19. Palatial complex, see especially Kawerau and Wiegand 1930; Hoepfner 1997a, 35–39; essays in Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011. For an overview, see Seaman 2016. For an overview of Palace V, see Seaman 2016, 413–414. Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011, no. 5.42; Picón and Hemingway 2016, no. 35 (Kästner). For the Hephaistion mosaic, see especially Kriseleit 2000, 16–27; Andreae 2003, 41–51; Salzmann 2011; Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011, no. 5.43 (Salzmann); Picón and Hemingway 2016, nos. 36–37 (Kästner). Cf. Grüßinger, Kästner, and Scholl 2011, nos. 5.41–42 (Salzmann). For the House of Augustus, see especially Hoepfner 1997a, 37–39. For the influence of Pergamene mosaics on Roman art, see especially Kuttner 1995b, 160. For the ancient dining room, see especially Dunbabin 1998; Nielsen 1998. For dining rooms in Hellenistic palaces, see especially Hoepfner 1996. E.g., in the Maison du Trident and the Maison des Tritons on Delos; see Dunbabin 1998, 85.

154

NOTES TO PAGES 116–123

22. E.g., the Îlot de Bijoux on Delos: Bruneau and Siebert 1969, 268–270; Bruneau 1972, 156–169, no. 68; Dunbabin 1998, 85. Hellenistic building on Samos: Giannouli and Guimier-Sorbets 1988, 559; Dunbabin 1998, 85. 23. E.g., Dunbabin 1999, 26. 24. Aquileia: Donderer 1986, 42–43; Manzelli and Racagni 2005. Rome: Werner 1998, 260–275; Andreae 2003, 46–51. Thysdus (El Djem): Ben Osman 1990, 74–75; Ennaïfer 1996, 73, 78. 25. For a discussion of the significance of the debris in the copies, see Fathy 2017. 26. Donderer 1986, 42–43; Manzelli and Racagni 2005. 27. Werner 1998, 260–275; Andreae 2003, 46–51. 28. Ben Osman 1990, 74–75; Ennaïfer 1996, 73, 78. 29. Ennaïfer 1996, 73, 78; Ben Abed-Ben Khader 2006, 60, 147. 30. Strabo 13.1.44. For a more detailed discussion, see Seaman 2016, 408–412. 31. For the copies, see especially Parlasca 1963; Meyer 1977; Donderer 1991; Andreae 2003, 161–174. 32. Kantharos in, e.g., House of Attalos painting: Parlasca 1963, fig. 18. At least three birds and threedimensionality in, e.g., mosaic from Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli: Andreae 2003, 171. 33. It is possible that its emblema (also) involves a cat’s capture of a bird because the paws of a cat appear to be present. Cf. Naples NM 9992 (mosaic that represents Sosos’s birds with a cat) and Naples NM 9993 (mosaic that represents a cat capturing a cock in its top tier). 34. Salzmann 1982, nos. 87 (Olynthos) and 119 (Sikyon). Other mosaics with imagery relating to the symposion: Salzmann 1982, nos. 141 (Thasos); 146 (Arsameia); S.2 (Kourion). See also Westgate 1995, 100. 35. Ael. VH 2.44. 36. E.g., Apth. Prog. 12; Herm. Prog. 10; Nikolaos Prog. 11; Sardianus Prog. 12; Theon Prog. 7. For ekphrasis and previous bibliography, see especially Webb 2009. 37. Apth. Prog. 12; Herm. Prog. 10; Nikolaos Prog. 11; Theon Prog. 7. 38. Demetr. Eloc. 165. 39. Theon Prog. 7. 40. Arist. Poet. 17.1455a22–29; Dion. Hal. Lys. 7. 41. Apth. Prog. 12; Herm. Prog. 10; Nikolaos Prog. 11; Sardianus Prog. 12; Theon Prog. 7. 42. Herm. Prog. 10; Theon Prog. 7. 43. Nikolaos Prog. 11. 44. Apth. Prog. 12. Cf. Nikolaos Prog. 11. 45. Nikolaos Prog. 11. 46. Apth. Prog. 12. 47. Nikolaos Prog. 11. 48. E.g., Apth. Prog. 12; Ars Rhet. 10.17; Herm. Prog. 10; Nikolaos Prog. 11; Sardianus Prog. 12; Theon Prog. 7. On this point and enargeia more generally, see especially Zanker 1981, especially 301; Zanker 1987, 39–54; Walker 1993; Bassi 2005. 49. Polyb. 20.12.8. Cf. the importance of sight as a prompt for emulation in Polyb. 9.9.10. 50. Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 11.1.3. 51. Plut. Mor. 347a–c. 52. Lucian Hist. conscr. 50–51. 53. Pollitt 1986, 143. 54. Kaltsas 2002, fig. 392. For press folds, see, e.g., Ridgway 2001, 219. 55. Pollitt 1986, 146–147. 56. On the symposion, see Murray 1983; essays in Murray 1990; essays in Slater 1991; essays in Murray and Tecuş an 1995; essays in Braund and Wilkins 2000; Wilkins 2000, 202–256; Dunbabin 2003, 11–50; Wilkins and Hill 2006, 74–78, 166–184; Hobden 2013; Wecowski 2014. 57. Hellenistic symposia: Borza 1983; Cameron 1995, 71–103; Murray 1996. 58. E.g., Ath. 4.146c; see Borza 1983, 53. 59. Performers: e.g., Ath. 1.20a, 1.22d, 12.538e–539a, 14.614e; Anth. Pal. 5.131, 5.138, 9.570, 11.41; Curtius 6.2.5; Dem. Olynth. 2.19; Plut. Alex. 47.6; Plut. De Alex. fort. 332f, 334d–f. Wine-pourers: e.g., Arr. Anab. 7.27.2; Athen. 10.424e–f; Hes. Schol. F 16; Plut. Alex. 74.2.

