Text and Intertext in Greek Epic and Drama: Essays in Honor of Margalit Finkelberg [1° ed.] 0367110636, 9780367110635

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
List of Figures
Notes on Contributors
List of Abbreviations
List of Publications
Introduction
Part I
A. Epic – Text
1 Homer’s Innocent Aeneas and Traditions of the Troad
2 Formulaic Diction and Contextual Relevance: Notes on the Meaning of Formulaic Epithets in Iliad 1
3 Babies in Iliad Book 6: Astyanax and Dionysus
4 Reading Emotional Intelligence: Antilochus and Achilles in the Iliad
5 Two Mothers: Eos and Thetis in the Aithiopis
6 Seeing the Unseen in the Iliad
B. Epic – Intertext
7 The Melody of Homeric Performance
8 Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon? The Trojan War and Royal Succession in the Aegean Bronze Age
9 Substitute, Sacrifice and Sidekick: A Note on the Comparative Method and Homer
10 The Birth of Literary Criticism (Herodotus 2.116–17) and the Roots of Homeric Neoanalysis
11 Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard (on Aeneid 1.740–747)
12 Homer Between Celsus, Origen and the Jews of Late Antique Palaestina
13 Unreportable Tokens, Speech Representation and Conventions of Textual Composition
Part II
A. Drama – Text
14 Boughs and Daggers: Reading “Hand” in Aeschylus’ Suppliants and the Danaid Trilogy
15 Episodic Tragedy, Antigone, and Indeterminacy at the End of Euripides’ Phoenissae
16 Dramatic Contexts and Literary Fiction in Euripides, Heracles 1340–46
17 Fictions of Space from Old to New Comedy
B. Drama – Intertext
18 The Sphinx: A Greco-Phoenician Hybrid
19 Inviting Socrates: The Prologs of Republic and the Two Symposia
Bibliography
Index of Ancient Sources
Index

Citation preview

Text and Intertext in Greek Epic and Drama

This collection presents 19 interconnected studies on the language, history, exegesis, and cultural setting of Greek epic and dramatic poetic texts (“Text”) and their afterlives (“Intertext”) in Antiquity. Spanning texts from Hittite archives to Homer to Greek tragedy and comedy to Vergil to Celsus, the studies here were all written by friends and colleagues of Margalit Finkelberg who are experts in their particular fields, and who have all been influenced by her work. The papers offer close readings of individual lines and discussion of widespread cultural phenomena. Readers will encounter Hittite precedents to the Homeric poems, characters in ancient epic analyzed by modern cognitive theory, the use of Homer in Christian polemic, tragic themes of love and murder, a history of the Sphinx, and more. Text and Intertext in Greek Epic and Drama offers a selection of fascinating essays exploring Greek epic, drama, and their reception and adaptation by other ancient authors, and will be of interest to anyone working on Greek literature. Jonathan J. Price is the Fred and Helen Lessing Professor of Ancient History at Tel Aviv University, Israel, and the author of books and articles on Greek and Roman historiography, Jewish history of the Roman period, and Jewish epigraphy. Among his publications are Jerusalem Under Siege: The Collapse of the Jewish State, 66–70 C.E. (1992), Thucydides and Internal Conflict (2001), and editions of the Jewish inscriptions in Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae: A Multi-lingual Corpus of the Inscriptions from Alexander to Muhammad, Volumes I–V (2010–2020). Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz is Associate Professor in the Department of Classics, Tel Aviv University, Israel. She is the author of Not Wholly Free: The Concept of Manumission and the Status of Manumitted Slaves in the Ancient Greek World (2005), of Taxing Freedom in Thessalian Manumission Inscriptions (2013), and of several articles on the status of slaves and free non- citizens, on the working of Athenian democracy, and on Greek historiography.

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

Titles include: Underworld Gods in Ancient Greek Religion Death and Reciprocity Ellie Mackin Roberts Bride of Hades to Bride of Christ The Virgin and the Otherworldly Bridegroom in Ancient Greece and Early Christian Rome Abbe Lind Walker Intertextuality in Seneca’s Philosophical Writings Edited by Myrto Garani, Andreas N. Michalopoulos and Sophia Papaioannou Drama, Oratory and Thucydides in Fifth-Century Athens Teaching Imperial Lessons Sophie Mills The Poetics in its Aristotelian Context Edited by Pierre Destrée, Malcolm Heath and Dana L. Munteanu Text and Intertext in Greek Epic and Drama Essays in Honor of Margalit Finkelberg Edited by Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz Frankness, Greek Culture, and the Roman Empire Dana Fields Robert E. Sherwood and the Classical Tradition The Muses in America Robert J. Rabel For more information on this series, visit: https://www.routledge.com/ classicalstudies/series/RMCS

Text and Intertext in Greek Epic and Drama Essays in Honor of Margalit Finkelberg

Edited by Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-367-11063-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-02457-3 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by codeMantra

Contents

List of figures Notes on contributors List of abbreviations List of publications of Margalit Finkelberg

viii x xv xvii



PART I

A. Epic – text

7

 

 





 

 



 



  6 Seeing the unseen in the Iliad 78 H AY DE N PE L L IC C I A

vi

Contents

B. Epic – intertext

101

  7 The melody of Homeric performance 102 C . W. M A R SH A L L

  8 Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon? The Trojan War and royal succession in the Aegean Bronze Age 118 R IC H A R D JA N KO

  9 Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick: a note on the comparative method and Homer 132 I A N RU T H E R FOR D

10 The birth of literary criticism (Herodotus 2.116–17) and the roots of Homeric neoanalysis

147

BRU NO C U R R I E

11 Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard (on Aeneid 1.740–747) 171 A N DR E A RO T S T E I N

12 Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews of Late Antique Palaestina 185 M A R E N R . N I E HOF F

13 Unreportable tokens, speech representation and conventions of textual composition 210 D ON NA SH A L E V

PART II

A. Drama – text

233

14 Boughs and daggers: reading “hand” in Aeschylus’ Suppliants and the Danaid trilogy 235 C H R I S T O S C . T SAGA L I S

15 Episodic tragedy, Antigone, and indeterminacy at the end of Euripides’ Phoenissae 249 T HOM A S H U BBA R D

Contents  vii 16 Dramatic contexts and literary fiction in Euripides, Heracles 1340–46

257

J US T I NA G R E G ORY

17 Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy 271 N I A L L W. SL AT E R

B. Drama – intertext

291

18 The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid 292 CA ROL I NA L ÓPE Z - RU I Z

19 Inviting Socrates: the prologs of Republic and the two Symposia 311 GA BR I E L DA N Z IG

Bibliography Index of ancient sources Index

329 371 387

Figures

5.1 Achilles and Memnon, between Thetis and Eos. Attic black-figure neck amphora, 575–550 BCE. Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University, Durham, North Carolina, Duke University 68 5.2 Achilles and Memnon, between winged Thetis and winged Eos. Attic red-figure cup, 490–480 BCE, by the Castelgiorgio Painter. London, British Museum. ©The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved 71 5.3 Achilles and Memnon, between Thetis and Eos. Attic black-figure neck amphora, ca. 520 BCE. Staatliche Antikensammlung und Glypothek, München 74 6.1 (Sarpedon krater): Athenian, Red Figure calyx krater, Euphronios, potter, and painter; Cerveteri (RM), Museo Nazionale Archeologico Cerite, inv. 145139; Beazley Archive # 187; through the kind permission of Polo Museale del Lazio 93 6.2 (Sarpedon cup): Athenian, Red Figure cup B, Euphronios, painter; Rome, Mus. Naz. Etrusco di Villa Giulia; Beazley Archive # 7043 94 6.3 (Ajax krater): Athenian, Red Figure calyx krater fragment, attributed to Euphronios (Padgett 2001); Rome, Mus. Naz. Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Beazley Archive # 29570 95 6.4 Detail of Figure 6.2. By courtesy of Polo Museale del Lazio—Cerveteri (RM), Museum 96 6.5 Detail of Figure 6.1. By courtesy of Polo Museale del Lazio—Cerveteri (RM), Museum 97



Figures  ix Drawing after Castleden 2005: Figure 5.8 (Drawing by Esther Rodríguez González) 296



Contributors

Maureen Alden read Classics at the University of Liverpool, where she studied Homer and Homeric archaeology with John Pinsent, himself a pupil of H. L. Lorimer. Her teaching interests include Homer, tragedy, and ancient art, and she has published widely on Homer, Bronze Age archaeology, and also on costume, ancient and modern; the latter works include pieces on Homeric comforts for the troops in the Second World War and Homeric influences on the corsetry trade. Her books include Homer Beside Himself: Para-Narratives in the Iliad, and Para-Narratives in the Odyssey. Bruno Currie is an Associate Professor at Oxford University. His chief research interests are in ancient Greek poetry (especially epic and lyric), ancient Greek religion, and the interaction of these two. He is the author of Pindar and the Cult of Heroes (2005) and Homer’s Allusive Art (2016) as well as of several articles, mainly on early Greek epic and lyric poetry, and a co-editor of Epic Interactions. Perspectives on Homer, Virgil, and the Epic Tradition Presented to Jasper Griffin by Former Pupils (2006). He is currently working on a book called Hesiod and Myth. Gabriel Danzig is an Associate Professor and Chair of the Department of Classical Studies at Bar Ilan University. He is the author of Socratic Dialogues (Heb.) and Apologizing for Socrates (Eng.) as well as articles on Plato, Aristotle, Xenophon, Herodotus, and the reception of Greek themes in ancient and medieval Jewish literature. He is the editor recently of Plato and Xenophon: Comparative Studies, and serves as an editor for Scripta Classica Israelica. Deborah Levine Gera is the Shalom Horowitz Professor of Classics at Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Her research interests are the gods in Homer, Classical Greek prose (Herodotus and Xenophon), Book of Judith, and Women in Ancient Greece. Her books include Ancient Greek Ideas on Speech, Language, and Civilization (Oxford 2003) and Judith (Berlin 2014). She is currently working on a study of epic gods. Justina Gregory is Sophia Smith Professor Emerita of Classical Languages and Literatures at Smith College and the author of Euripides and the

Contributors  xi Instruction of the Athenians, University of Michigan Press, 1991; a commentary on Euripides’ Hecuba, Scholars Press, 1999; and Cheiron’s Way: Youthful Education in Homer and Greek Tragedy, Oxford University Press, 2019. She has also edited A Companion to Greek Tragedy, Wiley/ Blackwell, 2005, and published numerous articles on Euripides and Greek tragedy. Thomas Hubbard is the James R. Dougherty, Jr. Centennial Professor of Classics at the University of Texas, Austin. He has authored books and articles on Greek lyric poetry, Greek drama, pastoral poetry, and ancient sexuality, as well as a variety of topics in Roman literature. He is also President of the William A. Percy Foundation for Social and Historical Studies. Richard Janko is currently the Gerald F. Else Distinguished University Professor of Classical Studies at the University of Michigan. His scholarship has focussed on Bronze Age Greece, Homer, early Greek religion and philosophy, ancient literary criticism, and the reconstruction of ancient books on papyrus-rolls. He is the author of Homer, Hesiod and the Hymns; Aristotle on Comedy, followed by an annotated translation of the Poetics itself; and the Cambridge commentary on Iliad 13–16 in the series edited by G. S. Kirk. His reconstruction and edition of Philodemus’ On Poems Book 1 in 2000 won the Goodwin Award of Merit from the American Philological Association. In 2011 he published On Poems Books 3 and 4, which contains a reconstruction of Aristotle’s dialogue On Poets. His edition of Book 2, with the fragments of the lost critics Heracleodorus and Pausimachus, will appear in 2020. Carolina López-Ruiz is a Professor of Classics at The Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio. Her research interests include Greek and Near Eastern literatures and mythology and the Phoenicians’ interaction with other Mediterranean cultures and their presence in Spain. She is the co-editor of Colonial Encounters in Ancient Iberia: Phoenician, Greek, and Indigenous Relations (with Michael Dietler, University of Chicago Press, 2009) and the author of When the Gods Were Born: Greek Cosmogonies and the Near East (Harvard University Press, 2010; transl. into Turkish). She has edited Gods, Heroes, and Monsters: A Sourcebook of Greek, Roman, and Near Eastern Myths in Translation (Oxford 2018, 2nd ed.), and is the co-author of Tartessos: Indigenous Peoples and Phoenician Colonists in the Iberian Peninsula (with Sebastián Celestino, Oxford University Press, 2016; transl. into Spanish) and co-editor of The Oxford Handbook of the Phoenician and Punic Mediterranean (OUP 2019). C. W. Marshall is Professor of Greek at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, Canada. His research areas are Greek and Roman theatre, especially performance and stagecraft, popular culture and the reception of classical literature, genre and structure in classical literature, especially drama. Two of his latest books are: Aeschylus: Libation Bearers,

xii Contributors Bloomsbury 2017; The Structure and Performance of Euripides’ Helen, Cambridge University Press 2014. He coedited (with George Kovacs) Son of Classics and Comics, Oxford University Press 2016; (with Tom Hawkins) Athenian Comedy in the Roman Empire, Bloomsbury 2016. Elizabeth Minchin is Professor Emerita of Classics at the Australian National University. She has published extensively on the Homeric epics and related topics. One special interest has been the application of research in cognitive studies to the epics in order to illuminate aspects of Homeric composition. Another research interest is landscape, myth, and memory, especially in the region of the Troad and the Hellespont. Maren R. Niehoff  holds the Max Cooper Chair in Jewish Thought at the Hebrew University and specializes in the encounter between Judaism and Greco-Roman culture. Her recent books include: Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria (Cambridge University Press, 2011, Polonsky Prize for Originality and Creativity in the Humanistic Disciplines 2011) and Philo of Alexandria: An Intellectual Biography (Yale University Press, 2018, Polonsky Prize 2019). Among the volumes she has edited are: Homer and the Bible in the Eyes of Ancient Interpreters (Brill, 2012) and Journeys in the Roman East: Imagined and Real (Mohr Siebeck, 2017). Hayden Pelliccia has taught classics at Cornell University since 1989. His research area is Greek literature and religion. He is the author of Mind, Body, and Speech in Homer and Pindar (Hypomnemata 107), Göttingen 1995. Jonathan J. Price is the Fred and Helen Lessing Professor of Ancient History at Tel Aviv University, and the author of books and articles on Greek and Roman historiography, Jewish history of the Roman period, and epigraphy. Among his publications are Jerusalem Under Siege: The Collapse of the Jewish State, 66–70 C.E. (1992), Thucydides and Internal Conflict (2001), and editions of the Jewish inscriptions in Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae: A Multi-lingual Corpus of the Inscriptions from Alexander to Muhammad, Volumes I–V (2010–2020). Andrea Rotstein is Associate Professor of Classics at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, having previously taught at the Tel Aviv University Department of Classics. Her first book The Idea of Iambos was published by Oxford University Press in 2010; her second book Literary History in the Parian Marble came out in the Hellenic Studies series of Harvard University Press in 2016. Ian Rutherford is a Professor of Classics at the University of Reading. His research interests are: early Greek poetry; ancient religion, particularly pilgrimage; ancient Anatolia and the Greek world; contacts between ancient Egypt and Greece. He is the author of Pindar’s Paeans (2001) and State-Pilgrims and Sacred Observers (2013).

Contributors  xiii Seth L. Schein is Professor Emeritus of Comparative Literature at the University of California, Davis. He works mainly on Homeric epic, Attic tragedy, and classical receptions. His books include The Iambic Trimeter in Aeschylus and Sophocles: a Study in Metrical Form (1979), The Mortal Hero: an Interpretation of Homer’s Iliad (1984), Reading the Odyssey: Selected Interpretive Essays (1996) [edited], Sophocles, Philoktetes: Translation with introduction, notes, and interpretive essay (2003), Sophocles, Philoctetes (2013), and Homeric Epic and Its Reception: Interpretive Essays (2016). Ruth Scodel,  has retired as D. R. Shackleton Bailey Collegiate Professor of Greek and Latin at the University of Michigan in 2019. Her books include Credible Impossibilities: Conventions and Strategies of Verisimilitude in Homer and Greek Tragedy (1999), Listening to Homer (2002), Epic Facework: Self-presentation and Social Interaction in Homer (2008), (with Anja Bettenworth) Whither Quo Vadis? Sienkiewicz’s Novel in Film and Television (2009), and An Introduction to Greek Tragedy (2010). Donna Shalev is Associate Professor at the Department of Classics at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Since completing the thesis, she has been teaching Greek and Latin language and literature at the Hebrew University, and working on the syntactical patterns, rhetorical strategies, theoretical and cultural aspects of dialogue in ancient Greek and Latin sources. She also researches the Nachleben of Greek texts in the medieval Arabic and medieval and humanist Latin tradition, focussing (1) on works of Plato and Aristotle, as well as on the transmission of rhetorical constructions, dialogue techniques, and cultural and intellectual motifs in their textual presentation and (2) on the medical case histories and formats of scientific writing in the Galenic oeuvre and its medieval Arabic translations. Niall W. Slater is Samuel Candler Dobbs Professor of Latin and Greek, Emory University. He focusses on the ancient theatre and its production conditions, prose fiction, and popular reception of classical literature. His books include Spectator Politics: Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes (Penn 2002); Reading Petronius (JHUP, 1990); and Plautus in Performance: The Theatre of the Mind (Princeton, 1985; 2nd revised edition 2000), as well as translations for The Birth of Comedy (ed. J. S. Rusten, JHUP, 2011) and the Bloomsbury Companion to Euripides’ Alcestis (2013). With C. W. Marshall he co-edits the series Bloomsbury Ancient Comedy Companions. He is currently working on fragments of Roman Republican drama for the new Loeb Fragmentary Republican Latin. Christos C. Tsagalis is Professor of Greek at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Some of his books include Epic Grief: Personal Laments in Homer’s Iliad (2004), The Oral Palimpsest: Exploring Intertextuality in the Homeric Epics (2008), Inscribing Sorrow: Fourth-Century Attic Funerary Epigrams (2008), From Listeners to Viewers: Space in the Iliad (2012), Early Greek

xiv Contributors Epic Fragments: Antiquarian and Genealogical Epic (2017), Omero: Iliade IX–XII. Testo e commento (2019). Ηe has also edited Brill’s Companion to Hesiod (with F. Montanari and A. Rengakos, 2009), The Greek Epic Cycle and its Ancient Reception (with M. Fantuzzi, CUP 2015), and Homer in Performance: Rhapsodes, Narrators, and Characters (with J. L. Ready, 2018). Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz  is Associate Professor at the Department of Classics, Tel Aviv University. She is the author of Not Wholly Free: The Concept of Manumission and the Status of Manumitted Slaves in the Ancient Greek World, Brill, 2005, of Taxing Freedom in Thessalian Manumission Inscriptions, Brill 2013 and of several articles on the status of slaves and free non-citizens, on the working of Athenian democracy and Greek historiography.

Abbreviations

AC L’ AJP ARF AS ASNP BAPD BICS CA CJ CP CR CTH CQ DCPP DELG P. EGM FGrHist G&R GRBS HSCP HEG JAOS JHS JQR JRS KBo

Antiquité Classique The American Journal of Philology Appunti Romani di Filologia Anatolian Studies Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa Beazley Archive Pottery Database: http://www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/ pottery/default.htm Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Classical Antiquity Classical Journal Classical Philology The Classical Review Catalogue des textes hittites, edited by Laroche, Emmanuel. Paris: Klincksieck, 1971 Classical Quarterly Dictionnaire de la Civilisation Phénicienne et Punique Chantraine, Dictionnaire etymologique de la langue greque, 1968–1980. Paris: Klincksiec. Early Greek Mythography i. Text and Introduction, edited by Robert L. Fowler. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000 Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, edited by Felix Jacoby. Berlin: Weidmann, 1923–58 Greece and Rome Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies Harvard Studies in Classical Philology Tischler, Johann, Günter Neumann and Universität Innsbruck. Hethitisches Etymologisches Glossar. Innsbruck: Institut fur Sprachwissenschaft der Universitat Innsbruck. Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal Of Hellenic Studies The Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Roman Studies Keilschrifttexte aus Boghazköi

xvi Abbreviations KUB

Keilschrifturkunden aus Boghazköi (Berlin, Akademie-Verlag) LCM Liverpool Classical Monthly LfgrE Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos, edited by Bruno Snell. Göttingen: Vandenhoek und Ruprecht, 1955–2010 LGPN Fraser, Peter Marshall, Elaine Matthews, Richard WV Catling, J-S. Balzat, Thomas Corsten, and E. Chiricat (eds.). A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987 LIMC Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, edited by the Foundation for LIMC, chaired by Oliver Reverdin (I), Nicholas Yalouris (II & III), Jean Pouilloux (III & IV). Zurich: Artemis Verlag, 1981–97 OCD3 Hornblower, Simon, Antony Spawforth, and Esther Eidinow (eds.). The Oxford classical dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012 PCPS Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society PEG Poetae Epici Graeci. Testimonia et Fragmenta i., edited by Alberto Bernabé. Stuttgart and Leipzig: Teubner, 1996 (1st pub. 1987) PMG Poetae Melici Graeci, edited by Denis L. Page. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962 QUCC Quaderni Urbinati di Cultura Classica Rev. Ét. Lat. Revue des études latines RHA Revue Hittite et Asianique RhM Rheinisches Museum für Philologie RPh Revue de philologie, de littérature et d’histoire anciennes TAPA Transactions of the American Philological Association TrGF Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta i. edited by Bruno Snell, 1971; ii. edited by Richard Kannicht, 1981; iii. Aeschylus, edited by Stefan Radt, 1985; iv. Sophocles, edited by Stefan Radt, 1977; v. Euripides, edited by Richard Kannicht, 2004. Göttingen: Vandenhoek und Ruprecht YCIS Yale Classical Studies WS Wiener Studien ZAW Zeitschrift fur die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft ZPE Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

Publications of Margalit Finkelberg

Books The Birth of Literary Fiction in Ancient Greece. Oxford: Clarendon Press 1998. Reprinted 2004. (ed., with G. G. Stroumsa), Homer, the Bible and Beyond: Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World. Leiden: Brill 2003. Greeks and Pre-Greeks. Aegean Prehistory and Greek Heroic Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2005. Paperback edition 2009. (ed.), The Homer Encyclopedia (3 vols.). Malden, MA/Oxford: WileyBlackwell 2011. The 2011 Outstanding Reference Sources award by the Reference and User Sources Association (RUSA), USA Homer. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press 2014 (Hebrew). The Gatekeeper: Narrative Voice in Plato’s Dialogues. Brill’s Plato Studies Series. Leiden and Boston: Brill 2019. Homer and Early Greek Epic. Collected Essays. Trends in Classics. Berlin: de Gruyter 2020. Poetics in Early Greek Epic. Key Perspectives on Classical Research. Berlin: de Gruyter (under contract)

Articles Homeric diction Is ΚΛΕΟΣ ΑΦΘΙΤΟΝ a Homeric Formula? Classical Quarterly 36 (1986) 1–5. Homer’s View of the Epic Narrative: some formulaic evidence Classical Philology 82 (1987) 135–8. A Note on Some Metrical Irregularities in Homer Classical Philology 83 (1988) 206–11. Formulaic and Nonformulaic Elements in Homer Classical Philology 84 (1989) 179–97.

xviii  Publications of Margalit Finkelberg Homer, a Poet of an Individual Style Scripta Classica Israelica 16 (1997) 1–8. Oral Theory and the Limits of Formulaic Diction Oral Tradition 19/2 (2004) 236–52. More on ΚΛΕΟΣ ΑΦΘΙΤΟΝ Classical Quarterly 57 (2007) 341–50. Late Features in the Speeches of the Iliad In Ø. Andersen and D. T. T. Haug (eds.), Relative Chronology in Early Greek Epic Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2012: 80–95. Oral Formulaic Theory and the Individual Poet In F. Montanari, A. Rengakos and Ch. Tsagalis (eds.), Homeric Contexts. Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter 2012: 73–82. Equivalent Formulae for Zeus in Their Traditional Context In Adam I. Cooper, Jeremy Rau, and Michael Weiss (eds.), Multi Nominis Grammaticus: Studies in Classical and Indo-European Linguistics in Honor of Alan J. Nussbaum on the Occasion of his Sixty-fifth Birthday. Beech Stave Press: Ann Arbor MI and New York 2013: 44–9. Meter and Formula in Homer, Hesiod and the Hymns In A. Becker and J. Lidov (eds.). The Oxford Handbook of Greek and Latin Meter. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Forthcoming. Greek epic tradition Ajax’s Entry in the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women Classical Quarterly 38 (1988) 31–41. The Cypria, the Iliad, and the Problem of Multiformity in Oral and Written Tradition Classical Philology 95 (2000) 1–11. Homer and the Bottomless Well of the Past. A review article of I. Malkin, The Returns of Odysseus (Berkeley 1998) Scripta Classical Israelica 21 (2002) 243–50. The Sources of Iliad 7 In H.M. Roisman and J. Roisman (eds.). Essays on Homeric Epic Colby Quarterly 38.2 (2002) 151–61. Neoanalysis and Oral Tradition in Homeric Studies Oral Tradition 18 (2003) 68–69. The End of the Heroic Age in Homer, Hesiod and the Cycle Ordia Prima 3 (2004) 11–24.

Publications of Margalit Finkelberg  xix Homer and His Peers: Neoanalysis, Oral Theory, and the Status of Homer Trends in Classics 3 (2011) 197–208. Meta-cyclic Epic and Homeric poetry In M. Fantuzzi and Ch. Tsagalis (eds.). The Greek Epic Cycle and Its Ancient Reception. A Companion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015, 126–38. Out of the Mainstream: some thoughts concerning the submersion process of the poems of the Trojan Cycle In Ercolani, A., and Giordano, M., eds, Submerged Literature in Ancient Greek Culture. The Comparative Perspective, Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter, 2016, 33–42. Homer at the Panathenaia: some possible scenatios In Christos Tsagalis and Andreas Markantonatos. (eds.), The Winnowing Oar – New Perspectives in Homeric Studies. Studies in Honor of Antonios Rengakos. Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter, 2017, 29–40. The Formation of the Homeric Epics In F.-H. Mutschler (ed.), Singing the World. The Homeric Epics and the Chinese Book of Songs Compared. Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2018, 15–38. Aegean scripts and languages Minoan Inscriptions on Libation Vessels Minos 25/26 (1990/91) 43–85. (with A. Uchitel) Some Possible Identifications in the Headings of the Linear A Archives Studi micenei ed egeo-anatolici 36 (1995) 29–36. (with A. Uchitel and D. Ussishkin) A Linear A Inscription from Tel Lachish (LACH Za 1) Tel Aviv 23 (1996) 195–207. Updated version in D. Ussishkin (ed.), The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish (1973–94). (Monograph Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv University No. 22). Tel Aviv, 2004. Volume III, pp. 1629–39.] Bronze Age Writing: Contacts between East and West. In E. H. Cline and D. Harris-Cline (eds.). The Aegean and the Orient in the Second Millennium. Proceedings of the 50th Anniversary Symposium, Cincinnati, 18–20 April 1997. Liège 1998. Aegeum 18 (1998) 265–72. The Language of Linear A: Greek, Semitic, or Anatolian? In R. Drews (ed.), Greater Anatolia and Indo-European Language Family. Papers presented at a Colloquium Hosted by the University of

xx  Publications of Margalit Finkelberg Richmond, March 18–19, 2000. Journal of Indo-European Studies. Monograph Series 38 (Washington 2001) 81–105. On signs AB 41 and AB 53 in the Linear A syllabary. In Y. Duhoux (ed.), Briciaka. A Tribute to W. C. Brice Cretan Studies 9 (2003) 37–49. The Eteocretan Inscription from Psychro and the Goddess of Thalamai. Minos 37/38 (2002/2003; published in 2006) 95–97. Aegean Linear Scripts: perspectives and retrospectives Union académique internationale. Quatre-vingt-cinquième session annuelle du Comité. Compte rendu (Brussels 2011) 29–44. Scripts, Dialects, Epic Tradition Forthcoming in Carla Antonaccio and Jane Carter. The Cambridge Companion to the Greek Iron Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Historical linguistics From Ahhiyawa to Ἀχαιαοί Glotta 66 (1988) 127–34. The Dialect Continuum of Ancient Greek Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 96 (1994) 1–36. Anatolian Languages and Indo-European Migrations to Greece Classical World 91 (1997) 3–20. Dialects, Classification of In G. Giannakis (ed.), Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics. Vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill 2014) 461–8 (online 2013). Pre-Greek Languages In G. Giannakis (ed.), Encyclopedia of Ancient Greek Language and Linguistics. Vol. 3 (Leiden: Brill, 2014) 133–6 (online 2013). Lesbian and Mainland Greece In Georgios K. Giannakis, Emilio Crespo, Panagiotis Filos (eds.). Studies in Ancient Greek Dialects. From Central Greece to the Black Sea. Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter 2018, 447–56.

Textual criticism and interpretation Sophocles Tr. 634–9 and Herodotus Mnemosyne 48 (1995) 146–52. The Second Stasimon of the Trachiniae and Heracles’ Festival on Mount Oeta Mnemosyne 49 (1996) 129–43.

Publications of Margalit Finkelberg  xxi Oedipus’ Apology and Sophoclean Criticism: OC 521 and 547 Mnemosyne 50 (1997) 561–76. The Geography of the Prometheus Vinctus Rheinisches Museum 141 (1998) 119–42. Motherhood or Status? Editorial Choices in Soph. El. 187 Classical Quarterly 53 (2003) 368–76 “She Turns About in the Same Spot and Watches for Orion”: ancient criticism and exegesis of Od. 5.274 = Il. 18.488 Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 44 (2004) 231–44 Plato Apology 28d6–29a1 and the Ephebic Oath Scripta Classica Israelica 27 (2008) 9–15. Aeschylus, Septem contra Thebas 780–7 Classical Quarterly 64 (2014) 832–5. doi:10.1017/S0009838814000147 The Dream Simile in Iliad 22 and Aristarchus’ Formula τῇ κατασκευῇ εὐτελεῖς. In A. Rengakos, P. J. Finglass, B. Zimmermann (eds.). More than Homer Knew – Studies on Homer and His Ancient Commentators: In Honor of Franco Montanari. Berlin: de Gruyter 2020, 173–84. Myth and history Royal Succession in Heroic Greece Classical Quarterly 41(1991) 303–16. The Brother’s Son of Tawananna and Others: the rule of dynastic succession in the Old Hittite Kingdom Cosmos 13 (1997) 127–41. Greek Epic Tradition on Population Movements in Bronze Age Greece In R. Laffineur (ed.). POLEMOS. Warfare in the Aegean Bronze Age. Proceedings of the 7th International Aegean Conference held in Liège, Belgium, 14–17 April 1998. 36, 1999 (Liège: Université de Liège). Aegeum 19 (1999) 31–6. Greece in the Eighth Century B.C.E. and the Renaissance Phenomenon In Sh. Shaked (ed.), Genesis and Regeneration. Essays on Conceptions of Origins. (Jerusalem 2005) 62–76. Ino-Leucothea between East and West In I. Rutherford (ed.), Greek Religion and the Orient (JANER 6; Leiden 2006) 105–22. Mopsos and the Philistines: Mycenaean Migrants in Eastern Mediterranean In G. Herman, I. Shatzman (eds.), Greeks between East and West (Jerusalem 2007) 31–44.

xxii  Publications of Margalit Finkelberg Trojan War In M. Finkelberg (ed.), The Homer Encyclopedia (Malden, MA/Oxford 2011) 892–5. Memory or Forgetfulness? The Trojan War between myth and history Aristeas 11 (2015) 17–27.

Poetics and literature The First Song of Demodocus Mnemosyne 40 (1987) 128–32. Enchantment and Other Effects of Poetry in the Homeric Odyssey Scripta Classica Israelica 8/9 (1989) 1–10. How Could Achilles’ Fame Have Been Lost? Scripta Classica Israelica 11 (1991/92) 22–37. A Creative Oral Poet and the Muse American Journal of Philology 111 (1990) 293–303. The Gildersleeve Award for the best article published in AJP in 1990 About the Hero of the Poem without Hero by Anna Akhmatova Russkaya Literatura (Russian Academy of Sciences, S.-Petersburg), 35 no. 3 (1992) 207–24 (Russian). The Shield of Achilles, or Homer’s View of Representation in Art Scripta Classica Israelica 13 (1994) 1–6. Two Kinds of Representation in Greek Religious ArtIn J. Assmann, A. I. Baumgarten (eds.), Representation in Religion: Studies in Honor of Moshe Baras (Leiden 2001) 27–41. Poetry Versus Prose in Ancient Greece In N. Wasserman (ed.), Wool from the Loom. The Development of Literary Genres in Ancient Literature (Jerusalem 2002) 39–46 (Hebrew). A Russian version in Numphôn Antron. A Festschrift for A. A. TachoGodi (Moscow 2010) 432–45. Aristotle and the Episodic Tragedy Greece and Rome 53 (2006) 60–72. The City Dionysia and the Social Space of Attic Tragedy In J. Davidson, F. Muecke, P. Wilson (eds.), Greek Drama III. Essays in Honour of Kevin Lee. BICS Supplement 87 (London 2006) 17–26. Aristotle’s Theory of Tragedy In H. Roisman (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Greek Tragedy. Malden, MA/ Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell (20013) 137–40.

Publications of Margalit Finkelberg  xxiii Diagnosing Fiction: From Plato to Borges In Anders Cullhed and Lena Rydholm (eds.), True Lies Worldwide: Fictionality in Global Contexts. (Berlin: de Gruyter 2014) 153–65. Appeared in Portuguese as ‘Nem verdadeiro nem falso: a invenção da ficção na Athenas clássica’. In Helmut P. E. Galle, Juliana P. Perez, Valéria S. Pereira (eds.). Ficcionalidade. Uma prática cultural e seus contextos. Sao Paulo: FFLCH/USP 2018, 47–62. Tr. Tércio Redondo. Homer’s Motion Pictures: visual aspects of the episode of Odysseus’ scar In Vered Lev Kenaan and Noga Weis (eds.), Childhood Memory and Forgetfulness: Revisiting Odysseus’ Scar. Haifa: Haifa University Press 2018 (Hebrew), 53–62. Frame and Frame-Breaking in Plato’s Dialogues In Eleni Kaklamanou, Maria Pavlou, Antonis Tsakmakis (eds.). Framing the Dialogues: How to Read Openings and Closures in Plato. Leiden: Brill. Forthcoming. The Factual in Antiquity In Monika Fludernik and Marie-Laure Ryan (eds.). Narrative Factuality: A Handbook. Berlin: de Gruyter 2020, 615–24. Homer and Traditional Poetics In New Approaches to Ancient Epic. Special issue. Trends in Classics 12 (2020), 5–15. Berlin: de Gruyter. Transmission and reception Homer as a Foundation Text In M. Finkelberg and G. Stroumsa (eds.). Homer, the Bible and Beyond: Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World (Leiden 2003) 75–96. Reprinted in Harold Bloom (ed.) Homer (Bloom’s Modern Critical Views) 2nd edn (Chelsea House 2007) 169–89; pp. 86–9 reprinted in Harold Bloom (ed.), Homer’s The Iliad. Bloom’s Guides (Philadelphia 2005) 99–102. A revised and abridged version titled ‘The Canonicity of Homer’ was published in Eve-Marie Becker and Stefan Scholz (eds.), Kanon in Konstruktion und Dekonstruktion – antike religiöse und literarische Kanonisierungsprozesse. Ein Handbuch. (Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter 2011) 137–51. Canon-Replacement Versus Canon-Appropriation: The Case of Homer. In G. Dorleijn and H. Vastinphout (eds.), Cultural Repertoires. Structure, Function and Dynamics (Leuven 2003) 145–59. Hebrew traslation in Y’akov Shavit (ed). Canon and Holy Scriptures. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press (2009).

xxiv  Publications of Margalit Finkelberg Regional Texts and the Circulation of Books: the case of Homer. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 46 (2006) 231–48. Elitist Orality and the Triviality of Writing In C. Cooper (ed.), The Politics of Orality (Leiden: Brill 2007) 293–305. Canonising and Decanonising Homer: Reception of the Homeric Poems in Antiquity and Modermity In M. Niehoff (ed.), Homer and the Bible in the Eyes of Ancient Interpreters (Leiden: Brill 2012) 15–28. Boreas and Oreithyia: a case-study in multichannel transmission of myth In R. Scodel (ed.), Between Orality and Literacy: Communication and Adaptation in Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 2014) 87–100. The Original versus the Received Text with Special Emphasis on the Case of the Comma Johanneum International Journal of the Classical Tradition 21 (2014) 183–97. doi:10.1007/ s12138-014-0346-y Roman Reception of the Trojan War In Jonathan Price, Yuval Shachar, Margalit Finkelberg (eds.). Rome: An Empire of Many Nations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2020. Morality, religion and values Odysseus and the Genus ‘Hero’ Greece and Rome 42 (1995) 1–14. Reprinted in The Odyssey (Bloom’s Modern Critical Interpretations) 2nd edn (Chelsea House 2007) 23–36. Patterns of Human Error in Homer Journal of Hellenic Studies 115 (1995) 15–28. Plato’s Language of Love and the Female Harvard Theological Review 90 (1997) 231–61. Time and Arete in Homer Classical Quarterly 48 (1998) 15–28. Virtue and Circumstances: on the city-state concept of arete American Journal of Philology 123 (2002) 35–49. Religion and Biography in Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus In D. Shulman, G. Stroumsa (eds.), Self and Self-Transformation in the History of Religions (Oxford-New York 2002) 173–82. Greek Distrust of Language. In S. La Porta and D. Shulman (eds.), The Poetics of Grammar and the Metaphysics of Sound and Sign (Leiden: Brill 2007) 81–8.

Publications of Margalit Finkelberg  xxv The Olympians and the Chthonians In M. Kister et al. (eds.), Ancient Gods (Jerusalem 2008) 90–101 (Hebrew). E. R. Dodds and the Irrational: ‘Agamemnon’s Apology’ Revisited’ Scripta Classica Israelica 31 (2012) 101–8.