NOTES TO PAGES 123–130

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

69.

70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

89. 90. 91. 92.

155

Deipnon: e.g., Athen. 12.537; Curt. 6.2.5. Asclepiades 25 (HE). E.g., Athen. 2.47f–48a (Eubulus). E.g., Ael. VH 8.7; Athen. 12.538d. E.g., Athen. 9.410b–c. E.g., Xenophanes fr. 1 (ed. West); Ath. 4.128e; Plato Com. Spartans fr. 71 (ed. Olsen). Preparations and food: e.g., Archestratos 60 (ed. Olsen-Sens); Athen. 3.126e; Plato Com. Spartans fr. 1 (ed. Olsen); Xenophanes fr. 1 (ed. West). Drinking: e.g., Alexis Apokoptomenos fr. 21; Athen. 11.463; Theognis 309–12, 473–96; Xenophanes fr. 1 (ed. West). E.g., Plato Com. Spartans fr. 71 (ed. Olsen). E.g., Athen. 14.630f, 15.693f–96d; Plato Com. Spartans fr. 71 (ed. Olsen). Game of kottabos: Amips. Men Playing at Kottabos fr. 2; Callim. F 69; Callim. Ia. 15 (F 227.6); Recitations: e.g., Andr. 693; Plut. 331 C; Plut. Alex. 51.8, 53; Plut. Quaest. conv. 737A. Skolia: e.g., Athen. 14.630f, 15.693f–96d; Plato com. Spartans fr. 71 (ed. Olsen); Plut. Quaest. conv. 7.8.4, 736F; Theoc. 14.30–31; Theophr. Char. 15.10; Philodemos De musica 4 cols. 16–18; Plut. Mor. 1095c; Anth. Pal. 11.10.43; Page, GLP 386–91, 410–413, 444–45; Pack 1965, 1567–1622; POxy. 1795 (= CA 199–200). Riddles: e.g., Antig. Car. Rerum mirab. (ed. Musso) 19; Letter of Aristeas 187–292; Supp. Hell. 691. E.g., Ar. Av.; Pl. Symp. E.g., Pliny HN 36.184. E.g., Amips. Men Playing at Kottabos fr. 2 (PCG); Ar. Pax 143; Cratinus Dionysalexandros fr. 40 (ed. Olsen); Xenarch. Priapos fr. 10 (PCG). For discussions of Dionysos and the kantharos, see especially Carpenter 1986, 98–123; Lissarague 1990; Wilkins 2000, 228. For the relationship between mosaics and symposia, see Franks 2014. For ancient trash, see especially Liebeschuetz 2000; Lindenlauf 2000. Astynomoi law from Pergamon: Saba 2013. Ath. 4.162b–e, 8.607a–f. For Persaios, see Erskine 2011. E.g., Plato Com. Spartans fr. 71 (ed. Olsen); Xenophanes fr. 1 (ed. West). Pliny HN 36.184. E.g., Ath. 10.427e. Cf. Ar. fr. 273; Ar. Thesm. 401–04; Cratinus fr. 273 (PCG); Clem. Al. Protr. 2.19.3. E.g., Ar. Eq. 413–16; Pollux 6.93. Spartan association: e.g., Ath. 9.409d; Hesychios, s.v. κυνάδες; Pollux 6.93. For ancient pigeons, see especially Thompson 1936, 238–247; Kiple and Conneè Ornelas 2000, 561–565 (Johnston); Arnott 2007, 177–179. King Herod’s dovecote: Joseph BJ 5.4.4. Quint. Inst. 8.3.66. For nomoi sympotikoi, see especially Tecuş an 1990, 254–255. On moderate and excessive drinking in Hellenistic symposia, see especially Murray 1996. For art-related ekphrasis in antiquity, see especially essays in Goldhill and Osborne 1994; Webb 1999; essays in Elsner 2002; Gutzwiller 2002; Männlein-Robert 2007; Zanker 2003; Elsner 2007a; Elsner 2007b; Squire 2009, 139–146; Webb 2009, 81–84. For Myron’s Cow, see especially Gutzwiller 1998, 245–250. AP 9.719. For Simias, see especially Fränkel 1915; Prier 1994; Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004, 40–41. For theoretical discussions of this problem, see especially Krieger 1992; Mitchell 1994, 151–181. For mimesis, see especially Schweitzer 1934; Pollitt 1974, 37–41; Halliwell 2002; Webb 2009. For phantasia, see especially Schweitzer 1934; Pollitt 1974, 53–55; Fattori and Bianchi 1988; Watson 1988; Silverman 1991; Elsner 1995, 26–28; Elsner 2007a, 186–188; Webb 2009. Philostr. VA 6.19. For an overview, see especially Hobden 2013. Diog. Laert. 7.177. Cf. Ath. 8.354e (with wax birds). E.g., Ath. 186e (Epikouros); 4.156c (Parmeniskos); Lucian Lexiphanes; Lucian Symp.; Plut. Quaest. Conv. For this point, see Hobden 2013, 228–246. Such philosophical discourse at the symposion is parodied in the replies of the symposiasts in the Letter of Aristeas; see Gruen 2016, 429.

156 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105.

NOTES TO PAGES 130–134

E.g., Plut. Quaest. Conv. 686c–d. Hausrath 1959, no. 217. E.g., Callim. Hymn 1; Herod. 1; Letter of Aristeas; Theoc. Id. 15, 17; for an overview, see Gruen 2016, especially 429–435. For the incorporation of Makedonian practices, see Mari 2018. E.g., Arr. 7.11.8; Ath. 1.17f, 5.195–203b, 12.538b–539a; Diod. 17.16.4; Curt. 9.7.15. For large state banquets, see Murray 1996; Strootman 2014, 188–191. For such continuity, see Murray 1996; Lynch 2018, 244–245; Wecowski 2018. For this shift, see Lynch 2018. For wine’s connection with Greek and non-Greek cultural identity, see Schmidt Pantel 2011, 435–438; Wecowski 2014, 40–41, 100–102. For ancient Greek wine, see, e.g., Ath. 4.151a–153b, 10.423c–432a; essays in Murray and Tecuş an 1995; Dalby 2003, svv. “wine,” “wine-mixing.” For Hellenistic drinking practices, see Rotroff 1996; Kwapicz 2014; Lynch 2018. E.g., Ath. 4.151e–152d; Hdt. 6.84.1–3. Paus. 10.24.13. Ath. 4.151e–152d. Preserved in Ath. 10.431d–f.

5 CONCLUSION 1.

See especially Mairs 2010; Mairs 2014, 98–99, 185–187; Martin 2017, 136–170. For hybridity in material culture more generally, see especially Dean and Leibsohn 2003; Silliman 2015.