Shorter encyclopedia entries (up to 1000 words) ‘Dorians’ (750 words) In M. Gagarin (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome (7 vols.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2010. aretê (500 words), ‘Athenians’ (500), ‘Dorians’ (500), ‘Handicrafts’ (1000), ‘Kalchas’ (500), ‘Linear B’ (1000), ‘Prophecy’ (1000), ‘Reception, from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment’ (1000), ‘Speeches’ (1000); also ‘Abydos’, ‘Adrasteia’, ‘Adrastos’, ‘Aeolids’, ‘Aietes’, ‘Aigeus’, ‘Aigyptios’, ‘Akamas’, ‘Aktorione’, ‘Alastor’, ‘Alkathoos’, ‘Alkestis’, ‘Alkimedon’, ‘Alkmaon’, ‘Alpheios’, ‘Altes’, ‘Amarynkeus’, ‘Amisodaros’, ‘Amphidamas’, ‘Amphilochos’, ‘Amphimachos’, ‘Amphimedon’, ‘Amphinomos’, ‘Amphios’, ‘Amphitrite’, ‘Amyntor’, ‘Ankaios’, ‘Apologue’, ‘Arcadians’, ‘Archelochos’, ‘Argos’, ‘Astyoche’, ‘Athos’, ‘Augeias’, ‘Chromios’, dêmioergoi, ‘Diokles’, ‘Dodona’, ‘Dymas’, ‘Emathia’, ‘Epidauros’, ‘Epirus’, ‘Eriphyle’, ‘Eteokles’, ‘Euenos’, ‘Europa’, ‘Gerenian’, ‘Hypereia’, ‘Ino’, ‘Kapaneus’, ‘Kephallenes’, ‘Kolos machê’, ‘Magnetes’, ‘Megapenthes’, ‘Megara’, ‘Mekisteus’, ‘Melampous’, ‘Minyan’, ‘Nereus’, ‘Orsilochos’, ‘Ortilochos’, ‘Peneleos’, ‘Perrhaebians’, ‘Phlegyes’, ‘Phylake’, ‘Phylakos’, ‘Phyleus’, ‘Pieria’, ‘Pittheus’, ‘Plakos’, ‘Podarkes’, ‘Polykaste’, ‘Polyneikes’, ‘Proitos’, ‘Protesilaos’, ‘Proteus’, ‘Pylos’, ‘Salmoneus’, ‘Selloi’, ‘Sintians’, ‘Sthenelos’, ‘Talaos’, ‘Talent’, ‘Talthybios’, ‘Teuthras’, ‘Thesprotians’, ‘Thoas (3)’, ‘Titaresios’, ‘Tityos’, ‘Tychios’ In M. Finkelberg (ed.), The Homer Encyclopedia (3 vols.). Malden, MA/ Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell 2011.

Reviews Jan Best and Fred Woudhuizen, Lost Languages from the Mediterranean (Leiden 1989) Mediterranean Historical Review 7 (1992) 101–2. Zweihundert Jahre Homer-Forschung. Rückblick und Ausblick. Herausgegeben von Joachim Latacz (Teubner Stuttgart und Leipzig 1991). Scripta Classica Israelica 14 (1995) 151–4. Richard Seaford. Reciprocity and Ritual. Homer and Tragedy in the Developing City-State (Oxford 1994) Scripta Classica Israelica 16 (1997) 259–60.

xxvi  Publications of Margalit Finkelberg Marco Fantuzzi and Roberto Pretagostini (Eds.), Struttura e storia dell’esametro greco. Studi di metrica classica 10. 2 vols. (Roma: Gruppo editioriale internazionale 1995–96). Bryn Mawr Classical Review 9 (1998.1) 37–42. Peter Scholz. Der Philosoph und die Politik. Die Ausbildung der philosophischen Lebensform und die Entwicklung des Verhältnisses von Philosophie und Politik im 4. und 3. Ih. v. Chr. (Franz Steiner Verlag. Stuttgart 1998). Bryn Mawr Classical Review 98.11.04 H.G. Liddel, R. Scott, H. Stuart Jones and R. McKenzie (eds.).GreekEnglish Lexicon. Revised Supplement, ed. by P.G.W. Glare (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1996). Scripta Classica Israelica 18 (1999) 180–1. Robert Parker, Athenian Religion. A History (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1996) Scripta Classica Israelica 18 (1999) 181–3. Elisabeth W. Barber, The Mummies of Ürümchi (Macmillan 1999) The Times Higher Education Supplement July 21 2000. Michael Clarke, Flesh nd Spirit in the Songs of Homer. A Study of Words and Myths (Oxford University Press 2000) The Times Higher Education Supplement September 7 2001. Mary Beard, The Invention of Jane Harrison (Harvard University Press 2000) The Times Higher Education Supplement February 22 2002. Jonathan Burgess, The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle (The Johns Hopkins University Press 2001) Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2002.09.04 Dieter Hertel. Die Mauern von Troja. Mythos und Geschichte im antiken Ilion (München: C.H. Beck 2003). Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2003.12.10 Martin L. West. Homeri Ilias. Vols. I-II (Stuttgart and Leipzig: Bibliotheca Teubneriana 1998; Munich and Leipzig: K.G. Saur 2000) Martin L. West, Studies in the Text and Transmission of the Iliad (Munich and Leipzig: K.G. Saur 2001). Scripta Classica israelica 34 (2005) 283–5. F. Montanari, ed. Omero tremila anni dopo. Atti del congresso di Genova 6–8 luglio 2000. Con la collaborazione di Paola Ascheri (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura 2002) Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2005.09.75

Publications of Margalit Finkelberg  xxvii Marc C. Amodio (ed.). New Directions in Oral Theory (Tempe, Arisona 2005) Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2006.07.67 The Trojan War. By Carol G. Thomas and Craig Conant (Westport, CT Greenwood Press 2005). The Historian 68 (2006) 652–3. John Heath. The Talking Greeks. Speech, Animals, and the Other in Homer, Aeschylus, and Plato (Cambridge 2005) Classical Review 56.2 (2006) 273–4. Gregory Nagy. Homer’s Text and Language (University of Illinois Press: Urbana and Chicago 2004) Gnomon (2007) 1–4. Wolfgang Kullmann. Realität, Imagination und Theorie. Kleine Schriften zu Epos und Tragödie in der Antike. Herausgegeben von Antonios Rengakos. Franz Steiner Verlag Stuttgart 2002. Scripta Classica Israelica 26 (2007) 215–16. Mark Payne. Theocritus and the Invention of Fiction, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Scripta Classica Israelica 29 (2010), 115–16. Homer Iliad Book VI. Edited by Barbara Graziosi and Johannes Haubold. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2010 Gnomon 84 (2012) 452–3. Minna Skafte Jensen. Writing Homer. A study based on results from modern fieldwork. Copenhagen: The Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters 2011. Scripta Classica Israelica 32 (2013) 257–9. Homer. Odyssey. Translated by Aharon Shabtai. Tel Aviv: Schocken 2014. Haaretz 18.9.2014 (Hebrew). Joseph Geiger. The Tents of Japheth. Greek Intellectuals in Ancient Palestine. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi 2012. Cathedra Quarterly 154 (2015) 179–82 (Hebrew). Homer. Iliad. Translated by Aharon Shabtai. Tel Aviv: Schocken 2016. Haaretz 2.9.2016 (Hebrew). Homers Ilias. Gesamtkommentar (Basler Kommentar / BK). Herausgegeben von Anton Bierl und Joachim Latacz. Band X – 14. Gesang. Faszikel 1: Text und Übersetzung von Martin L. West (Text) und Joachim Latacz (Übersetzung). Faszikel 2: Kommentar von Martha Krieter-Spiro.

xxviii  Publications of Margalit Finkelberg Berlin/Boston – de Gruyter. 2015. Homers Ilias. Gesamtkommentar (Basler Kommentar / BK). Herausgegeben von Anton Bierl und Joachim Latacz. Band XI – 18. Gesang. Faszikel 1: Text und Übersetzung von Martin L. West (Text) und Joachim Latacz (Übersetzung). Faszikel 2: Kommentar von Marina Coray. Berlin/ Boston – de Gruyter. 2016. Gnomon 90 (2018) 361–2. Pironti (G.), Bonnet (C.) (edd.) Les dieux d’Homère. Polythéisme et poésie en Grèce ancienne. (Kernos Supplément 31.) Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège, 2017. Classical Review 68.2 (2018) doi:10.1017/S0009840X18001531 Jonathan Ready.The Homeric Simile in Comparative Perspectives: Oral Traditions form Saudi Arabia to Indonesia. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2018. Classical Philology 114.2 (April 2019), 310–13 (published online 15 January 2019). B. Sammons. Device and Composition in the Greek Epic Cycle. New York: Oxford University Press. 2017. Journal of Hellenic Studies 139 (2019), 238–9. S. Hornblower and G. Biffis (eds.). The Returning Hero. Nostoi and Traditions of Mediterranean Settlement. Oxford: Oxford University Press 2018. Forthcoming in Journal of Hellenic Studies 2020.

Translations Josephus Flavius. The Jewish War (into Russian). Moscow-Jerusalem: Gesharim. 1991. 2nd ed. 1999; 3rd ed. 2011. (The Rose Ettinger Award, Jerusalem 1994). Mikhail Kuzmin: Alexandian Songs. The Hostile Sea. Translated from Russian, with introduction and notes, by Margalit Finkelberg and Amir Or. Helicon 23 (1997) 93–107 (Hebrew). Plato, The Symposium (into Hebrew). Tel Aviv: Chargol 2001. Plato. Phaedrus (into Hebrew). Tel Aviv: Chargol 2010. Libanius, Epistle 1342. In Daniela Dueck, Deborah Levine Gera and Nurit Shoval-Dudai (eds.), The Words of Japheth. An Anthology of Writings by Greek Intellectuals in Ancient Palestine. Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi: Jerusalem, 2018, 143–4 (Hebrew).

Introduction Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz

While the present volume originates in a conference given in honor of Professor Margalit Finkelberg in June 2017 at Tel Aviv University, the roster of the conference and the contents of this book are not identical. Not only have some conference papers been excluded, but more importantly five have been added, with the purpose of creating a thematically coherent and engaging volume that reflects a significant part, but by no means the whole of Margalit Finkelberg’s marvelously broad and profound scholarly product. That product includes important, field-changing studies in Homer and the Greek epic tradition, “the birth of literary fiction” (the title of her path-breaking book of 1998), ancient literary canons, ancient literary theory, Greek philosophical dialog, ancient morality and religion, ancient myth, textual criticism (Homer, Greek tragedians, Plato), Aegean pre-history, Aegean scripts and language (with particularly important advances in the decipherment of Linear A), historical linguistics, art history. In addition, Finkelberg has published illuminating studies on how later generations read, understood and used classical myths and texts, an entire area of scholarship blandly termed Classical Reception but comprising an exciting and expanding field of intellectual history which, for the Western tradition, begins with the first Greek text, Homer. No single volume can embrace or even superficially reflect this extraordinary range of scholarship, thus we have decided to focus on the field in which Finkelberg made her first and perhaps most lasting impact, Homer and ancient epic, and another area in which her pen has been particularly prolific, ancient drama, as well as the afterlives in classical antiquity of those two genres. Hence, a connected series of articles on “text and intertext” in epic and drama, written by friends and colleagues who are all experts credited with original contributions in their particular fields, and who have all been influenced by her extensive oeuvre. The first article draws on insights by Finkelberg to illuminate Homer’s original treatment of certain aspects of the myths found in the epic cycle. In “Homer’s Innocent Aeneas and Traditions of the Troad”, Ruth Scodel examines a prominent instance of what Finkelberg has called poetic “disacknowledgment”, or the deliberate suppression by Homer of an important

2  Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz character or theme in the epic cycle, in this case Aeneas’ part in the abduction of Helen; the city Troy would be destroyed, but Aeneas, with limited guilt in the original crime, would survive as heroic ancestor of the Trojan people. In a similar vein, the enigmatic fragmentary poem Sappho 44 is read as a celebration of the wedding of Hector and Andromache as a kind of proleptic view to the future, skipping over the known Trojan disaster to Sappho’s present, when cities of the Troad, founded by the couple’s descendants, flourished. The focus then shifts to linguistic and literary elements in the Homeric epics, dealt with in three papers. Seth Schein, “Formulaic Diction and Contextual Relevance: Notes on the Meaning of Formulaic Epithets in Iliad 1”, addresses a matter that Finkelberg dealt with in her first published article (CQ 36, 1986, 1–5) and in several subsequent studies, namely, Homeric formulaic diction. Challenging the traditional view established by Milman Parry, that epithets in oral poetry have merely functional or ornamental value, Schein demonstrates that epithets are used by Homer to lend dramatic force to a situation or utterance, and the metrical or narrative context in which an epithet is used can disclose latent meanings of literary power and innovation. From the building blocks of epic verse, the scope widens to different aspects of Homer’s artistry, taken up by Maureen Alden and Elizabeth Minchin. Alden, in “Babies in the Iliad Book 6: Astyanax and Dionysus”, points out the striking proximity of the story of Dionysius’ pursuit by Lycurgus and plunge into the sea, as told by Diomedes in Book 6 of the Iliad, and Astyanax’s reaction to his father Hector, in Hector and Andromache’s homilia, recalling the tradition of his death after being hurled from a tower of the city. The parallel allows the reader to make the connection between the frightened baby Astyanax and the violent pursuit of the young Dionysus and his hurling into a body of water. The difference between the parallel stories is of course that the immortal Dionysius was received and embraced by Thetis in the sea, whereas Astyanax died a “crimson death”. Elizabeth Minchin, in “Reading Emotional Intelligence: Antilochus and Achilles in the Iliad”, draws attention to a smile, specifically Achilles’ smile when Antilochus refuses to give up his prize in the chariot race during the funeral games of Patroclus (23.555). The smile, a unique and significant moment in the Iliad, and a potential window into the complex and much-debated character and inner life of Achilles has been variously interpreted. Minchin makes a strong argument that Achilles’ smile is one of compassion and understanding, i.e., that Achilles is able to understand the emotional reaction of another person and identify the same emotion in himself. This conclusion is based on the employment of a modern model of emotional intelligence, based on four mental aptitudes. Achilles’ smile is “a smile of recognition”; it is an outward, legible sign of emotional intelligence. Widening the scope even further, to the relationship between the Homeric poems and other poems in the epic cycle, Deborah Levine Gera, in “Two

Introduction  3 Mothers: Eos and Thetis in the Aithiopis”, addresses a problem that has occupied Finkelberg (cf. Finkelberg 2011 and 2015 in the bibliography), i.e., the relationship between the Iliad and the continuation of the epic story in the lost Aithiopis. Whereas Finkelberg et al. have focused attention on the relationship between the two poems, Gera tries to flesh out and interpret a particular episode preserved in a later summary, the battle between Achilles and Memnon, in which their divine mothers, Thetis and Eos, play a part. Comparing the scrappy textual remnants of the Aithiopis with vase paintings, it is clear that the presence of the mother of each hero on the battlefield was conceived, if not in the epic poem itself (this cannot be known), then in later representations as integral to the story, adding emotional depth and complexity to the scene. The variations in the artistic portrayals of the scene reflect what would have been variations in different poetic performances of it. But the artistic purpose remains: mothers are concerned about their warrior sons but are powerless to protect them. In the final article on the texts of epic poetry in this collection, the cinematic nature, or “visualization project”, of Homeric narrative is illuminated by Hayden Pelliccia, “Seeing the Unseen in the Iliad”. Much like tragedy, Homer so constructed scenes that the audience could easily visualize the action, even and especially in scenes involving the interaction of mortals and gods. Vase painters of the time depicted dramatic dilemmas from Homer, working out interpretive problems. Pelliccia points out that the visualization of drama anticipates by several centuries Aristotle’s prescriptions for continuity in tragic drama. These first six treatments of epic poetry are balanced by seven studies of intertextual readings with epic poetry. Performance is the first topic. C.W. Marshall, “The Melody of Homeric Performance”, proposes a method for extrapolating from the written text features of the performing bard’s melodic improvisations and musical accompaniment on a four-stringed instrument. Marshall’s method uses pitch, verbal repetitions, the representation of aoidoi in Homeric poetry and speculation about the tuning of a fourstringed instrument to explain how a singer could produce a musically complex accompaniment without a written score, in the course of the actual performance. Margalit Finkelberg has long been interested in, and written extensively about, the cultural milieu in which the Homeric epics were created, with particular sensitivity to thematic and linguistic parallels from non-Greek cultures. Richard Janko, “Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon? The Trojan War and Royal Succession in the Aegean Bronze Age”, draws on Finkelberg’s insights into succession patterns in Greek myths, which depict father-son succession as unsuccessful and destructive, preferring a competition by suitors for the king’s daughter and kingdom; Finkelberg noted further that stories depicting rule as alternating between two patrilineal clans have a basis in historical reality. In this light, Janko points out the treaty in the Hittite archives with Alaksandu of Wilusa, who was obviously Alexandros, as a

4  Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz historical example of that principle of succession. The king’s refusal to nominate his offspring with the Greek princess as heir to the realm provided the Greeks a reason for war and the fantasies that attended their version of the story. Different insights from Hittite texts are uncovered by Ian Rutherford, “Substitute, Sacrifice and Sidekick: A Note on the Comparative Method and Homer”. In a close reading of Hittite texts from the 14–13c BCE, he draws out convincing parallels between Hittite recorded traditions and the Greek-Trojan War in the epic cycle. This is less an invitation to draw direct lines of influence than an explanation of similar rituals in the Greek and Anatolian cultures. The earliest critical reader of Homer on record is Herodotus, who in a famous extended passage (2.116–17) tries to extract from certain hexameters in the Iliad and Odyssey historical data as well as something about Homeric compositional principles. Following on a well-known study by Margalit Finkelberg on “the problem of multiformity in oral and written tradition” (Classical Philology 95, 2000, 1–11), Bruno Currie, in “The Birth of Literary Criticism (Herodotus 2.116–17) and the Roots of Homeric Neoanalysis”, extracts from the Herodotean passage a “neoanalysis” of Homer, or the use of later traditions to extrapolate sources for the poem. Currie’s interpretation of fifth-century neoanalysis sheds critical light on modern neoanalytical and Orientalizing approaches to Homer’s texts. From the fifth century BCE we pass to the Roman period. Among the many Homeric intertextual readings in Vergil’s great epic, Andrea Rotstein, “Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard (on Aeneid 1.740–7)”, sees in the performance by the local bard Iopas, at the banquet held by Dido in Carthage, “a crossroad of traditions”: the description of the performance invokes equally Greek epic and philosophical poetry, on the one hand, and Phoenician-Punic associations, on the other. The brief but detailed scene represents the universality of song and poetic narrative. More than two centuries after Vergil, Homer was still a cultural asset not only among “pagan” readers but also Christians and Jews. Finkelberg wrote fundamental studies of Homer’s place in later literary canons; Homeric readings by both Christians and Jews are fascinatingly explored by Maren Niehoff in her analysis of the use of Homer in Origen’s Contra Celsum, “Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews of Late Antique Palaestina”. While Celsus, the Platonic philosopher from Alexandria, used Homer extensively in his attack on Christianity, the Christian scholar Origen, in his response, employed Homer not in direct riposte to Celsus but in an indirect address to the Jews in Caesarea, to persuade them of the truth of Christianity; in this respect it is crucial that the Jerusalem Talmud records rabbinic sanction for reading Homer. In the last intertextual reading of Homer, Donna Shalev, “Unreportable Tokens, Speech Representation and Conventions of Textual Composition”, addresses technical questions of diegesis or narration of known stories. This study is a corollary to Margalit Finkelberg’s new study of narrative in Plato’s dialogs (The Gatekeeper: Narrative Voice in Plato’s Dialogues, Leiden 2019).

Introduction  5 Whereas Finkelberg concentrates on literary and philosophical matters in mimetic narrative, Shalev, using inter alia a Homeric hymn and Socrates’ paraphrase of the first scene of the Iliad in Republic III, examines elements such as tokens and utterances that are not—and cannot be—mimetically reported: such narrative and grammatical elements resist paraphrase and translation. This study of formal aspects of diegetic modes is applicable to all instances of mimesis. The second part of this book consists of six papers on ancient drama and intertextual readings of drama. Christos C. Tsagalis, “Boughs and Daggers: Reading ‘Hand’ in Aeschylus’ Suppliant Women and the Danaid Trilogy”, finds in the single word ἐγχειριδίοις, a hapax legomenon used by the chorus of the Danaids at the beginning of Aeschylus’ Suppliants, a thread which leads to and binds together the themes of love, democracy and murder throughout the play and, presumably, the trilogy. Hands and the touch of hands inform the background and the actions in the plays: from Zeus’ touch of Io, giving birth to the Danaids themselves, to the democratic process of voting by raising hands to the acts of violence perpetrated by stabbing. Tsagalis writes: “Aeschylus explores not only the darker sides of human nature but also the laws governing natural order”. Thomas Hubbard, “Episodic Tragedy, Antigone, and Indeterminacy at the End of Euripides’ Phoenissae”, draws on Finkelberg’s observation in her Else lecture at the University of Michigan (Greece & Rome 53, 2006, 60–72) that episodic tragedy and Platonic episodic dialogs challenged, already in antiquity, Aristotle’s notion of unitarian plot based on probability and necessity. Hubbard strengthens this challenge in a close study of the role of Antigone in Euripides’ highly episodic play Phoenissae, thereby construing a different relation between the audience and the dramatic characters. Antigone has long been suspected as irrelevant in that play, and has even been excised entirely by some editors. Hubbard argues that Antigone’s uncertainty and confusion, and the open-endedness of the play, were intended by Euripides to show Antigone’s finally taking control of her own fate, her determination “to confront an open future”, in the midst of so much loss and self-annihilation by men. Character and plot present a different sort of problem examined by Justina Gregory, “Dramatic Contexts and Literary Fiction in Euripides, Heracles 1340–46”. The lines indicated in the title, spoken by Heracles, seem to depart from the drama for a metapoetical comment on the “poetics of fiction”, to use a term Gregory draws from Finkelberg’s path-breaking Birth of Literary Fiction in Ancient Greece (1998). Yet Gregory demonstrates that, far from undermining the plot or serving as an abrupt disconnected statement of the poet’s philosophy, Heracles is in fact speaking the lines to respond directly to his kinsman Theseus in a way wholly in character and consonant with the play’s themes and its exploration of truth in poetic inspiration. The final piece on dramatic texts also draws in Finkelberg’s distinction between the poetics of truth and the poetics of fiction. In the comic genre,

6  Jonathan J. Price and Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz Niall W. Slater, “Fictions of Space from Old to New Comedy”, finds a fully developed poetics of fiction in the uses of space, both real and referenced spaces offstage, only in New Comedy; this development from Old Comedy parallels the “more complex fictions of character” in New Comedy, as well. An important figure in Greek mythology and drama is the mysterious Sphinx. Carolina López-Ruiz, in her detailed study, “The Sphinx: A Greco-Phoenician Hybrid”, removes some of the mystery of the Sphinx by demonstrating that this important hybrid figure with the role of royal guard (and possibly “strangler”, the Greek name, derived from σφίγγω, possibly translating ḥnqt, the name of a Phoenician or Aramaic demon) arrived in Greece through Phoenician art and practice. Thus, the creature was not adopted randomly by the Greeks, as often claimed, but, López-Ruiz argues, was “the product of a perfect understanding of the meaning, name, and function of the borrowed cultural artifact, and a unique testimony of the sharing of language, art, and myth”. The final paper brings us back to the subject of Finkelberg’s most recent work involving theatrical elements in Socratic dialogs. Gabriel Danzig, “Inviting Socrates: the prologues of Republic and the two Symposia”, shows how the opening invitation-scenes in Plato’s Republic and the Symposia of Plato and Xenophon provide dramatic illustrations of philosophical topics addressed in each dialog. Plato indirectly introduces metaphysical doctrines and relates to political realities in the opening of the Republic, and gives a prelude to doctrines of eros in the opening scene of the Symposium. Xenophon reacts against these themes in the opening of his Symposium, directing the reader’s attention, and the work itself, toward thoughts on aristocratic behavior and character. The papers here, in their richness and variety in content, technique and purpose, all in their way reflect different aspects of Professor Finkelberg’s rich and varied work, which even after her retirement shows no signs of abating. May it continue for many years to come.

Part I

A. Epic – text

1

Homer’s innocent Aeneas and traditions of the Troad Ruth Scodel

This paper both revisits the familiar debate about the rescue of Aeneas in the Iliad and the prophecy of Poseidon about his future, and proposes a new interpretation of Sappho 44. Scholars have not paid enough attention to what the Iliad either does not know or, more likely, suppresses about Aeneas: his participation in the abduction of Helen. The Iliad and the Cycle also obliterate the future line of Hector, although Scamandrius, son of Hector, was claimed as a co-founder of cities in the Troad.

1.1 Aeneas as innocent The Aeneas-Achilles encounter in Iliad Book 20 has generated a vast scholarly discussion.1 Aeneas, incited to fight Achilles by Apollo, is rescued by the otherwise pro-Achaean god Poseidon because he is fated to survive and rule over Trojans in the future: ἀλλ’ ἄγεθ’, ἡμεῖς πέρ μιν ὑπὲκ θανάτου ἀγάγωμεν, μή πως καὶ Κρονίδης κεχολώσεται, αἴ κεν Ἀχιλλεὺς τόνδε κατακτείνῃ· μόριμον δέ οἵ ἐστ’ ἀλέασθαι, ὄφρα μὴ ἄσπερμος γενεὴ καὶ ἄφαντος ὄληται Δαρδάνου, ὃν Κρονίδης περὶ πάντων φίλατο παίδων οἳ ἕθεν ἐξεγένοντο γυναικῶν τε θνητάων. ἤδη γὰρ Πριάμου γενεὴν ἔχθηρε Κρονίων· νῦν δὲ δὴ Αἰνείαο βίη Τρώεσσιν ἀνάξει καὶ παίδων παῖδες, τοί κεν μετόπισθε γένωνται (Il. 20.300–8) But come, let us lead him away from death, lest maybe the son of Cronus will be angry, if Achilles kills this man. For he is fated to escape, in order that the offspring of Dardanus not perish without seed and disappear—Dardanus whom the son of Cronus loved more than all the children who were born to him and mortal woman. For by now the son of Cronus has conceived hatred for the offspring of Priam. As it is, mighty Aeneas will rule among the Trojans, and his children’s children, those born later.2

10  Ruth Scodel Achilles is surprised to realize that Aeneas must be dear to the immortals. The prophecy is obviously similar to Aphrodite’s promise to Anchises in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite: σοὶ δ’ ἔσται φίλος υἱὸς ὃς ἐν Τρώεσσιν ἀνάξει καὶ παῖδες παίδεσσι διαμπερὲς ἐκγεγάονται· (H. Aph. 196–7) You will have a dear son, who will rule among the Trojans, and sons will be born continually to his sons. Discussion has centered on the relationship of this passage, Il. 20.300–8, to the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite and to the possible existence of Aeneiadae, whose patronage may have inspired both the Hymn and this passage.3 There are, however, perplexities with the hypothesis that the passage reflects such patronage. Aeneas does not appear in an especially heroic light. Not only does he require a divine rescue (his second), but the passage also narrates an earlier occasion when he fled Achilles. So scholars have speculated that the Iliad does not directly respond to patronage, but adapts a poem that did, one in which perhaps it was Achilles who required a god’s rescue.4 Even the Hymn to Aphrodite seems an odd product if it was intended to please a family by celebrating its origins, since it emphasizes how the events it narrates embarrass the goddess, who does not want them to be known. On the other hand, significant aspects of the passage have been relatively neglected. When Poseidon proposes the rescue of Aeneas from Achilles, he exclaims emphatically that Aeneas does not deserve to die: ἀλλὰ τίη νῦν οὗτος ἀναίτιος ἄλγεα πάσχει μὰψ ἕνεκ’ ἀλλοτρίων ἀχέων, κεχαρισμένα δ’ αἰεὶ δῶρα θεοῖσι δίδωσι, τοὶ οὐρανὸν εὐρὺν ἔχουσιν; (Il. 20.297–9) But why now does this man, who is innocent, suffer pains, for no reason, because of the griefs of others, when he always gives pleasing gifts to the gods who hold wide heaven? Aeneas must be saved as a descendant of Dardanus (303–6), because, of all his children with mortal women, Zeus loved Dardanus most, but he hates Priam’s line. Aeneas is fated to survive and rule over Trojans (307–9). There are two questionable points in this speech. First, there is no other indication that Zeus hates the line of Priam. On the contrary, he expresses pity for Hector more than once, although he has determined that Troy will fall, and even considers rescuing him from Achilles. Hector, no less than Aeneas, has made offerings. Second, however, for the external audience, Aeneas could be very far from guiltless. According to Proclus’ summary of the Cypria, at

Homer’s innocent Aeneas  11 the instigation of his mother he sailed with Paris when Paris went to abduct Helen, and vase paintings confirm this information. Aeneas is present and labeled on Boston 13.186 (signed by Makron), and on Cincinnati 1962.386–8, from the mid-fifth century.5 Either the Iliad-poet knows the tradition of Aeneas’ participation in the abduction, and suppresses it, or he happens not to know it, or it is a later development. Here the emphatic tone of Poseidon’s speech becomes salient: ἀναίτιος (“innocent”) is repeated by μάψ (“pointlessly,” “for no reason”), which is then glossed by ἕνεκ’ ἀλλοτρίων ἀχέων (“because of the griefs of other people”). Poseidon seems to be protesting too much, especially since elsewhere in the Iliad such moral responsibility is not at issue when the gods debate whether to intervene. Bruce Louden has suggested that Aeneas is a survivor of the apocalyptic destruction of his city as the “one just man,” like Lot or Utnapishtim, but he can only fit this role if his part in Helen’s abduction is suppressed.6 Otherwise, Aeneas was guilty as sin. It is striking that after Pandarus treacherously wounds Menelaus, Aeneas joins with him and does not reproach him in any way (Il. 5.179–238). No other Trojan does so, either. The episode seems thematically to repeat the abduction of Helen, and it concludes with Aeneas’ loss of his horses to Diomedes.7 Similarly, the Iliad’s famously odd “wrath of Aeneas” at Il. 13.459–61 may reflect the narrator’s desire to distance Aeneas from the “bad” side of the Trojan royal house. The Hymn says that Aeneas will rule (ἀνάξει) the Trojans and that his line will never fail (196–7), but Aphrodite says nothing about rule after Aeneas himself and nothing about Troy’s fall or her future son’s heroic qualities. 8 The Iliad, however, promises that his descendants will also rule (20.307–8), and Achilles’ mockery of what he imagines Aeneas hopes, that he will become ruler of Troy (20.179–83), makes Poseidon’s prophecy even more salient. Indeed, the Iliad’s Aeneas is complicated: he kills five Achaeans (more than any other Trojan but Hector), but nowhere in the tradition does he have a major achievement in the war, and in probably traditional episodes—the loss of his horses, and his flight from Achilles (20.188–94), he fails—although he survives both. Aeneas does not have a developed epithet system. Indeed, he has no unique epithet other than a patronymic, ἐΰς πάϊς Ἀγχίσαο. Twice he is Ἀγχισιάδης, but this epithet is not even unique to him. The Aeneas-tradition does not look very deep and rich. West asks why the Cypria needed Aeneas to go to Sparta, suggesting that he went straight back to Troy to report, while Paris stopped at Sidon and elsewhere.9 Herodotus, of course, says that in the Cypria Paris returned directly to Troy (2.117), and if there were multiple versions of the poem, we cannot be certain that the same version included both Aeneas’ participation and eastern wanderings of Paris and Helen10 But Aeneas’ participation is surely far more significant, since it implicates both branches of the Trojan royal house in Paris’ crime. Homer’s Aeneas fits the tendency of the Iliad to limit Trojan guilt and create sympathy for them, even as Aeneas’ lack of heroic success is also typical of the poem’s Trojans.11This looks like an

12  Ruth Scodel example of what our laudanda has called “disacknowledgment”: the poet implicitly, yet pointedly contradicts stories known from the Cycle.12 Finally, Poseidon’s promise that Aeneas will rule over “Trojans” is peculiarly unspecific. Poseidon says nothing about where Aeneas and his people will be. The Hymn to Aphrodite (196–7) is similarly reticent. An auditor who had no prior assumptions would surely assume that he would rule them at Troy, but the poet surely avoids the place-name precisely in order to avoid that assertion. Such an assumption would give a peculiar twist to Hector’s premonition of the fall of Troy, since what he foresees is the destruction of Priam’s city: ἔσσεται ἦμαρ ὅτ’ ἄν ποτ’ ὀλώλῃ Ἴλιος ἱρὴ καὶ Πρίαμος καὶ λαὸς ἐϋμμελίω Πριάμοιο (Il. 6.448–9) There will be a day when eventually holy Ilium will perish, and Priam, and the people of Priam of the strong ash spear. Hector is both right and wrong, since the people will perish as Priam’s people, but some will survive as Aeneas’ people. Because the destruction of Troy was distinct from the destruction of the Trojans, it was possible both for (new) Ilium to claim the status of Troy’s successor and for Troy to serve, rhetorically, as the exemplary city that was entirely destroyed: ὡς ἅπαξ ὑπὸ τῶν Ἑλλήνων κατεσκάφη, τὸν αἰῶνα ἀοίκητός ἐστι (“since it was once destroyed by the Greeks, it is forever uninhabited,” Lycurgus, Against Leocrates 62).13

1.2 Scamandrius Just as the Iliad emphasizes Aeneas’ distance from the doomed line of Priam, it insists that he will be the only survivor of the royal house and his line will rule (Il. 20.300–8). Similarly, H. Aph. makes him and his progeny the future rulers of the Trojans (H. Aph. 196–7). In the Iliad, Hector has a single son, who has two names: Ἑκτορίδην ἀγαπητὸν ἀλίγκιον ἀστέρι καλῷ, τόν ῥ’ Ἕκτωρ καλέεσκε Σκαμάνδριον, αὐτὰρ οἱ ἄλλοι Ἀστυάνακτ’· οἶος γὰρ ἐρύετο Ἴλιον Ἕκτωρ. (Il. 6.401–3) The beloved son of Hector, like a beautiful star, whom Hector called “Samandrius,” but others “Astyanax” (“lord of the town”), for Hector alone protected Ilium. Andromache imagines the death of Astyanax as she addresses him at Hector’s funeral:

Homer’s innocent Aeneas  13 σὺ δ’ αὖ, τέκος, ἢ ἐμοὶ αὐτῇ ἕψεαι, ἔνθά κεν ἔργα ἀεικέα ἐργάζοιο ἀθλεύων πρὸ ἄνακτος ἀμειλίχου, ἤ τις Ἀχαιῶν ῥίψει χειρὸς ἑλὼν ἀπὸ πύργου λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον χωόμενος, ᾧ δή που ἀδελφεὸν ἔκτανεν Ἕκτωρ ἢ πατέρ’ ἠὲ καὶ υἱόν, ἐπεὶ μάλα πολλοὶ Ἀχαιῶν Ἕκτορος ἐν παλάμῃσιν ὀδὰξ ἕλον ἄσπετον οὖδας. οὐ γὰρ μείλιχος ἔσκε πατὴρ τεὸς ἐν δαῒ λυγρῇ·. (Il. 24.722–39) But you likewise, my child, either you will follow me myself, to a place where you will perform inappropriate work, laboring at the hands of an unkind lord, or someone of the Achaeans will grab you by the arm and throw you from a tower to a miserable death, in anger—someone whose brother, maybe, Hector killed, or his father or even his son, since very many of the Achaeans at the hands of Hector took the limitless ground in their teeth. Two Cyclic epics narrated the killing of Astyanax. In the Ilias Parva, Neoptolemus killed him (PEG F 21 = F. 20 D), and Odysseus was responsible in the Iliou Persis (PEG F 5 = Fr. 3 D).14 Stesichorus also mentioned his death (fr. 202 PMGF). The killing of Astyanax is a regular feature of the sack of Troy in the literary tradition. If, however, it was the only version known to the Iliad-poet, it is surprising that Andromache also speculates that her son might follow her into slavery. This passage looks suspiciously like an allusion to an alternative version. So, for example, many scholars believe that when the dead suitor Amphimedon provides an inaccurate account of Odysseus’ return at Od. 24.120–90, his narrative echoes versions that were narrated in other performances.15 The double naming of Hector’s son could reflect traditions in which Hector had two sons. It is striking that Scamandrius was later claimed as a founder of cities, usually in company with Aeneas or Ascanius: the founder is usually Scamandrius, not Astyanax. Foundation stories including Scamandrius are attested in the fifth century: Hellanicus of Lesbos 4 FGrH F. 24B: Ἀρίσβη· πόλις τῆς Τρωάδος, Μιτυληναίων ἄποικος, ἧς οἰκισταὶ Σκαμάνδριος καὶ Ἀσκάνιος, υἱὸς Αἰνείου (“Arisbe: a city in the Troad, colony of the Mytilinians, whose founders were Scamandrius and Ascanius son of Aeneas”). Nothing suggests that this Scamandrius is not the son of Hector and Andromache, although Andromache’s claim in Euripides’ Andromache to have nursed Hector’s bastards gave later authors a basis for making him an illegitimate son and so reconciling different traditions.16 Dionysius of Halicarnassus gives an account of Aeneas that also probably depends on Hellanicus: Scamandrius, in this version, had been captured by Neoptolemus, but released, and Ascanius restored him and other descendants of Hector as a ruler of Troy (κατάγων αὐτοὺς ἐπὶ τὴν πατρώιαν ἀρχὴν εἰς

14  Ruth Scodel Τροίαν, “bringing them back to their ancestral power,” Ant. Rom. 1.47). This version presumably reflects the founding myth of Ilium, which made the city a directly revived Troy (Strabo argues against this, 13.1.40). Strabo (13.1.52), depending on Demetrius of Scepsis, discusses the transfer of Scepsis from its earlier site high on Ida: Σκῆψιν μετῳκίσθησαν ὑπὸ Σκαμανδρίου τε τοῦ Ἕκτορος καὶ Ἀσκανίου τοῦ Αἰνείου παιδός· καὶ δύο γένη ταῦτα βασιλεῦσαι πολὺν χρόνον ἐν τῇ Σκήψει λέγεται (“They moved Scepsis under the leadership of Scamandrius son of Hector and Ascanius son of Aeneas. And these two clans are said to have been kings in Scepsis for a long time”). According to Sch. Il. 24.734 (exegetical), οἱ νεώτεροι say that Astyanax was founder “of Troy and other cities.” Sch. Eur. Andr. 10 says that “some” claim that Astyanax founded and ruled cities (here the choice of name probably reflects the line being glossed), and that their views were cited by Lysimachus of Alexandria (FGrH 382 F9), who cited Dionysius of Chalcis for a story that, with the support of Theseus’ son Acamas, Ascanius and Scamandrius founded no fewer than 12 cities. This looks like an Athenian attempt to appropriate earlier foundation myths in order to justify Athenian hegemony (poleis in the Troad appear in the tribute lists after the revolt of Mytilene).17 Conon FGrH 26 Fr. 46 has Aeneas leave Ida when two sons of Hector, Scamandrius and Oxynius, return “from Lydia” to claim the region around Troy. So, although the epic tradition, both Iliad and Cycle, insists that Aeneas will be the sole survivor of the royal family, there is evidence, though much later, that Scamandrius also survived. How old are these stories likely to be, and what exactly would it mean for the sons of Trojan heroes to be the “founders” of a colony of Mytilene or another Greek polis? One curious item of evidence is the Iliad’s presentation of Hector’s son, with his two names—Hector calls him Scamandrius, but the other Trojans call him Astyanax. Smith’s is the fullest discussion of the double naming. He suggests that in some strands of the epic tradition Astyanax and Scamandrius were different people, one who was killed during the sack, and one who survived.18 Clans in the Troad, he argued, then borrowed from these epic stories for their genealogies. Had there been a single epic tradition in which Hector’s son was killed, they would have chosen a different, more plausible ancestor, while a current epic version in which he survived would give force to such a claim. Smith’s argument would imply that the Scamandrius-stories go back to the early identification of these towns as Greek poleis. The Troad was a complicated place in the archaic period, with many languages and ethnicities.19 The Trojan War was central to the usable past as these communities defined themselves.20 The choice of Trojans as founders was a strategy for providing a shared past for Greeks and others. However, Smith may give too much weight to epic performance as the only method for defining and transmitting that past. While epic was surely important in imagining that past, the landscape itself became a means of transmitting it. Ophrynium, one of the 12 cities listed by Dionysius of Calchis, had