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INDEX

Page numbers in italics refer to figures. Achaians, 49–51, 58, 64 Achilles, 49–51, 58 adelphoi, 30 Adramyttion, 59 Aelian, 119 Aelius Theon, progymnasmata, 9–10, 53–54, 105, 120 Aemilius Paullus, Lucius, 13 Aeneas, 60 Aesop, on bird who mistook painting, 130 Agamemnon, 48, 51 ainigma, 102 aion, 85 Aischylos as character in the Frogs, 98 copies borrowed by Ptolemies, 81 akratos oinos, 131 akroasis, 10 Aktaios, 49 Aleos, 41, 46–48, 52, 56 Alexander the Great, 2–4, 16–17, 83–86, 108 Alexandria, 5, 25, 72–80 Archelaos Relief. See Archelaos, Archelaos Relief court, 14 educated viewers, 29–30 grave stelai, 20, 22 Homereion, 73, 75 librarians, 17, 29, 84 Library, 21, 29, 80, 81–82, 85, 95, 98–99 Lighthouse, 16 mosaics, 19, 20 Mouseion, 17, 21, 75, 81–82, 85, 95, 98–99 painting of Homer, 87 patronage of scholars, 95, 98–99, 104–109, 133 Procession of Ptolemy II, 85 Royal District, 19, 21–22, 26–27 Serapeion, 11, 121 teachers, 29 Tychaion, 73 Alexis, on Greek drinking, 131 allegoria, 102 allegory, 67–71, 102–104 Amazons, 63–64 anagnosis, 9 anaskeue, 9

Andromache, 58 Antagoras, 17 Antigonid Kingdom. 3, 14–18, 20 Antigonids. See Antigonid Kingdom Antigonos (artist), 15 Antigonos Gonatos, 126 Antigonos of Karystos, 56 Antioch, 14, 30 Antiochos IV, 73 Antiphilos, 11, 15, 89 antirrhesis, 10 Apelles, 11, 13, 15–18, 28 Aphrodisias, Zoilos Monument, 97–98 Aphrodite, 83 Aphthonios, progymnasmata, 9, 121 Apollo, 49, 68, 69, 76, 104, 106, 108 Apollodoros, 29 Apollodoros of Athens, 15 Apollonios Rhodios, 17, 82 Aquileia, copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic, 110–111, 116–119, 124, Plates IV, V Arbinas, 40 Archelaos I, 15 Archelaos of Priene, 72 Archelaos Relief, 30, 67–109, 68, 74, 133 Archilochos, 57 on Telephos, 60 Areius, 58 Arete, 67, 68, 94–99 Argos, 48, 51 Ariarathes V of Kappadokia, 18 Aristeides of Thebes, 15 Aristodemos, 16 Aristophanes, on refining natural aptitude, 98 Aristotle on art practice and art appreciation, 13 on chronos and aion, 85 on description, 120 on development of genres, 95 on diegesis, 53 on enkomion, 104 on historia and poiesis, 96 on metaphora, 102 on mythos, 96

181

182

INDEX

Aristotle (cont.) on narrative, 53 on progymasmata, 10 on prosopopoiia, 100 on prosopopoiia/ethopoiia and semeia, 101 on speaking politically and rhetorically in plays, 101 on synkrisis, 65 Arkadia, 41, 43, 44, 46–48, 51–52, 60–62 Arkesilaos, 17 Arsinoe I, 83, 108 Arsinoe III, 72–80, 79, 80–86, 133 Arsinoe III-Oikoumene, 68, 73–75, 74, 80–86, 133 Artemon, 16 artists, education and wealth of, 11–14 asarotos oikos, 131 Athena, 1, 37–39, 46, 52, 59–60, 62 Athenaios on Hieron II’s royal barge, 55 Athens education, 8 Erechtheion, 12 Lesser Attalid Dedication, 63 Odysseia and “Ilias” from Agora, 86, 87–88, 90–92 Parthenon Frieze, 1–2, 2 Theater of Dionysos, 84 Attalid Kingdom, 3, 15, 19, 21–66, 110–131 Attalids. See Attalid Kingdom Attalos I, 58–59, 118 Attalos II, 59 Auge, 3, 45, 46, 52, 56, 62 aule, 14 Baroque style, 2, 8, 18, 20, 37 basileion, 14 basilikoi paides, 30 basilikos logos, 105 Battle of Actium, 5 Belevi, Mausoleum, 40, 52 Berenike I, 83 Berenike II, 83 Berlin, Pergamonmuseum, 31, 59 biographical writing, 55–58, 65 Bion, 17 bios/bioi, 55–58, 132 Boupalos, 15 Bourdieu, Pierre, 10 Bovillae, Tor Ser Paolo, 71 Brennos, 131 Bryaxis (II), 15–16, 18 Celts, 39–40, 58, 60, 84, 131 Centauromachy, 19, 19 Chares of Lindos, 12 chreia, 9 Chronos, 67, 80–86, 108 Cicero on Philo of Eleusis, 13 on untidy dining room, 126