Homer’s innocent Aeneas  15 a “grove of Hector.” According to Lycophron (1208) and Aristodemus of Alexander (FGrH 383 F7), the bones of Hector were transferred to Thebes from Ophryium. The grove is attested in Aristotle and was still there to be mentioned by Strabo (13.1.29). The city minted coins in the fourth century BCE with a bearded, helmeted head that resembles the head of Hector on Roman period coins of Ophrynium and Ilium, so it is reasonable to identify the figure as Hector. Indeed, while there is no direct evidence for cult of Hector in the Troad before the Roman period, it was probably classical or even earlier.21 The cities of the Troad did not need to rely exclusively on the epic to construct their pasts. Placed in a zone of cultural contact, they used whatever traditions and topographical features were useful in particular circumstances. Bards would surely have developed some material for purely internal reasons, to generate pathos, deepen characterization, or convey meaning. Equally, though, local patrons and audiences would have their own interests. Since ἀοιδοί traveled, and by the archaic period competed at regional and eventually Panhellenic venues, there would be a constant movement between local and broader contexts, and between epic and other traditions. The notice in Hellanicus makes Arisbe at once an indigenous settlement, originally founded by members of the Trojan royal family, presumably with other Trojan survivors, and a colony of Mytilene. From some perspectives, it hardly matters whether individual families claimed descent from them or not, since they could be recognized as founder-heroes by the entire population. While mainland Greece had founder-heroes from Asia—Pelops and Cadmus—and the West relied on tales of Nostoi, colonists in Asia could use local ancestors in a similar way.22 The Mytilineans, although in the Homeric epics Lesbos belongs in the Trojan sphere (Il. 24.544, Od. 4.343–4), made their Greek founder Penthilus, son of Orestes (Alcaeus fr. 70.6, 75.10).23 In the Delian section of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo (37), Makar, the Homeric king of Lesbos, is a son of Aeolus, who is Thessalian. It cannot be proven that these claims about Hector’s son go back to the archaic period, but the role played by Acamas looks like a classical Athenian attempt to appropriate older foundation stories from the Troad.24

1.3 Sappho Sappho 44, the poem on the wedding of Hector and Andromache, has puzzled interpreters. First, it is the most extreme of what Page called the “Abnormal” fragments—while most of Sappho’s poems and fragments are composed in Lesbian dialect, this poem freely uses non-Aeolic epic forms. Its meter, glyconic with dactylic expansion, is close to hexameter. Second, its surviving section is entirely narrative, and it narrates, in a luxuriantly celebratory style, a marriage that everyone knows ended with Hector dead, Andromache enslaved, and the couple’s only son, Scamandrius/Astyanax, murdered by Odysseus or Neoptolemus. Unless we believe that the Aeolic

16  Ruth Scodel poets present sections of myth entirely removed from their contexts in wider stories, this narrative is difficult.25 Its authenticity is no longer doubted, but its occasion and point are still widely disputed. Many have argued that it was hymeneal, but as an extended mythical narrative it obviously does not conform to the epithalamium as we see that genre elsewhere. There is no evidence about its original occasion.26 Furthermore, Michael Sampson has recently made a convincing papyrological argument that only two or three lines have been lost at the beginning of the text. Any framing must therefore have been very brief.27 The poem seems to be deliberately reviving a “before” for an audience that know what is to come. By the time in which the Iliad is set, Achilles has already destroyed Thebe and killed the men of Andromache’s natal family. Within the Iliad Hector is killed, and Andromache imagines the murder of their son, Astyanax (Il. 24.734–9)—although she also imagines that he might follow her into slavery. Achilles in the Iliad plays a lyre that he took from Thebe (Il. 9.186–8); in Sappho, the herald catalogs the splendid ornaments and banquetware that Andromache brings. The herald Idaeus is a “swift messenger,” although in the Iliad he is an old man, and Priam leaps up energetically. One family of interpretations of the poem, probably the most familiar, sees such ironic allusion to the Iliad or to other epic as central to its meaning, whether as a general background of doom, or a covert allusion to various specific episodes.28 Much of the poem narrates the journey of Hector to bring his bride Andromache to Troy. Idaeus announces the imminent arrival of Hector with Andromache, promising “imperishable fame” (a strongly epic expression). He describes the precious objects she is bringing. Then the Trojans all prepare to go on chariots and mule-wagons to meet the bridal party. The lacuna must have told the actual arrival, since the concluding lines describe the wine, song, and ritual of their reception. Many details belong not to the epic world, but to the most splendid occasions of Sappho’s own milieu.29 The geography has not been stressed enough, in my opinion. Andromache’s native town of Thebe must be somewhere south of Mt. Ida, and is usually identified with Mandra Tepe, inland from modern Edremit (Herod. 7.42).30 The voyage from Thebe to Troy would go along the northern coast of Lesbos, where Ida dominates the view from the island. In the early archaic period, Mytilene was the dominant power throughout the Troad, although the most important colonizer in the area was Miletus. Sometime around the end of the seventh century, the Athenians took Sigeium, but Mytilene continued to control other towns in the Troad and they retained Achilleium, about seven kilometers away from Sigeium. Trojan legend is the most prominent source of mythical material in Sappho, usually from the Greek perspective. In fr. 17, for example, she treats the festival now being celebrated at the Messon as a reiteration of a celebration there by the Atridae on their way home from Troy. Orestes’ son Penthilus is the traditional colonizer of Lesbos (Thuc. 7.57.5, Pausanias 3.2.1), and a

Homer’s innocent Aeneas  17 powerful family claimed descent from him (Alcaeus 70, 75, 302b refer to Penthilus or his descendants). On the other hand, in the Iliad, Lesbos is within the Trojan sphere of influence. Achilles defines it as the limit by sea of Priam’s pre-eminence (Il. 24.544–5), and Achilles himself sacked Lesbos (Il.  9.128–30). There is no reason to think that other early epic imagined Lesbos differently (I do not assume that Sappho knew the Homeric epics that we know, although she may have). For Sappho, the Trojan past apparently called for identification with both sides. Poem 58, after all, calls on the example of the Trojan Tithonus. Archaic Lesbos was a contact zone between Greek and Anatolian cultures, whose material remains would not identify it as Greek.31 Its material culture shows strong connections with the east (and these imported luxury goods are important for Sappho).32 At the sanctuary of Hera, Zeus, and Dionysus, the Messon, shared by all the poleis of Lesbos,33 Hera was in all probability identified with the Great Mother. For Sappho and her Lesbian audience, then, Hector and Andromache belonged to their own past and moved through a familiar landscape. Throughout the extant lines, the emphasis lies on the Trojan community. There is no attention to the emotions of the bridal pair. They are “godlike,” θεοεικέλο[ιϲ, within the song of the young men (the speaker probably uses a similar epithet at 21, ἴ]κελοι θέοι[ϲ), but nothing says that they are happy. Aphrodite does not appear, although in the Iliad she is said to have given Andromache a headband, κρήδεμνον, on the day Hector brought her to Troy (Il. 22.470–2). Even the joy of the Trojans must be inferred from their actions. It is obvious enough, as they rush to their vehicles, and then as incense, wine, and music are everywhere. Young women sing “a pure song,” and men sing a paean. Yet there is not a single emotive word in the extant text. This is not a poem about the feelings of the couple, but about the public event, and that makes it more striking that the wedding journey passes most of the Mytilinean sphere of influence along the coast. If we stress the “before” aspect of the narrative, it could indeed allude to various episodes in the Trojan story, such as the arrival of Paris and Helen.34 Then, the Trojans welcomed a bride arriving by sea with great wealth (stolen from Menelaus), and, by receiving her happily, doomed themselves. Another possible subtext of Sappho 44 is the reception of the Wooden Horse. In narratives of the Horse, Trojans would have come out of the city in crowds and probably sung a paean. There are also similarities with the return of Hector’s corpse, as the Iliad presents it.35 The surviving poetry of Sappho and Alcaeus identifies the poets and their audiences with the Greeks in the Trojan War, not with the Trojans. However, Lesbos was powerful in the Troad in the archaic period (Strabo 13.1.18), although it lost the site of Sigeium in Sappho’s lifetime. Even the colonizations of some of these poleis were disputed. Scepsis and Ilium were Aeolic according to Xenophon, Hell. 3.1.16, but Strabo, citing Anaximenes of Lampsacus, makes Scepsis a foundation of Miletus. Mytilene, operating

18  Ruth Scodel from Achilleium disputed control over Sigeium with Athens. Arisbe was disputed between Miletus (Strabo 14.1.6) and Mytilene (Ephorus, FGrH 70 Fr. 164 and Hellanicus 4 FGrH F. 24B).36 Possibly Sappho and her audience imagined Hector and Andromache as ancestors of leading families in cities in their (disputed) sphere of influence. But even if there were no Hectoridae, Hector’s son or sons would have been legendary founders (and surely as such recipients of cult). In this light, the poem looks rather different. The Lesbian Olympic victor in the stadion in 476 was named Scamandrius (Diodorus 11.48.1)—although the name is admittedly found elsewhere, too.37 In this contest, the later disasters of Troy are not irrelevant to the poem, but they do not necessarily cancel the splendor of the wedding of Hector and Andromache. Sappho’s description emphasizes what she loves most, elegance, luxury (myrrh and frankincense), and song. If her audience thought of the child of this wedding as the ancestor of important families in the towns of the Troad, or simply as a founder of these towns, the wedding of Hector and Andromache may stand in contrast to the bad receptions of Helen or the Horse. Despite all the external signs of joy, perhaps the Trojans did not sufficiently appreciate their own happiness or realize that only such truly valuable outsiders should be welcomed. The poem may still have all the dark resonances that earlier critics have identified: it could indeed evoke the return of Hector’s corpse, the reception of Paris and Helen, or the bringing of the Wooden Horse into Troy. It would, however, probably stand in a different relationship to its echoes of other epic moments: the Trojans often opened their gates to misfortune, but in this marriage, the Trojans welcomed the right outsider. The marriage was a success, and it marks the unity of the Troad—a unity under Mytilinean hegemony in Sappho’s time, though threatened by Athens. In the larger history, the poem hints at a story of vicissitude rather than pure disaster. Troy was destroyed, but its successor cites flourish, and with them the heritage of Hector and Andromache. Such a poem could be imagined in some kind of association with a wedding, though hardly as a true ritual performance, because despite the terrible suffering that came between that longago and the here-and-now, the splendid now is the outcome of the splendid then.38

Notes

Homer’s innocent Aeneas  19

4 5

6 7 8

9 10 11 12 13

14 15

16 17

18 19

1999), 265–75, sees an independent Aeneas-tradition. Andrew Faulkner, The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite: Introduction, Text, and Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), especially 3–7, accepts the hypothesis of Aeneiadae for the Hymn, while Douglas S. Olson, The “Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite” and Related Texts: Text, Translation and Commentary (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012), 1–9 rejects it. Reinhold Merkelbach, “Zum Υ der Ilias,” Philologus 97 (1948): 307–8. See Lily B. Ghali-Khalil, Les enlèvements et le retour d'Hélène dans les textes et les documents figurés (Paris: E. de Boccard 1955), 53–5. It is striking that in Makron’s depiction both Paris and Aeneas are costumed as warriors rather than travelers. The Cambridge Iliad commentary does not mention this episode in connection with Il. 20.298, and I have never seen it discussed in this context. Mark W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 298–301. Bruce Louden, Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 287. Oliver Taplin, Homeric Soundings: The Shaping of the Iliad (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 107–9. Nicholas James Richardson, Three Homeric Hymns: To Apollo, Hermes, and Aphrodite: Hymns 3, 4, and 5 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 196–7, suggests that the difference could rest entirely on the rhetorical needs of each passage, but that it could also represent the loss of power by the Aeneidae. Martin Litchfield West, The Epic Cycle: A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 84, 91. Jonathan S. Burgess, “The Non-Homeric Cypria,” TAPA 126 (1996): 77–99; Margalit Finkelberg, “The Cypria, the Iliad, and the Problem of Multiformity in Oral and Written Tradition,” CP 95 (2000): 1–11. Magdalene Stoevesandt, Feinde—Gegner—Opfer: Zur Darstellung der Troianer in den Kampfszenen der Ilias (Basel: Schwabe, 2004), 337–8. Margalit Finkelberg, “Meta-Cyclic Epic and Homeric poetry,” in The Greek Epic Cycle and Its Ancient Reception: A Companion, eds. Marco Fantuzzi and Christos Tsagalis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 131–5. Mary R. Bachvarova, From Hittite to Homer: The Anatolian Background of Ancient Greek Epic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 409–10; Gregory Nagy, Homer the Preclassic (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 142–6. Jonathan S. Burgess, The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 22–24; West, Epic Cycle, 239–40. Georg Danek, Epos und Zitat: Studien zu den Quellen der Odyssee (Vienna: Verlag Der Osterreichischen Akademie Der Wissenschaften, 1998), 478–84; Charles Segal, Singers, Heroes, and Gods in the Odyssey (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994). Anaxikrates 307 F 1 FGrH. Xanthus of Lydia 765 F. 14 FGrH. Cristina Carusi, Isole e peree in Asia Minore: contributi allo studio dei rapporti tra poleis insulari e territori continentali dipendenti (Pisa: Scuola normale superior, 2003); Andrew Erskine, Troy between Greece and Rome: Local Tradition and Imperial Power (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 108. Geoffrey S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume II: books 5-8 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), on 402–3 (212–13), suggests that Scamandrius is the nickname. Smith, “Aineidai as Patrons”, 57–58. Brian C. Rose, “Separating Fact from Fiction in the Aiolian Migration.” Hesperia 77 (2008): 399–430.

20  Ruth Scodel 20 Stoevesandt, Feinde—Gegner—Opfer, 196–7, imagines Aeolic colonists using this legend to justify their own violent conquest. 21 Bruno Currie, Pindar and the Cult of Heroes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 213–4. 22 Irad Malkin speaks of the “middle ground” in which different sides see themselves mirrored in each other. Irad Malkin, The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 5–6. 23 On these stories see Jacoby on Hellanicus FGrH 4 f. 32; see also Harder on Call. Aetia fr. 92. 24 Erskine, Troy between Greece, 108. 25 Herbert Eisenberger argues that Aeolic poetry ignores wider contexts. Herbert Eisenberger, Der Mythos in der äolischen Lyrik (Diss. Frankfurt 1955. Frankfurt am Main, 1956). 26 Nagy, Homer the Preclassic, 239–40 suggests a ritual at the Messon: but the only god mentioned is Apollo, who has no cult at Messon. The site is surely important for the performance of Aeolic poetry, but it is 29k from Mytilene over hilly terrain, so not likely to have been a frequent location. 27 Michael C. Sampson, “A New Reconstruction of Sappho 44. (P. OXY. X 1232 + P. OXY. XVII 2076),” in Proceedings of the 27th International Congress of Papyrology. Warsaw, 29 July–3 August 2013, eds. Tomasz Derda, Adam Lajtar, Jakub Urbanik, Andrzej Mirończuk, Grzegorz Ochała and Uniwersytet Warszawski (Wydzial Prawa I Administracji Issuing Body, and International Congress of Papyrology, Journal of Juristic Papyrology, 2016), 53–62. 28 J. Th Kakridis, “Zu Sappho 44LP,” WS 79 (1966): 21–26; Gregory Nagy, Comparative Studies in Greek and Indic Meter (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1974), 135–9; Leah Rissman, Love as War: Homeric Allusion in the Poetry of Sappho (Königstein, Ts.: A. Hain, 1983), 119–48; Lawrence P. Schrenk, “Sappho frg. 44 and the Iliad,” Hermes 122.2 (1994): 144–50. 29 Denys Lionel Page, Sappho and Alcaeus: An Introduction to the Study of Ancient Lesbian Poetry (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1955), 71. 30 John Manuel Cook, The Troad: An Archaeological and Topographical Survey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973), 267. 31 Nigel Spencer, “Early Lesbos between East and West: A ‘Grey Area’ of Aegean Archaeology,” The Annual of the British School at Athens 90 (1995): 269–306. 32 See Leslie Kurke, “The Politics of ἁβϱοσύνη in Archaic Greece,” CA 11.1 (1992): 92. 33 Louis Robert, “Recherches épigraphiques: Inscriptions de Lesbos,” Revue des études anciennes 62.3 (1960): 276–361; Stefano Caciagli, “Il temenos di Messon: un contesto unico per Saffo e Alceo,” Lexis XXVIII (2010): 227–56. 34 Henry Spelman, “Sappho 44: Trojan Myth and Literary History,” Mnemosyne 70.5 (2017): 740–57. 35 Michael C. Sampson, per litteras. 36 Stephen Mitchell, “Troas,” in An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis, ed. Mogens Herman Hansen and Thomas Heine Nielsen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 1004, takes Arisbe as a colony of Miletus, assuming that the mistake arose because there was an Arisba on Lesbos. 37 LGPN 1 has other Scamander-names, although the name is not confined to Lesbos. 38 Cf. Carlo Perignotti, “Tempo del canto e pluralità de prospettive in Saffo, fr. 44 V,” ZPE 135 (2001): 11–20.

2

Formulaic diction and contextual relevance Notes on the meaning of formulaic epithets in Iliad 1 Seth L. Schein

This essay revisits the question of when and how the narrative, thematic, or stylistic context of a Homeric formulaic epithet can bring out its latent semantic force or endow it with meaning.1 I aim to demonstrate, with examples taken from the first one hundred lines of Iliad 1, that formulaic epithets have meaning, as well as metrical utility, much more often than most scholars of Homeric epic as oral poetry will usually admit. In his doctoral dissertation, L’épithète traditionnel dans Homère, Milman Parry famously demonstrated that Homeric epic is composed largely of traditional formulas.2 By “traditional” Parry meant that the formulas and formulaic style were not the invention of a single poet or generation of poets but were handed down over many centuries in dactylic hexameter poetry. By formula, he meant “an expression regularly used, under the same metrical conditions, to express an essential idea,” and he explained that “[w]hat is essential in an idea is what remains after all stylistic superfluity has been taken from it.” For instance, to cite two of Parry’s numerous examples, the essential idea in the words ἦμος δ’ ἠριγένεια φάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς (“when early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared”) is “when day broke,” and that in θεὰ γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη (“the goddess gray-eyed Athene”) is “Athene.” For Parry, the lexical meanings of ἠριγένεια, ῥοδοδάκτυλος, and γλαυκῶπις have nothing to do with the essential ideas. The function of these words is merely metrical: they are sequences of heavy and light syllables, usually occurring at the same position in the line, that help to enable versification by poets who are simultaneously composing and performing in the traditional epic style for audiences familiar with, and able to appreciate, that style. Parry admitted that formulaic epithets help to communicate a kind of heroic tone or mood appropriate to the world and characters represented in heroic epic, which mark it and them as different from the world of the audiences and readers of Homeric poetry, but for him this tone or mood and the epithets which help to produce it are not semantically significant. The epithets add “an element of nobility and grandeur, but no more than that,”3 since they contribute nothing to the expression of “essential idea[s].”4 For Parry, “the traditional character of Homeric formula[s] lies in the fact that they constitute…system[s]” distinguished by what he called economy

22  Seth L. Schein and extension. By economy, he meant that for nearly every noun-adjective combination, in a given grammatical case and number at a specific place in the line, there is usually only a single formulaic expression. By extension, he meant that numerous, grammatically analogous formulaic expressions occur in the same metrical conditions. For example, in introductions to speeches responding to other speeches, the words τὸν (τὴν) δ’ ἤμείβετ’ ἔπειτα (“and then he/she answered him/her”) at the beginning of the line are followed 62 times by a formulaic phrase, running from the mid-line caesura to the end of the line, which consists of a noun-epithet combination in the nominative case. Twenty-seven different characters are found as subjects of ἠμείβετ’ in these phrases, including, for example, ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς (twice), θεὰ γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη (seven times), and γέρων Πρίαμος θεοειδής (five times), and taken together, these 62 metrically identical phrases constitute a formulaic “system.”5 Parry made two other distinctions relevant to my argument: between formulaic epithets that are “particularized” and those that are “ornamental” and between “distinctive” and “generic” epithets.6 While a “particularized” epithet pertains to immediate action in the passage in which it appears, an ornamental epithet “has no relation to the ideas expressed by the words of either the sentence or the whole passage in which it occurs,”7 that is, no relevant semantic force; in Parry’s view it is simply a metrically useful component in the expression of an “essential idea.” Distinctive epithets describe only one god, hero, or object, while generic epithets describe many.8 Despite repeated criticism of Parry’s interpretation of formulaic epithets over the past 80 years and frequent redefinition of the formula,9 most scholars of Homeric epic as oral poetry still accept Parry’s claim that almost all traditional epithets in Homer lack independent semantic force. When students first read Homeric epic, they are often taught not to look for meaning in this feature of the traditional, formulaic style. Nevertheless, it has become clear that Parry was mistaken in his claim that almost all ornamental and generic epithets lack semantic force and that composition by formulas left little or no space for creativity.10 It would be foolish not to accept Parry’s demonstration, as refined by the work of several generations of later scholars, that the traditional style of Homeric epic is that of oral poetry, whether the poems as we have them today were composed orally or by a process of oral dictation or should be thought of as “oral derived” and composed with the help of writing.11 It would, however, be equally foolish to accept Parry’s reductive insistence that because traditional epithets and formulaic phrases are metrically useful to oral poets for versification, they cannot also have meaning beyond the expression of an essential idea and evocation of a mood. Especially in an oral culture, the dynamics of composition-in-performance, including the mnemonic techniques in play when a creative oral poet generates epic poetry for an audience experienced in its reception and interpretation, do not require that what is metrical be merely metrical and without semantic force and poetic artistry. Not only can the narrative, thematic,

Formulaic diction and contextual relevance  23 or stylistic context in which a formulaic epithet occurs contribute to its meaning, but attention to such contextual relevance can also enhance the pleasure and understanding with which we read Homeric epic. The ways in which, to use a technical term from narratology, epithets and formulaic phrases are “focalized,” that is, the viewpoints and values they imply,12 and their potential as well as their immediate meanings, are particularly significant. This essay aims to recapture patterns of expectation with which ancient audiences “received” and understood traditional epic poetry and ways in which oral performance, including composition-in-performance, enabled Homer (and presumably other poets) to fulfil or disappoint their expectations by meaningful exploitation and transformation of traditional formulaic language and style.13 *** Several scholars who have written on the contextual meaning of epithets have focussed on instances when Parry’s principle of formulaic economy does not hold, when metrically equivalent formulaic phrases, containing different epithets, supposedly express the same “essential idea”: for example, βοῶπις πότνια Ἥρη (“ox-eyed mistress Hera”) and θεὰ λευκώλενος Ἥρη (the goddess white-armed Hera”; φιλομμειδὴς Ἀφροδίτη (“smile-loving Aphrodite”) and Διὸς θυγάτηρ Ἀφροδίτη (“daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite”); Ἕκτορος ἀνδροφόνοιο “of man-slaughtering Hektor”) and Ἕκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο (“of horse-taming Hektor”).14 These scholars argue that, on any given occasion, the poet uses one or the other of a pair of metrically equivalent phrases, because it is semantically appropriate to its immediate poetic context. For example, William Beck shows that the use of βοῶπις πότνια Ἥρη or the metrically identical θεὰ λευκώλενος Ἥρη is a matter of “contextual suitability”: most occurrences of βοῶπις πότνια are in contexts of Hera’s quarrelling or enmity with Zeus, while a few are found in other contexts of “opposition” or “conflict”; θεὰ λευκώλενος, however, tends to appear in expressions of acquiescence, references to physical appearance, or “in close connection” with horses or other animals, when the mention of an animal in the formulaic phrase might seem inappropriate.15 Deborah Boedeker points out that the choice between φιλομμειδὴς Ἁφροδίτη and Διὸς θυγάτηρ Ἀφροδίτη depends on whether Aphrodite is herself sexually active or described in a context of seduction and love-making, or her actions are seen as a function of her subordination to Zeus. I build on Boedeker’s observation in an interpretation of the poetic artistry of the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, which describes Aphrodite on multiple occasions in both these ways.16 Recently, Pascale Brillet-Dubois has demonstrated that the metrically equivalent genitive formulas Ἕκτορος ἀνδροφόνοιο and Ἕκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο have different narrative functions in the course of the Iliad: the former phrase, usually spoken by Achilles, refers primarily, though not exclusively, to the danger Hektor will pose for the Greeks fighting without Achilles’ help or to the death of Hektor as promised to Patroklos by Achilles, who then fulfils his

24  Seth L. Schein promise; the latter phrase expresses in particular the relation between Hektor and the Trojan people and evokes their shared destiny.17 No Greek ever refers to Hektor as ἱπποδάμοιο; that is not how they perceive him. It is worth noting that scholars who reject context-based interpretations of Homeric formulaic epithets tend to do so on what seem to me a priori or arbitrary grounds, not on the basis of close consideration of individual examples. Richard Janko, for example, denies that the immediate poetic context “is either the sole determinant or indeed relevant at all in many cases,” and suggests instead that Homer’s use of one of a pair of equivalent noun-epithet formulas was influenced by his conscious or unconscious recollection of having used the other formula previously18; Douglas Olson dismisses out of hand arguments for the contextual meaning of specific epithets, especially in “speech-introduction” formulas, on the grounds that these arguments are “overly subjective and thus inconclusive,” and claims, without supporting evidence, that “the genius of the Homeric system of oral composition did not consist in the fineness of discriminations such as these….”19 In this chapter I am not concerned, except incidentally, with the epithets in metrically equivalent formulas. Rather, I explore the poetic contexts of supposedly ornamental or generic epithets, and in this I am influenced by the work by four scholars who have reflected productively on how Homer uses such epithets meaningfully. Gregory Machacek makes the important point that contextual interpretation need not explain all epithets or all the uses of particular epithets.20 He argues that a shared familiarity with traditional formulaic diction and style on the part of poets and audiences— precisely the familiarity that Parry thought emptied epithets of semantic force21—enabled oral poets to employ these epithets meaningfully for their own artistic purposes; that they were free, in particular, to use formulaic epithets and phrases that introduce speeches either in ways that are contextually indifferent and without meaning or in ways that are contextually appropriate and semantically effective; and that audiences were able to appreciate “the interplay between contextually indifferent and contextually appropriate formulas.”22 Machacek points out, for example, that employment of the epithets for “ship” and “sea” could be either neutral or contextually meaningful, and, more generally, that in some instances poets could choose to avoid traditional formulas and, in this way, deliberately disappoint their audiences’ expectations.23 Irene de Jong argues that the force of an epithet depends on the “narrative situation” in which it is used. She demonstrates, with an emphasis on the epithets of “night,” that both the narrator of the Iliad and his characters deploy relatively neutral epithets like “dark” (ἐρεβεννή, κελαινή, μέλαινα) or “swift” (θοή), but only the characters use or focalize more emotional epithets such as “endless” (ἀθέσφατος), “sleepless” (ἄυπνος), “bringing discomfort” (δυσκηδής), “wretched” (κακή, ὀϊζυρή), and “destructive” (ὀλοή).24 Rainer Friedrich, responding to Parry’s insistence that a traditional oral poet, concerned mainly with versification in the process of performance,

Formulaic diction and contextual relevance  25 25

never seeks the mot juste, argues that Homer sometimes seeks a formulaic “phrase juste.” Friedrich shows, for example, that both Achilles and Agamemnon, in their quarrel in Book 1 of the Iliad, use atypical and unique phrases that allude to expected formulas and constitute dramatically relevant, poetically pointed examples of “formulaic artistry.”26 Most recently, in “Glory and Nostos: The Ship-epithet κοῖλος in the Iliad,” Matthew Ward studies the usage and contextual meaning of κοῖλος (“hollow”) throughout the poem. He draws productively on the concept of “traditional referentiality” developed by John Miles Foley, which involves the way a unit of text as short as a formulaic phrase or as long as an entire epic can be understood metonymically, almost as pars pro toto, in light of all its occurrences in the poetic tradition. Such traditional referentiality, in Foley’s view, can be seen in the use of traditional diction and formulaic phrases, traditional motifs and typical scenes, and traditional narrative or plot.27 Following Foley, Ward argues that every use of the word κοῖλος evokes “a meaning contextually effective upon each iteration.”28 To clarify both the “referential consistency” and “referential meaning” of κοῖλος, he studies the “formulaic patterns” of diction and syntax and the semantic force of the word wherever it occurs and concludes that when it describes “ships,” κοῖλος means not merely “hollow” but “hav[ing] the potential to be filled with hero-won prizes for the journey home.”29 The insight that the meaning of a formulaic epithet can involve potentiality is of fundamental importance and stands in contrast to the frequent assumption that an epithet must lack meaning, if it refers to an action that is not taking place at the present moment—for example, when ships are called “swift” even though they have been dragged up onto the shore, or when Achilles is called “swift-footed,” even as he is standing still and speaking in the assembly. In the remainder of this essay, drawing on the approaches of Machacek, de Jong, Friedrich, and Ward, I discuss how formulaic epithets in the first 100 lines of Iliad 1 are meaningful in their contexts.30 Sometimes, when the poem’s speaker employs an epithet in his narrative, the context allows or requires a listener or reader to understand it as focalized by a character, as expressing that character’s viewpoint, values, or concerns, often in ways that are highly charged emotionally. This is especially the case when the narrator calls attention to the epithet by placing it at a position in the line where it is rare or unparalleled. Sometimes the narrator makes a character use the epithet idiosyncratically, in effect playing against its traditional, typical usage. At times a character’s idiosyncratic use of a specific epithet might even seem to imply a familiarity with its traditional referentiality and with traditional norms of epic narrative and style, which the character exploits for the sake of emotional satisfaction or for rhetorical or practical purposes, though such familiarity may also reflect a pattern of use and meaning within the Iliad itself.31 ***

26  Seth L. Schein 1.1 μῆνιν ἄειδε, θεά, Πηληιάδεω Ἀχιλῆος Πηληιάδεω Ἀχιλῆος occurs six times in the Iliad at the end of the line and is an excellent example of what Parry would consider a formula expressing the “essential idea” Achilles.32 Various forms of the proper adjective Πηλήϊος and of patronymics signifying “son of Peleus” (Πηλεΐδης, Πηλείων, Πηληϊάδης) occur another 97 times, making “son of Peleus” one of the two most common, apparently neutral ways of referring to Achilles. (The other is “swift-footed,” which occurs c. 110 times in various formulas.) Nevertheless, in 1.1, following the atypical use of the word μῆνιν, which normally denotes the wrath of a divinity in response to a fundamental violation of cosmic order but is here used of Achilles’ rage,33 Πηληιάδεω is not neutral but alludes unmistakably to the story of the forced marriage of Thetis to the mortal Peleus. It characterizes Achilles as a hero with a special link to the divine through his mother, a hero whose double parentage, divine and human, makes him self-consciously the mortal hero par excellence in an epic whose central theme is mortal heroism.34 Thus, the epithet Πηληιάδεω gains in semantic force from its thematic context. 1.7 Ἀτρεΐδης τε ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν καὶ δῖος Ἀχιλλεύς Parry argues that a student beginning to read the Iliad for the first time might be tempted by this line to think that ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν is associated with Agamemnon as “commander-in-chief,” and that δῖος is a distinctive adjective describing Achilles. Eventually, however, the student would learn (according to Parry) that ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν is also used of five other heroes in the Iliad and δῖος of 32 different characters, and, realizing that these are generic words for rulers and heroes, respectively, would also learn to ignore them as metrically necessary but lacking in specific semantic force. This, Parry maintains, is what Homer’s original audience also would have done.35 He rejects the notion that because ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν is used far more often of Agamemnon (37 times) than of other kings, it has a distinctive meaning that emphasizes his status as primus inter pares. Given that it “is used of ten persons in the Iliad and Odyssey alone,” Parry asks, “with how many other names…would it have been found in the wide realm of epic poetry”?36 Yet ἄναξ ἀνδρων in 1.7 is contextually meaningful in two different ways. First, as William Whallon observes, it recurs at key moments throughout the poem as a description of Agamemnon, emphasizing his royal status at moments when he makes or fails to make an important decision or execute an important action. Assuming that the association of the epithet with Agamemnon is traditional, an audience familiar with traditional mythology and poetic style would have understood the beginning of hostilities between Agamemnon and Achilles, to which lines 6 and 7 refer, as such a key moment.37 Second, ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν describing Agamemnon, unlike δῖος describing Achilles, is highly conspicuous: its location in the second and third cola

Formulaic diction and contextual relevance  27 of the line, rather than in the final colon, is unique38; it calls attention to the epithet and makes it emphatic. ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν gains additional meaning by agreeing grammatically with the patronymic Ἀτρεΐδης, suggesting that Agamemnon owes his royal authority, including his leadership of the army and power as ἄναξ to control sacrificial ritual and relations with divinity, to his father Atreus. In contrast, Achilles is called by his own name and the epithet δῖος, which suggests that what is essential to his identity lies in his own brilliance. Furthermore, δῖος associates Achilles directly and distinctively with Zeus, god of the bright sky, and implies that he does not need Agamemnon and his sacrificial authority in order to have a relationship with divinity.39 1.12–13 ὁ γὰρ ῆλθε θοὰς ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν / λυσόμενός τε θύγατρα φέρων τ’ ἀπερείσι’ ἄποινα. In older commentaries, the adjective θοάς, “swift,” here and in other places where it is used of the Greek ships, is said to be merely “literary”40 and without meaning, because the ships are drawn up on the shore and stationary rather than in motion. According to Parry, in all passages in which a form of θοή modifies a form of νηύς, the epithet is “purely ornamental” and without semantic force; it does not describe a particular ship or ships as “swift” but more generally signifies “fine ship,” the only kind of ship known in epic poetry and in the heroic age it depicts.41 Here, however, despite Parry’s assertion, the context invites a semantically relevant interpretation of the epithet. To begin with, θοάς is best understood as focalized by Chryses. From his viewpoint, as he approaches the Greek camp, the ships are “swift” because he sees them in his mind’s eye as swiftly carrying away his daughter, whenever the army returns home, and he knows there will be nothing he can do to prevent this, unless he can have her ransomed now. In other words, the ships’ swiftness is potential, though the thought of their swiftness is present in the mind of Chryses as he approaches.42 Another reason to understand “to the swift ships of the Achaians” as reflecting the viewpoint of Chryses is that line 13 explicitly mentions both his purpose in coming, λυσόμενός τε θύγατρα (“to have his daughter ransomed”), and how he will achieve this purpose, φέρων τ’ ἀπερείσι’ ἄποινα (“bringing a boundless ransom”). The word ἀπερείσι’ (“boundless”) in this line-ending formula should also be understood as focalized by Chryses: he has brought what seems to him a “boundless” ransom. It is a sign of the semantic relevance of the two formulas, θοὰς ἐπὶ νηὰς Ἀχαιῶν and ἀπερείσι’ ἄποινα, that they tend to be used elsewhere in the poem in contexts that resemble the context of lines 12 and 13. Six other passages in the Iliad with line-ending θοὰς ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν involve the bringing or sending of captured Trojan booty, including prisoners, to the Greek ships or the possible ransoming of such booty (1.371, 6.52, 10.514, 12.7, 17.622, 24.564). Seven of the other ten uses in the poem of the phrase ἀπερείσι’ ἄποινα by the narrator or a character are in contexts of a

28  Seth L. Schein parent ransoming a child or a child imagining a parent as doing so (1.372, 6.49 = 11.134, 10.380, 24.276, 502, 579), and an eighth refers to Achilles having accepted a ransom for Andromache’s mother (6.427). In contrast, on the two occasions when the army or Agamemnon refers to the ransom offered by Chryses for the release of his daughter (1.23, 111), the epithet modifying ἄποινα is ἄγλαα (“splendid”), not the contextually meaningful ἀπερείσι(α) focalized by parents or children.43 1.14 στέμματ’ ἔχων ἐν χερσὶν ἑκηβόλου Ἀπόλλωνος ἑκηβόλου belongs to a family of formulaic epithets for Apollo found in Book 1 in the genitive, dative, and accusative cases and in a variety of metrical word-shapes, each with the same meaning, “he who shoots (or “strikes”) from afar” (from βάλλω + ἑκάς), or possibly, “he who shoots (or “strikes”) at will” (from βάλλω + ἑκών) (DELG 329–30, s.v. ἑκήβολος). Examples include ἑκηβόλου (14), ἑκατηβόλου (370), ἑκατηβελέταο (75), ἑκηβόλωι (438), ἑκήβολον (21); cf. ἑκάεργον (147), ἑκάτοιο (385). ἑκηβόλου at 1.14, however, is not only metrically useful but contextually and thematically significant. It implies the deadliness of Apollo, also to be heard in his name, which sounds as if it were related to ἀπόλλυμι (“destroy”). As used by Chryses, ἑκηβόλου conveys a deadly threat that is translated into action by the god: when his priest is disrespected by Agamemnon, he shoots the plague into the Greek army in response to Chryses’ prayer that the Greeks might pay for his tears (1.42, 48–52). Other epithets too suggest Apollo’s ability to strike individuals or whole peoples with disease or death, including ἀργυρότοξος (“with silver bow”), which is used as a substantive at 1.37 and elsewhere as an adjective (e.g. 24.758–9, ὅν τ’ ἀργυρότοξος Ἀπόλλων / οἶς ἀγανοῖσι βέλεσσιν ἐποιχόμενος καταπέφνηι, “whom Apollo of the silver bow / slew, attacking with his gentle arrows”), and κλυτότοξος (“with glorious bow, 4.101,119, 15.55; Od. 21.267).44 There is a similar manifestation of Apollo’s power at the beginning of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, where the gods tremble and leap from their seats as he enters the house of Zeus with his bow drawn, until his mother Leto takes it from his shoulders, unstrings it, and hangs it up, rejoicing that she bore a son who is strong and carries a bow.45 1.17 Ἀτρεΐδαι τε καὶ ἄλλοι εϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί The line-ending, formulaic phrase ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί occurs 17 times in the Iliad, and its metrical equivalent ἀρήϊοι υἶες Ἀχαιῶν is found in the same metrical position seven times. The epithets in both these phrases characterize the Achaians as warriors, but they are usually considered ornamental, with “Achaeans” being the “essential idea.” Yet over half the uses of ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί are found at the beginning of speeches in scenes of assembly or other collective gatherings, while ἀρήϊοι υἷες Ἀχαιῶν never occurs in this kind of scene. Thus in 1.17, ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοί is in keeping with normal Homeric

Formulaic diction and contextual relevance  29 usage and means, in effect, “you Achaians who are gathered here to wage war (sc. for honor and glory),” in contrast to the gods in the following line who “have their homes on Olympos (and therefore do not need to wage war for these motives).”46 1.25: ἀλλὰ κακῶς ἀφίει, κρατερὸν δ’ ἐπὶ μῦθον ἔτελλε The formula κρατερόν…ἔτελλε occurs four times in the Iliad, and κρατερός is also used with μῦθος at 15.202, even though κράτος and its cognates usually signify overwhelming physical rather than verbal force and dominance. κρατερόν here is usually considered an attributive adjective in the positive degree, describing Agamemnon’s μῦθος and reflecting the narrator’s viewpoint, but given its ending, -τερον, it also could be heard as a predicate adjective in the comparative degree, and understood, like the rest of the line, as focalized by Chryses, from whose viewpoint Agamemnon “rejected [him] badly” and “placed a μῦθος upon him that was too powerful (for him to resist)” (or, perhaps, “more powerful” [than the will/wish of the army to “respect the priest and accept the glorious ransom,”], 1.23). 1.26: μή σε, γέρον, κοίληισιν ἐγὼ παρὰ νηυσὶ κιχείω In his “Glory and Nostos: The Ship-Epithet κοῖλος in the Iliad,” Matthew Ward shows that κοῖλος, “hollow,” is neither ornamental nor, as many scholars have thought, used to describe the physical structure of the ships. Rather, in keeping with two major themes of the poem, τιμή (“honor”) and eventual νόστος (“return home”), κοῖλος signifies not merely “hollow” but “hav[ing] the potential to be filled with hero-won prizes for the journey home,” prizes that would be tangible expressions of the honor and glory a hero has won, for which he is admired and respected.47 Agamemnon’s use of the formula κοίληισιν…παρὰ νηυσί in the opening line of his speech to Chryses (1.26) implies that the priest’s daughter, whom Agamemnon refuses to release to her father, is one such prize, a notion that Agamemnon develops towards the end of his speech, when he speaks of her value to him as a worker at the loom and his sexual slave (1.29–31). Agamemnon’s use of κοίληισιν is marked in several ways and thus emphatic: first, this is the only place in Homer where the feminine dative plural form of κοῖλος ends in -ηισιν rather than -ηις; second, this is one of only two places in Homeric epic where the dative plural of κοῖλος occurs in the first half of the line before the B caesura, violating the expectations of audiences and readers48; third, the three-syllable attributive adjective κοίληισιν, at position 5.5 of the hexameter, the so-called B1 caesura, agrees with νηυσί at position 9.5, even though it is extremely rare for words at these two positions to be in grammatical agreement.49 It is in character for Agamemnon to mock the weak old man by implying, through the emphatic use of κοίληισιν…παρὰ νηυσί, that his daughter is now the king’s possession and will be taken home in his hollow ship as a token of

30  Seth L. Schein his “honor.”50 Although the narrator puts these marked words in Agamemnon’s mouth, ancient readers and listeners, like modern ones, would almost certainly have considered Agamemnon responsible for what he says, which implies that he has a detailed familiarity with traditional epic diction and style which one might expect to find only in the poet and his audiences or readers, not in a character, and that this familiarity enables him to violate formulaic norms for the sake of emphasis.51 1.34 βῆ δ’ ἀκέων παρὰ θῖνα πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης is the most common formulaic phrase, when θάλασσα in the genitive occurs at the end of the line: it is found six times in the Iliad, and its metrical equivalent θαλάσσης εὐρυπόροιο occurs only once, at 15.381. It is not certain why πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης is preferred,52 but in several places the phrase is associated with a character’s desolation, anxiety, or anguish (6.347, 9.182, 23.59). Here the contrast between the roaring of the sea and Chryses’ silence (ἀκέων) not only reflects his emotional agitation, but calls attention to that silence, suggesting a ritual observance that may, in turn, enhance the efficacy of the priest’s ensuing prayer to Apollo.53 1.35–36 …ἠρᾶθ’ ὁ γεραιὸς /Απόλλωνι ἄνακτι, τὸν ἠΰκομος τέκε Λητώ Ἀπόλλωνι ἄνακτι at the beginning of the line in enjambment looks like a traditional formula but is in fact unique in Homeric epic. The whole of line 36, though spoken by the narrator, is once again best understood as focalized by Chryses. Apollo is his king and, as the son of Leto (which means, too, the son of Zeus), he is much more powerful than Agamemnon, even though Agamemnon is son of Atreus and king of men. Here, as in 1.9, the reference to Apollo as “son of Leto” expresses his potentially deadly power (cf. 16.849, 19.413) and recalls the description of Apollo’s power at the beginning of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo (above, on 1.14). In context, τὸν ἠΰκομος τέκε Λητώ, focalized by Chryses, like Agamemnon’s κοίληισιν…παρὰ νηυσίν in line 26 (above), suggests that a character in the poem is familiar enough with the traditional epic style to tap into the formula’s traditional referentiality. 1.50 οὐρῆας μὲν πρῶτον ἐπώιχετο καὶ κύνας ἀργούς ἀργούς is sometimes compared to θοάς in 1.12 as (supposedly) a purely ornamental epithet with no semantic force, because its normal meaning when used of dogs, “swift” (cf. 18.283), seems as out of place when the dogs are being killed as θοάς seems when the ships it describes are drawn up on shore.54 Potentially, however, the dogs are “swift,” even when they are being killed, just as the ships in 1.12 are potentially “swift” even when they are on shore, and there is pathos in the implied contrast between dogs whose feet are normally flashing and rapidly moving and dogs whose feet are stilled forever, when they are shot by Apollo.