classical style, 1–2, 20 copying industry, 76–79 courts, 14–18 courtiers, 14–15, 29–30 intellectual environment, 22–30 patronage of artists, 15–18 patronage of scholars, 17–18 cultural interaction, 2–3, 5–8, 133, 134 Daidalos, 11 Damascius, 55 Damophon, 12 Daphne, procession of Antiochos IV, 73 de Montfaucon, Bernard, 69, 104 deipnon, 123–124, 126 Delos, 5, 19, 58 Delphi, 13, 58, 104, 106, 131 Demetrios, 16 Demetrios (author) on prosopopoiia, 100 use of ekphrazo, 120 Demetrios (painter), 16, 77 Demetrios Poliorketes, 16, 84 didaskaloi, 30 diegema, 2, 8–11, 30, 52–55, 120, 132 diegesis, 10, 52–56 Dikaiogenes, 16 dining, 117, 122–131 Dio Chrysostom, on characterization, 99 Dionysios of Halikarnassos on description, 120 on Greek time, 85 on Homer, 87 on visuality in historical texts, 121 Dionysos, 49, 51, 124–125 Droysen, Johann Gustav, 5–8, 10, 134 “Drunken Old Woman” sculpture, 121, 121 Egypt, 3, 71–80 Egyptian style, 20, 79–80, 133 eidolopoiia, 100 ekphrasis, 2, 8–11, 22–30, 119–122, 127–128, 133 Elias, Nobert, 14 enargeia, 119–122, 127 enkomion, 9–10, 56, 65, 104–109, 133 enkyklios paideias, 9 Ephesos Library of Celsus, 97 Painting of Ktesikles, 16 Ephoros, 84 Epigonos, 15 Epikouros, insertion of himself into sympotic narrative, 130 Erato, 68, 105 Eratosthenes, 84–86 Ethiopia, 78–79 Ethiopians, 84 ethopoiia, 9–10, 99–104, 120 ethos, 57–58, 65, 100–102

INDEX

Eumenes I, 58–59 Eumenes II, 36–40, 57–66, 113–114, 127–134 Euripides as character in the Frogs, 98 copies borrowed by Ptolemies, 81 on Megarian bowls, 54 Telephos, 52, 57, 60–61 Euterpe, 68, 105 exergasia, 10 Fabretti, Raffaelo, 71 Farnese Bull, 5 fusion, 5, 8, 134, See also hybridity; middle ground; syncretism; Verschmelzung Galaton, 15, 87 Gigantomachy, 4, 19, 37, 39, 59, 118 Gjölbaschi-Trysa, Heroön, 52 gnome, 9–10 grammata, 9 Greek Anthology, on Homer, 87 Greek style, 80, 133 Grynos, 58 gymnastike, 8 Halikarnassos, Mausoleum, 40 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 7 Helenos, 29 Hellanikos, 85 Hellenikos potos, 131 Hellenism, 10–11, 54, 133–134, See also hellenismos hellenismos, 10–11, 54, See also Hellenism Hellenismus, 5–6 Heloros, 49 Hephaistion, 15, 114, 118, Plate VIIb Hera, 108 Herakleitos, 111, Plates I, II, III Herakles, 42, 44, 46–48, 56, 59, 62 Herculaneum, cup with Ilias and Odysseia, 86, 86, 92 Hermes, 76 Herodas on analysis of artwork, 22 on Praxiteles, 12 use of characterization, 11 Herodotos on Cyrus and Cambyses, 55 on historia, 96 on oikoumene, 84 Hesiod lives and anecdotes about, 55 Theogony, 104–109 tripod on Mount Helikon, 76 hetairai, 123 Hiera, 46, 47, 49, 63–64 Hieron II, 17 royal barge, 54–55 Hieronymos, 85 Historia, 67, 68, 94–99