Formulaic diction and contextual relevance  31 1.84 τὸν δ’ ἀπαμειβόμενος προσέφη πόδας ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς. Formulaic epithets and phrases describing Achilles as “swift-footed,” including ποδάρκης, ποδώκης, πόδας ταχύς, and πόδας ὠκύς, occur c. 110 times in the Iliad, which makes this an even more common way of referring to him than “son of Peleus.” These epithets have often seemed inappropriate, like θοάς in 1.12 and ἀργούς in 1.50, for example, when “swift-footed Achilles” is used in a speech-introduction at 1.58 in a scene of assembly. Here, in evoking the distinctive, potential excellence of Achilles at the moment when he is trying to save the army from the plague, the narrator evokes his supreme heroic excellence generally.55 Achilles is most notably swift-footed when he chases Hector around Troy in Book 22 at the climactic moment of the poem; the epithet, perhaps familiar to Homeric audiences from versions of this chase in the poetic tradition, may actually allude to this scene when it occurs in Book 1.56 Achilles’ “swiftness” is also a key marker of his mortality, when Thetis calls him ὠκύμορος (“swiftly fated,” 1.417) and ὠκυμορώτατος ἄλλων (“most swiftly fated beyond others,” 1.505). 1.92 ηὔδα μάντις ἀμύμων ἀμύμων is one of the most frequent “generic” epithets in Homeric poetry. It is used in the Iliad and Odyssey of 24 different heroes, but only here and at Od. 12.99 and 291 of a μάντις (“seer”). The traditional etymology from ἀ + μῶμος suggests the meaning “blameless,” though not necessarily in a moral sense, since the word is used of Aegisthus at Od. 1.29 (ἀμύμονος Αἰγίσθοιο), a use Parry took as a sign “of the ornamental meaning of the epithet, but also the poet’s inattention to which name the epithet was to accompany.”57 According to Anne Amory Parry, however, the original meaning of ἀμύμων may have been “beautiful,” “handsome,” which developed through the sense “faultless” into “excellent,” “expert,” “skillful in a functional sense.”58 Frederick M. Combellack agreed that in Od. 1.29 Zeus describes Aigisthos as ἀμύμονος, because he does well, in a functional sense, what is expected of him: he avenges his father by killing Agamemnon, even though that action itself might seem blameworthy.59 Combellack compared the use of ἀμύμονα at Il. 4.89 to describe Pandaros, who exercises his outstanding skill as an archer in a way that is expected of him, by shooting at Menelaos, even though breaking the truce by doing so might seem counterproductive and blameworthy: “[i]n both of these passages, it was the context that determined the choice of the surprising adjective.”60 If A. A. Parry and Combellack are correct, and if audiences and readers understood ἀμύμων to mean “skillful,” the epithet in the unusually abbreviated speech-introduction in 1.92 would not be ornamental, but used with contextually appropriate semantic force, because Calchas, οἰωνοπόλων ὄχ’ ἄριστος (“by far the best of bird-interpreters,” 1.69), is about to explain expertly, qua μάντις, why Apollo has caused the plague and how the army might propitiate him and persuade him to end it (1.93–100). The poem’s

32  Seth L. Schein narrator, understanding ἀμύμων to mean “expert” or “skillful,” placed the formula μάντις ἀμύμων at the end of the line, where it bears a special emphasis, following the verb ηὔδα, of which it is the subject, at position 8, the so-called bucolic diaeresis. ηὔδα in this position is highly marked: elsewhere in the Iliad and Odyssey it occurs only at line end61; polysyllabic word-end in a heavy syllable at position 8 is normally avoided, and words of two syllables are especially rare, occurring in only 2% of all Homeric hexameters.62 There is a similar effect in the speech-introduction in Od. 11.99, καὶ τότε δὴ ἐπέεσσι προσηύδα μάντις ἀμύμων, which introduces the seer Teiresias’ long speech explaining to Odysseus how he can return home and telling of the journey he must then undertake to make peace with Poseidon (100–37). προσηύδα is found more often than ηὔδα at position 8, but the metrical word-shape ̆‒‒, though not quite as rare at this position as‒‒, is nevertheless highly unusual, occurring in just 4% of all Homeric hexameters.63 In addition, Od. 11.99 resembles Il. 1.92 by the placement of μάντις ἀμύμων at the end of the line. In Od. 11.291, which is not a speech-introduction, μάντις ἀμύμων similarly occurs at the end of the line with reference to the prophet Melampus, who is not named, but whose identity is clear from the context (cf. 11.297). There is, however, enjambment between lines 291 and 292, and line 291 has no marked word-end in a heavy syllable at position 8; therefore, the line-ending formula is much less forceful than in Il. 1.92 and Od. 11.91, which introduce expert, direct speech. 98 πρίν γ’ ἀπὸ πατρὶ φίλωι δόμεναι ἑλικώπιδα κούρην Though ἑλίκωψ is used six times in the Iliad in the line-ending formula ἑλικῶπες (-ας) Ἀχαιοῖ (-ούς), this is the only Homeric example of ἐλικῶπις used of a mortal woman, presumably with reference to her attractiveness, as in Hesiod, frr. 43.19 and 180.13. Thus, ἑλικώπιδα in 1.98 is marked and, in context, has distinctive semantic force as a description of Chryseis, even though its precise meaning is uncertain (and may have been uncertain for Homer and his audiences).64 *** I have argued that traditional epithets in Homeric epic can have semantic as well as metrical force, depending on the contexts in which they are used. Just as meter plays a decisive role in shaping the traditional, formulaic diction and style of early Greek epic, so too the contextual relevance of formulaic phrases and epithets is part of what makes them traditional and formulaic and helps to shape poetic meaning. Two key elements contributing to such contextual relevance are the focalization of the epithet,65 and its potential, as opposed to its immediate, meaning, which is often related to, or a function of, its traditional referentiality. Awareness of an epithet’s potential meaning and traditional referentiality can heighten a modern

Formulaic diction and contextual relevance  33 reader’s pleasure and understanding, as it would have heightened the pleasure and understanding of Homer’s audiences. Although, for reasons of space, the present study addresses the contextual relevance of formulaic epithets found in only the first 100 lines of Iliad 1, the same approach to the epithets in the rest of Book 1 and in the entire poem would be both possible and fruitful.66

Notes

34  Seth L. Schein















Formulaic diction and contextual relevance  35

























36  Seth L. Schein

51

52 53

54

55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64

65 66

reported in the narrator’s description of their response to Chryses’ speech, use the more respectful ἱερῆα (1.23). On Chryses as focalizing the army’s opinion, see Σ 1.23: ὡς τιμῶντες μὲν οὗτοι ἱερέα καλοῦσι…. ὁ (sc. Ἀγαμέμνων) δὲ καὶ γέροντα αὐτὸν ὀνομάζει). See René Nünlist, The Ancient Critic at Work: Terms and Concepts of Literary Criticism in Greek Scholia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 126; Irene J.F. de Jong, Narrators and Focalizers: The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (Amsterdam: B. R. Gruner, 1987b), 266 n. 6. Agamemnon’s threat that he will keep Chryses’ daughter anticipates his threat to Achilles that he will take and keep Briseis, but unlike Chryses, who must turn to Apollo for help, Achilles can retaliate and defend his honor. See Olga Komninou-Kakridi, Σχέδιο και Τεχνική της Ιλιάδας (Athens: Thessalonikē, 1947), 16–18; Mary Margaret Mackenzie, “The Tears of Chryses: Retaliation in the Iliad,” Philosophy and Literature 2 (1978): 3–22; Mary Margaret Mackenzie, Plato on Punishment (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1981), 71–81; David F. Elmer, The Poetics of Consent: Collective Decision Making and the Iliad (Baltimore, MD and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013), 76, 83. Dorothea H.F. Gray, “Homeric Epithets for Things,” CQ 41 (1947): 110–11. Mark W. Edwards, Homer: Poet of the Iliad (Baltimore, MD and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987), 177; Maria Serena Mirto, “Commento,” in Iliade / Omero; traduzione e saggio introduttivo di Guido Paduano; commento di Maria Serena Mirto, eds. Guido Paduano, and Maria Serena Mirto (Turin: Einaudi-Gallimard, 1997), 803. The meaning of ἀργός when it is used of oxen (23.30) or a goose (Od. 15.161) is “white” or “bright,” and “white” was probably the original meaning (cf. Arist. Top. 149a7), which developed into “bright, “glistening,” then “rapidly moving,” then “swift” as a description of dogs’ flashing feet and of dogs generally. Cf. κύνες πόδας ἀργοί (18.578, Od. 17.62 = 20.145), DELG s.v. ἀργός. Wainwright, Homer: Iliad I, 68. Whallon, “Homeric Epithets,” 107–9, 137. Cf. Pindar’s description of Achilles as κτείνοντ’ ἐλάφους ἄνευ κυνῶν δολίων θ’ ἑρκέων· / ποσσὶ γὰρ κράτεσκε (Nem. 3.51–52). Parry, Making of Homeric Verse, 151. Anne A. Parry, Blameless Aegisthus: A Study of ΑΜΥΜΩΝ and Other Homeric Epithets (Lugundi Batavorum: E. J. Brill, 1973). Frederick M. Combellack, “Two Blameless Homeric Characters,” AJPh 103 (1982): 361–72. Combellack, “Two Blameless Homeric Characters,” 372. Mark W. Edwards, “Homeric Speech Introductions,” HSCP 74 (1970): 21. Howard N. Porter, “The Early Greek Hexameter,” YCIS 12 (1951): 61, Table XIX. Porter, “The Early Greek Hexameter,” 61. The most likely ancient and modern guesses have to do with the colour of the eyes (“black”) or with their movement or animation (“lively,” flashing,” “darting”), rather than with their shape (“round,” “curved”)—especially as ἑλικshould mean “twisted,” which does not seem appropriate. de Jong, Narrators and Focalizers. I presented an earlier version of this essay at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and I thank members of the audience on that occasion for their stimulating questions. I am also grateful to Nancy Felson and Matthew Ward for constructive criticism, corrections, and suggestions.

3

Babies in Iliad book 6 Astyanax and Dionysus Maureen Alden

“The Helmet” When shiny Hector reached out for his son, the wean Squirmed and buried his head between his nurse’s breasts And howled, terrorised by his father, by flashing bronze And the nightmarish nodding of the horse-hair crest. His daddy laughed, his mammy laughed, and his daddy Took off the helmet and laid it on the ground to gleam, Then kissed the babbie and dandled him in his arms and Prayed that his son might grow up bloodier than him. Michael Longley1

In Northern Ireland, a far right loyalist terrorist and drug dealer (active 1984–2003) was known as “Mad Dog Johnny Adair”: he called his son “Mad Pup.” Michael Longley wrote “The Helmet” with them in mind.2 There are not many babies in the Iliad, so when we find two in close proximity, as in the case of Dionysus and Astyanax in book 6, it makes sense to see if they are connected in some way.

3.1 The para-narrative of Dionysus and his nurses In book 6 of the Iliad, while Hector is on his way to Troy, Diomede encounters the Lycian prince, Glaucus, on the battlefield, and tells him the para-narrative of Lycurgus’ attack on Dionysus and his nurses (6.130–40).3 This story does much more than suggest “that nothing momentous happens on the battlefield while Hector is away”:4 it justifies Diomede’s unwillingness to fight against gods,5 but its elements are uncannily repeated in the homilia of Hector and Andromache.6 I shall consider the effects of this repetition. Diomede relates that Lycurgus made the nurses (τιθήνας) of Dionysus run down (σεῦε κατ᾿) (6.133)7 Mount Nysa (or Nyseia)8 striking them with a βουπλήξ (an ox-goad or pole-axe), and they dropped their sacred θύσθλα9 on the ground (6.133–4). The baby Dionysus was frightened by the man’s

38  Maureen Alden shouting (6.137) and dived into the sea, where Thetis received him in her bosom (6.136). As a result, the gods were angry with Lycurgus (6.138): Zeus blinded him, and he did not live long (6.139–40).10 The poet assumes that his audience does not need to be told who the god’s nurses are. They are the nymphs of Nysa, who fostered the baby Dionysus: they accompany the young god on his wanderings, as maenads.11

3.2 The Agrionia/Agriania Meuli and Otto compared Lycurgus’ pursuit of Dionysus and his nurses to the pursuit of the female participants in the Agrionia/Agriania,12 a festival of “dissolution and inversion,” women’s uprising and madness,13 in which the community divides along gender lines, and a group of men pursues a group of women. At Orchomenos, it commemorates the (married) daughters of Minyas: Leucippe, Arsippe, and Alcathoe, who refused to take part in Dionysiac dances, until the god manifested himself through ivy and vine tendrils coiling around their looms, serpents in their wool baskets, and wine and milk dripping from the roof. When they drew lots, the lot fell on Leucippe, who vowed to sacrifice to Dionysus, but in their madness she and her sisters tore apart her son, Hippasus.14 The husbands of the Minyads wore dark clothing for grief, and were called ψολόεις (sooty): the Minyads themselves were called Ὀλεῖαι (Murderesses). In the ritual at the festival, the supposed female descendants of the Minyads flee, and are pursued by the priest of Dionysus armed with a sword. Any one of them he catches he may kill (although of course, he is not supposed actually to kill anyone, as the priest, Zoilus, did in Plutarch’s time).15 The male participants in the ritual are called “sooty”: the women’s leader is called Leucippe (The White Mare). At Argos, the Agrionia festival was in honour of Iphinoe, one of the three daughters of Proetus of Tiryns, who were all afflicted with white eczema (Hesiod Cat. fr. 133) to punish them for disrespect towards the image of Hera,16 and because they refused to accept the rites of Dionysus,17 and possibly for other reasons too.18 Melampus pursued them with a company of youths to Sicyon: one of them died in the pursuit, but the others were purified and married to Melampus (Black Foot) and his brother, Bias (Force).19 Pursuers and pursued are colour-coded here too: the fleeing women are covered in white meal (to simulate the Proetids’ eczema). At the Agrionia in Chaironea, the women search for Dionysus as if he had run away: then they say that he has fled to the Muses and is hidden with them.20

3.3 The “divinity hurled from heaven” motif Dionysus fleeing and hiding with the Muses at the Chaironean Agrionia is in much the same situation as he is at the end of Diomede’s story, where Dionysus flees, plunges into the sea, and Θέτις δʼ ὑπεδέξατο κόλπωι (Thetis received him in her bosom) (6.137).21 Thetis and her sister Nereids make a point of rescuing divinities (and others) pitching suddenly into the sea,

Babies in Iliad book 6  39 whether self-propelled, like Dionysus, or hurled by a third party: when Hera threw Hephaestus from heaven, (Εὐρυνόμη τε) Θέτις θ ̓ ὑπεδέξατο κόλπωι ((Eurynome and) Thetis received him in their/her bosom) (18.398), exactly the phrase used by Diomede.22 But Hephaestus was on another occasion hurled onto Lemnos by Zeus, who ῥῖψε ποδὸς τεταγὼν ἀπὸ βηλοῦ θεσπεσίοιο (got hold of his foot and threw him from the tremendous threshold) (1.591).23

3.4 Astyanax thrown from the tower The first half of this line occurs also in the phraseology traditionally used to narrate the murder of Astyanax: παῖδα δ’ ἑλὼν ἐκ κόλπου ἐυπλοκάμοιο τιθήνης ῥῖψε ποδός τεταγὼν ἀπὸ πύργου, τὸν δὲ πεσόντα ἔλλαβε πορφύρεος θάνατος καὶ μοῖρα κραταιή. taking the child from the bosom of his fair-tressed nurse he got hold of his foot and threw him from the tower, and when he fell crimson death and harsh fate took him. (Il. parv. 21.3–5)24 In her second lament for Hector (24.725–45), Andromache anticipates her son’s murder, using the same context-specific phraseology:25 …ἤ τις Ἀχαιῶν ῥίψει χειρὸς ἑλών ἀπὸ πύργου, λυγρὸν ὄλεθρον. …or some one of the Achaeans will take him by the hand and throw him from the tower, a wretched death. (24.734–5) To an audience familiar with the tradition, the image of Astyanax taken from the κόλπος (bosom) of his τιθήνη (nurse) and thrown from the tower could not fail to be evoked by the homilia of Hector and Andromache in Iliad 6, a scene located on the same tower (6.373, 386, 431), where a helmeted warrior (Hector) reaches out (6.466) to take the same baby from the same τιθήνη (6.389, 467), into whose κόλπος (6.400, 467) the panicking infant shrinks. To the character, Astyanax, as well as to the audience, the helmeted warrior reaching out to take him from the nurse is indistinguishable from the child’s killer in the tradition preserved in the Little Iliad.26

3.5 Andromache like a maenad, and the maenad-nurses of Dionysus The homilia is located on the tower because Andromache rushes there, taking her son and his τιθήνη, on hearing that the Trojans are hard pressed (6.385–6).

40  Maureen Alden The tower is as far as she can go. When Hector enquires for her, the servant tells him that she went like a raving woman: ἡ μὲν δὴ πρὸς τεῖχος ἐπειγομένη ἀφικάνει, μαινομένηι ἐϊκυῖα· φέρει δ᾿ ἅμα παῖδα τιθήνη. She has gone rushing to the wall looking like a raving woman, and the nurse is carrying the child with her. (6.388–9) The μαινομένηι to whom Andromache is compared is likely to be a maenad, because Dionysus himself has shortly before been called μαινομένοιο (raving) (6.132). Andromache is later compared indisputably to a maenad (μαινάδι ἴση) (like a maenad) (22.460)27 when she μεγάροιο διέσσυτο28 (hurried out through the palace) to the tower (22.460–2) on first hearing the lament when Hector is killed (22.447). The name Dionysus appears in Linear B at Pylos and at Chania (where, with Zeus, he seems to be the joint recipient of honey at the shrine of Zeus).29 At Ayia Irini on Keos, in a building erected in the fifteenth century BC and used as a temple, a votive inscription of the historical period names Dionysus as lord of the sanctuary.30 If Dionysiac μανία and maenadism were not familiar to Homer and his audience, it would make no sense to compare Andromache to a maenad. Wathelet’s discussion of how far the Dionysus found in Homeric epic corresponds to the D ionysus of the classical period concludes “le Dionysos de l’épopée est, pour essential, le même que celui de la période classique.”31 Certainly, in the classical period the Dionysiac metaphor describes an ecstatic condition (in Andromache’s case this would be anxiety and grief): it usually points to a tragic outcome.32 The group formed by the maenadic A ndromache, the τιθήνη, and the baby (6.389) is the parallel in poetic reality to the maenad-τιθήναι and the baby Dionysus in Diomede’s story (6.132). (Astyanax’s τιθήνη does nothing except hold him until his father takes him from her: she is there to establish the parallel with Dionysus’ nurses, and to evoke the scene of Astyanax’s death.)33

3.6 The Dionysiac situation of the homilia The emergency against which the homilia is set has various Dionysiac colourings. Outside the wall, the ἄγριον αἰχμητήν (wild spearman) (6.97, 278), Diomede, μαίνεται, οὐδέ τίς οἱ δύναται μένος34 ἰσοφαρίζειν. raves, nor can anyone match him in strength. (6.101)

Babies in Iliad book 6  41 Hector is sent into Troy to order emergency measures: his mother and the other senior ladies are to make an offering to Athene and promise a sacrifice if she will pity the women and children in the citadel, and hold off Diomede (6.87–97). Hector goes armed (6.117–18) into Troy to instruct the women. The two spears (6.104) with which he set off have become one (6.318–20) as he enters Paris’ house, but he never lays aside his arms all the time he is in Troy. At the Scaean gate, he meets35 the wives and daughters of the Trojans, whom he orders to pray to the gods (6.238–41).36 Then he goes to find his mother. He refuses (6.264–8) to pray and make libation as she recommends,37 and rejects the wine she offers (6.258–62). Hector relays to her Helenus’ instructions for the older ladies to offer a robe in the temple of Athene, with the promise of sacrifice if their prayers for deliverance are answered (6.269–78).38 He calls at Paris’ house (6.312–17) to urge his brother to return to the fighting (6.326–31). Then, uncertain if he will survive the coming battle (6.365–8), he goes to his own house: οὐδ᾿ εὗρ᾿ ᾿Ανδρομάχην λευκώλενον ἐν μεγάροισιν, ἀλλ᾿ ἥ γε ξὺν παιδὶ καὶ ἀμφιπόλωι ἐϋπέπλωι πύργωι ἐφεστήκει γοόωσά τε μυρομένη τε. nor did he find white-armed Andromache in the palace, but she, with her child and her fair-gowned attendant stood upon the tower, lamenting and wailing. (6.371–3) His demand for Andromache’s whereabouts (6.377) seems predicated on a belief that she should be at home.39 When the servant tells him of Andromache’s frenzied departure with the nurse and baby for the wall, Hector rushes away40 after her down the lanes (ἀπέσσυτο … κατ᾿ ἀγυιάς) (6.390–1) to the tower, where his wife comes running to meet him (6.394). She explains that she has no other kin but him: she fears his μένος will destroy him (6.407);41 she advocates a defensive strategy. Hector shares her fears, but feels obliged (and wants) (6.444) to fight in pursuit of glory (6.441–6).42 At the end of their conversation, Hector instructs her to go back home: the war will be a matter for men, and his concern most of all: …πόλεμος δ᾿ ἄνδρεσσι μελήσει πᾶσι, μάλιστα δ᾿ ἐμοί, τοὶ ᾿Ιλίωι ἐγγεγάασιν. (6.492–3)43 Andromache obeys, but continues her prospective lament for Hector at home (6.499–502).44 Aeschylus imitates this situation in Seven against Thebes: Hippomedon βακχᾶι (is frenetic) (498)45 outside the fourth gate;

42  Maureen Alden within the walls, Eteocles succeeds in quelling (262–3) the frenzied women on the acropolis (239–41), only for his death to be lamented (875–1004) by the same raving46 women.

3.7 Echoes of the Agrionia The armed Hector, who pursues his wife to the wall, occupies the position of the armed priest of Dionysus in the Agrionia at Orchomenos.47 The homilia echoes the colour-coding of the ritual: spattered with blood and dirt (6.268), Hector resembles the sooty husbands; the epithet λευκώλενος (white-armed), which the Iliad reserves mainly for Hera, is used twice of Andromache in the homilia.48 The Trojan ladies leave their homes and split into groups: a number are already gathered at the Scaean Gate when Hector enters the city (6.237–41). On his instructions, his mother and the senior matrons go to the temple of Athene (6.296–7). Andromache does not accompany them, but goes to the tower with the nurse and baby (6.372–3). Hector sends her back to her weaving: ἀλλʼ εἰς οἶκον ἰοῦσα τὰ σʼ ἔργα κόμιζε ἱστόν τʼ ἠλακάτην τε, καὶ ἀμφιπόλοισι κέλευε ἔργον ἐποίχεσθαι. but go home and attend to your work the loom and the spindle, and give orders to your maids to go back and forth at their work. (6.490–2) As Burkert49 says of the Agrionia: “The women who have gotten out of hand are made to feel the men’s superior strength.” Hector’s order to Andromache to go back indoors to weave is like Pentheus’ attempt in Euripides’ Bacchae to confine the maenads because maenadism (in myth) destroys marriage and the household:50 weaving is its antidote.51 The epithet ἄγριος (wild)52 (6.97, 278) and the verb μαίνεται (raves) (6.101), both used of Diomede53 to motivate Hector’s going into Troy, may prompt the audience to associate the sequence in Troy with the Agrionia/Agriania,54 and they are further encouraged to make this association by Diomede’s para-narrative of Lycurgus.

3.8 The para-narrative and the homilia Diomede uses the example of Lycurgus, who came to grief after attacking a (very small) god, to explain why οὐκ ἂν ἐγώ γε θεοῖσιν ἐπουρανίοισι μαχοίμην (I would not fight with the heavenly gods) (6.129), a sentiment he repeats at the end of the story: οὐδ᾿ ἂν ἐγὼ μακάρεσσι θεοῖς ἐθέλοιμι μάχεσθαι (nor would I be willing to fight with the blessed gods) (6.141). His story provides more detail than is strictly required to justify not fighting against gods: if

Babies in Iliad book 6  43 that were its sole purpose, it would be necessary only to say that Lycurgus came to grief after fighting against even a very little one. The details of the story are there for a reason, and it is worth looking at them closely: 1a. The baby Dionysus and his τιθήναι 2a. on Mount Nysa 3a. engaged in a ritual signified by μαινόμενοιο (6.132), perhaps kourotrophic.55 4a. The ritual disrupted by 5a. Lycurgus ἀνδροφόνοιο (man-slaughtering) (6.134) 6a. armed with a βουπλήξ (ox-goad) (6.135), 7a. who chased the nurses down (σεῦε κατʼ) (6.133) the mountain 8a. to the sea. 9a. They dropped their θύσθλα on the ground (χαμαί) (6.134). 10a. The baby Dionysus was frightened: (φοβήθείς, δεδιότα) (6.135, 137). 11a. The baby plunged into the sea, 12a. and was received by Thetis (Θέτις δʼ ὑπεδέξατο κόλπωι) (6.136). 13a. Lycurgus did not last long. We are about to be shown close correspondences to these details in the action of the poem: 1b. 2b. 3b. 4b. 5b. 6b. 7b. 8b. 9b. 10b. 11b. 12b. 13b.

The baby Astyanax with his τιθήνη and mother on the tower at the Scaean Gate, the mother μαινομένηι ἐϊκυῖα (6.389). The mother’s groaning and wailing disrupted by Hector ἀνδροφόνοιο (6.498), an armed man (6.117–18, 318–20, 469–70), who ἀπέσσυτο κατʼ ἀγυιάς (rushed away down the lanes) after the women (6.390–1). who have gone to the tower (as far as they can go). The baby Astyanax is frightened: (ἀτυχθείς, ταρβήσας) (dazed, terrified) (6.468, 469). The baby recoils from the helmeted warrior as if from the Greek who will throw him to his death from the tower. Hector sets his helmet down on the ground (ἐπὶ χθονὶ) (6.473). Hector gives the baby to Andromache, ἣ δʼ ἄρα μιν κηώδεϊ δέξατο κόλπωι (she then received him in her fragrant bosom) (6.483). Hector does not last long.

Lycurgus drove (σεύε κατ᾿) the nurses of Dionysus down Mount Nysa (7a): Hector ἀπέσσυτο…κατ᾿ ἀγυιάς (rushed away down the lanes) (7b) after Andromache and the nurse in the homilia. The epithets μαινόμενοιο (3a) and μαινομένηι (3b) establish the Dionysiac context of both Lycurgus’ pursuit of Dionysus and his nurses, and Hector’s encounter with Andromache, the

44  Maureen Alden nurse, and Astyanax. The use of τιθήνη for Astyanax’s nurse (1b) (6.389, 467; 22.503) makes an obvious analogy with the Διωνύσοιο τιθήνας (nurses of Dionysus) (1a) (6.132) of the para-narrative. The epithet ἀνδροφόνοιο connects Hector (5b) (of whom it is used 11 times in the Iliad) with Lycurgus (5a) (who appears only here in the Iliad). (It is otherwise used only once, of Ares (4.444)). As the armed Lycurgus (6a), in Diomede’s story, frightened the baby Dionysus (10a), so the armed Hector (6b) frightens the baby Astyanax (9b and 10b). Andromache and the nurse can go no farther than the tower (8b): the nurses of Dionysus may not be able to go farther than the sea (8a). Pherecydes tells us that when Lycurgus chased Dionysus to the sea, Zeus took pity on his nurses, and changed them into stars.56 Dionysus’ refuge in Thetis’ bosom (12a) is echoed at the end of the homilia, where Hector puts Astyanax into Andromache’s arms, and she receives him in her bosom (12b). In many later accounts Lycurgus is punished in various ways for hostility to Dionysus and his followers.57 According to Sophocles Antigone 955–65 (where he is seen as analogous to Creon, who buried Antigone alive in a cave on Mount Cithaeron, but paid with the loss of his son), Lycurgus, king of the Edonians in Thrace, tried to suppress the women in whom Dionysus was present, and was buried alive on Mount Pangaeum.58 Apollodorus preserves a version illustrated on a red figure hydria of 440 BC:59 Lycurgus expelled Dionysus and imprisoned his Bacchic followers, and was punished with madness (μανία) in which he killed his son, Dryas, with an axe.60 Repeated use of the verb μαίνομαι (8.355; 9.238; 15.605–6;61 21.5) of Hector after his meeting with Andromache suggests madness:62 he is said to be in the grip of wolf’s madness (λύσσα) (9.239; 305),63 described as a rabid dog (κύνα λυσσητῆρα) (8.299),64 and smelling of wolf (λυσσώδης) (13.53–54).65 The whiff of wolf connects Hector with Λυκ-ούργος (Wolf-Worker). Lycurgus was blinded by Zeus (6.139). The poet describes Hector as having the eyes of a Gorgon (8.349), a sign of madness in tragedy.66 Hector cannot see what is really happening: as soon as he returns to the battlefield from Troy, the gods begin to deceive him: Helenus reports overhearing Athene and Apollo say that Hector’s time has not yet come to die (7.52–53), but this is not what they actually say (7.26–42), and Apollo abandons Hector when he fights Achilles (22.213). By impersonating his brother, Deiphobus (22.226–47), Athene makes Hector think that he is not alone, but when he seeks his brother’s assistance, no one is there (22.294–9). Hector makes a series of mistakes: he promises a Trojan victory the following day (8.489–541); he refuses to withdraw inside the walls, as Polydamas advises (18.243–313); he refuses to avoid Achilles, as his parents advise (22.25–30).67 Hector tries to control the women in Troy: he sends his lamenting wife back to her weaving; he refuses (6.264–8) to pray and make libation as his mother recommends (6.256–62).68 Euripides’ Dionysus complains of these very things in Pentheus: ὃς θεομαχεῖ τὰ κατ᾿ ἐμὲ καὶ σπονδῶν ἄπο | ὠθεῖ μ᾿, ἐν εὐχαῖς τ᾿ οὐδαμοῦ μνείαν ἔχει (who fights with gods as far as I am concerned, and pushes me away from libations, and in his prayers has no remembrance of me).69 The poet emphasizes

Babies in Iliad book 6  45 that Lycurgus does not live long: οὐδὲ γὰρ οὐδὲ…| δὴν ἦν (for by no means did he last long) (6.130–1) is repeated in the closing frame: οὐδ᾿ ἄρ᾿ ἔτι δὴνǀ ἦν (and so not for long did he still last) (6.139–40). Hector is dead two days after pursuing his wife and the nurse and sending them home.

3.9 Hector and Lycurgus Lycurgus, the armed man in the para-narrative, defeats Dionysus and drives him into the sea, but Zeus makes him pay heavily for his victory over the god. Hector’s prayer that Astyanax will grow up to be a fearless killer bringing back the spoils of battle to his mother (6.476–81) is at variance with the premonitions of doom that he shared earlier with Andromache (6.447–65). Hector does not know what is to happen (6.367–8): he thinks he is doomed, but hopes that he isn’t. By making Hector pursue the maenadic Andromache, the nurse, and the baby Astyanax to the wall in a muchdiluted version of the pursuit by the armed Lycurgus of Dionysus and his maenad-nurses, the poet makes Hector (like Lycurgus) act out “hostility to Dionysus,” and conveys to his audience that Hector and Troy are ultimately doomed and deluded, although Hector may, like Lycurgus, enjoy victory for a short time. As Hector’s death approaches, Achilles warns him οὐδʼ ἂν70 ἔτι δὴν | ἀλλήλους πτώσσοιμεν ἀνὰ πολέμοιο γεφύρας (let us not for long still | cower away from each other along the ranks of war) (20.426–7), echoing the closing frame of the story of Lycurgus: οὐδʼ ἄρʼ ἔτι δὴν | ἦν (6.139–40). Achilles then immediately challenges Hector in the words which conclude Diomede’s speech containing the para-narrative: ἄσσον ἴθʼ, ὥς κεν θᾶσσον ὀλέθρου πείραθʼ ἵκηαι (come closer, so that you may arrive more quickly at the bourn of death) (6.143 = 20.429). One repetition might be fortuitous, but two suggest an association in the poet’s mind between Diomede’s story of Lycurgus and the death of Hector.

3.10 Dionysus’ plunge and Astyanax’s fall Although he is old enough to flee from Lycurgus without assistance, the Dionysus of Diomede’s story is not much more than a baby, timorous, and attended by wet-nurses: punishment of Lycurgus’ slight to his divinity is left to his father, Zeus.71 Dionysus’ weakness and babyishness in Diomede’s story produce a close parallel with Astyanax, who, as we have seen, is also frightened by an armed man in pursuit of his nurse(s). The rare word τιθήνη, the armed attacker, and the downward trajectory of the baby Dionysus all evoke the traditional image of Astyanax’s death (§§ 3–4). In addition to the pursuits of maenadic women mentioned in §2, we have a story of a battle at Argos in which Perseus and the Argives fought Dionysus and the women who arrived with him from the Aegean islands: some of the women (Ἅλιαι) (Sea Women) were killed, and their grave was shown.72 Sourvinou-Inwood73 connects this battle with the T-scholion to 14.31974 which records that

46  Maureen Alden Perseus killed Dionysus by throwing him into the Lernaean lake, a story which combines the motifs of a plunge into water and the hurling of a divinity. The Argives invoked Dionysus by the water, after throwing in an offering for Pylaeochos (the Gatekeeper, sc. of Hades),75 implying that the lake was a gateway to Hades, and Dionysus was to return from the dead. The recurrent motif of a violent pursuit of Dionysus and his followers, ending with Dionysus’ plunge or hurling (even to his “death”)76 makes Dionysus the obvious choice for a parallel with Astyanax’s fall to his death. Astyanax’s eventual fall through the air is a Dionysiac motif, a parallel to Dionysus’ plunge into the sea, although Hector’s son is mortal and cannot come back from death like Dionysus: his fall ends, not in the sea and the saving bosom of Thetis, but in the πορφύρεος θάνατος (crimson death) which engulfs him.