183 Homer association with Tor Ser Paolo at Bovillae, 71 biographical elements of funerary speeches, 55 development of genres after, 95 lives and anecdotes about, 55 on Athena Ilias, 59 on Megarian bowls, 37, 54–55 on Telephos, 57 Ptolemaic patronage, 99, 108 represented in art, 86, 86–94, 89 represented on Archelaos Relief, 67, 68, 74, 80–86 start of Greek literature, 95 storytelling techniques of, 53 Horace, 93 Horus, 79 hybridity, 134, See also fusion; middle ground; syncretism; Verschmelzung Iaia of Kyzikos, 12 Idas, 60 identity, ethnic and cultural, 11, 29, 40, 58–64, 66, 132–134 Iliad (personification). See Ilias Ilias, 67, 68, 73, 74, 86, 87, 86–94 Ilion. See Troy Indians, 84 Ionian League, 39–40 Ionian Renaissance, 40, 58 Isokrates on Euagoras, 56 on narrative, 53 use of comparison, 65 Julius Caesar, 84 Kairos, 85 Kallimachos Hymn to Zeus, 106–109 status of, 17 use of personified text, 93 Kalliope, 68, 105 kataskeue, 9 Kaukasos, 59 Kephisodotos I, 76 Kephisodotos II, 15 Kephisodotos-Praxiteles family, 12 Ketios, 52 kingship, 14–18, 65–66, 83, 104–109, 127–134 Kircher, Athanasius, 69, 71 Kleanthes, 37 Kleopatra Thea, 30 Klio, 68, 105 Klytemnestra, 51 koine, 20, 132 Komoidia, 67, 68, 74, 94–99 Korythos, 48, 62 Krates of Mallos, oikoumenai, 84

184

INDEX

Kronos, 85, 107–108 Ktesikles, 16 Kypria, on Telephos, 57 Laodike, 63 Laokoön, 5 Leonidas, on Myron’s Cow, 127 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 69 lexis, 2, 20 Libanius, progymnasmata compositions, 9 Limyra, metopes from Ptolemaion, 18–19, 19 Little Iliad, on Telephos, 57 Livy, 84 London, British Museum, 69 “Longinus” on Homer, 87 on physis, 98 Loukou, Villa of Herodes Attikos, 77 Lucian insertion of himself into sympotic narrative, 130 on Pheidias and historians, 121 Lykophron, Alexandra, 60 Lykosoura, 12 Lysimachos, 40, 96 Lysippos, 4, 15, 18 Makedonia, 3, 14–15, 130 grave stelai, 20, 21 kings, 14–15, 17 Makedonians, 14, 39, 60–61, 80 Manilius, on Homer, 87 Maussollos, 40 Megarian bowls, 37, 54–55 Meidias Painter, 103, 103 Melanthios, 15 Menander Rhetor, on basilikos logos, 105 Menander, use of characterization, 101 Messene, 12 metaphora, 102 metaphorical image, 87–88 Metrodoros, 13 middle ground, 134, See also fusion; hybridity; syncretism; Verschmelzung Midios, 58 mimesis, 128–131 Min, 79 Mneme, 67, 68, 74, 94–99 Mnemosyne, 68, 105–106 Mount Helikon, 75–76, 104, 106 Mount Olympos, 104 mousike, 8 Muses, 68, 69, 74, 104–109 Muses of Philiskos, 76 Myron collection by Attalids, 15 Cow, 127 Mysia, 45, 46–52, 58–65 Mysians. See Mysia Mythos (personification), 67, 68, 94–99 mythos (progymnasmata), 9–10