Notes 1 From The Ghost Orchid by Michael Longley published by Jonathan Cape. Reproduced by permission of The Random House Group Ltd. ©1995. From Michael Longley The Ghost Orchid US edition, Winston-Salem NC: Wake Forest University Press 1996. Reproduced by kind permission of Wake Forest University Press ©. 2 Michael Longley, Sidelines: Selected Prose 1962–2015 (London: Enitharmon Press, 2017), 327. 3 On para-narratives, see Maureen Alden, Homer beside Himself: Para-Narratives in the Iliad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) and Para-Narratives in the Odyssey: Stories in the Frame (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). A para-narrative is a story told by a character or the poet/narrator, or it may be a subsidiary episode in the narrator text, which illuminates and guides interpretation of something that happens in the primary narrative. On the story of Lycurgus, see G. Aurelio Privitera, Dioniso in Omero e nella poesia greca arcaica (Rome: Edizioni dell’ Ateneo, 1970), 53–74. 4 Barbara Graziosi and Johannes Haubold (eds.), Homer Iliad Book VI (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 36. Irene J. F. de Jong, A Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), xiv refers to “fill-in” technique; τὸ διάκενον …ἀναπληρώσας: Sch. bT on 6.237 (= Hartmut Erbse (ed.), Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem, i–vii (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1969–1988) ii. 172. 5 See Alden, Homer, 128–30. 6 Some of the correspondences between the para-narrative and the homilia are noted by Jonathan S. Burgess, “The Hypertext of Astyanax,” in Homeric Hypertextuality, ed. Christos Tsagalis (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 211–24, but not their significance. 7 Rennen machen (make run) see Führer in LfgrE s. v. σεύομαι I1. 8 Nysa, the nurse of Dio-nysus (Terpander fr. 9 (= David A. Campbell (ed.), Greek Lyric, i–v (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982–1993), ii. 318–19), where Zeus gave birth to Dionysus from his thigh, is variously located: Thrace (6.133); Aethiopia (Hdt. 2.146; 3.97; h.Bacch. 1.8–9); Delphi (Soph. Ant. 1126–31; Eur. Bacch. 556); Libya (Diod. 3.66.3–4); Scythopolis, a Scythian colony adjoining Judaea on the side of Syria (Plin. Nat. 5.74); India (Arr. An. 5.1.5–6). If it is a mountain, it is imaginary: Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, Hylas, the Nymphs, Dionysos and Others: Myth, Ritual, Ethnicity (Stockholm: Paul Åströms Förlag, 2005), 107. Alternatively, it is a plain (Νύσιον πεδίον) (h. Dem. 17), where the Kore plays with the Oceanids, suggesting a location close to the sea: see Nicholas Richardson (ed.), The Homeric Hymn to Demeter (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), 148–50 ad

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9

10

11

12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

loc.; Walter Burkert, Homo Necans, trans. Peter Bing (Berkeley and Los  Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1983), 176; Paul Wathelet, “Dionysos chez Homère, ou la folie divine,” Kernos 4 (1991): 69 with n. 39. In the case of a plain, σεῦε κατʼ (6.133) would refer to chasing down towards the sea. Related to θύω I (stürmen, rasen) (to storm, rave): see Mader in LfgrE s. v. θύσθλα; Privitera, Dioniso, 62–63 n. 19; Christopher A. Faraone, “Rushing and Falling into Milk. New Perspectives on the Orphic Gold Tablets from Thurii and Pelinna,” in The Orphic Gold Tablets and Greek Religion: Further along the Path, ed. Radcliffe G. Edmonds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 125 with n. 15. Branches, vine-shoots, or thyrsi (θύρσ-θλα: Chantraine, Dictionnaire, s. v. θύσθλα; sch. bT on 6.134 (= Erbse, Scholia, ii. 154)). Dionysus’ nurses also drop their θύσθλα when chased by Boutes, Lycurgus’ brother: see n. 10. At Halicarnassus, θύσθλα are said to be “on the altar,” so perhaps the word refers to the sacrifice itself: Henry Willy Pleket and Ronald S. Stroud, S upplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 28–839 (1978); Susan G. Cole, “Epigraphica Dionysiaca,” in A Different God? Dionysos and Ancient Polytheism, ed. Renate Schlesier (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 273 n. 26. In an alternative (Thessalian) version of the story recorded by Diod. 5.50.2–5, Lycurgus’ brother, Boutes, chases the nurses of Dionysus: he is punished with madness and plunges into a well. Elements similar to those of the Homeric story of Lycurgus appear in the story of Ino, the former nurse of Dionysus (Apollod. 3.4.3), who plunges into the sea with her son, Melicertes in her arms, to escape the pursuit of Athamas, maddened by Hera (Ov. Met. 4.512–42; Hyg. Fab. 2 and 4; Apollod. 1.9.1–2; Lucian DMar. 6.312; Sch. BPQT on Od. 5.334 (= Gulielmus Dindorf (ed.), Scholia Graeca in Homeri Odysseam, i–ii (Oxford: e Typographeo Academico, 1855), i. 277–8)). Ino becomes the White Goddess (Od. 5.533–5). h.Hom. 26.3–6; Diod. 3.64.5–6. See Privitera, Dioniso, 62; Sourvinou-Inwood, Hylas, 107–8; Faraone, “Rushing and Falling,” 312–13 and Christopher A. Faraone, “Gender Differentiation and Role Models in the Worship of Dionysos: The Thracian and Thessalian Pattern,” in Redefining Dionysos, eds. Alberto Bernabé, Miguel Hererro de Jáuregui, Ana Isabel Jiménez San Cristóbal, and Raquel Martin Hernández (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013), 121; Magdalene Stoevesandt, Homers Iliad: The Basel Commentary. Book VI, eds. Anton Bierl and Joachim Latacz (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2016), 60 on 6.132. Karl Meuli, Gesammelte Schriften i–ii, unter Mitwirkung von Wilhelm Abt, ed. Thomas Gelzer (Basel: Schwabe, 1975), ii. 1006–7 with n. 5, 1018–21; Walter F. Otto, Dionysos: Mythos und Kultus (Frankfurt: Vittorio Klostermann, 1933), 108–10; Eric R. Dodds (ed.), Euripides: Bacchae, Edited with Introduction and Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1960), xxv–vii; Jan N. Bremmer, “Walter F. Otto’s Dionysos (1933),” in Redefining Dionysos, eds. Alberto Bernabé, Miguel Hererro de Jáuregui, Ana Isabel Jiménez San Cristóbal, and Raquel Martin Hernández (Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2013), 12–16. Walter Burkert, Greek Religion, trans. John Raffan (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), 163. Aelian VH 3.42; Ant. Lib. Met. 10.3; Corinna fr. 665 PMG; Burkert, Homo Necans, 173–6; Robert Parker, On Greek Religion (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 2011), 214–15. Plut. Quaest. Gr. 38.299 E–F. Hes. fr. 131 and 132, West. Acusilas Argeus fr. 28 EGM i. 20. Bacchyl. 11.40–58, 82–112; Pherec. fr. 114 EGM i. 336–7. For discussion of the (overlapping) reasons for the punishment of the Proetids, see Fowler in EGM ii. 169–78, and (differently) Bremmer, “Walter F. Otto,” 13–16. Apollod. 2.2.2. Plut. Quaest. Conv. 717a.

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38

39 40 41 42 43

Miguel  Hererro de Jáuregui, Ana Isabel Jiménez San Cristóbal, and Raquel Martin Hernández (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013), 24–29 with further bibliography. Jasper Griffin, Homer on Life and Death (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 21; Burkert, Greek Religion, 31; Wathelet, “Dionysos,” 62 with n. 4; Malcolm Davies, “Homer and Dionysus,” Eikasmos 11 (2000): 16; Bernabé, “Dionysos,” 32–35. Wathelet, “Dionysos,” 80: see also Bernabé, “Dionysos,” 34–35. On the multiple identities of Dionysus, see Sourvinou-Inwood, Hylas, 169–89; Albert Henrichs, “Dionysos: One or Many?,” in Redefining Dionysos, eds. Alberto Bernabé, Miguel Hererro de Jáuregui, Ana Isabel Jiménez San Cristóbal, and Raquel Martin Hernández (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013), 558–62: of gods in general, see Henk Versnel, Coping with the Gods: Wayward Readings in Greek Theology (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2011), 60–84. Anton F. Harald Bierl, Dionysos und die griechische Tragödie (Tübingen: Gunter Narr Verlag, 1991), 228–30. Andromache’s attendant is elsewhere referred to as ἀμφιπόλος (6.372, 399). The usual word for a nurse in the Odyssey is τροφός (Od. 2.361; 4.742; 17.31; 19.21; 22.419, 485; 23.25, 39, 69, 289). The noun τιθήνη is associated with maenadism: see Privitera, Dioniso, 60–62 with n. 18; Faraone, “Gender Differentiation,” 123. On the link between μένος and μαίνεται, see Walter Leaf (ed.), The Iliad, Edited with Apparatus Criticus, Prolegomena, Notes, and Appendices, i–ii (London: Macmillan, 1900–2), i. 356 on 8.358; Eric R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1951), 8–10; Geoffrey S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume II: books 5–8 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 328 on 8.358; Debra Herschkowitz, The Madness of Epic: Reading Insanity from Homer to Statius (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 136, 142–7. On the ascending scale of affection in these encounters, see Johannes Th. Kakridis, Homeric Researches. Skrifter utgivna av Kungl. Humanistika Vetenskapamfundet I Lund. Acta Reg. Societatis Humaniorum Litterarum Lundensis 45 (Lund: Carl Bloms Boktrykerei, 1949), 43–64: for another interpretation, see Graziosi and Haubold, Iliad VI, 35–36. Compare Aesch. Sept. 265–6. The prohibition in Hesiod WD 724–7 suggests that Hector is right to refuse, because he is dirty: see Danièle Aubriot-Sévin, Prière et conceptions religieuses en Grèce ancienne jusqu’à la fin du Ve siècle avant J. C. Collection de la maison de l’Orient mediterranéen ancien. Série littéraire et philosophique 5.22 (1992): 100–1; John Miles Foley, Homer’s Traditional Art (Pennsylvania, PA: Pennsylvania University Press 1999), 307 n. 40. For a similar prayer to Baal in comparable emergency, see Johannes C. de Moor, An Anthology of Religious Texts from Ugarit (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1987), 171–4. Eteocles likewise promises lavish sacrifices, trophies, and a bonfire of spoils if Thebes is saved: Aesch. Sept. 270–8. Adrian Kelly, A Referential Commentary and Lexicon to Homer, Iliad VIII (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 136. Sich davonstürzen, forteilen (to rush away from, dash off): see Führer in LfgrE s. v. σεύομαι II3; Faraone, “Rushing and Falling.” See n. 34. See Dieter Lohmann, Die Andromache-Szenen der Ilias (Hildesheim and New York: G. Olms, 1988), 38–45; Kelly, Referential Commentary, 307, 314, 348. Compare (a) Eteocles to the frenzied chorus: μέλει γὰρ ἀνδρὶ -μὴ γυνὴ βουλευέτω | τἄξωθεν· ἔνδον δ᾿ οὖσα μὴ βλάβην τίθει (Public matters are a man’s concern – let not a woman give counsel. | Go inside and don’t do any damage): Aesch. Sept. 200–1 (the idea is repeated 230–3);

50  Maureen Alden

44

45

46 47 48

49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58

(b) the servant (to Antigone): ὦ τέκνον, εἴσβα δῶμα καὶ κατὰ στέγας | ἐν παρθενῶσι μίμνε σοῖς… (Child, go into the house and stay indoors in your room): Eur. Phoen. 193–4; (c) Lysistrata (quoting her husband) πόλεμος δ᾿ ἄνδρεσσι μελήσει (war will be men’s concern) and (on her own account) πόλεμος δ᾿ γυναιξὶ μελήσει (war will be women’s concern): Ar. Lys. 520 and 538. On this scene, see Foley, Traditional Art, 187–99; Adrian Kelly, “The Mourning of Thetis: ‘Allusion’ and the Future in the Iliad,” in Homeric Contexts: Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry, eds. Franco Montanari, Antonios Rengakos, and Christos Tsagalis (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012), esp. 231–4. Also Capaneus: Sophocles Ant. 133–7: Richard Seaford, “Dionysus as Destroyer of the Household: Homer, Tragedy, and the Polis,” in The Masks of Dionysus, eds. Thomas. H. Carpenter and Christopher. A. Faraone (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1993), 133. μαίνεται γόοισι φρήν (my mind raves with wailing): Aesch. Sept. 966. For the elements of other rituals acted out by Homeric characters, see Alden, Para-narratives, 149–52, 193–9. λευκώλενος occurs 24 times of Hera, once of Helen (3.121) (when she is sent to the wall), and three times of Andromache (6.371, 377; 24.723). It is not used of any other character in the Iliad. Sch. bT on 6.377 (= Erbse, Scholia, ii. 195) finds the epithet strange in Hector’s mouth (rather than the poet’s). Burkert, Homo Necans, 172. Eur. Bacch. 118, 514, 1236: see Seaford, “Dionysus,” 119–33. Lysistrata’s husband threatens to hit his unsubmissive wife εἰ μὴ τὸν στήμονα νήσω (if I don’t spin the warp-thread): Ar. Lys. 519. At 536, when roles are reversed, Lysistrata dismisses the interfering magistrate to card wool. Ἄγριος is a title of Dionysus in a late (AD 264–5) inscription near the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore at Beroia: SEG 48–748, nos. I and IV, Beroia.; Cole, “Epigraphica,” 557. Despite Schlesier, “Bakchische Gott,” 177 n. 14 (“Achill, als Rasender definiert (durch Hector, Il. 6.101))”, ὅδε (this one) (ἀλλʼ ὅδε λίην | μαίνεται) (but this one is altogether raving), the subject of the verb at 6.101 is Diomede, not Achilles. Burkert, Homo Necans, 173 n. 23 indicates the connection between Agriania/ Agrionia and ἄγριος. Breast-feeding, the function of τιθήναι, seems to be part of Dionysiac ritual: Eur. Bacch. 699–702. Pherec. F 90b (EGM i. 322). In Diod. 5.50.4–5, some of the nurses escape into the sea. The story appears in Eumelus Europia fr. 11 (=PEG i. 112); Stesichorus fr. 276 Finglass; Pherecydes FGrHist. 3F90bcd; Aesclepiades FGrHist. 12F18; Aeschylus’ tetralogy Lykourgeia (TrGFIII. s.v. Λυκούργος); Soph. Ant. 955–65; Diod. 3.65. 4–6; Ov. Fast. 3.722; Met. 4.22–23; Apollod. 3.5.1; Hyg. Fab. 132, 242; Astr. II. 21; Servius on Verg. Aen. 3.14; Nonnus, Dion. 20.149–404, 21.1–169; h.Bacch. in Denys Page, Greek Literary Papyri: i. Poetry (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942), 520–5; Anon. Anthologia Graeca 16.127. Lycurgus appears killing his son with an axe on Cracow 1225 (LIMC VI/1 s.v. Lykourgos I. 26; LIMC VI/2 pl. 160) (see n. 59 below), and for further examples: LIMC VI.1 s.v. Lykourgos I. nos. 12–14; LIMC VI/2 pls. 158–9); killing his wife (LIMC VI/1 s.v. Lykourgos I. nos 18–20; LIMC VI/2 pl. 159) and son (LIMC VI/1 s.v. Lykourgos I. no. 15). For mosaics, paintings, and reliefs, see Philippe Bruneau and Claude Vatin, “Lycurge et Ambrosia sur une nouvelle mosaïque de Délos,” Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 90 (1966): 391–427; Georges Daux, “Chronique des Fouilles 1967: Thessalie,” Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 92 (1968): 867–8, 870. See Bierl, Dionysos, 63, 65.

Babies in Iliad book 6  51















4

Reading emotional intelligence Antilochus and Achilles in the Iliad Elizabeth Minchin

Antilochus, at Il. 23.543–4, has just addressed Achilles, the host of the funeral games for Patroclus, making a case for keeping the prize he had won (the prize for second place) in the chariot race. Achilles responds with a smile, a smile of “spontaneous warmth” and of “affectionate admiration”, as Halliwell (2008: 99) describes it so well. What Halliwell does not address is what it is that generates this warmth, and what it is that Achilles admires in Antilochus as he challenges his decision. Taplin (Homeric Soundings, 1992: 255) suggests that Antilochus has spoken “cheekily”; Richardson (The Iliad: A Commentary, vol. 6, 1993: 229) proposes that Antilochus’ “frankness” impresses Achilles; Martin (The Language of Heroes, 1989: 188–9) is on the verge of something interesting when he draws our attention to a rare moment in Homer: when the young man attempts to read Achilles’ thought processes. I wish to take the discussion further, first of all, viewing Antilochus’ behaviour from a cognitive perspective. I shall begin with an account from social and developmental psychology of the four mental aptitudes that constitute emotional intelligence. I shall demonstrate, through reference to a number of Iliadic episodes, that Homer’s Antilochus exhibits all four. I then turn to Achilles. I argue that he shares these aptitudes and that his smile at 23.555 (unique in the Iliad) is all that Halliwell says of it, but that it is also, significantly, a smile of recognition. The construct “emotional intelligence” has come to the fore only in recent decades, emerging from investigations into the links between cognition and emotion1: the specific focus of scholars has been the extent to which and the ways in which human reasoning takes emotions into account.2 The term has come to be widely recognized, too, among the general public, prompted by Daniel Goleman’s popular book, Emotional Intelligence (1995). Goleman’s central argument, with which there is no dispute, is that only one kind of intelligence is measured by standardized tests; there are other kinds of intelligences, he notes, that equally contribute to an individual’s success in life. For Goleman, however, emotional intelligence encompasses a range of non-intellectual, noncognitive, characteristics: motivation, persistence, hope, willingness to delay

Reading emotional intelligence  53 gratification—characteristics that are, in fact, beyond the scope of emotional intelligence strictly defined.3 In this paper I shall focus on the narrower definition of emotional intelligence, as first proposed in scientific literature in 1990 by Peter Salovey and John Mayer: “the ability to monitor one’s own and others’ feelings and emotions, to discriminate among them and to use this information to guide one’s thinking and actions”.4 Salovey and Mayer later refined their definition, spelling out four specific abilities encompassed by the construct: the ability to perceive and appraise emotions in oneself and in others; the ability to leverage emotion to facilitate cognitive activities like problem-solving; the ability to understand emotions, their causes and their consequences (taking into account relevant historical and cultural contexts, and shifts in societal values); and the ability to regulate emotions in oneself and in others.5 Salovey and Mayer point out that, although these processes are common to everyone, individuals vary in their ability to make advantageous use of the information that emotions impart.6 It has been shown that individuals who are better able to recognize and to reason about their own emotions and those of others and who are better able to reason about the emotional consequences of events are judged to have higher emotional intelligence.7 They are more likely, other things being equal, to enjoy better social relationships in a range of social settings, and to experience less interpersonal conflict. They are in general what we describe as “better adjusted”, as a number of measures indicate.8 These abilities may be measured by tests9; but, because they are on view in everyday interactions, we all have some appreciation of which individuals rank more highly on this dimension and which individuals rank lower. And, just as we observe these differences in real life, we observe them also in stories, even from other times and other cultures. My aim, therefore, is to use Salovey and Mayer’s review of the abilities associated with emotional intelligence as a tool of analysis as I try to account for certain actions and reactions that we observe in Homeric epic, with a particular focus on Achilles’ smile at Il. 23.555. In Homer’s Iliad, the leading heroes among the Achaeans are differentiated: each of the leaders is defined by a small number of characteristics that individualize him, distinguishing him from the rest.10 Agamemnon, for example, is individualized not only by the fact that he is the leader of the combined forces but also by his inconsistent ability to use information about emotions, whether his own or those of others. If we consider Agamemnon in relation to the four abilities set out above, we observe that he is less successful at perceiving and appraising emotions in himself and others. At the beginning of the Iliad-story, he does not foresee that his three angry responses, to Chryses, at 1.24–32, to Calchas, at 105–20, and to Achilles, at 131–47, are unwise and could lead to conflict and sorrow; and at no point does he acknowledge the emotions that underlie Achilles’ passionate response (149–71). Nor is he able to regulate his own emotions. This is most noticeable in the quarrel of Iliad 1; but I could point also to his almost surly reaction (at 19.78–144) to Achilles’ announcement (at 56–73) that he has decided to

54  Elizabeth Minchin return to the fighting: at this point Agamemnon cannot bring himself to be gracious to one of his most important allies, a man whose closest companion has recently been killed on the battlefield. Third, Agamemnon is not prepared to examine his emotions: in blaming Ate, Delusion, for his part in the quarrel with Achilles, he avoids shouldering responsibility for his own behaviour and its consequences (19.85–138; cf. 9.119). The King, however, does know how to stir productive emotion in others, even at some loss of face: the different stances that he adopts, once the truce has been broken by Pandarus, as he addresses each of his leaders, in turn—Idomeneus, the two Ajaxes, Nestor, Odysseus, and Diomedes—show that he is aware that different tactics on his part can stir useful emotions in different leaders (4.251–418).11 At this point I turn to a character who is conspicuous for his ability to remain on good terms with all the Achaean leaders: Antilochus. I suggest that the son of Nestor, as depicted by Homer, is one of those happy individuals who rank highly on emotional intelligence. Certainly, Antilochus’ peers recognize a special ability in the young man. When Patroclus has been killed, neither Ajax nor Menelaus feels that he himself is the right person to carry the news to Achilles. Rather, Ajax thinks immediately of Antilochus (17.652–5). When the young man hears of Patroclus’ death (685–93), he is speechless; tears spring to his eyes. He reacts with grief, both for Patroclus and perhaps also for Achilles (694–6).12 And yet, as Homer tells us, his grief does not disable him (697–8); recognizing the urgency of the moment, the young hero is able to rein in his distress and, although still weeping, he makes his way to Achilles (700–1) and shares the “sorrowful message” (λύγρης . . . ἀγγελίης, 18.18–20). Achilles’ grief is overpowering—a reaction that will find its echo later, in the reactions of Priam to the loss of his son: he lies in the dust and tears at his hair (18.23–27). Antilochus grieves with him, holding his hands, lest Achilles, in his passion, cut his own throat (32–34): Ἀντίλοχος δ᾽ ἑτέρωθεν ὀδύρετο δάκρυα λείβων χεῖρας ἔχων Ἀχιλῆος· ὃ δ᾽ ἔστενε κυδάλιμον κῆρ· δείδιε γὰρ μὴ λαιμὸν ἀπαμήσειε σιδήρῳ. And on the other side Antilochus mourned, shedding tears as he held Achilles’ hands. He lamented in his proud heart for he feared that Achilles might cut his throat with his blade.13 Here is a young man who is able to appraise Achilles’ emotional state, who can foresee where such a depth of sorrow, in such a man, might lead, and who knows precisely how best to respond. This is no time for words; through the intimacy of touch he conveys his fellow-feeling. Sometime later, Antilochus is a competitor in the funeral games for Patroclus. He enters the chariot race, in which the combination of chance and

Reading emotional intelligence  55 his own bold tactics allows him to take second place behind Diomedes14: he does well not because of the speed of his horses but because of his quick thinking and, crucially, his ability to read Menelaus’ fear and to capitalize on the older man’s caution.15 At the end of the race, however, Achilles announces that, because Eumelus is the best of the charioteers after himself (536–8), he will present him with second prize (the mare), even though he did not, on this occasion, complete the course. Antilochus will not let this pass: he forestalls the presentation with a spirited protest (543–54). It is not, he claims, that he is angry (he has not yet given up on the prize that he regards as his due): rather, he assures Achilles that he will be angry, should he be obliged to forgo his prize (543–4); he will not give up the mare, he says, without a fight (553–4). Here are his words (543–54): ὦ Ἀχιλεῦ μάλα τοι κεχολώσομαι αἴ κε τελέσσῃς τοῦτο ἔπος. μέλλεις γὰρ ἀφαιρήσεσθαι ἄεθλον τὰ φρονέων ὅτι οἱ βλάβεν ἅρματα καὶ ταχέ᾽ ἵππω αὐτός τ᾽ ἐσθλὸς ἐών· ἀλλ᾽ ὤφελεν ἀθανάτοισιν εὔχεσθαι· τό κεν οὔ τι πανύστατος ἦλθε διώκων. εἰ δέ μιν οἰκτίρεις καί τοι φίλος ἔπλετο θυμῷ ἔστί τοι ἐν κλισίῃ χρυσὸς πολύς, ἔστι δὲ χαλκὸς καὶ πρόβατ᾽, εἰσὶ δέ τοι δμῳαὶ καὶ μώνυχες ἵπποι· τῶν οἱ ἔπειτ᾽ ἀνελὼν δόμεναι καὶ μεῖζον ἄεθλον ἠὲ καὶ αὐτίκα νῦν, ἵνα σ᾽ αἰνήσωσιν Ἀχαιοί. τὴν δ᾽ ἐγὼ οὐ δώσω· περὶ δ᾽ αὐτῆς πειρηθήτω ἀνδρῶν ὅς κ᾽ ἐθέλῃσιν ἐμοὶ χείρεσσι μάχεσθαι.

545

550

Achilles, I shall be very angry with you if you carry out what you have just said. You intend to take my prize away from me having in mind that his chariot was disabled along with his swift horses, even though he himself is good at this. He should have prayed to the immortal gods. That way he would not have come in last in the race. But, if you pity him and he is dear to your heart, you have much gold in your shelter and you have bronze and cattle, and you have handmaidens and single-footed horses. Make a selection from these and give him an even greater prize; or do this now, at once, so that the Achaeans applaud you. But the mare I shall not give up. And the man who wants her must try his hand at fighting me on her account. At this, Achilles smiles (555): ὣς φάτο, μείδησεν δὲ ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς χαίρων Ἀντιλόχῳ, ὅτι οἱ φίλος ἦεν ἑταῖρος· καί μιν ἀμειβόμενος ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα·

555

56  Elizabeth Minchin “Ἀντίλοχ”, εἰ μὲν δή με κελεύεις οἴκοθεν ἄλλο Εὐμήλῳ ἐπιδοῦναι, ἐγὼ δέ κε καὶ τὸ τελέσσω. δώσω οἱ θώρηκα, τὸν Ἀστεροπαῖον ἀπηύρων χάλκεον, ᾧ πέρι χεῦμα φαεινοῦ κασσιτέροιο ἀμφιδεδίνηται· πολέος δέ οἱ ἄξιος ἔσται.

560

So he spoke, but brilliant swift-footed Achilles smiled, favouring Antilochus, since he was his beloved companion. And he answered him with winged words: Antilochus, if you bid me give something else from my shelter to Eumelus, I shall do this too. I shall give him the corselet that I stripped from Asteropaeus, a bronze corselet, and an overlay is circled around it in gleaming tin. It will be a gift of great value to him. This is the only occasion in the course of the epic on which Achilles smiles.16 A reaction of this unexpected nature, in this hero, should not be passed over without comment. The poet of the Iliad wants his audience, I suggest, to seek its cause. For Halliwell, this is that smile of “spontaneous warmth” and of “affectionate admiration” on Achilles’ part17: Taplin suggests, as I noted above, that it is motivated by Antilochus’ manner (he has spoken “cheekily”)18; Richardson proposes that Antilochus’ directness and frankness impress Achilles.19 But I suggest that none of these descriptors offers an accurate or a complete account of Antilochus’ tone, or of his intention. Martin makes an interesting point when he observes that Antilochus at this point is attempting to read Achilles’ thought processes.20 But Martin is concerned solely with Antilochus’ recreation of Achilles’ rationale for awarding second prize to Eumelus (545–6); he does not discuss how Antilochus’ words led to this response in Achilles.21 Finally, Rengakos comes close when he observes that a smile is the outcome of a situation that is characterized by “a reversal”: one laughs or smiles, Rengakos notes, when one “interprets and understands” the reversal, “identifying with and distancing oneself from” the situation.22 What is remarkable about Antilochus’ approach, in my view, is that he has embedded his readings of Achilles’ mind into an astute threefold strategy—one that will achieve a good-natured revision of intention in the host of the games. We all recognize that Antilochus’ situation at this point, as he presents it so directly (544–5), parallels the situation in which Achilles had found himself vis-à-vis Agamemnon, when their quarrel erupted.23 Unlike Achilles, however, Antilochus will be successful in making his case: first of all, he offers a clear defence and an easy solution. Thus, he sets out the circumstances in which Eumelus lost (through perhaps failing to pray to the gods, 546–7) and he suggests to Achilles alternative options for rewarding Eumelus’ excellence (the presentation of gifts other than the mare that Antilochus

Reading emotional intelligence  57 claims as his prize). Second, by insisting that his protest is not made in anger (although indignation has surely fuelled his protest), he pre-empts a reciprocal response on Achilles’ part, such as we had observed in the disastrous quarrel of Book 1.24 Thirdly, in responding as he does, countering the ready approval of the rest of the Achaeans (540), he catches Achilles off-guard. So, it is not just, as Martin suggests, that the young man, uniquely in the epic, tells the audience what Achilles is thinking (μέλλεις γὰρ ἀφαιρήσεσθαι ἄεθλον, τὰ φρονέων ὅτι . . . 544–5);25 he shows Achilles that he, Antilochus, has the capacity to read his mind and to propose a more productive line of thought, even putting Achilles on the spot.26 Nor is it, as Rengakos suggests, that Antilochus “behaves and talks” exactly like Achilles in Iliad 1. It is crucial to note that, although the two scenes have many ingredients in common, Antilochus, unlike Achilles, has not allowed anger to fuel his words. In an exemplary demonstration of Salovey and Mayer’s four abilities, the young man builds his protest around a productive regulation of his own emotions and an understanding of the potential emotional responses in others. Taking advantage of a measure of surprise, he wins a prompt and graceful concession from Achilles (557–62). Antilochus, as we know, is permitted to keep his second prize; and Eumelus will be given a generous award from the resources of Achilles’ shelter (558–62).27 But what of Achilles’ smile? This is what Paul Ekman describes as a “felt smile”: the smile of a person experiencing positive emotion.28 Clearly, Achilles has been both surprised and charmed by the younger man. It is true, as Halliwell observes, that his smile is warm and affectionate: Antilochus is, after all, Achilles’ beloved companion (φίλος . . . ἑταῖρος, 23.556); and, we assume, Achilles admires the facility and the energy with which Antilochus has pleaded his case. But in the very spontaneity of that smile we detect something more: I suggest that in the young man’s words and demeanour Achilles recognizes something of his own self.29 Like Antilochus, Achilles exhibits a sensitivity to, and understanding of, both his own emotions and those of others. I acknowledge, of course, that a conspicuous exception to this habit of mind in this hero is depicted in the Iliad—when, through Agamemnon, Achilles suffers a huge and destabilizing blow to his identity. But there is evidence in the poem too of the hero’s ability to monitor his own feelings and those of others. I offer three examples.30 First, let us consider the hero’s responses to the Embassy of Iliad 9. Achilles is acutely sensitive to the messages conveyed by each of the three speakers, Odysseus, Phoenix, and Ajax. Of course, his response to Odysseus, who bears Agamemnon’s extraordinary gift offer, is negative, clouded by his overwhelming resentment at the king’s arrogance and his outrageous behaviour in depriving the hero of his prize (367–9): this is something of a reprise of the young hero’s response to Agamemnon himself that we saw in Iliad 1.31 On the other hand, Achilles responds sympathetically to Phoenix’s love and concern, not to mention his anxious neediness, offering him once

58  Elizabeth Minchin more what has been for so long so important to the older man, a place in his (Achilles’) domain, wherever that may be, and by his side (616–19): ἶσον ἐμοὶ βασίλευε καὶ ἥμισυ μείρεο τιμῆς. οὗτοι δ᾽ ἀγγελέουσι, σὺ δ᾽ αὐτόθι λέξεο μίμνων εὐνῇ ἔνι μαλακῇ· ἅμα δ᾽ ἠοῖ φαινομένηφι φρασσόμεθ᾽ ἤ κε νεώμεθ᾽ ἐφ᾽ ἡμέτερ᾽ ἦ κε μένωμεν. Be king with me on equal footing and share half my honour. These men will take the message back; but you, stay right here and take your rest in a soft bed. At dawn we will decide whether we return to our own land or remain. And he recognizes in Ajax’s words the frustration of a fine warrior, one whom he respects (624–42). In his reply to Ajax, Achilles sets out his case briefly. Accepting Ajax’s implied rebuke, he responds with a welcome concession: he will return to the fighting, but only when Hector comes all the way to the ships (644–55): Αἶαν διογενὲς Τελαμώνιε κοίρανε λαῶν πάντά τί μοι κατὰ θυμὸν ἐείσαο μυθήσασθαι· ἀλλά μοι οἰδάνεται κραδίη χόλῳ ὁππότε κείνων μνήσομαι ὥς μ᾽ ἀσύφηλον ἐν Ἀργείοισιν ἔρεξεν Ἀτρεΐδης ὡς εἴ τιν᾽ ἀτίμητον μετανάστην. ἀλλ᾽ ὑμεῖς ἔρχεσθε καὶ ἀγγελίην ἀπόφασθε· οὐ γὰρ πρὶν πολέμοιο μεδήσομαι αἱματόεντος πρίν γ᾽ υἱὸν Πριάμοιο δαΐφρονος Ἕκτορα δῖον Μυρμιδόνων ἐπί τε κλισίας καὶ νῆας ἱκέσθαι κτείνοντ᾽ Ἀργείους, κατά τε σμῦξαι πυρὶ νῆας. ἀμφὶ δέ τοι τῇ ἐμῇ κλισίῃ καὶ νηῒ μελαίνῃ Ἕκτορα καὶ μεμαῶτα μάχης σχήσεσθαι ὀΐω.

645

650

655

Ajax, son of Telamon, born of Zeus, lord of the people, all that you have said seems in accordance with my own thoughts; but my heart swells with anger when I recall that time, how the son of Atreus dishonoured me in front of the Argives, as if I were a dishonoured outcast. No, you go back and tell him this message. I will not think of bloody warfare until the son of wise Priam, brilliant Hector, has made his way to the huts and the ships of the Myrmidons having killed the Argives and has set the ships ablaze with fire. But I think that Hector will be stopped, however eager he is for battle, at my hut and at my black ship.

Reading emotional intelligence  59 Second, I turn to the moment when Patroclus returns from his conversation with Nestor and his tending of the wounded Eurypylus. When Patroclus, weeping tears of despair, makes his way to Achilles (16.2–4), Achilles responds as would anyone who is sensitive to another’s incapacitating distress, he feels pity (τὸν . . . ᾤκτιρε, 5).32 And, taking on an extended speaking role, he gives Patroclus time to collect himself. The poet achieves this, in real time as it were, attributing to Achilles a long introductory simile (7–11) in which he draws a parallel, both tender and sharp, between his sorrowing companion and a small girl child who finds the going tough and pleads to be taken into her mother’s arms.33 And, pretending ignorance, the hero goes on to offer possible reasons for his companion’s tears: has he heard distressing news about Menoeteus, or Peleus? Or, now speaking more tartly, as the hero’s resentment about his treatment at the hands of Agamemnon briefly resurfaces, he asks whether Patroclus weeps for the Argives who are dying by their ships, as a result of their own arrogance (12–18). Achilles’ unhurried canvassing of possibilities confirms that at this moment he is creating talk for its own sake.34 He recognizes his companion’s distress; he understands his emotional turmoil; and, unwilling though he is to hear what he knows Patroclus will ask, his tactic of delay allows his companion the respite he needs before he can put his request.35 Here are his words (16.7–19): τίπτε δεδάκρυσαι Πατρόκλεες, ἠΰτε κούρη νηπίη, ἥ θ᾽ ἅμα μητρὶ θέουσ᾽ ἀνελέσθαι ἀνώγει εἱανοῦ ἁπτομένη, καί τ᾽ ἐσσυμένην κατερύκει, δακρυόεσσα δέ μιν ποτιδέρκεται, ὄφρ᾽ ἀνέληται· τῇ ἴκελος Πάτροκλε τέρεν κατὰ δάκρυον εἴβεις. ἠέ τι Μυρμιδόνεσσι πιφαύσκεαι, ἢ ἐμοὶ αὐτῷ, ἦέ τιν᾽ ἀγγελίην Φθίης ἐξέκλυες οἶος; ζώειν μὰν ἔτι φασὶ Μενοίτιον Ἄκτορος υἱόν, ζώει δ᾽ Αἰακίδης Πηλεὺς μετὰ Μυρμιδόνεσσι; τῶν κε μάλ᾽ ἀμφοτέρων ἀκαχοίμεθα τεθνηώτων. ἦε σύ γ᾽ Ἀργείων ὀλοφύρεαι, ὡς ὀλέκονται νηυσὶν ἔπι γλαφυρῇσιν ὑπερβασίης ἕνεκα σφῆς; ἐξαύδα, μὴ κεῦθε νόῳ, ἵνα εἴδομεν ἄμφω.

10

15

Patroclus, why are you crying like some little girl who runs after her mother, and, clinging onto her garment, begs to be picked up, and holds her back as she tries to hurry on, and looks up at her tearfully until she is picked up? You are just like that, Patroclus, as you shed your tender tears. Have you some news for the Myrmidons, or for me myself, Or are you the first to hear some news from Phthia? Yet they say that Menoetius, son of Actor is still alive and Peleus the son of Aeacus lives on amongst the Myrmidons.

60  Elizabeth Minchin If one of these two were dead we would be stricken. Or are you grieving over the Argives, that they are dying by their hollow ships because of their own folly? Tell me, do not hide it in your mind, so that we both know. My third example is drawn from the action after the funeral games: Priam’s nocturnal visit to Achilles’ shelter, when he seeks to ransom the body of his son. The old king, invoking Peleus—thus reminding Achilles of his ageing father and his needs—will kiss the hero’s hands in supplication (24.476–80)—a startling and courageous gesture.36 Achilles’ surprise disarms him; it leaves him open to the old man’s plea.37 And thus the hero finds a companion in grief (507–18). Later, when his tears have abated, Achilles talks (24.518–49 [extracts only]): ἆ δείλ᾽, ἦ δὴ πολλὰ κάκ᾽ ἄνσχεο σὸν κατὰ θυμόν. πῶς ἔτλης ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν ἐλθέμεν οἶος ἀνδρὸς ἐς ὀφθαλμοὺς ὅς τοι πολέας τε καὶ ἐσθλοὺς υἱέας ἐξενάριξα; σιδήρειόν νύ τοι ἦτορ. ἀλλ᾽ ἄγε δὴ κατ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἕζευ ἐπὶ θρόνου, ἄλγεα δ᾽ ἔμπης ἐν θυμῷ κατακεῖσθαι ἐάσομεν ἀχνύμενοί περ· οὐ γάρ τις πρῆξις πέλεται κρυεροῖο γόοιο· … ἧμαι ἐνὶ Τροίῃ, σέ τε κήδων ἠδὲ σὰ τέκνα. καὶ σὲ γέρον τὸ πρὶν μὲν ἀκούομεν ὄλβιον εἶναι· ὅσσον Λέσβος ἄνω Μάκαρος ἕδος ἐντὸς ἐέργει καὶ Φρυγίη καθύπερθε καὶ Ἑλλήσποντος ἀπείρων, τῶν σε γέρον πλούτῳ τε καὶ υἱάσι φασὶ κεκάσθαι. αὐτὰρ ἐπεί τοι πῆμα τόδ᾽ ἤγαγον Οὐρανίωνες αἰεί τοι περὶ ἄστυ μάχαι τ᾽ ἀνδροκτασίαι τε. ἄνσχεο, μὴ δ᾽ ἀλίαστον ὀδύρεο σὸν κατὰ θυμόν·

520

542 545

Wretched man, surely you have endured much evil in your heart. How could you dare to come alone to the ships of the Achaeans, to come into the presence of the man who killed your sons, so many of them, and so brave? The heart within you is iron. But come now, sit on a chair, and we will let our sorrows lie still in our hearts, although we still grieve. No good can come of chilling tears. … I sit here in Troy and bring sorrow to you and your children. And you, old man, we have heard that in times past you were prosperous in all the land contained by Lesbos, where Makar ruled, and Phrygia in the north, and the boundless Hellespont.