narrative, 33–36, 52–54 Nauplios, 46, 52 Neaira, 46 neaniskos tes aules, 17 Near East, 2, 5–8 Nikeratos, 15 Nikias, 12, 16 Nikolaos, progymnasmata, 9, 120–121 Nile Mosaic, 78, 78–79 Nireus, 46, 49, 63–64 nomos, 9 Nymphs, 76 Odysseia, 67, 68, 73, 74, 86, 86–94, 87 Odyssey (personification). See Odysseia Oikoumene, 67, 68, 74, 80–86 Olympia, Temple of Zeus metopes, 52 Olympiosthenes, 76 Onatas, 15 Orestes, 51–52 Ourania, 105 Ovid, on Homer, 87 paidiskai, 30 Pamphilos, 12–13, 15 Pan, 43, 51–52, 62, 76 Panaretos, 17 paraphrasis, 10 Parmeniskos, insertion of himself into sympotic narrative, 130 Parrhasios, 11 parrhesia, 16–17 pathos, 100, 102 Pausanias on Mount Helikon, 76 on Mount Parthenion, 51 Peiraieus, 77 Pella, 14 Penthesileia, 64 Pergamon, 5 akropolis, 21, 23–25, 37 court, 14 court life, 127–134 educated viewers, 29–30 Great Altar, 1, 4, 19, 21, 31, 31, 34–36, 36–40, 38, 60, 65–66, 118 heroön, 58 Library, 21, 24, 56 mosaics, 19, 117, Plates VIIa,VIIb Palace V, 37, 59, 73, 112–119, 114–116, 133 represented on Telephos Frieze, 49, 51–52, 56–58 Royal District, 19, 21, 24, 114 Sanctuary of Athena Nikephoros, 21, 24, 37, 39, 59–60 statue of Pergamos, 58 Telephos Frieze from Great Altar, 1–2, 3, 30–66, 32–33, 42–50, 132 Theater, 37 Unswept Room mosaic. See Sosos, Unswept Room mosaic

INDEX

wall-painting that represents Sosos’s birds in House of Attalos, 118, Plate VIIIa Pergamos, 58–59 Persaios, 126 Perseus of Makedonia, 30 personification, 67–71, 73, 80–104, 133 Phaleros, 58 phantasia, 128–131 Pheidias, 11, 15, 121 Philetairos, 59 Philo of Eleusis, 13 philoi, 15, 123 Philostratos on Hiera, 63–64 on mimesis and phantasia, 128 Philoxenos of Eretria, 15 Phoinikides, use of term diegema, 53 Phyromachos, 15 Physis, 67, 68, 94–99 Pindar on Chronos, 85 on natural origins of wisdom, 98 Pisander of Kamyros, on Herakles, 55 Pistis, 67, 68, 94–99 Plato, 53, 91 on base and noble writing, 93 on chronos and aion, 85 on parental relationship between authors and creations, 91 sympotic literature, 129 use of biographical elements, 56 Plato (comic playwright), on cleaning during symposia, 126 Pliny the Elder and the definition of Hellenistic art, 4 on Dikaiogenes, 16 on Pamphilos and art instruction, 13 on Sosos’s mosaic with birds, 118, 124 on Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic, 110, 112–117, 119, 124, 126 Plutarch insertion of himself into sympotic narrative, 130 on ethos and life-writing, 57–58 on narrative, 52–53 on oikoumene, 84 Synkriseis, 65 Poiesis, 67, 68, 94–99 Polybios on courtiers, 15 on courts, 14 on enargeia in history-writing, 121 on oikoumene, 84 use of term diegema, 53 use of term historia, 96 Polyhymnia, 68, 105 Polykleitos, 12 portraiture, 87 Poseidippos, 12, 108, 148 Praeneste (Palestrina), 78

185 Praxiteles, 12, 15, 128, 166 Priam, 51, 63 progymnasmata, 9–11, 132, See also akroasis; anagnosis; anaskeue; antirrhesis; chreia; diegema; ekphrasis; enkomion; ethopoiia; exergasia; kataskeue; gnome; mythos; nomos; paraphrasis; prosopopoiia; psogos; synkrisis; thesis; topos koinos Prometheus, 59 prooemia, 104–105 prosopopoiia, 2, 8–11, 30, 99–105, 120, 133 Protagoras, 12 Protogenes, 11–12, 15–16 Prousias II, 38 Pseudo-Hermogenes, progymnasmata, 9 psogos, 9 Ptolemaic Kingdom, 3, 14–30, 67–109 Ptolemaïs, 83 Ptolemies. See Ptolemaic Kingdom Ptolemy I, 16, 73, 83 Ptolemy II, 16–17, 19, 73, 83, 85, 106–108 Procession, 15 Ptolemy III, 17, 83, 85 Ptolemy IV, 72–80, 79, 80–86, 104–109, 129, 133 Ptolemy IV-Chronos, 68, 73–75, 74, 80–86, 133 Ptolemy V, 85 Ptolemy VI, 16 Ptolemy X Alexander I, 29 Pyrgoteles, 15 Pyrrhos, 58 Quintilian on comparatio, 65 on enargeia, 127 on Homer, 87 on narratio, 53 on progymnasmata, 10 on prosopopoeia, 100–101 Rhetorica ad Alexandrum on narrative, 53 on progymnasmata, 10 rhetorical education, 8–11, 29 Rhodes, 16 Rome Arch of Titus, 81 Capitolium, 84 conquest of oikoumene, 84 copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic, 110, 116, Plates I, II, III relations with Attalids, 39–40, 60 Romulus and Remus, 60 sacrifice, 94–95 “Satyrspiel” Reliefs, 77 Second Makedonian War, 60 Seleukeia, mosaic with Ilias and Odysseia, 86, 90, 92 Seleukid Kingdom, 3, 14–15, 18, 39 Seleukids. See Seleukid Kingdom Selinos, 52