Reading emotional intelligence  61 They say you were lord over all this in your wealth and in your children. But now the Uranian gods have brought us, this affliction, upon you, There is fighting continually around the city and the killing of men. But bear up, do not grieve endlessly in your heart. What is remarkable about this long speech in which the young man attempts to comfort and console his unexpected guest is its careful balance of perspectives. On the one hand, through his moral allegory of the jars of Zeus (525–33), through which he makes the point that suffering is an inevitable part of human existence, and in his account of the fortunes of his own father Peleus (534–41), Achilles tries to distance Priam from his grief and to encourage him to consider it from other points of view.38 On the other hand, Achilles makes an effort to see himself and his actions at Troy from Priam’s perspective. He puts himself into Priam’s shoes, so to speak: how could you dare, he says to him, to come alone to the ships of the Achaeans and before my eyes? (519–20). I bring nothing but sorrow to you and your children (542) . . . the Uranian gods brought upon you this (Achaean) affliction, of constant fighting and the killing of men (547–8). Through these words the hero performs emotional intelligence. To use Salovey and Mayer’s terminology (and this risks shattering the magnificent mood that the poet has established here), he perceives and appraises Priam’s emotion; he understands what has brought his guest so low; and he uses different strategies in an effort to regulate those emotions. In doing so, he eases his guest’s grief—and, we observe, his own.39 I propose therefore that Achilles, by nature, shares with Antilochus, to a similar degree, those cognitive abilities that Salovey and Mayer associate with emotional intelligence. And so, in the convivial, occasionally even lighthearted, atmosphere of the funeral games, when Antilochus protests against Achilles’ decision to take “his” prize and when he threatens but does not give vent to anger, Achilles recognizes the special kind of intelligence that underpins his words. His smile is indeed a smile of admiration, as Halliwell observes40: it is a smile of acknowledgment, as Antilochus models for the community of the Achaeans the behaviour that is entirely appropriate to the situation; and it is a smile of spontaneous recognition as Achilles sees in the young man an engaging personality not unlike his own: that is, a personality characterized by an understanding of the diverse functions of emotion, a personality that, in Achilles’ case, had been temporarily eclipsed by his overpowering anger but which we are now allowed to glimpse once more.41

Notes 1 Marc A. Brackett, Susan E. Rivers, Michelle C. Bertoli, and Peter Salovey, “Emotional Intelligence,” in Handbook of Emotions 4th ed., eds. Lisa Feldman Barrett, Michael Lewis, and Jeannette Haviland-Jones (New York: Guilford, 2016), 514. It was an honour to be invited to be part of this conference in honour of Margalit Finkelberg, whose patient and perceptive readings of ancient texts have contributed so much to our understanding of the ancient Mediterranean

62  Elizabeth Minchin

2 3

4 5 6 7 8

9 10 11

12 13 14

15

16

world, and particularly to our understanding of the Homeric epics. And I thank the other participants, especially Bruno Currie and Ruth Scodel, for their helpful comments on the paper I offered at that meeting. John D. Mayer and Peter Salovey, “What Is Emotional Intelligence?” in Emotional Development and Emotional Intelligence, eds. Peter Salovey and David J. Sluyter (New York: Harper Collins, 1997), 4. Brackett et al., “Emotional Intelligence,” 513–14. On the widespread misuse of the term emotional intelligence and the resultant “subversion” of standard scientific language in psychology, see John D. Mayer, Peter Salovey, and David R. Caruso, “Emotional Intelligence: New Ability or Eclectic Traits?” American Psychologist 63.6 (2008): 503–4, 513. Peter Salovey and John D. Mayer, “Emotional Intelligence,” Imagination, Cognition and Personality 9.3 (1989–1990): 189. Mayer and Salovey, “What Is Emotional Intelligence?” 10; developed further in Mayer, Salovey, and Caruso, “Emotional Intelligence”; and see also Brackett et al., “Emotional Intelligence,” 515–17. Salovey and Mayer, “Emotional Intelligence,” 191; Brackett et al., “Emotional Intelligence,” 514. Mayer, Salovey, and Caruso, “Emotional Intelligence,” 510–12. See Mayer, Salovey, and Caruso, “Emotional Intelligence,” 511 for a number of studies that indicate significant correlation between higher emotional intelligence and social competence, on the one hand, and lower emotional intelligence and interpersonal conflict and maladjustment, on the other hand. Mayer, Salovey, and Caruso, “Emotional Intelligence,” 507–10. Elizabeth Minchin, “‘Themes’ and ‘Mental Moulds’: Roger Schank, Malcolm Willcock and the Creation of Character in Homer,” CQ 61 (2011): 323–43. Agamemnon is warm in his praise for Idomeneus, the Aiantes, and Nestor (4.257–64, 285–91, 313–16); but he accuses Menestheus and Odysseus of being both devious and slack (338–48). Odysseus fires back a sharp retort, inviting him to watch his performance in the field (350–5). Agamemnon likewise challenges Diomedes, arguing that he is no son of his father (370–400, especially at 399–400). It is Sthenelus, Diomedes’ charioteer, who replies that they are in fact better than their fathers. Diomedes interrupts him, pointing out astutely that Agamemnon is quite simply doing his job as leader, stirring the Achaeans for battle (412–18). And he leaps into his chariot, ready to fight—Agamemnon’s desired response. On these latter interactions see Ruth Scodel, Epic Facework: Self-Presentation and Social Interaction in Homer (Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 2008), 60–61. As Lynn Kozak, Experiencing Hektor: Character in the Iliad (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017), 175 observes, Antilochus’ response to Patroclus’ death builds anticipation in the audience for Achilles’ own response. Translations from the Greek are my own. At a narrow waterlogged stretch of the course (23.418–24) Antilochus takes his horses off the track, pursuing Menelaus and attempting to pass him; Menelaus, alarmed, warns him that they risk collision (426–8). Antilochus gives the impression that he does not hear and, whipping up his horses, drives on even more furiously (429–30). Menelaus is obliged to restrain his horses (434–7), allowing Antilochus to take second prize. Antilochus will soon restore good relations with Menelaus, showing us his generous spirit. Minchin, “Themes’ and ‘Mental Moulds’,” 334–5; see also Oliver Taplin, Homeric Soundings: The Shaping of the Iliad (Oxford: Clarendon Paperbacks, 1992), 256. Stephen Halliwell, Greek Laughter: A Study of Cultural Psychology from Homer to Early Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 99.

Reading emotional intelligence  63























64  Elizabeth Minchin









5

Two mothers Eos and Thetis in the Aithiopis Deborah Levine Gera

The Aithiopis is a lost work belonging to the epic cycle, which served as a sequel to the Iliad, telling of the continuation of the Trojan War after the death of Hector. Little beyond a late, brief summary of its contents has survived, but the Aithiopis has aroused a great deal of scholarly attention, because it shares many parallel motifs, characters, and episodes with the Iliad.1 Scholars, including Margalit Finkelberg, have labored long and hard to define the precise relationship between these two epic compositions, chiefly in order to learn more about Homer: his originality, his use of external traditions and sources, and his methods of composition.2 My concern here is not with the intricate relationship between the Iliad and the Aithiopis, however we understand it, but rather with the details of a particular episode found in the Aithiopis, the tale of Achilles and Memnon and their immortal mothers, Thetis and Eos. None of the very few surviving fragments of the Aithiopis touch upon the Achilles-Memnon story directly and we must make do with a summary of the epic provided by Proclus, most probably in the second century CE, several centuries after the work was composed.3 We learn from the summary of Proclus that Ares’ daughter, the Amazon Penthesilea, arrives at Troy immediately after the burial of Hector. She meets with Priam, is at first successful in battle, but is then killed by Achilles, and subsequently buried by the Trojans.4 Memnon is the second foreign hero who comes to the Trojans’ aid after the death of Hector, according to the Aithiopis. Memnon, son of Eos and Tithonos, is Hector’s cousin, and he too arrives from afar. Like Penthesilea, who sets the stage for him,5 Memnon at first succeeds in battle, only to be killed by Achilles. Here it is worth citing Proclus’ summary in full. Μέμνων δὲ ὁ Ἠοῦς υἱὸς ἔχων ἡφαιστότευκτον πανοπλίαν παραγίνεται τοῖς Τρωσὶ βοηθήσων· καὶ Θέτις τῷ παιδὶ τὰ κατὰ τὸν Μέμνονα προλέγει. καὶ συμβολῆς γενομένης Ἀντίλοχος ὑπὸ Μέμνονος ἀναιρεῖται, ἔπειτα Ἀχιλλεὺς Μέμνονα κτείνει· καὶ τούτῳ μὲν Ἠὼς παρὰ Διὸς αἰτησαμένη ἀθανασίαν δίδωσι.

66  Deborah Levine Gera Memnon the son of Eos comes to help the Trojans wearing armor fashioned by Hephaestus. Thetis tells her son in advance the events concerning Memnon. When battle occurs, Antilochos is killed by Memnon and then Achilles kills Memnon. Eos grants him (i.e. Memnon) immortality after requesting it from Zeus. (Chrestomathia 172 Severyns) Commentators generally understand the words Θέτις τῷ παιδὶ τὰ κατὰ τὸν Μέμνονα προλέγει in Proclus’ summary as referring to a warning delivered by Thetis to Achilles that he will die shortly after killing Memnon, a prophecy akin to that issued by Thetis in the Iliad when she tells Achilles that he is fated to die shortly after Hector (Il. 18.95–96).6 Indeed, according to Proclus’ summary of the Aithiopis, Achilles does die shortly after killing Memnon, at the hands of Paris and Apollo. Proclus goes on to tell of Achilles’ funeral and afterlife. καὶ τὸν νεκρὸν τοῦ Ἀχιλλέως προτίθενται. καὶ Θέτις ἀφικομένη σὺν Μούσαις καὶ ταῖς ἀδελφαῖς θρηνεῖ τὸν παῖδα· καὶ μετὰ ταῦτα ἐκ τῆς πυρᾶς ἡ Θέτις ἀναρπάσασα τὸν παῖδα εἰς τὴν Λευκὴν νῆσον διακομίζει. They lay out Achilles’ corpse. Thetis arrives with (the) Muses and her sisters and mourns her son.7 After this, Thetis snatches her son from the pyre and conveys him to the White Island. (Chrestomathia 172 Severyns) Even the brief summary of the Aithiopis which has survived makes the parallels between Achilles and Memnon quite plain. Both are the sons of divine mothers and mortal fathers and both possess special armor fashioned by Hephaestus. Both are brave warriors, with proven prowess on the battlefield: Memnon kills Nestor’s son Antilochos and Achilles kills Memnon, in addition to Hector and Penthesilea (and many others). Their two mothers, Thetis and Eos, are alike as well. Both are married to aging mortal men8 and both see their mortal sons die on the battlefield. The two mothers also arrange an afterlife or immortality of sorts for their sons. Eos requests Zeus’ aid in guaranteeing Memnon a life after death, while Thetis takes the dead Achilles to the paradisical White Island on her own initiative. It is clear that the immortality of the two great heroes, their afterlives, was a prominent feature in the Aithiopis. Memnon and Achilles die, but then are restored to a life of sorts due to the intervention of their mothers. Here it is worth contrasting the part played by Thetis and Eos in the Aithiopis with Thetis’ role in the Iliad. In the Iliad Thetis intercedes with Zeus on behalf of her son – just as Eos turns to Zeus on behalf of Memnon in the Aithiopis – but she does not attempt to save the short-lived Achilles from dying and asks only that Zeus honor him. In her influential book, The Power of Thetis, Laura Slatkin notes the sharp contrast between Thetis’ power in the world

Two mothers  67 of gods and Achilles’ early death in the Iliad and she suggests that Homer uses this contrast to enhance his theme of the brevity and boundaries of human life.9 The role played by the mothers of the Aithiopis, states Slatkin, is quite different and emphasizes their sons’ access to divinity.10 It is true that in the more magical and fantastical world of the Aithiopis, Eos and Thetis facilitate their sons’ transition from mortality to immortality, but it should be noted that the tale of Thetis and Eos and their warring sons is no less concerned with the tragic implications of mortality than the Iliad is. The dead Memnon and Achilles live “not among men, nor yet among gods, but in a distant wonderland”11 and their lives after death represent a blurring of the categories of “mortal” and “immortal.” The two mothers, Thetis and Eos also point to a blurring or partial erasure of the sharp dichotomy between humans and gods, for the immortal goddesses are exposed to the sorrows and grief of human beings, through witnessing their sons’ deaths. Proclus’ brief summary leaves us with many gaps and questions and here we must turn from the literary epic Aithiopis to the many and varied representations of Achilles and Memnon, Thetis and Eos found in Greek art, compositions which go back as far as the sixth and possibly even the seventh century BCE.12 There are no early texts or written fragments of any kind which place the two mothers on the battlefield with their warring sons, and Proclus does not mention their joint presence in his summary of the Aithiopis, but there are a great many artistic portrayals of Eos and Thetis flanking the dueling Achilles and Memnon, portrayals dating to the late archaic and early classical period. (There are also works of art which depict the two mothers as present at a divine psychostasia or weighing of the fates of Memnon and Achilles; space does not permit me to discuss them here.) These art works add considerably to our knowledge of how the mothers were seen and presented in the sixth and fifth centuries, particularly in Attica between 575 and 450 BCE.13 Eos and Thetis are quintessential mothers, the only pair of divine mothers in myth who witness a duel between their mortal sons. It is likely that the two goddesses were the original prototype of a popular scene in early Greek art, the scene of two warriors dueling in profile who are framed by two standing female figures.14 Some of these scenes of two women flanking two warriors on the battlefield are inscribed with the names of Achilles and Memnon, Thetis and Eos, but the majority are not, and it is a difficult and sometimes insoluble task to decide which of the many uninscribed vases featuring this template are meant to allude to the mythological mothers and their sons and which are, perhaps, merely portrayals of a generalized heroic scene. It is simplest to follow the rule formulated by Beazley, “If there is no distinguishing mark... there is a strong probability that the subject is Achilles and Memnon,”15 but other scholars have considerably stricter criteria.16 While we cannot know for certain whether the Aithiopis included a scene where the mothers were present on the battlefield during the deadly duel between Memnon and Achilles, for all intents and purposes it does not matter.

68  Deborah Levine Gera

Figure 5.1 Achilles and Memnon, between Thetis and Eos. Attic black-figure neck amphora, 575–550 BCE. Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University, Durham, North Carolina, Duke University.

Pots and sculptures dating to late archaic and early classical times make it plain that the mothers closely observing the fate of their dueling sons were part of the broader story, the multiform traditions – poetic verses, artistic representations, oral tales, etc. – related to the encounter between Achilles and Memnon. The art works depicting the two goddesses with their sons supplement – or better yet, interpret, and contribute to the understanding of – the story told in the Aithiopis. Early artists take the tale of two wellmatched heroes and their divine mothers and pay particular attention to the two goddesses, using them to convey the pain and emotions of mothers of endangered warriors (Figure 5.1).17 This Athenian black-figure neck amphora (BAPD 310140) is dated between 575 and 550 and is attributed to the Tyrrhenian group by Beazley. Here we see two warriors flanked by two women. There are only nonsense inscriptions, but this seems to be a stylized illustration of Achilles, Memnon and their mothers.18 The two warriors are evenly matched and the two mothers are very alike, but it is probably Achilles with the Boeotian sword on left and Memnon on the right. Achilles is nude, heroically nude, except

Two mothers  69 for his helmet and shin-guards, while Memnon wears a tunic and breastplate. The mothers stand at a distance from their sons, and their arms and hands are concealed beneath their mantles, their himatia, which they draw across their chests. The two warriors are absorbed in one another and seem unaware of the goddesses’ presence. Indeed, in almost all of the vases Thetis and Eos are found behind their sons and there is no indication that the sons are aware of their mothers’ presence. Nor is it likely that either warrior sees his opponent’s mother, for the two heroes are focused upon one another, locked in deadly combat, on these vases. What are the two goddesses doing on the battlefield? We could well imagine Thetis and Eos watching the combat between their sons from afar just as the gods of the Iliad often watch the battling Trojans and Greeks from Olympus,19 but in these works of art the goddesses have moved from the divine realm to the human plane, and they are found on the actual battlefield of the Trojan plain, close to their warring sons. It is clear that the mothers are able to witness the conflict between Memnon and Achilles at first hand precisely because they are goddesses. Unlike, e.g. Hector’s mother, Hecuba, Thetis, and Eos can arrive at the combat scene with no fear of serious physical consequences or danger to themselves.20 At the same time the two mothers are unable to prevent the death of their sons and their situation – close physical proximity to the dueling warriors coupled with an inability to prevent their early deaths – seems particularly painful. It should be remembered that in the Aithiopis Thetis apparently knows that Memnon’s death will simply hasten Achilles’ own demise, so that even when Achilles subdues Memnon, Thetis’ relief, at best, can be only short-lived. In essence, both mothers will lose their sons in the wake of the Memnon-Achilles encounter. Their frozen stance – their unmoving quiet and hidden hands – in our vase seems to point to their helplessness and their grief. The muffled, cloaked mothers are closed in on themselves, each in a world of her own, even as they are present on the battlefield.21 In Homer, as Jasper Griffin notes, the watching gods suffer at times and their “presence and attention also serves as a device to heighten for us the emotional significance of terrible events. But the men in the poem do not know of this suffering.”22 The artistic depictions of Thetis and Eos flanking their sons on the battlefield create exactly the same effect in another medium. The mothers’ stance, varied though it may be (see below), expresses their sorrow, while their presence near their sons serves to heighten the import of the fateful duel between the two warriors and underscore their heroic stature and divine parentage. At the same time, the two mortals are oblivious to the goddesses’ presence and are unaware of the mothers’ suffering – something that we, the viewers of the vase, can perceive. Achilles and Memnon, to be sure, are physically vulnerable, but their mothers are emotionally vulnerable. Thetis and Eos are able to witness their sons’ combat because of their divinity,

70  Deborah Levine Gera but their maternal concern and relative helplessness seem all-too-human. “Homer,” ps.-Longinus (9.7) famously noted, in his accounts of the wounds suffered by the gods, their quarrels, vengeful actions, tears, imprisonments, and manifold misfortunes, seems to me to have done everything in his power to make gods of the men fighting at Troy, and men of the gods. In similar fashion, the vase painters do everything in their power to point to the maternal vulnerability of the two goddesses. Why have the mothers come to the battlefield? We might imagine that their presence is akin to that of Thetis visiting Achilles when he mourns Patroclus in Book 18 of the Iliad. Thetis explains to her sisters that she knows that Achilles will not return home, but as long as he lives and looks on the sunlight, she feels compelled to go see her son and hear of his sorrow, even though she cannot help him by her presence (οὐδέ τί οἱ δύναμαι χραισμῆσαι ἰοῦσα Il. 18.62). It seems that Eos and Thetis of the Aithiopis tale also wish to witness every last moment of their sons’ brief lives and express their solidarity with their children. The two mothers of the Aithiopis cannot rescue their sons and the vases in which the goddesses stand at a distance, arms hidden, seem to be a visual expression of their inability to influence the fate of their sons. These powerless and frustrated goddesses may well be on the Trojan plain precisely because their very human concerns set them apart from the other gods. It probably is significant that Eos and Thetis are not Olympian goddesses, and it has been suggested that minor Greek goddesses are more maternal and solicitous than major ones.23 In Book 24 of the Iliad Thetis is wary of joining the gods on Olympus because she has unceasing – or insoluble, ἄκριτα – sorrows....αἰδέομαι δὲ /μίσγεσθ’ ἀθανάτοισιν, ἔχω δ’ ἄχε’ ἄκριτα θυμῷ (Il. 24.90–91) and perhaps both Eos and Thetis, awaiting the deaths of their children, feel more comfortable on mortal territory. Thetis and Eos are, of course, female gods rather than male deities, mothers, rather than fathers, of the two mortal warriors, and this adds a special flavor to their story. Time and again the dying heroes of the Iliad are said to cause pain to their mortal fathers, and their death is focalized through their fathers’ eyes. Occasionally the mothers of dying heroes are mentioned as well, but bereaved fathers are far more prominent in Homer.24 Here we see two mourning, immortal mothers. Memnon and Achilles are not the only mortal children of gods to fight and die in Troy, but it surely is not a coincidence that it is the mothers and not the fathers of semi-divine heroes who closely watch their children during their last moments. We would not expect divine fathers simply to observe their dueling sons while standing quietly on the battlefield; presumably they would attempt to intervene. There are, e.g. vases in which Ares clearly aids his son Kyknos when he battles Heracles. Ares flanks his son Kyknos as he duels with Heracles or else attacks

Two mothers  71 Heracles himself after Kyknos falls. Zeus is sometimes found in the center of these images, preventing further combat between Ares and Kyknos or between Ares and Heracles, his two sons.25 Neither Thetis nor Eos is a warrior goddess, and in the Greek vases the two flanking mothers on the battlefield only rarely have anything resembling a weapon – spears or perhaps staffs – and they never participate in the actual combat.26 They are witnesses, concerned spectators who are deeply affected by the outcome of the duel, but they do not intervene. Nor do the mothers attempt to communicate with their sons. Their gestures are not aimed at the warriors, but are a form of self-expression, conveying emotions which are also meant, of course, for the viewers of the vases. In this first vase, the mothers are quite similar in appearance. Elsewhere, too, artists take pains to emphasize the similarity between the two goddesses, and the flanking mothers can be mirror images of one another in their gestures (and appearance). Indeed, when Achilles has yet to subdue Memnon and the two warriors are similarly armed and evenly matched, it can be quite difficult to identify the various figures in the foursome, with two virtually identical females framing two similar warriors.27 The mothers’ matching gestures vary considerably in the different vases, from hands outstretched to heaven to arms bent at their waists to the hidden hands we have seen above (Figure 5.2).28 In this red-figure cup from Vulci dating to the early fifth century BCE (BAPD 204134= LIMC Memnon 53), Memnon is shown in back view on the right and he has already been wounded by Achilles on the left. The two

Figure 5.2 Achilles and Memnon, between winged Thetis and winged Eos. Attic red-figure cup, 490–480 BCE, by the Castelgiorgio Painter. London, British Museum. ©The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved.

72  Deborah Levine Gera flanking mothers are virtually mirror images of one another, except that Eos, on the right, wears a small cap, a sakkos. Here the mothers’ gestures are broader. The goddesses extend one hand toward their warring sons and touch their heads with their other hand, a sign of sorrow and grief. Surprisingly, both mothers are winged. While Eos, the goddess of Dawn who snatches up her mortal lovers, is often depicted on vases with wings, we would not expect to find wings on Thetis, a sea goddess. These wings may be a means to convey the divine status of the two mothers and to point to the combat as a mythological scene.29 It is also possible that the artist here, the Castelgiorgio Painter, was more interested in symmetry and a balanced composition than the details of the Thetis-Eos story, but his symmetrical winged goddesses point to an emotional truth: both mothers suffer while watching their sons do battle, and both mothers have much to lose.30 Again, we should remember that even if Memnon falls first – and in this vase it is plain that he is the loser in the duel – Achilles is soon to follow. It is an interesting question, which stance assigned to the mothers is more effective and evocative: the hidden, folded arms of the mothers on the first vase point to their inability to change matters while their gestures of concern and pain here demonstrate their emotional reaction to their sons’ duel. In both vases the mothers use identical gestures and the message behind such matching mothers may well be that both goddesses are equally worthy of our interest and sympathy. Slatkin suggests that Achilles and Memnon, Thetis and Eos of the Aithiopis are simply doubles, with the author taking a unique phenomenon in the Iliad – the tension between Achilles’ vulnerability and Thetis’ immortality – and doubling it, by using two heroes and two mothers.31 In vases such as these, however, where the two mothers – one the parent of the victorious warrior and the other of the vanquished one – are virtually indistinguishable, there is perhaps a deeper message. Using two heroes and two goddesses is not simply a case of doubling the same story for greater effect, for the sons and their mothers are rivals. The two goddesses are pitted against one another just as their sons are locked in combat and the message may well be that there are no winners: all will suffer. Both sons and both mothers are equally deserving of our sympathy.32 In the Iliad we are made to see that the grief and sorrow brought about by war affects both Trojans and Greeks. In Book 24 of the Iliad Iris first finds Thetis mourning proleptically among the Nereids and then goes to Priam rolling in dung among the mourning Trojans, crying and wailing (Il. 24.83–86, 160–8). Colin MacLeod nicely notes in his commentary: “as with Thetis, so with Priam.”33 Homer compares, as it were, Thetis and Priam, but they are not found together and there is no possible occasion on which the two can meet. Nor can we conceive of an occasion where Thetis and Hecuba, the two mourning mothers of the Iliad, could be juxtaposed together or encounter one another. The presence of Thetis and Eos at the Achilles-Memnon duel offers a rare opportunity to place two bereaved, grieving parents together and to compare them. Here it is worth remembering a moving passage in

Two mothers  73 Homer, where we find Trojans and Greeks burying their dead and mourning them in exactly the same fashion. ...οἳ δὲ σιωπῇ νεκροὺς πυρκαϊῆς ἐπενήνεον ἀχνύμενοι κῆρ, ἐν δὲ πυρὶ πρήσαντες ἔβαν προτὶ Ἴλιον ἱρήν. ὣς δ’ αὔτως ἑτέρωθεν ἐϋκνήμιδες Ἀχαιοὶ νεκροὺς πυρκαϊῆς ἐπενήνεον ἀχνύμενοι κῆρ, ἐν δὲ πυρὶ πρήσαντες ἔβαν κοίλας ἐπὶ νῆας.

430

... in silence they piled the bodies upon the pyre, with their hearts in sorrow, and burned them upon the fire, and went back to sacred Ilion. In the same way on the other side the strong-greaved Achaians piled the bodies upon the pyre, with their hearts in sorrow, and burned them upon the fire, and went back to their hollow vessels. (Il. 7.427–32) Homer first tells us that the Trojans burn their corpses silently, with sorrow in their hearts, and then notes that the Greeks too pile bodies upon the pyre in the same way (ὣς δ᾿ αὔτως 430) with sorrow in their hearts. Homer uses an identical line (428=431), to describe the grieving Trojans and Greeks burying their dead. The virtually identical mothers found on our vases are perhaps the visual equivalent of two identical lines of verse and we can see that they share the same concerns. The goddesses’ physical resemblance underscores their psychological resemblance, their shared sorrow. The death of Memnon at the hands of Achilles (and the fact that Achilles’ death will follow soon thereafter) causes the viewers of these vases to see the common humanity, as it were, of the two mothers, Thetis and Eos. What of the goddesses themselves? Do they relate to each other? In Book 24 of the Iliad Achilles is made to understand by Priam that Hector is to Priam as he, Achilles, is to his unhappy father Peleus, and that the Trojans mourn Hector just as he mourns Patroclus. There is mutual sympathy and understanding between Priam and Achilles and this harmony stems from Achilles’ recognition of the resemblance between Priam and his own father Peleus. Can we expect Eos and Thetis to reach that kind of understanding? While it is plain that the warriors depicted on the vases do not see their mothers, perhaps we should allow for the goddesses seeing each other, at least at times, perhaps even viewing one another with sympathy. The mothers on the vases are not, however, always mirror images of each other (Figure 5.3). In this black-figure neck amphora from Vulci dated about 520 BCE (BAPD 302284) we see Achilles attacking from the left and Memnon – unusually with a Boeotian sword – kneeling, about to flee, but with his face turned round toward Achilles. The mothers are similarly dressed but have very different

74  Deborah Levine Gera

Figure 5.3 Achilles and Memnon, between Thetis and Eos. Attic black-figure neck amphora, ca. 520 BCE. Staatliche Antikensammlung und Glypothek, München.

gestures. Thetis has her head slightly lowered, and her hands near her waist, one arm bent upwards and one held down, while Eos is practically whirling in centrifugal motion. Her feet, like those of her son, are pointed away, but she turns her head back toward the warriors. It seems clear that Eos is in great distress. Thetis is not indifferent or static, but her separated arms are a less dramatic response to the situation, probably because Achilles is winning this duel. What are we, the viewers, to make of this vase? Are we meant to take sides, to rejoice in Achilles’ imminent victory or to sympathize with the distraught Eos and defeated Memnon? It is difficult to decide. Generally when the goddesses are differentiated or contrasted, Eos’ gestures are broader and more expressive than those of Thetis, and often Memnon has already been bested by Achilles.34 Only rarely does Thetis seem triumphant, rather than simply concerned, if less concerned than Eos.35 Eos’ various gestures on these vases – touching her head or disheveled hair, raising her hands to the heavens, etc. – plainly express her pain and anxiety, while those of Thetis are sometimes less easy to interpret. Thus one and the same image of Thetis on a well-known red-figure volute krater by the Berlin Painter in the British Museum has been taken variously by commentators as Thetis urging her son on, expressing her concern, or joyfully clapping her hands.36 Thetis’ gestures are, in any event, more controlled than those of Eos on the vases where the two mothers are differentiated, because the threat to her son is less immediate.

Two mothers  75 In sum, we cannot know for certain whether the literary epic Aithiopis included a scene where Eos and Thetis were present on the battlefield in the deadly combat between Memnon and Achilles, but vase paintings make it plain that the mothers watching their dueling sons became part of the story of the encounter between Achilles and Memnon in late archaic and early classical times. The artistic representations of the warriors’ duel add depth and emotion to the myth, by focusing upon the mothers. The recurring scene of the two dueling warriors flanked by their two mothers on the vases corresponds to the typical scene of oral poetry, with no two versions resembling one another in every detail. The painters present a series of variations on a theme: the mothers can be symmetrically dressed or differentiated; static or mobile; share identical reactions or express very different emotions. Clearly a single literary work such as the Aithiopis could not include all these possible variations. Artists take this scene of two well-matched heroes and their divine mothers and use the two goddesses to convey the pain of being the mother of an endangered warrior. While the divine powers of Thetis and Eos allow them to be on the battlefield, their poignant presence underscores their deep maternal concern and also points to their inability to influence the course of events. This combination of solicitude, vulnerability, and helplessness is the lot of all mothers, mortal and immortal, and the ancient vase painters help us see that.

Notes

76  Deborah Levine Gera



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Two mothers  77























6

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad1 Hayden Pelliccia

I will start from the commonplace observation that Homer is cinematic, in the sense that he makes it easy for the audience to visualize the action. In this he seems to have arrived at an understanding of Aristotle’s rule for composition some hundreds of years before Aristotle formulated it, in Poetics 1455a22–25:2 δεῖ δὲ τοὺς μύθους συνιστάναι καὶ τῇ λέξει συναπεργάζεσθαι ὅτι μάλιστα πρὸ ὀμμάτων τιθέμενον· οὕτω γὰρ ἂν ἐναργέστατα [ὁ] ὁρῶν ὥσπερ παρ’ αὐτοῖς γιγνόμενος τοῖς πραττομένοις εὑρίσκοι τὸ πρέπον καὶ ἥκιστα ἂν λανθάνοι [τὸ] τὰ ὑπεναντία. In constructing plots and completing the effect by the help of dialogue the poet should, as far as possible, keep the scene before his eyes. Only in this way—by getting the picture as clearly visualized as if he were present at the actual event—will he find what is appropriate and detect contradictions. This kind of visualization extends to what we would call continuity: if a character leaves by the door to the right he should return by the door to the right; if he returns by the door to the left the effect may be comical. Aristotle was talking about stage drama, and it made sense for a theorist of tragedy in the fourth century BCE to urge playwrights to pay attention to visualization. But how did Homer, a narrative poet composing long before the emergence of Athenian theater, come to this insight? Lyric narrative does not seem from its slender remains to have troubled itself with visual or any other kind of verisimilitude. But these are not questions I will address today. Instead, I first want to point out that Homer’s visualization project is more ambitious than that of the Athenian tragic poets in that he includes the gods in his action. In tragedy gods as a rule appear either in the prolog, which is to say before the dramatic illusion of the plot has fully taken hold, or at the end when they conclude the plot in an epiphany from the machine. Homer’s gods, on the other hand, are frequent if inconsistent participants in the action throughout. They are visible to other gods, including the poet’s source, the Muses, but are invisible to the mortal characters, unless they

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  79 choose to appear to them, usually in the form of another mortal. My suspicion is that Homer invented this set of arrangements, and that he first worked them out in the Odyssey and then brought them to perfection in the Iliad, using books 1–8 to introduce them to his audience.3 A major introductory passage comes early in Book 5, when Athena removes the mist from Diomedes’ eyes (Il. 5.124–8): “θαρσῶν νῦν Διόμηδες ἐπὶ Τρώεσσι μάχεσθαι· ἐν γάρ τοι στήθεσσι μένος πατρώϊον ἧκα ἄτρομον, οἷον ἔχεσκε σακέσπαλος ἱππότα Τυδεύς· ἀχλὺν δ’ αὖ τοι ἀπ’ ὀφθαλμῶν ἕλον ἣ πρὶν ἐπῆεν, ὄφρ’ εὖ γιγνώσκῃς ἠμὲν θεὸν ἠδὲ καὶ ἄνδρα.”

125

“Be of good courage now, Diomedes, to fight with the Trojans, since I have put inside your chest the strength of your father untremulous, such as the horseman Tydeus of the great shield had; I have taken away the mist from your eyes, that before now was there, so that you may well recognize the god and the mortal.” This seems designed to provide us with an explanation of how the technology works: divine invisibility is caused by a kind of filter—ἀχλύς—on humans’ eyes. The removal of this filter from Diomedes’ eyes means he can see when Ares joins Hector on the attack (5.590–604). Note the ambiguity of the account as a whole: the narrator in 5.590–6 describes a god wielding a superhuman spear and behaving in a rather superhuman manner: τοὺς δ’ Ἕκτωρ ἐνόησε κατὰ στίχας, ὦρτο δ’ ἐπ’ αὐτοὺς 590 κεκλήγων· ἅμα δὲ Τρώων εἵποντο φάλαγγες καρτεραί· ἦρχε δ’ ἄρα σφιν Ἄρης καὶ πότνι’ Ἐνυώ, ἣ μὲν ἔχουσα Κυδοιμὸν ἀναιδέα δηϊοτῆτος, Ἄρης δ’ ἐν παλάμῃσι πελώριον ἔγχος ἐνώμα, φοίτα δ’ ἄλλοτε μὲν πρόσθ’ Ἕκτορος, ἄλλοτ’ ὄπισθε. 595 Τὸν δὲ ἰδὼν ῥίγησε βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Διομήδης· Hektor saw them across the ranks, and drove on against them crying aloud, . . . and Ares led them with the goddess Enyo, she carrying with her the turmoil of shameless hatred while Ares made play in his hands with the spear gigantic and ranged now in front of Hektor and now behind him. Diomedes of the great war cry shivered as he saw him; Diomedes’ immediately succeeding account, however, seems to imply that he perceives a divine being beneath the form of an ordinary mortal man (5.600–4): ὣς τότε Τυδεΐδης ἀνεχάζετο, εἶπέ τε λαῷ· “ὦ φίλοι οἷον δὴ θαυμάζομεν Ἕκτορα δῖον

600

80  Hayden Pelliccia αἰχμητήν τ’ ἔμεναι καὶ θαρσαλέον πολεμιστήν· τῷ δ’ αἰεὶ πάρα εἷς γε θεῶν, ὃς λοιγὸν ἀμύνει· καὶ νῦν οἱ πάρα κεῖνος Ἄρης βροτῷ ἀνδρὶ ἐοικώς.” … and spoke to his people: “Friends, although we know the wonder of glorious Hektor to be a fighter with the spear and a bold man of battle, yet there goes ever some god beside him, who beats off destruction, and now, in the likeness of a man mortal, Ares goes with him…” Elsewhere gods can apply a secondary ad hoc ἀχλύς to someone they want to make disappear, i.e., by making it impossible to see into it, or, alternatively, they can surround somebody with it and thereby make it impossible for him to see out. In the latter two cases there are in effect double constraints on the mortal vision: the normal ἀχλύς-filter prevents us from seeing gods that are there, and a secondary ἀχλύς shed over something or someone we can see makes us no longer able to. This is the situation I want to look at. It is a tricky one for the poet: moving a character between the seen and unseen worlds of the mortal and immortal characters requires a certain prestidigitation if the system is to be prevented from collapsing from a failure of verisimilitude. The typology of passages in which a god rescues a favored mortal from imminent threat has been elucidated by Reinhardt and Fenik.4 I will go through the passages briefly now and draw attention to points relevant to understanding certain problems raised by a final passage that is not strictly a member of Reinhardt’s and Fenik’s group, but is clearly and interestingly related to it.5 Aeneas’ rescue from Diomedes is orchestrated over a sequence of passages in Book 5: 311–17, 343–6, 432–3, 445–52, 512–18: Καί νύ κεν ἔνθ’ ἀπόλοιτο ἄναξ ἀνδρῶν Αἰνείας, εἰ μὴ ἄρ’ ὀξὺ νόησε Διὸς θυγάτηρ Ἀφροδίτη μήτηρ, ἥ μιν ὑπ’ Ἀγχίσῃ τέκε βουκολέοντι· ἀμφὶ δ’ ἑὸν φίλον υἱὸν ἐχεύατο πήχεε λευκώ, πρόσθε δέ οἱ πέπλοιο φαεινοῦ πτύγμα κάλυψεν ἕρκος ἔμεν βελέων, μή τις Δαναῶν ταχυπώλων χαλκὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι βαλὼν ἐκ θυμὸν ἕλοιτο.