186

INDEX

Seneca on Library of Alexandria, 82 on Parrhasios and Pheidias, 11 Sextus Empericus, on hellenismos, 11 Sikyon, 13 Silanion, 15 Simias, pattern poems, 128 skolia, 124 Skylax of Karyanda, on Kimon and Perikles, 55 Skythians, 84 sophia, 13, 67, 94–99 Sophokles copies borrowed by Ptolemies, 81 lives and anecdotes about, 55 on Telephos, 57 Sosos, 15 mosaic with birds, 118, Plates VIIIa, VIIIb Unswept Room mosaic, 30, 110–131, 133, Plates I, II, III, IV, V, VIa, VIb Sostratos of Knidos, 13, 15–16, 18 Spanheim, Ezechial, 69 Strabo on Attalos I and mathematical relationships of tree’s parts, 118 on Mouseion at Alexandria, 75 on oikoumene, 84 Stratonike, 16, 59 Stratonikos, 15, 21 Strongylion, 76 Suetonius on progymnasmata, 10 symposion, 122–131, 133 syncretism, 134, See also fusion; hybridity; middle ground; Verschmelzung synkrisis, 9, 65–66, 132 syntaxis basilike, 17 syntrophoi, 30 Tarchon, 60 Tazza Farnese, 73, 73 techne, 11 Telephos, 1–2, 31–66, 32–33, 44–45, 48–50, 132, See also Telephos Frieze from the Great Altar Telesinos, 12, 16 Terme Boxer, 122, 123 Terpsichore, 68, 105 Teuthrania, 58 Teuthras, 45, 48–51, 58, 60–61, 63 Theodektes, 53 Theoi Adelphoi, 83 Theoi Euergetai, 83 Theoi Philopatores, 83 Theoi Soteres, 83 Theokritos characterizations, 11 flattery, 17 Idyll 17, 106–109

on Praxiteles, 12 setting of Idylls in Sicily, 62 travel, 18 theomorphic portraits, 82–83 Theon of Samos, 120 Theophrastos, on characterization, 101 Theoros, 15 Theseus Cups, 52, 54–55 thesis, 9 Third Makedonian War, 39 Thysdrus, copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic, 111, 116, Plate VIb Timochares, 15 Timon Phliasios, on Mouseion at Alexandria, 17 Tivoli, copy of Sosos’s mosaic with birds from Hadrian’s Villa, Plate VIIIb topographical art, 77–79 topographos, 77 topos koinos, 9 Tragoidia, 67, 68, 94–99 translatio, 102 Trojan Horse, 59 Trojan War, 56, 58–64, 66 tropheus, 29 Troy, 51, 59–60 tryphe, 15, 79 Tyche, 83 Tyrsenos, 60 Uppenna, copies of Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic, 111 Uthina, copy of Sosos’s Unswept Room mosaic, 111, 117, Plate VIa Vatican, Vatican Museums, 110 Vergil, on Arkadia, 62 Verschmelzung, 5, 134, See also fusion; hybridity; middle ground; syncretism Vitruvius on education of architects, 13 on topographical wall-painting, 78 Wadjyt, 79 Winckelmann, J.J., 5, 69 Xanthos, Nereid Monument, 40, 52 Xenarios, 16 Xenokrates, 15 Xenophanes, on oikoumene, 83–84 Xenophon biographical writing, 56 on cleaning during symposia, 126 sympotic literature, 129 use of comparison, 65 Zenodotos of Ephesos, 17, 82 Zeus, 38, 59, 68, 69, 104–109 Zeuxis, 12, 15