315

Now in this place Aineias lord of men might have perished had not Aphrodite, Zeus’ daughter, been quick to perceive him, his mother, who had borne him to Anchises the ox-herd; and about her beloved son came streaming her white arms, and with her white robe thrown in a fold in front she shielded him, this keeping off the thrown weapons lest some fast-mounted Danaan strike the bronze spear through his chest and strip the life from him. ἣ δὲ μέγα ἰάχουσα ἀπὸ ἕο κάββαλεν υἱόν· καὶ τὸν μὲν μετὰ χερσὶν ἐρύσατο Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  81 κυανέῃ νεφέλῃ, μή τις Δαναῶν ταχυπώλων χαλκὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι βαλὼν ἐκ θυμὸν ἕλοιτο·

345

She gave a great shriek and let fall her son she was carrying, but Phoibos Apollo caught him up and away in his own hands, in a dark mist, for fear that some fast-mounted Danaan might strike the bronze spear through his chest and strip the life from him; Αἰνείᾳ δ’ ἐπόρουσε βοὴν ἀγαθὸς Διομήδης, γιγνώσκων ὅ οἱ αὐτὸς ὑπείρεχε χεῖρας Ἀπόλλων·

432

Diomedes of the great war cry made for Aineias, though he saw how Apollo himself held his hands over him; Αἰνείαν δ’ ἀπάτερθεν ὁμίλου θῆκεν Ἀπόλλων 445 Περγάμῳ εἰν ἱερῇ, ὅθι οἱ νηός γε τέτυκτο. ἤτοι τὸν Λητώ τε καὶ Ἄρτεμις ἰοχέαιρα ἐν μεγάλῳ ἀδύτῳ ἀκέοντό τε κύδαινόν τε· αὐτὰρ ὃ εἴδωλον τεῦξ’ ἀργυρότοξος Ἀπόλλων αὐτῷ τ’ Αἰνείᾳ ἴκελον καὶ τεύχεσι τοῖον, 450 ἀμφὶ δ’ ἄρ’ εἰδώλῳ Τρῶες καὶ δῖοι Ἀχαιοὶ δῄουν… Apollo … caught Aineias now away from the onslaught, and set him in the sacred keep of Pergamos where was built his own temple. There Artemis of the showering arrows and Leto within the great and secret chamber healed his wound and cared for him. But he of the silver bow, Apollo, fashioned an image in the likeness of Aineias himself and in armour like him, and all about this image brilliant Achaians and Trojans hewed at each other… αὐτὸς δ’ [scil., Apollo] Αἰνείαν μάλα πίονος ἐξ ἀδύτοιο ἧκε, καὶ ἐν στήθεσσι μένος βάλε ποιμένι λαῶν. Αἰνείας δ’ ἑτάροισι μεθίστατο· τοὶ δὲ χάρησαν, ὡς εἶδον ζωόν τε καὶ ἀρτεμέα προσιόντα 515 καὶ μένος ἐσθλὸν ἔχοντα· μετάλλησάν γε μὲν οὔ τι. οὐ γὰρ ἔα πόνος ἄλλος, ὃν ἀργυρότοξος ἔγειρεν Ἄρης τε βροτολοιγὸς Ἔρις τ’ ἄμοτον μεμαυῖα. And out of the rich secret chamber Apollo sent forth Aineias, and dropped strength in the heart of the people’s shepherd. So Aineias stood among his friends, who were happy as they saw him coming back, still alive, and unwounded and full of brave spirit; yet they asked him no question, for the rest of their fighting work would not let them, that the silver-bow god woke, and manslaughtering Ares, and Hate, whose wrath is relentless.

82  Hayden Pelliccia The rescue is accomplished through a kind of trapeze-artist hand-off between Aphrodite and Apollo, and requires the use of a “dark cloud” (κυανέῃ νεφέλῃ, 345) as well as the creation of an εἴδωλον as a substitute—a special effect so striking West felt obliged to remove it from the text, on tendentious grounds.6 In the next two examples instead of a concealing “dark cloud” the mechanisms of invisibility are ἀχλύς (20.321, 341) and ἀήρ πολλή (21.597). These two scenes usher the mortal characters, Agenor and Aeneas, out of the poem for good. Aeneas is a major character of the second rank, and we know he will live on (20.318–31, 340–3): αὐτὰρ ἐπεὶ τό γ’ ἄκουσε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων, βῆ ῥ’ ἴμεν ἄν τε μάχην καὶ ἀνὰ κλόνον ἐγχειάων, ἷξε δ’ ὅθ’ Αἰνείας ἠδ’ ὃ κλυτὸς ἦεν Ἀχιλλεύς. αὐτίκα τῷ μὲν ἔπειτα κατ’ ὀφθαλμῶν χέεν ἀχλὺν Πηλεΐδῃ Ἀχιλῆϊ· ὃ δὲ μελίην εὔχαλκον ἀσπίδος ἐξέρυσεν μεγαλήτορος Αἰνείαο· καὶ τὴν μὲν προπάροιθε ποδῶν Ἀχιλῆος ἔθηκεν, Αἰνείαν δ’ ἔσσευεν ἀπὸ χθονὸς ὑψόσ’ ἀείρας. πολλὰς δὲ στίχας ἡρώων, πολλὰς δὲ καὶ ἵππων Αἰνείας ὑπερᾶλτο θεοῦ ἀπὸ χειρὸς ὀρούσας, ἷξε δ’ ἐπ’ ἐσχατιὴν πολυάϊκος πολέμοιο, ἔνθά τε Καύκωνες πόλεμον μέτα θωρήσσοντο. τῷ δὲ μάλ’ ἐγγύθεν ἦλθε Ποσειδάων ἐνοσίχθων, καί μιν φωνήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα·

320

325

330

When he had heard this, the shaker of the earth Poseidon went on his way through the confusion of spears and the fighting, and came to where Aineias was, and renowned Achilleus. There quickly he drifted a mist across the eyes of one fighter, Achilleus, Peleus’ son, and from the shield of Aineias of the great heart pulled loose the strong bronze-headed ash spear and laid it down again before the feet of Achilleus; but Aineias he lifted high from the ground, and slung him through the air so that many ranks of fighting men, many ranks of horses, were overvaulted by Aineias, hurled by the god’s hand. He landed at the uttermost edge of the tossing battle where the Kaukonians were arming them for the order of fighting. And Poseidon, shaker of the earth, came and stood very near him and spoke to him and addressed him in winged words. ὣς εἰπὼν λίπεν αὐτόθ’, ἐπεὶ διεπέφραδε πάντα. αἶψα δ’ ἔπειτ’ Ἀχιλῆος ἀπ’ ὀφθαλμῶν σκέδασ’ ἀχλὺν θεσπεσίην· ὃ δ’ ἔπειτα μέγ’ ἔξιδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν, ὀχθήσας δ’ ἄρα εἶπε πρὸς ὃν μεγαλήτορα θυμόν· “ὢ πόποι ἦ μέγα θαῦμα τόδ’ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ὁρῶμαι· . . .”

340

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  83 He spoke, and left him there, when he had told him all this, and at once scattered the mist away from the eyes of Achilleus that the gods had sent, and now he looked with his eyes, and saw largely, and in disgust spoke then to his own great-hearted spirit: “Can this be? Here is a strange thing I see with my own eyes . . . ” Here the “cloak of invisibility” is cast around not the object of aggression, but the aggressor. For a Trojan commander, Agenor, unlike Aeneas, is almost a non-entity;7 nothing becomes him in the Iliad like the leaving of it; to serve as bait—a second, animated, εἴδωλον of Apollo’s—seems to be his raison d’être (21.595–601): Πηλεΐδης δ’ ὁρμήσατ’ Ἀγήνορος ἀντιθέοιο δεύτερος· οὐδ’ ἔτ’ ἔασεν Ἀπόλλων κῦδος ἀρέσθαι, ἀλλά μιν ἐξήρπαξε, κάλυψε δ’ ἄρ’ ἠέρι πολλῇ, ἡσύχιον δ’ ἄρα μιν πολέμου ἔκπεμπε νέεσθαι. αὐτὰρ ὃ Πηλεΐωνα δόλῳ ἀποέργαθε λαοῦ· αὐτῷ γὰρ ἑκάεργος Ἀγήνορι πάντα ἐοικὼς ἔστη πρόσθε ποδῶν, ὃ δ’ ἐπέσσυτο ποσσὶ διώκειν· After him Peleus’ son made his spring at godlike Agenor, but Apollo would no further grant him the winning of glory but caught Agenor away closing him in a dense mist and sent him to make his way quietly out of the battle. Then by deception he kept Peleion away from the people. The striker from afar likened himself in all ways to Agenor and stood there before his feet, and Achilleus sprang in chase of him in the speed of his feet. Apollo’s cloaking of Hector with (again) ἀχλύς at 20.440–54 is similar to these two instances, except that Hector will, of course, return; but this is the last we see of him until the opening of Book 22: τὸ δ’ ἂψ ἵκεθ’ Ἕκτορα δῖον, αὐτοῦ δὲ προπάροιθε ποδῶν πέσεν. αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς ἐμμεμαὼς ἐπόρουσε κατακτάμεναι μενεαίνων, σμερδαλέα ἰάχων· τὸν δ’ ἐξήρπαξεν Ἀπόλλων ῥεῖα μάλ’ ὥς τε θεός, ἐκάλυψε δ’ ἄρ’ ἠέρι πολλῇ. τρὶς μὲν ἔπειτ’ ἐπόρουσε ποδάρκης δῖος Ἀχιλλεὺς ἔγχεϊ χαλκείῳ, τρὶς δ’ ἠέρα τύψε βαθεῖαν. ἀλλ’ ὅτε δὴ τὸ τέταρτον ἐπέσσυτο δαίμονι ἶσος, δεινὰ δ’ ὁμοκλήσας ἔπεα πτερόεντα προσηύδα· “ἐξ αὖ νῦν ἔφυγες θάνατον κύον· ἦ τέ τοι ἄγχι ἦλθε κακόν· νῦν αὖτέ σ’ ἐρύσατο Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων,

84  Hayden Pelliccia ᾧ μέλλεις εὔχεσθαι ἰὼν ἐς δοῦπον ἀκόντων. ἦ θήν σ’ ἐξανύω γε καὶ ὕστερον ἀντιβολήσας, εἴ πού τις καὶ ἔμοιγε θεῶν ἐπιτάρροθός ἐστι. νῦν αὖ τοὺς ἄλλους ἐπιείσομαι, ὅν κε κιχείω.” . . . it came back again to glorious Hektor and dropped to the ground in front of his feet. Meanwhile Achilleus made a furious charge against him, raging to kill him with a terrible cry, but Phoibos Apollo caught up Hektor easily, since he was a god, and wrapped him in thick mist. Three times swift-footed brilliant Achilleus swept in against him with the brazen spear. Three times his stroke went into the deep mist. But as a fourth time, like something more than a man, he charged in, Achilleus with a terrible cry called in winged words after him: “Once again now you escaped death, dog. And yet the evil came near you, but now once more Phoibos Apollo has saved you, he to whom you must pray when you go into the thunder of spears thrown. Yet I may win you, if I encounter you ever hereafter, if beside me also there is some god who will help me. Now I must chase whoever I can overtake of the others.” Aphrodite’s rescuing of Paris in 3.373–82 (ἀήρ again) is perhaps the one of the group that best illustrates the risks that the use of this divine machinery poses to the poet: καί νύ κεν εἴρυσσέν τε καὶ ἄσπετον ἤρατο κῦδος, εἰ μὴ ἄρ’ ὀξὺ νόησε Διὸς θυγάτηρ Ἀφροδίτη, ἥ οἱ ῥῆξεν ἱμάντα βοὸς ἶφι κταμένοιο· κεινὴ δὲ τρυφάλεια ἅμ’ ἕσπετο χειρὶ παχείῃ. τὴν μὲν ἔπειθ’ ἥρως μετ’ ἐϋκνήμιδας Ἀχαιοὺς ῥῖψ’ ἐπιδινήσας, κόμισαν δ’ ἐρίηρες ἑταῖροι· αὐτὰρ ὃ ἂψ ἐπόρουσε κατακτάμεναι μενεαίνων ἔγχεϊ χαλκείῳ· τὸν δ’ ἐξήρπαξ’ Ἀφροδίτη ῥεῖα μάλ’ ὥς τε θεός, ἐκάλυψε δ’ ἄρ’ ἠέρι πολλῇ, κὰδ δ’ εἷσ’ ἐν θαλάμῳ εὐώδεϊ κηώεντι. Now he would have dragged him away and won glory forever had not Aphrodite daughter of Zeus watched sharply. She broke the chinstrap, made from the hide of a slaughtered bullock, and the helmet came away empty in the heavy hand of Atreides. The hero whirled the helmet about and sent it flying among the strong-greaved Achaians, and his staunch companions retrieved it. He turned and made again for his man, determined to kill him with the bronze spear. But Aphrodite caught up Paris easily, since she was divine, and wrapped him in a thick mist and set him down again in his own perfumed bedchamber.

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  85 This is not a disappearance that can go unnoticed. The snatching away of the beloved protégé is itself pretty smoothly handled: in a movie Menelaus would roll over Paris, blocking our view of him, and when he rolled back again there would be nothing there. Or something like that. What Homer does is divert our focus with the helmet, which he causes to whirl off toward the Greek line. The success of this diversion depends entirely on our visualizing the action with our mind’s eye, which it would therefore seem Homer assumed we would do: when our mind’s eye turns back, Paris is gone. Aphrodite’s intervention is invisible and instantaneous: the suddenness of the disappearance is startling. It occurs to none of the bystanders in this case that they have just witnessed a miracle: they all assume Paris has somehow sneaked off by ordinary human means, and proceed to look for him, in both armies, the Trojan soldiers being no fonder of Paris than the Greek. We know that Paris has been transported back to his bedroom in Troy and are shown Aphrodite leading Helen to him to have sex, which is where we leave them. When we return to the armies, both sides are making preparations to resume the war. Dumbfoundedness in response to one of these magical disappearances is also shown by Achilles in 20.343–4 (μέγα θαῦμα) but as at 20.450 (νῦν αὖτέ σ’ ἐρύσατο Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλω) here too he guesses the correct explanation (ἦ ῥα καὶ Αἰνείας φίλος ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσιν ἦεν, 20.347–8), and resumes fighting; as he is throughout these books, he is represented here as isolated from any companions.8 In the rescue of Agenor by Apollo in 21.595–601 and of Aeneas by the tag-team of Aphrodite and Apollo in Book 5, the miraculous removal is, as noted, supplemented by the deployment of a substitute—Apollo disguised as Agenor in the former and the εἴδωλον standing in for Aeneas in the latter. In all these passages the poet seems to be taking measures to prevent a radical break of verisimilitude from the perspective of the human onlooker on the ground: sudden and complete disappearances are noticeable, which means they require delicate handling on the part of a poet who does not want the magical world of the gods to obtrude too crudely into the visible world of his human characters. It is the sequel to Aphrodite’s rescuing of Paris that raises perhaps the most serious threat to the system’s plausibility, which is to say its usefulness for serious narrative. It comes three books later, when Hector leaves the battle to go into the city. The fact of this visit itself places a serious strain on our credulity since Hector is the Trojans’ best fighter and should hardly be going home on errands during a battle. But our interest now is in a stop he makes on his way: he goes to Paris’ house and speaks to him (6.321–31). τὸν δ’ εὗρ’ ἐν θαλάμῳ περικαλλέα τεύχε’ ἕποντα ἀσπίδα καὶ θώρηκα, καὶ ἀγκύλα τόξ’ ἁφόωντα· Ἀργείη δ’ Ἑλένη μετ’ ἄρα δμῳῇσι γυναιξὶν

321

86  Hayden Pelliccia ἧστο καὶ ἀμφιπόλοισι περικλυτὰ ἔργα κέλευε. τὸν δ’ Ἕκτωρ νείκεσσεν ἰδὼν αἰσχροῖς ἐπέεσσι· “δαιμόνι’ οὐ μὲν καλὰ χόλον τόνδ’ ἔνθεο θυμῷ, λαοὶ μὲν φθινύθουσι περὶ πτόλιν αἰπύ τε τεῖχος μαρνάμενοι· σέο δ’ εἵνεκ’ ἀϋτή τε πτόλεμός τε ἄστυ τόδ’ ἀμφιδέδηε· σὺ δ’ ἂν μαχέσαιο καὶ ἄλλῳ, ὅν τινά που μεθιέντα ἴδοις στυγεροῦ πολέμοιο. ἀλλ’ ἄνα μὴ τάχα ἄστυ πυρὸς δηΐοιο θέρηται.”

325

330

He found the man in his chamber busy with his splendid armour, the corselet and the shield, and turning in his hands the curved bow, while Helen of Argos was sitting among her attendant women directing the magnificent work done by her handmaidens. But Hektor saw him, and in words of shame he rebuked him: “Strange man! It is not fair to keep in your heart this coldness. The people are dying around the city and around the steep wall as they fight hard; and it is for you that this war with its clamour has flared up about our city. You yourself would fight with another whom you saw anywhere hanging back from the hateful encounter. Up then, to keep our town from burning at once in the hot fire.” What are we to make of this? In book 3 Paris was being strangled by Menelaus when Aphrodite whisked him away. Nobody knew where he’d gone, but everyone was acutely aware they had been cheated of the wonderful possibility of peace, and that battle would now have to be resumed. Obviously, as soon as Hector catches sight of Paris he should start furiously shouting “How did you get here?!” Instead he implores him to stop being angry, as if Paris is the obvious person to have a grievance—a clever diversionary move by the poet. The plain fact is that Paris needs to be brought back into the plot, so Homer simply acts as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. He passes over the problem κατὰ τὸ σιωπώμενον.9 This is an option only because he has put over 1800 lines between Paris’ deliverance by Aphrodite and Hector’s confrontation with him now. We, in recollecting the earlier rescue, automatically transfer to the characters on the ground—in this case Hector—the privileged knowledge the poet/narrator has shared with us alone: we read back into Hector our own experience of how the scene played out, with Aphrodite summoning Helen from the wall, their riveting spat, etc. I now turn to our final example, the removal of the corpse of Sarpedon. As I said earlier, Reinhardt and Fenik did not include this passage in their typological studies, since it is not a rescue scene. I group it with the rescues because like them it has gods rendering a visible mortal body invisible. The entire Sarpedon episode is exceptional. It is not just that Zeus considers saving his son—an eery scene in which Hera, who had earlier been dispatched back to Olympus, is suddenly and inexplicably present on Mt. Ida to answer his doubts (431–58)—but that Homer treats the death as he has treated no other: first, after Patroclus has struck the mortal blow, Sarpedon

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  87 does not cleanly die, as most previous victims do, but he utters, as Patroclus and Hector will, a dying speech—but in Sarpedon’s case the speech is not addressed to his killer, but to his comrade-in-arms Glaucus, whom he implores to not let the Greeks strip the armor from his corpse. At this point there is an intense struggle over the corpse, in the course of which the corpse itself gets badly roughed up. With our knowledge of the remainder of the poem we can see that the poet is setting up a narrative theme the trajectory of which will reach from Sarpedon’s corpse through Cebriones’ and Patroclus’ corpses to Hector’s, with which the poem ends, and pointing beyond to the battle that will take place for possession of Achilles’ corpse. The ancient commentators saw great importance in the Sarpedon episode. I will paraphrase their explanation, based on the scholion to 17.126:10 in Book 16 Homer wants each army to think the other army has Sarpedon’s corpse. That will mean that each army will fight all the more fiercely in Book 17 over the corpse of Patroclus, killed at the end of Book 16: the Trojans will be thinking they need Patroclus’ corpse as a bargaining chip to recover Sarpedon’s corpse in a trade, and the Greeks, knowing that they don’t have Sarpedon’s corpse to trade with, will think it is now or never for recovering Patroclus’ corpse, which they’d better do if they ever want to see Achilles again. So Homer has Zeus simply remove Sarpedon’s corpse altogether. That is the scholiast’s understanding of Homer’s purpose. What do we see actually happening on the ground, during the run-up to Apollo’s removal of the corpse? (a) 16.479–81, 490–2, 502–7 ὃ δ’ ὕστερος ὄρνυτο χαλκῷ Πάτροκλος· τοῦ δ’ οὐχ ἅλιον βέλος ἔκφυγε χειρός, 480 ἀλλ’ ἔβαλ’ ἔνθ’ ἄρα τε φρένες ἔρχαται ἀμφ’ ἁδινὸν κῆρ… … ὣς ὑπὸ Πατρόκλῳ Λυκίων ἀγὸς ἀσπιστάων 490 κτεινόμενος μενέαινε, φίλον δ’ ὀνόμηνεν ἑταῖρον· “Γλαῦκε πέπον πολεμιστὰ μετ’ ἀνδράσι . . .” … Ὣς ἄρα μιν εἰπόντα τέλος θανάτοιο κάλυψεν ὀφθαλμοὺς ῥῖνάς θ’· ὃ δὲ λὰξ ἐν στήθεσι βαίνων ἐκ χροὸς ἕλκε δόρυ, προτὶ δὲ φρένες αὐτῷ ἕποντο· τοῖο δ’ ἅμα ψυχήν τε καὶ ἔγχεος ἐξέρυσ’ αἰχμήν. 505 Μυρμιδόνες δ’ αὐτοῦ σχέθον ἵππους φυσιόωντας ἱεμένους φοβέεσθαι, ἐπεὶ λίπον ἅρματ’ ἀνάκτων. and now Patroklos made the second cast with the brazenspear, and the shaft escaping his hand was not flung vainly, but struck where the beating heart is closed in the arch of the muscles . . . so now under Patroklos the lord of the shield-armoured Lykians died raging, and called aloud

88  Hayden Pelliccia to his beloved companion: “Dear Glaukos, you are a fighter among men . . .” . . . He spoke, and as he spoke death’s end closed over his nostrils and eyes, and Patroklos stepping heel braced to chest dragged the spear out of his body, and the midriff came away with it so that he drew out with the spearhead the life of Sarpedon, and the Myrmidons close by held in the hard-breathing horses as they tried to bolt away, once free of their master’s chariot. The death itself has been carefully choreographed: Patroclus casts his spear and Sarpedon is downed (479–91), at which point he makes his speech to Glaucus (492–501). Only after the speech is finished does Patroclus arrive to remove his spear from Sarpedon’s chest, the φρένες coming out with it. This sequence by itself is complex: the τέλος θανάτοιο covers Sarpedon at the conclusion of the speech to Glaucus (502–3), but his ψυχή departs only once Patroclus withdraws the spear and φρένες (505). Glaucus is close enough to Sarpedon to be spoken to, but does nothing to impede Patroclus’ coming forward and stepping on his chest (503). That inconcinnity is covered by a reminder that Glaucus was wounded in book 12 (387–91)—an ambiguous wound that renders him unable to use his spear-throwing hand (16.520–1), but is not severe enough to remove him to the rear: already at 14.426 we see that he is still at the front. He now prays to Apollo to heal him, which the god does: (b) 16.508–13, 527–9 Γλαύκῳ δ’ αἰνὸν ἄχος γένετο φθογγῆς ἀΐοντι· ὠρίνθη δέ οἱ ἦτορ ὅ τ’ οὐ δύνατο προσαμῦναι. χειρὶ δ’ ἑλὼν ἐπίεζε βραχίονα· τεῖρε γὰρ αὐτὸν ἕλκος, ὃ δή μιν Τεῦκρος ἐπεσσύμενον βάλεν ἰῷ τείχεος ὑψηλοῖο, ἀρὴν ἑτάροισιν ἀμύνων. εὐχόμενος δ’ ἄρα εἶπεν ἑκηβόλῳ Ἀπόλλωνι· ... Ὣς ἔφατ’ εὐχόμενος, τοῦ δ’ ἔκλυε Φοῖβος Ἀπόλλων. αὐτίκα παῦσ’ ὀδύνας ἀπὸ δ’ ἕλκεος ἀργαλέοιο αἷμα μέλαν τέρσηνε, μένος δέ οἱ ἔμβαλε θυμῷ.

510

527

But when he heard the voice a hard sorrow came upon Glaukos, and the heart was stirred within him, and he could not defend Sarpedon. He took his arm in his hand and squeezed it, since the wound hurt him where Teukros had hit him with an arrow shot as he swept in on the high wall, and fended destruction from his companions. He spoke in prayer to him who strikes from afar, Apollo: ... So he spoke in prayer, and Phoibos Apollo heard him. At once he made the pains stop, and dried away from the hard wound the dark running of blood, and put strength into his spirit.

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  89 In response, Glaucus leaves the immediate vicinity of Sarpedon’s corpse to go reproach Hector and the other Trojan leaders (530–47). Here for the first time in the poem the verb ἀεικίζω occurs: Glaucus demands “Don’t let the Greeks strip him of his armor and abuse his corpse”: (c)(1) 16.544–6 ἀλλὰ φίλοι, πάρστητε, νεμεσσήθητε δὲ θυμῷ, μὴ ἀπὸ τεύχ’ ἕλωνται, ἀεικίσσωσι δὲ νεκρόν Μυρμιδόνες… Then, friends, stand beside me, let the thought be shame in your spirit that they might strip away his arms, and dishonor his body, these Myrmidons… Hector immediately leads them all back to Sarpedon (551–2). At this point we revert to Patroclus, who addresses the two Ajaxes with an exhortation parallel to the one Glaucus just spoke to Hector: “I hope we can abuse the corpse and strip it of its armor!”: (c)(2) 16.559–60 ἀλλ’ εἴ μιν ἀεικισσαίμεθ’ ἑλόντες, τεύχεά τ’ ὤμοιιν ἀφελοίμεθα, If only we could win and dishonour his body and strip the armour from his shoulders Let’s pause for a moment and note two things: (1) Glaucus’ position is anomalous; before Apollo cures him he is both on the scene and unable to participate in it, except as the addressee of Sarpedon’s speech; hence the splitting up of Sarpedon’s death between 502–3 and 503–7: the first concludes a speech spoken as if Patroclus didn’t exist, the second returns Patroclus to the scene; the poet has Glaucus react only to the second, at which point his inability to defend the corpse is explained. (2) Homer has allowed himself at this moment one of his stop-times: what is Patroclus doing while Glaucus goes off and fetches Hector et al.? If, as Patroclus says to the Ajaxes at 559–60, the goal is to abuse Sarpedon’s corpse and strip it of its armor, why didn’t he do it when Glaucus was away on his errand, in 532–47? But let’s return to the action on the ground. It is only after Patroclus’ speech to the Aiantes that the real battle over Sarpedon begins (562–6), with Zeus drawing on night in order to intensify the battle over his son (567–8). At 588 Hector yields ground: (d) 16.588, 593–4, 632 χώρησαν δ’ ὑπό τε πρόμαχοι καὶ φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ. The champions of Troy gave back then, and glorious Hektor.

588

90  Hayden Pelliccia Γλαῦκος δὲ πρῶτος Λυκίων ἀγὸς ἀσπιστάων ἐτράπετ’, ἔκτεινεν δὲ Βαθυκλῆα μεγάθυμον...

593

But Glaukos was first, lord of the shield-armoured Lykians, to turn again, and killed Bathykles the great-hearted... (Meriones kills Laogonos, is confronted by Aeneas and rebuked by Patroclus, 603–30) Ὣς εἰπὼν ὃ μὲν ἦρχ’, ὃ δ’ ἅμ’ ἕσπετο ἰσόθεος φώς.

632

He spoke, and led the way, and the other followed, a mortal like a god. Glaucus soon reverses the rout by turning and killing Bathycles (593–4), and this is followed by Meriones’ encounter with Aeneas, in which the two insult each other, leading Patroclus to rebuke the Cretan for talking too much. At the conclusion of this speech, Patroclus is said to lead him off somewhere unspecified (632), “no doubt leaving Aeneas gaping in astonishment.”11 It is at this slightly odd juncture (Patroclus leading Meriones somewhere, Aeneas left at loose ends) that the battle over Sarpedon’s corpse becomes most fierce, to the point that the corpse itself is rendered unrecognizable: (e) 16.638–40 οὐδ’ ἂν ἔτι φράδμων περ ἀνὴρ Σαρπηδόνα δῖον ἔγνω, ἐπεὶ βελέεσσι καὶ αἵματι καὶ κονίῃσιν ἐκ κεφαλῆς εἴλυτο διαμπερὲς ἐς πόδας ἄκρους.

640

No longer could a man, even a knowing one, have made out the godlike Sarpedon, since he was piled from head to ends of feet under a mass of weapons, the blood and the dust. Having decided to give Patroclus a little more time to live, Zeus now makes Hector lose his courage and flee (656–8), urging the Trojans to follow suit. At this the Lycians give up their defense of Sarpedon (559–60): (f) 16.656–62 Ἕκτορι δὲ πρωτίστῳ ἀνάλκιδα θυμὸν ἐνῆκεν· ἐς δίφρον δ’ ἀναβὰς φύγαδ’ ἔτραπε, κέκλετο δ’ ἄλλους Τρῶας φευγέμεναι· γνῶ γὰρ Διὸς ἱρὰ τάλαντα. ἔνθ’ οὐδ’ ἴφθιμοι Λύκιοι μένον, ἀλλὰ φόβηθεν πάντες, ἐπεὶ βασιλῆα ἴδον βεβλαμμένον ἦτορ κείμενον ἐν νεκύων ἀγύρει· πολέες γὰρ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ κάππεσον, εὖτ’ ἔριδα κρατερὴν ἐτάνυσσε Κρονίων. In Hektor first of all he put a temper that was without strength. He climbed to his chariot and turned to flight, and called to the other Trojans to run, for he saw the way of Zeus’ sacred balance. Nor did the

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  91 powerful Lykians stand now, but were all scattered to flight, when they had seen their king with a spear in his heart, lying under the pile of dead men, since many others had fallen above him, once Zeus had strained fast the powerful conflict. The defense of the corpse abandoned, Patroclus at last strips off the armor and sends it back to the ships (663–5). We note that his physical position vis-à-vis the corpse is here, as in his departure with Meriones at 632, notably under-described—in this resembling Zeus’ unsituated addresses to Hera (431–58) and Apollo (666–75):12 (g) 16.663–5 οἳ δ’ ἄρ’ ἀπ’ ὤμοιιν Σαρπηδόνος ἔντε’ ἕλοντο χάλκεα μαρμαίροντα, τὰ μὲν κοίλας ἐπὶ νῆας δῶκε φέρειν ἑτάροισι Μενοιτίου ἄλκιμος υἱός. But the Achaians took from Sarpedon’s shoulders the armour glaring and brazen, and this the warlike son of Menoitios gave to his companions to carry back to the hollow ships. Now Zeus addresses Apollo, and the removal of the corpse to Lycia ensues: (h) 16.666–83 καὶ τότ’ Ἀπόλλωνα προσέφη νεφεληγερέτα Ζεύς· “εἰ δ’ ἄγε νῦν φίλε Φοῖβε, κελαινεφὲς αἷμα κάθηρον ἐλθὼν ἐκ βελέων Σαρπηδόνα, καί μιν ἔπειτα πολλὸν ἄποπρο φέρων λοῦσον ποταμοῖο ῥοῇσι χρῖσόν τ’ ἀμβροσίῃ, περὶ δ’ ἄμβροτα εἵματα ἕσσον· πέμπε δέ μιν πομποῖσιν ἅμα κραιπνοῖσι φέρεσθαι ὕπνῳ καὶ θανάτῳ διδυμάοσιν, οἵ ῥά μιν ὦκα θήσουσ’ ἐν Λυκίης εὐρείης πίονι δήμῳ, ἔνθά ἑ ταρχύσουσι κασίγνητοί τε ἔται τε τύμβῳ τε στήλῃ τε· τὸ γὰρ γέρας ἐστὶ θανόντων.” Ὣς ἔφατ’, οὐδ’ ἄρα πατρὸς ἀνηκούστησεν Ἀπόλλων. βῆ δὲ κατ’ Ἰδαίων ὀρέων ἐς φύλοπιν αἰνήν, αὐτίκα δ’ ἐκ βελέων Σαρπηδόνα δῖον ἀείρας πολλὸν ἄποπρο φέρων λοῦσεν ποταμοῖο ῥοῇσι χρῖσέν τ’ ἀμβροσίῃ, περὶ δ’ ἄμβροτα εἵματα ἕσσε· πέμπε δέ μιν πομποῖσιν ἅμα κραιπνοῖσι φέρεσθαι, Ὕπνῳ καὶ Θανάτῳ διδυμάοσιν, οἵ ῥά μιν ὦκα κάτθεσαν ἐν Λυκίης εὐρείης πίονι δήμῳ. And now Zeus who gathers the clouds spoke a word to Apollo: “Go if you will, beloved Phoibos, and rescue Sarpedon from under the weapons, wash the dark suffusion of blood from him, then carry him far away

92  Hayden Pelliccia and wash him in a running river, anoint him in ambrosia, put ambrosial clothing upon him; then give him into the charge of swift messengers to carry him, of Sleep and Death, who are twin brothers, and these two shall lay him down presently within the rich countryside of broad Lykia where his brothers and countrymen shall give him due burial with tomb and gravestone. Such is the privilege of those who have perished.” He spoke so, and Apollo, not disregarding his father, went down along the mountains of Ida, into the grim fight, and lifting brilliant Sarpedon out from under the weapons carried him far away, and washed him in a running river, and anointed him in ambrosia, put ambrosial clothing upon him, then gave him into the charge of swift messengers to carry him, of Sleep and Death, who are twin brothers, and these two presently laid him down within the rich countryside of broad Lykia. Apollo takes the body to an unnamed river and hands it over to Thanatos and Hypnos to transport to Lycia (666–83): he is himself still needed on the scene at Troy. (Had Zeus assigned this task to the more obvious Hermes, this handing off of the corpse to the mortician sub-gods might have been streamlined out; what we get instead is an emphatic reminder of Apollo’s presence on the scene as Zeus’ instrument.) In relating this sequence to the earlier typology, our first question is why doesn’t the poet have Apollo use here the νεφέλη or ἀχλύς or ἀήρ used in all the other scenes in which a god makes a mortal body disappear? How, from the perspective of the soldier on the ground, with the ἀχλύς vel sim. not employed, is the removal of Sarpedon going to have appeared? Apollo’s default state for mortals is invisibility, but Sarpedon’s is not. Would the onlookers therefore have seen the corpse floating away, carried off by an invisible Apollo? It seems impossible not to connect this implicit problem with the immediately preceding passage (e) in which Homer uniquely tells us that “no longer could a man, even a knowing one,” have then recognized Sarpedon (638–40). The scholiastic theory of the passage requires that the Trojans believe the Greeks to have possession of Sarpedon’s corpse, and that is why in book 17 they have to fight so fiercely for possession of Patroclus’, i.e., in order to have it to trade for Sarpedon’s. But at that point the Greeks know they don’t have Sarpedon’s corpse, and that they therefore will not have it to trade for Patroclus’, should the Trojans gain possession of that. So why, we might wonder, didn’t Patroclus take possession of Sarpedon’s corpse when he stripped it of its armor? And the answer must be: because Sarpedon’s corpse will take on value to the Greeks only when it is perceived to be a bargaining chip for Patroclus’ own, and Patroclus does not foresee becoming one. Here, we may intuit, lies the explanation why Homer does not deploy the ἀχλύς vel sim. for this scene. In order for the fight over Patroclus’ corpse in book 17 to be most fierce, the corpse must not be thought by either the Trojan

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  93 or Greek side to have been the recipient of one of those miraculous interventions like Paris and Aeneas: if the soldiers on the ground get any such idea then they will not fight fiercely in the hope of recovering it.13 They must believe it to be there somewhere, just not within immediate view because of all the other corpses. The magical removals via ἀχλύς are too conspicuous: they take place when all eyes are on the person removed. That does not suit the needs of what Homer wants to have follow here, so instead of the ἀχλύς he makes Sarpedon unrecognizable (638–40), buried under other corpses (661–2),14 and has Apollo remove him κατὰ τὸ σιωπώμενον: we are not supposed to notice the problem of the corpse’s floating out on its own. But somebody, I suspect, did notice, and made an oblique comment on it. This was another artist with an interest in visualization, Euphronios. Two of his treatments of the scene survive. The first is very familiar; it is the famous Euphronios krater acquired through dubious channels by the Metropolitan Museum in the early 1970s (see Figure 6.1). Apparently stolen at the same time from the same Etruscan site was a fragmentary cup depicting the same scene (see Figure 6.2). We see that on the krater Euphronios replaces Apollo with the divinity more readily recognizable as the psychopompos, and that he gives Hypnos and Thanatos the task of removing the corpse from the battlefield, which Homer had given to Apollo. What is notable is that in both versions both Thanatos and Hypnos are dressed as infantrymen. Why? On the cup the figure to the right of Thanatos

Figure 6.1 (Sarpedon krater): Athenian, Red Figure calyx krater, Euphronios, potter and painter; Cerveteri (RM), Museo Nazionale Archeologico Cerite, inv. 145139; Beazley Archive # 187; through the kind permission of Polo Museale del Lazio.

94  Hayden Pelliccia

Figure 6.2 (Sarpedon cup): Athenian, Red Figure cup B, Euphronios, painter; Rome, Mus. Naz. Etrusco di Villa Giulia; Beazley Archive # 7043.

is virtually the god’s twin; he is labeled Akamas, a Trojan warrior who in the Iliad is killed by Meriones a couple of 100 lines before Sarpedon (16.342–4); he, also, is on his way to the underworld. Again, on the great krater (Figure 6.1) Hypnos and Thanatos are got up as infantrymen. This is not their normal representation.15 Pausanias (5.18.1) says that on the Chest of Cypselus they appeared as small children.16 From Euphronios’ time, i.e., late sixth/early fifth century, there are a handful of other vases that show similarly the two in armor (e.g., a cup in London (E 12) by the Nikosthenes Painter, “generally dated within half a decade of the New York krater”: Shapiro, Personifications, 134) is very similar to Euphronios’ version on the krater and has been assumed to have been modeled on it.17 But this fad soon dissipated, as we see, e.g., in a krater in Paris (G 163) by the Eucharides Painter, from the first quarter of the fifth century, where, through the damage, it can be seen that while Hypnos and Thanatos keep their wings, everything else is gone: they are naked, as they often are in subsequent depictions. This evidence has reasonably been taken to suggest that the idea of dressing the pair up as Homeric warriors may have originated with Euphronios.18 So why did Euphronios do it? The short version of my answer would be that he saw that in other Iliadic passages in which a god removes a mortal from the battlefield ἀχλύς (or the like) is used to conceal the act, and that in this passage the ἀχλύς is missing. As a visual artist himself he perceived that the scene posed a visualization problem to the poet, and so he made a visual comment on it: the conceit is that neither army noticed the removal of Sarpedon because the undertakers blended in with the crowd: they were just some other soldiers.

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  95 In fact, I think he elaborated this conceit over time—whatever the interval between the Sarpedon krater and the Sarpedon cup was, in whichever direction, since the two versions work the “comment” two different ways. In the cup, Euphronios draws on his interest in the Laocoon-like contortions that the human body is subjected to in combat, which falls in line with the other examples of the iconographical motif of the warrior carrying away a dead companion—above all, Ajax carrying Achilles—which has been amply studied by Woodford and Loudon, and Lissarrague.19 In representations of this theme it is clear that the possibilities for complex anatomical entanglements were taken as a challenge and stimulus by many of the painters. There recently came to light a new example of Euphronios’ own response to this challenge, a fragmentary calyx krater20 (see Figure 6.3). Ajax’s left hand is remarkably encumbered and seems to be confused with Achilles’ left hand and arm;21 given that both Ajax’ hands are occupied elsewhere, we are left to wonder what force is keeping Achilles’ corpse in place on his shoulder. It seems that on the Sarpedon cup Euphronios decided that, if he was going to render Sarpedon’s removal inconspicuous by disguising the two undertaker gods as mortal soldiers, he should go all the way with it and inflict on the gods the same kind of virtuoso contortions that he inflicts on Ajax on the Princeton fragment. Notice how awkward their equipment makes it

Figure 6.3 (Ajax krater): Athenian, Red Figure calyx krater fragment, attributed to Euphronios (Padgett 2001); Rome, Mus. Naz. Etrusco di Villa Giulia, Beazley Archive # 29570.

96  Hayden Pelliccia

Figure 6.4 Detail of Figure 6.2. By courtesy of Polo Museale del Lazio—Cerveteri (RM), Museum.

for them to carry the corpse (Figure 6.2): one arm each is sacrificed to holding a shield, with the result that Thanatos in particular (Figure 6.4) has to try to balance Sarpedon over his right shoulder.22 And a shield apparently wasn’t enough: the hand of the shield-holding arm, the left, is also required to clench, along with the shield rim strap, a spear. Our interpretation of these contortions must be affected by our knowledge that unlike Ajax on the Princeton fragment these two figures are gods and are wearing the soldier’s panoply by choice, as a disguise and in effect for play: the gods, for whom everything is easy, have other options, as illustrated by, e.g., a pair of early fifth-century depictions of Eos removing the corpse of her son Memnon.23 On the krater, on the other hand—where the dressing-up theme is made explicit in the arming scene on the other side—Thanatos and Hypnos do not have shields or spears, but instead have astonishing wings. If, however, the armor and helmets have been given to them as disguise, i.e., because by implication they are visible in the mortal world (as opposed to the undisguised Hermes), their wings would seem to give away their real identities. Thanatos and Hypnos, it would seem, are not very good at disguising themselves: they are like children who think if they cover their own eyes they are invisible to others, or like Aristophanes’ Philocleon trying to climb out the chimney in the Wasps and declaring καπνὸς ἔγωγ’ ἐξέρχομαι (144). We note that Thanatos’ cuirass is of scale armor; in this it matches what we can see of Ajax’s armor on the Princeton fragment (Figure 6.3). Scale armor for a cuirass is a reasonable part of Thanatos’ disguise as a regular soldier. But

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  97

Figure 6.5 Detail of Figure 6.1. By courtesy of Polo Museale del Lazio—Cerveteri (RM), Museum.

we notice that the god has stylishly extended the scale motif to his wings, too (Figure 6.5).24 If we consider the flaps on his cuirass we may find an explanation: Xenophon An. 4.7.15 tells us that these flaps were called πτέρυγες—so here too we may have an implicit witticism by Euphronios.

Addendum It might be objected that the removal of Sarpedon is not as exceptional as I have claimed, but an acceptable further variation within the system of divine removals constituted by the other examples: closest would be Poseidon’s intervention to save Aeneas in 20.318–42, where there is a possible failure of verisimilitude in Poseidon’s catapulting of both Aeneas and himself over the armies to land by the Kaukones (325–9). The verisimilitude-preserving device, i.e., the cloak of invisibility, has in this case been applied (321–2) to Achilles alone (as if complementing 1.198),

98  Hayden Pelliccia and not to the two catapulted figures, who should therefore in principle be visible to the astounded armies below. Since nothing indicates that their supernatural flight was observed, we have here, the argument would go, a precise parallel to Apollo’s removal of the corpse of Sarpedon in Book 16: the audience is expected to supply the necessary information that Poseidon somehow extended his own default invisibility to Aeneas—and if the audience can do that here, they can do it for Apollo and Sarpedon in Book 16 as well. The Sarpedon scene nonetheless distinguishes itself by (1) the complete absence from it of any explicit divine invisibility-device, complemented by (2) its unique efforts to render the human figure, Sarpedon’s corpse, invisible by non-supernatural means.

Notes

Seeing the unseen in the Iliad  99

5 6

7

8 9

10

11 12 13

Description (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1968), 36–39. Paris and Aeneas are the beneficiaries of three of the rescues, both figures, as Reinhardt, Ilias, 132 notes, “Schützlinge der Aphrodite.”—I have omitted from this survey the brief and inconsequential rescue of Idaeus by Hephaestus at 5.22–24, but NB νυκτὶ καλύψας (23). The parts of the text most relevant for the points of interest have been underlined. A remarkable series of errors: “The motif of a phantom substituted for a real person who is in a different place does not occur otherwise before the sixth century” (M. L. West, The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 160–1), refuted by Od. 4.795–839, where the εἴδωλον of Penelope’s sister, “in a different place,” appears to Penelope, conjured by Athena; “Aeneas’ phantom serves only to prevent anyone noticing his sudden disappearance, which is not treated as a problem in other divine rescue scenes in Il.” (West, Making of the Iliad, 161): Achilles is dumbfounded by the apparent (Poseidon-contrived) disappearance of Aeneas at 20.342–50, and guesses the truth; “what is more damning is that the phantom is forgotten in what follows. As Leaf notes, ‘it plays no further part in the action…’” (M. L. West, Studies in the Text and Transmission of the Iliad (München: Saur, 2001), 193): but 5.467–9 clearly imply the εἴδωλον is visible to Aeneas’ troops and available as a rallying point. Agenor’s appearances: kills Elephenor 4.463–9; part of Trojan marshaling 11.59; again, in list of commanders, 12.93; one of several companions addressed by Aeneas 13.490; removes Menelaus’ spear from Helenus’ hand and binds the wound, 13.596–600; one of six Trojans who protect Hector, 14.425; kills Klonios in half a line, 15.340; one of four Trojan leaders indignantly reproached by Glaucus, 16.534–7; inspired by Apollo to stand ground against Achilles, flees, is swept off by Apollo, etc., 21.544–98. His (apparent: the scholia give us no help here) son, Ekheklos, is killed by Achilles at 20.474–7. Hayden Pelliccia, Mind, Body, and Speech in Homer and Pindar (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1995), 218 n. 196. In the discussion after the talk David Elmer noted that in having Hector act as if Paris is angry Homer is making use of an established epic theme—the theme, in fact, of the Iliad itself: the hero’s angry withdrawal from battle. It is as if it were Meleager’s bedroom Hector has come to. As Elmer suggested, Homer may have seen in the familiar traditionality of this theme an aid to smoothing over the anomaly of Hector’s failure to comment on Paris’ miraculous removal from the duel. δοκοῦσι γὰρ τὸν Σαρπηδόνα ὑπὸ τῶν Ἀχαιῶν ἦρθαι καὶ κεῖσθαι ἐπὶ τῶν νεῶν, οὐκ εἰδότες ὅτι ὑπὸ Ἀπόλλωνος εἰς Λυκίαν ἀναρπασθεὶς ἀποκεκόμισται. ὁ δὲ Ὅμηρος, ἵν’ ἐπιφανῆ τὸν ἀγῶνα ποιήσῃ τὸν ἐπὶ τοῦ σώματος Πατρόκλου, ταῦτα ὑπέθετο· οἵ τε γὰρ Τρῶες ὡς ὑπὲρ Σαρπηδόνος κινδυνεύειν κρίνουσιν, οἵ τε Ἀχαιοὶ τὸν Σαρπηδόνα οὐκ ἔχοντες μάχονται ὑπὲρ τῆς αἰκίας τοῦ Πατρόκλου. See Meijering, Literary and Rhetorical, 125 and ch. III passim. Fenik, Typical Battle Scenes, 208: “No indication is given why Meriones does not take Patroclos’ words to heart and get on with his duel with Aeneas. It is simply not continued.” I suspect the sequence is part of a deliberate withdrawal from the poet’s usual “cinematographic” technique, serving to prepare for the unvisualizable removal of Sarpedon’s corpse. Cf. Janko, Iliad, on 16.666–83: “Note the poet’s sleight of hand: Sarpedon’s body must be visible so that it can be stripped, but it is mangled unrecognizably (638–40n.) and buried in corpses (661f.) so that its removal in the murk (567) is neither discreditable to the Greeks nor too obvious, since any reaction to this marvel

100  Hayden Pelliccia

14

15

16 17

18

19

20 21

22 23 24

would detract from the vital matter of Patroklos’ attack. Not even Glaukos knows that it was spirited away (17.150f.).” “Sleight of hand” is apt, but the aim is not to avoid detracting from Patroclus’ attack, but to make sure none of the principals knows that the corpse is no longer available to take possession of. Bracketed by West in his edition (1998–2000), again on weak arguments (it is extremely implausible that, 1, the Lycians conceived of Hector rather than Sarpedon as their βασιλεύς, and, 2, that βεβλαμμένον ἦτορ in 660 could refer metaphorically to Hector), M. L. West, Homeri Ilias. Volumen alterum: Rhapsodiae XIII–XXIV (Stuttgart–Leipzig–Munich: Saur, 2000). Hermes wears his customary traveler’s garb (petasus and chlamys over short chiton) and holds the caduceus in his left hand: he has no military accoutrements; Hypnos and Thanatos are, as noted, fully armed: why the difference, given that the latter pair are not engaging in combat? Hermes is covered by the general rule that gods are invisible; the undertaker-deities must physically mix with the visible mortal world and are for that reason available for Euphronios’ conceit that they need to be disguised: Euphronios mixes on one plane the two modalities Homer is usually scrupulous and conscientious in keeping separate. What is exceptional is not the iconography but the closeness with which Homer in this case parallels it, removing the seen onto the plane of the unseen, without any concealing ἀχλύς. Cf., e.g., Alan H. Shapiro, Personifications in Greek Art: The Representation of Abstract Concepts, 600–400 B.C. (Zürich: Akanthus, 1993), 132. See also the BF Attic lekythos in the Museo Archeologico, Agrigento, AG 9215 (BD 20583) dated to 500–450, showing, without clear identification, two winged and helmeted figures lifting a naked youth who has fallen. The identification is uncertain (plausibly Sarpedon, but perhaps also Memnon?) but the iconography certainly resembles that of the Euphronios krater (though no senior divinity presides). Discussion in Michael Turner, “Iconology vs. Iconography: The Influence of Dionysos & the Imagery of Sarpedon,” Hephaistos 21–22 (2004): 54–55. Shapiro, Personifications, 134: “That [Thanatos and Hypnos] are armed is . . . no doubt an innovation of Euphronios, for Homer’s audience surely did not visualize them this way. Nor, evidently, did most of Euphronios’ fellow vase-painters, though nearly all preferred the version with wings.” Cf. J. Bazant, LIMC, s. “Thanatos”: “. . . the iconographical type of Thanatos and Hypnos as winged hoplites was created between 520 and 510 BC, perhaps by Euphronios. At the beginning of the 5th century BC Thanatos and Hypnos lose their military appearance.” Susan Woodford and Margot Loudon, “Two Trojan Themes. The Iconography of Aiax Carrying the Body of Achilles and of Aeneas Carrying Anchises in Black Figure Vase Painting,” American Journal of Archaeology LXXXIV (1980): 25–40; Francois Lissarrague, L’autre Guerrier: Archers, Peltastes, Cavaliers Dans l’imagerie Attique (Paris: La Decouverte, 1990), ch. IV. See Michael J. Padgett, “Ajax and Achilles on a Calyx-Krater by Euphronios,” Record of the Art Museum, Princeton University 60 (2001): 3–17. When I at first could not identify Achilles’ left hand I wrote Padgett and he clarified: “Achilles’ left hand is the one partially obscured by the two spear shafts. Unpainted sketch lines that you cannot see in the photo—they are normally only revealed in raking light—complete the drawing of that hand as it extends to the right, just past the right spear shaft.” “Sleep and Death marching to the right with Sarpedon’s body on their shoulders like some log of wood”: T. Hoving, quoted in Suzan Mazur, “Hi Ho Silver!—The Lost Chalice,” Scoop—Suzan Mazur (blog), May 5, 2009. Douris, RF cup, Louvre G115; Diosphos P, BF amphora, New York 56.171.25. Embellishing wings with such motifs is not unusual (and Euphronios seems to have liked wings); it is the continuity of the motif with that of the armor that is exceptional here.

B. Epic – intertext

7

The melody of Homeric performance C. W. Marshall

What was the nature of the musical accompaniment provided by the epic bard (aoidos) while he sang?1 This chapter proposes that the mechanics of the bard’s musical technique can be partly recovered. Elements of the solution presented here have been articulated before, though without the interpretative frame of oral composition in performance. This question needs to be answered in a satisfactory manner if we are to understand Homeric compositional practice. My concern is to explain the musical technique of the aoidos, both as he is depicted as a literary entity within the Iliad and the Odyssey, and as an historical entity in the oral tradition that ultimately produced these poems in early Iron Age Greece. The identity between the oral poet and the depiction of the aoidos within the poems is well established.2 A bard performed his compositions by singing and accompanying himself on a four-stringed lyre.3 The Odyssey gives us models for this in Phemius (books 1 and 17) and Demodocus (book 8), though these pictures do not reflect the same length and scale of composition as produced the Homeric poems.4 Odysseus’ narrative to the Phaeacians (books 9–12) is in some ways closer, although within the narrative he speaks and does not sing his adventures; of course the bard delivering Odysseus’ words does sing, and this is not the only association between the aoidos and the hero.5 It will be clear already that I reject any denial of a distinction between aoidos and rhapsode (rhapsōidos).6 For now it is important only to distinguish between methods of performance, with the aoidos employing the traditional technique of oral composition in performance and the rhapsode reciting (but not singing7) a more-or-less fixed text he has memorized.8

7.1 Homeric music: a proposal Performance “lies at the heart of the whole concept of oral literature”:9 it is therefore not without purpose to ask what was the melody played by the aoidos. Is the “score” recoverable? I believe that it is, to a certain point. To begin I must first describe an accompanying melody that is simpler and less nuanced than that which the aoidos used, but which shares critical features with my proposal. Before the “New Music” of the late fifth century, song and accompaniment both followed the same melody.10 Because the extant

The melody of Homeric performance  103 musical fragments all date later than these innovations, none can be prescriptive for our understanding the music of the aoidos. In a long performance some degree of musical variety is necessary. While we can imagine the bard singing for eight or more hours per night11 on the same note (literal monotony), we ought not allocate to the bard such repetitiveness merely because a way to avoid it has not been sought. The response to poetry modelled in the Odyssey, even if it is “self-aggrandizing”12 as the poet presents an atypical response, nevertheless demonstrates a presumptive audience interaction with the bard: Odysseus is moved to tears when he hears Demodocus’ song, and though this is an extreme response, it is not aberrant.13 Music forms cognitive associations with the accompanying words for both poet and audience.14 The problem arises because of the nature of composition in performance. Regardless of the exact nature of bardic performance in the Early Iron Age, in no way was his poem memorized in extenso (as it could be by rhapsodes): the aoidos spontaneously produced his song for his audience and could, presumably, expand and contract certain passages according to time, audience response, or whim. It is therefore improvised,15 but that does not mean it was informal or unprepared, and multiple performances could produce largely similar (though not verbatim) versions of a poem. It is my claim that improvised poetry requires improvised music. There are four possibilities for the notes of a melody that are not memorized. Neither (i) monotony (with which we may include the bard having the same melody for every line) nor (ii) randomness (the bard singing and playing any note and putting absolutely no thought into the selection process) is plausible for a creative, dynamic singer. Random strumming is an alien concept in Archaic music. These possibilities discount any genuine contribution made by music to the process of traditional composition in performance and deny the potential cognitive benefits music provides to the bard.16 They nevertheless seem to represent the mainstream view of Homeric singing: “It is almost certain that his chant remained unchanged from line to line, in spite of the high rhetoric of speeches or the speed and vigour of an aristeia.”17 In spite of this, Hainsworth implicitly acknowledges that this is an unsatisfactory account of Homeric music: Even if…the singer had several chants in his repertoire, it is hard to imagine how the powerful clashes of sense and rhythm at e.g. [Iliad] 9.336–43 could have been effectively rendered. Such passages seem, to our ear, to call for a histrionic talent like that of the rhapsode in Plato’s Ion liberated from the levelling effect of singing.18 Nor is the perception of inadequacy in this music answered by West, who asks, Does the stereotyped hexameter metre betoken a stereotyped melodic line, repeated over and over again? This is more or less what happens

104  C. W. Marshall in the epic singing of many countries, from Mongolia to Iceland. …although the melodies are often characterized as “repetitive” and “monotonous”, they are capable of accommodating many minor variations.19 While by Hellenistic times the same melody could be used for the musical accompaniment of several hexameter lines, this is associated with a seven-stringed instrument.20 Such performances did not have the same duration as that of an aoidos and were possible only in a literate environment. A third possibility (iii) would have the bard consciously select a melody that is appropriate for the context while spontaneously composing an epic, for hours at a time. Narrative sophistication would seem to require some degree of musical sophistication, and to deny it that sophistication relegates Homeric poetry to an assumed simpler musical world without cause. The problem is that musical sophistication is not automatic, as is shown by the skill and concentration demonstrated in the improvisational technique of jazz musicians.21 Sophisticated musical accompaniment potentially doubles (or more) the already challenging work of the orally composing bard.22 If a plausible technique can be found to bind music to words and still to provide sufficient musical variety, then we preserve the task of the aoidos as it has come to be understood, while still answering the largely unaddressed problem of Homeric melody. This is the fourth possibility, (iv) that the melody is somehow encoded into the language of the bard, so that variety is achieved without distracting the poet from the creative, sophisticated task of narrative composition. (A fifth possibility would involve some combination of these.) As the bard produces any given line, the notes to be sung must somehow be embedded in the language. By phrasing the problem in this way, I am anticipated by Treitler, who sought to discover the origins and transmission of Gregorian plainchant. He established two criteria for an approach: First, it must recognize that the way the music has turned out is a consequence of the special constraints of an oral tradition, hence that learning to understand the music and learning to understand how it was transmitted is a single task. Second, it must be realistic from the point of view of the human cognitive processes that are invoked.23 If melody is encoded into the words, then it should be possible to retrieve the melody (in some form) from our written texts.24 So how might it be coded? One possibility is to map the melody onto the metre, obscuring the pitch accent, as was suggested by Bowra.25 Much more likely, I propose, is that the melody reflected the (spoken) pitch accent, with “the rise and fall of the voice being governed by the melodic accent of the words.”26 We know that Alexandrian scholarship worked specifically to preserve Homeric accentuation,27 and this hypothesis helps explain both the persistence and the relevance of this information:

The melody of Homeric performance  105 Since the ancient Greek accent was important both lexically and syntactically one would expect ancient Greek poet-composers to have fitted their words and music together so that accentuated syllables coincided with rises in the melody and unaccented syllables with falls…28 The author continues, however, noting that “no such connection [between accent and melody] is generally thought to exist.”29 Archaic and classical accentuation operated on a principle of three basic pitches: a base pitch for unaccented or bareia (grave) accents, a higher pitch for oxeia (acute) accents, and a sliding down from a high pitch for the perispōmenē (circumflex) accents on some long syllables.30 Whatever the precise intervals, three pitches adequately describe most interpretations of the accentual system. Natural speech of course would not be limited to three tones: accents would rise or fall according to the natural cadences of the word, phrase, or sentence. It is only because the Homeric poems were sung that we may be authorized to restrict the pitches in this way.31 Since the Greek language possesses three tones with a (sung) pitch accent, and since the vocal melody was matched by the instrumental melody, it is safe to tie each pitch with a single string on the phorminx of the aoidos. Stated baldly, this may seem too simplistic: as we will see, refinements to these principles by West and Danek and Hagel gain sophistication but lose much more in the process. I nevertheless want to emphasize the implications of the proposal as it stands for composition in performance. First, the aoidos has the melody automatically as a byproduct of the oral composition of the epics. He does not divide his attention between words and melody since the two are inseparable, reducing the overall cognitive burdens on the poet. Second, as Winn rightly notes, “virtually every Homeric line has a unique melody.”32 Far from being a monotonous, three-note chant,33 each hexameter possesses a musically distinct character that is generated automatically. A third consequence is that the Homeric hexameter requires no musical score separate from the poetry itself. There is in fact no more efficient means of notation than the word accents themselves, though of course it is possible to devise a staff on which to place notes.34 As previously stated, this is less nuanced than what I believe the aoidos actually sang: in practice, equipped with a unique melody provided to him by the words of his composition, the aoidos has the liberty to depart from the automatic melody to greater or lesser extents, producing artistic flourishes as desired. The aoidos may introduce “sufficient flexibility of tempo and pitch to clearly convey meaning and expression without distortion of rhythm”:35 the voice might not always mirror the automatic melody, creating moments of dissonance for further aesthetic effects; similarly, the tempo of each line could be hurried or slowed to match the poem’s mood. At the beginning of a performance, there was a musical introduction called anabolê that was probably unscripted.36 Following each hexameter the poet could pause for breath and this would be accompanied by musical flourishes

106  C. W. Marshall (to phlattothrat to phlattothrat).37 Such pauses are implied for Demodocus in Odyssey 8.69–70: πὰρ δ᾽ ἐτίθει κάνεον καλήν τε τράπεζαν, πὰρ δὲ δὲπασ οἴνοιο, πιεῖν ὅτε θυμὸσ ἀνώγοι (“and beside him he [the herald] placed a fine table, with a basket of bread and a cup of wine, for him to drink at will,” tr. Hammond). It is also possible that there were additional musical principles that could override the intrinsic melody of the words. This is suggested, e.g. by West who notes that in some Yugoslav music, “There is almost always a fall on the final syllable [of a line], most commonly of a fifth.”38 And there are many other possible ornamentations.39 What is important, though, is that almost nothing is required of the bard at a cognitive level beyond the already established practice of composition in performance to produce a spontaneous and unique melody for each line of verse. Any satisfactory account of Homeric music, I suggest, must match these practical and aesthetic criteria.40 While the option to embellish exists, elaboration is in no way required to provide each line with a unique and distinctive melody. Music becomes one additional component of the traditional poetic language of the bard.

7.2 Tuning The tuning of the phorminx is not recoverable, and it would be rash to assume that there was only a single tuning (accordatura) for the instrument. Many modern African lyres, like the Ethiopian krar, possess several possible tunings, each with its own polyvalent musical identity. Musical diversity across the Aegean would extend to tuning patterns, as itinerant aoidoi adopted new songs (and new ways of singing old ones) as they travelled. By the time of Plato, ethnic labels for different musical styles (e.g. Dorian, Lydian) were being used to indicate something as precise as what might be called a “modal scale” (which on a stringed instrument corresponds to a tuning-pattern). These labels may stem from the pan-Hellenic musical contact through competitions in the sixth and fifth centuries, again suggesting regional norms and variation. However, in an oral tradition even a single accordatura can be invested with its own poetic and cultural significance, independent of the poetry it is used to convey.41 Musical intervals can meaningfully be described in terms of ratios, and ethnomusicologists since the Pythagoreans have noted that with the three concords, “the fundamental musical relations of octave, fifth, and fourth, the ratios of lengths formed the simple, orderly series 2:1, 3:2, 4:3.”42 The 4:3 ratio (a perfect fourth) is the basic unit in Greek tuning, and this could be the interval between the top and bottom strings: different ancient theorists would assign different values to the intermediate intervals.43 On a diatonic

The melody of Homeric performance  107 scale, this tetrachord could be represented as A – F – G – E or E – D – C – B (though reference to a familiar scale, as on a piano, is merely a convention: it is not possible to identify a particular pitch for tuning). A wider range has also been suggested, with a fourth separating three strings (with a ratio of 4:3) with a tone (9:8) added to the bottom, yielding a perfect fifth (3:2).44 Given the nature of generating the melody proposed here, what notes are struck does not matter from the point of view of composition. Different bards can use different tunings, and the cognitive load and nature of melodic production remains unchanged.45 If the outer interval was a fifth (which perhaps can be seen as an informed conjecture, as a non-culturally conditioned concord, which can confidently be assigned the ratio 3:2) and if one of the internal intervals was a fourth (likewise, with the ratio 4:3), then the remaining intervals are still not determined, but are likely to emerge from some straightforward and basic ratio, which would make preserving the tuning of the instrument a straightforward process.

7.3 The fourth string We still lack a satisfactory explanation of what this fourth string contributes to the oral composition, given that it is not necessary for representing word accent. A number of possibilities present themselves. It may be, as was noted in passing, that the system of Greek accents when sung did indeed require four pitches, with an additional pitch used, say, for the circumflex. It may be that the string was played only in line-end flourishes: some early ceramic evidence depicts musicians, holding their plectrum, at what looks like the end of a sweep of all the strings (as the aoidos performs a line-end flourish, perhaps). Possibly the string was used as a drone, like the fifth string on a banjo. Alongside these possibilities, the fourth string may have provided additional tunings among which the aoidos could modulate during performance. There are four combinations of three strings available for this purpose on a four-string phorminx, and not all need to be used. Though it only as a guess, I would suggest that one of these different registers could be used efficiently to distinguish narrative from speech.46 The effect would essentially be that of a key-change for direct speeches, and this would introduce meaningful musical variation while requiring no additional cognitive decisions from the orally composing bard.47 While we may admit a fourth string to a three-pitch accentual system, more than one “extra” string eliminates the direct association between word and (potential) melody. This has implications for dating the Homeric compositions, since Mycenaean lyres had seven strings, and Terpander, traditionally dated to the early seventh century, was credited with the (re-)introduction of the seven-stringed instrument.48 It is only between these times, in the Early Iron Age, that the phorminx seems to have had four strings and therefore there existed an instrument that would allow a melody to accompany oral composition in performance of the type I have described.49 Many scholars

108  C. W. Marshall accept an eighth-century date for the creation of the Homeric poems,50 and this dovetails with the legend of Terpander and the archaeological evidence for the phorminx. Nevertheless, attempts to down-date the time when the poems were first preserved as a written text – either with West arguing for a mid-seventh-century date,51 or with Nagy arguing for an ongoing process of “crystallization” down to the time of Aristarchus52 – still require an explanation for the musical innovations introduced in the early seventh century. It is more natural to connect the addition of three strings (and the concomitant expansion of the scale to seven notes) with (1) the end of the time where melody is tied inextricably with words spontaneously composed, and (2) the beginning of a time where the text is fixed in writing and a notion of an independent melody can exist, in which additional, non-essential notes may be introduced without making additional demands on the singer. This constitutes another essential difference between the aoidos and the rhapsode. Nor is a dictation hypothesis of textualization affected by this theory of musical performance:53 because the melody is a component of the hexameter line, the bard is not being asked to change the poem’s melodic contours in slowing his recitation for a copyist.

7.4 Alternatives West, followed by Danek and Hagel, argues for a melody based on the pitch accent, but one that is suppler than my proposed pitch-accent correspondence. West produces a reconstruction that follows the rises and falls of a given accent, but allows for other, non-intrinsic variation: “In some verses the vocal line is based on a single repeated note with ornamental shakes, in others there is a descending pattern.”54 Similarly, Danek and Hagel propose a melody following a “‘typical’ melodic contour” of the hexameter in which “Individual accents produce smaller deviations from the overall melody.”55 This does indeed seem to describe adequately the practice in extant musical fragments,56 but again it presumes a literate understanding of music, which I suggest is anachronistic. Both of these approaches still require some degree of active decision-making about melody during the composition/ performance.57 These approaches therefore lose the principal performative and compositional benefit provided by tying the melody to the pitch accent directly.58 By my account, any aoidos producing a given line will always generate the same melody automatically, assuming a consistent tuning, since the melody is tied to the pitch accent of the words. In addition to the consequences for production, however, there are implications for reception – how the audience hears hexameter poetry. For, as we have just seen, verbal echoes are now heard additionally as melodic echoes. Every formula will have a distinct melodic pattern. This has an effect on the poet, since each of his oral building-blocks possesses a musical character that can now be described and understood as something the aoidos experiences as a verbal, melodic,

The melody of Homeric performance  109 59

and tactile reality. Further, the apparent problem of metrically equivalent formulae diminishes significantly when it is recognized that metrical identity does not confer musical identity.60 For the audience, the effect is also crucial since the repeated melody redoubles the verbal echo of a particular phrase or line when it is repeated: “the skein of repeated lines causes nearly any part of the narrative to resonate, at least faintly, with many other parts simultaneously.”61

7.5 Homer Finally, this proposal for the melody of Homeric performance has implications for our understanding of the aoidos within the Iliad and Odyssey. Often, the bard’s song is accompanied by dancers: Odyssey 1.152 links μολπή τ’ ὀρχηστύς τε (“song and dancing,” tr. Hammond). When Telemachus visits Sparta, he is entertained by Menelaus (Od. 4.17–19): μετὰ δέ σφιν ἐμέλπετο θεῖος ἀοιδὸς φορμίξων· δοιὼ δὲ κυβιστητῆρε κατ’ αὐτοὺς μολπῆς ἐξάρχουντες ἐδίνευον κατὰ μέσσους. (“in their midst a divine bard was singing to the lyre, and among them two acrobats led their dancing, whirling and tumbling at the centre,” tr. Hammond). The acrobats are the centre of attention, and the singing bard provides accompaniment. On Ithaca, Phemius is handed his lyre and sings (1.150–5), but Telemachus and Athena chat during the performance. Once Athena departs, the song of the aoidos about the nostoi of Greek heroes commands rapt attention (1.325–7). We are not initially shown a dance on Ithaca, but it is clear that we are meant to associate the aoidos as being the accompanist when dance occurs. It is not until Odyssey 23 that we are shown a dance on Ithaca, and this is part of an Odyssean deception. Nevertheless, the aoidos is instructed to accompany the simulated wedding dance (23.133–6, 143–7). Similarly, a boy playing the lyre accompanies a dance on the shield of Achilles (Il. 18.567–72).62 This association between dance and bardic song informs our understanding of a controversial passage late in the description of the shield of Achilles, where we again see acrobats and dancing (Il. 18.590–4, 599–606). Athenaeus claims (181C-D) that Aristarchus excised a line from this passage (18.604/5) that had been borrowed from the acrobatic Odyssey passage (4.17/18), in order to provide musical accompaniment for the figures on the shield. This is why the line is not found in any manuscripts.63 However, even without the line, it is clear that the audience would assume what Athenaeus assumed, that this dance implied accompaniment by an aoidos.64 Why, in these circumstances, does the bard sing? Even conceding that Early Iron Age musicians needed to be versatile and might play for any of a variety of contexts of which epic narration was only one, many passages

110  C. W. Marshall indicate that the accompanying musician sings: even Demodocus in the court of the Phaeacians provides musical accompaniment for a dance contest (8. 250–69) and for something resembling modern rhythm gymnastics (8.367–80). This is made more problematic by the presence of the thematically significant song of the adultery of Ares and Aphrodite between these two moments. Is the audience meant to understand that this song is the song accompanying the dance contest? Much hangs on autar in 8.266, but this would seem to be the case.65 I cannot resolve all the issues raised by these passages, but a new perspective is gained when these passages are read in the light of the system of melody generation I have described. If the aoidos derives the melody played on the phorminx from the lines of poetry generated spontaneously through performance, it follows that there can be no melody without these words. It does not make sense for a bard to play a melody without words, because the melody itself, ontologically, exists only in concert with recited verse. It is only by creating epic poetry that the aoidos has the ability to play a melody.

7.6 Conclusion The benefits to an orally composing bard of a melody that emerges automatically from the basic tool-kit of poetic formulae are significant. Tying the melody to the Greek pitch accent strictly provides the bard with the ability to generate a genuinely new melody for each epic line without meaningfully increasing cognitive demands of composition in performance. This proposal offers a number of specific benefits for understanding the musical dimension of the performance of the aoidos that distinguish it from existing alternatives: 1 2 3 4 5

6

Verbal echoes as formulae and lines repeat over the length of the poems are additionally experienced by the audience as musical echoes, facilitating recall and making connections across the narrative. The availability of the fourth string allows the bard to create multiple musical registers, which could be used, e.g. to distinguish narrative from speech. The tactile experience for the bard provides sensory input facilitating narrative repetition from one performance to the next. Apparently redundant formulae may now be seen as musically distinct. The proposal explains the representation of aoidoi within the Homeric poems, and particularly why bards are presented as singing when they play, even when the focus of the entertainment is with dancers or other performers. Finally, the proposal authorizes a suggestion concerning the tuning of the four-string lyre: though specifics cannot be recovered and would vary from one aoidos to another, the tuning of strings should be able to be derived from fundamental ratios, such as a perfect fourth.

The melody of Homeric performance  111 An automatically generated melody tied to the Greek pitch accent allows the orally composing bard the opportunity for music to be an integral part of the performance of epic. The proposal emerges specifically from the circumstances of pre-literate Iron Age Greece, when visual evidence shows lyres with three or four strings, without the need for a separate (written) musical score. Later, as instruments change, the concept of writing and fixed texts become widespread, and professional competitions emerge within the Pan-Hellenic environment, new techniques emerge that provide a richer musical culture, with new opportunities. The description here, however, does fit the world presented in the Homeric poems, and adds an important piece in understanding the musical texture of the earliest hexameter song. Even with the bare outline offered here, any musician with a three- or four-string instrument can produce a musically complex score that emerges directly from the Homeric verse.

Notes

112  C. W. Marshall

The melody of Homeric performance  113

15

16

17 18 19 20 21 22

Studies in Education, Toronto, March 25, 26, 27, 28, 1974 (Toronto: Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, 1976), 81, emphasizes the implicit association between modern music and literacy: “Modern polyphonic music as we have been accustomed to know it from the sixteenth century onward can be viewed as an ‘invention’ which depended upon the perfection of an adequate visual notation.” Richard Janko, “The Homeric Poems as Oral Dictated Texts,” CQ 48 (1998), 4. See also Albert B. Lord, Epic Singers and Oral Tradition (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), 76–77, and Richard Janko, “The Iliad and Its Editors: Dictation and Redaction,” CA 9 (1990): 327, when critics take improvisation “to mean that the poems are made up from nothing. Of course, they are not, … and each performance is in a sense the rehearsal for the next one.” For a detailed application of modern cognitive science to the production of the Homeric poems, see Elizabeth Minchin, Homer and the Resources of Memory: Some Applications of Cognitive Theory to the Iliad and the Odyssey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). John Bryan Hainsworth, The Iliad: A Commentary, Volume III: Books 9–12 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 35. Hainsworth, Iliad: A Commentary, 36. West, Ancient Greek Music, 208. M. L. West, “The Singing of Hexameters: Evidence from Epidaurus,” ZPE 63 (1986): 43–44. Janko, “Homeric Poems,” 4, and James V. Morrison, Homeric Misdirection: False Predictions in the Iliad (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992), 114–15. Cf. Leo Treitler, “Homer and Gregory: The Transmission of Epic Poetry and Plainchant,” Musical Quarterly 40 (1974): 334: In the absence of scores the medium of transmission was performance. This is not something we need to demonstrate; but we do need to think about it. Is performance without scores tantamount to performance from memory? As our scholarly habits have been conditioned by the study of texts, our recourse in their absence has been the concept of memory as a medium of storage comparable to a score: things are committed to memory whole, and there they lie fixed and lifeless until they are retrieved whole. … Modern psychology tells us that this is an unrealistic view of the process of remembering.

23 Treitler, “Homer and Gregory,” 334. As Treitler, “Homer and Gregory,” 334 writes, “The objective is to frame ques24 tions that must be put to the written transmission in order that it may give testimony about the oral transmission that lies behind it.” 25 Maurice Bowra, “Metre,” in A Companion to Homer, eds. Alan John Bayard Wace and Frank H. Stubbings (London: Macmillan, 1962), 23, recognizes both the benefits and the limits of this approach: “It is most unlikely that this implies any real tune or indeed anything more than some primitive chant.” Nevertheless, there are benefits for composition: The bard who chanted a verse would be able to make his words conform more closely to the requirements of metre than if he had merely spoken them with the usual attention that speech gives to the quantity of a syllable. (25) West, “Singing of Homer,” 115, where he also writes, “No one singing Greek 26 ignored or negated the natural quantities of the words.” So Franklin: “clearly epic did involve the artistic manipulation of pitch” (“Music,” 532). This is therefore significantly different from the evidence for later musical settings for the

114  C. W. Marshall hexameter (West, “Singing of Homer,” 42, and see Gregory Nagy, “Reading Greek Poetry Aloud: Evidence from the Bacchylides Papyri,” QUCC 64.1 (2000), 20 and n. 36). 27 West, “Singing of Homer,” 114: The Alexandrian scholars and the grammatical tradition that derived from them … record a number of particular accentuations that cannot have been established either from the living Greek language or from theory and analogy, but must have been preserved by a continuous tradition of oral performance from early times.

28 29 30

31 32 33 34 35

36 37

38

For a different view, see Nagy, “Reading Greek Poetry,” 14–21, building on Bernhard Laum, Das alexandrinische Akzentuationssystem: unter Zugrundelegung der Theorischen Lehren der Grammatiker und mit Heranziehung der praktischen Verwendung in den Papyri (Paderborn: F. Schöningh, 1928). Erik Wahlström, Accentual Responsion in Greek Strophic Poetry (Helsinki: Finnish Academy of Sciences, 1970), 5. Wahlström, Accentual Responsion, 8. Gainsford, Early Greek Hexameter, 80; William B. Stanford, The Sound of Greek: Studies in the Greek Theory and Practice of Euphony (Berkeley and Cambridge: University of California Press, 1967), 157–60, proposed an acute rising to approximately a fifth above the salient tone, and a circumflex gliding up to a third before descending (though this proposal may be biased towards modern, Western musical aesthetics); more uncertainty exists for the bareia, but three pitches are implied with the acute and circumflex. See also Wahlström, Accentual Responsion, 6, and Hugo Von Erlich, Untersuchungen über die Natur der griechischen Betonung (Berlin: Weidmann, 1912), 252. We may also see three pitches implied in Pl. Phlb. 17c–d. Laum, alexandrinische Akzentuationssystem, 492, has two, with grave being pronounced like an acute (against which see William Sidney Allen, Accent and Rhythm: Prosodic Features of Latin and Greek: A Study in Theory and Reconstruction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), 244–8). Stanford, Sound of Greek, 157. James A. Winn, Unsuspected Eloquence: A History of the Relations between Poetry and Music (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1981), 6. Stanford, Sound of Greek, 159. For example, Stanford, Sound of Greek, 158, and Winn, Unsuspected Eloquence, 6. The use of half-notes and quarter notes for long and short syllables is of course another approximation (West, “Singing of Homer,” 124). Stephen G. Daitz, “On Reading Homer Aloud: To Pause or not to Pause,” AJP 112.2 (1991): 159. See also Andrew M. Devine and Laurence D. Stephens, The Prosody of Greek Speech (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 46: “there remains an enormous amount of variability in the actual duration of what, at a more abstract level, would be considered the same phonological unit.” West, “Singing of Homer,” 122. Terpander composed citharodic preludes in hexameter verse (ps.-Plutarch, De Musica 1132d; Herington, Poetry into Drama, 19), which may be seen as an innovation on the earlier, improvised style. Aristophanes, Frogs 1285–97, and see Gainsford, Early Greek Hexameter, 79–80, West, “Singing of Homer,” 122, West, “Singing of Hexameters,” 44, West, Ancient Greek Music, 208, and Daitz, “Reading Homer Aloud,” 151: “Evidence that a pause was originally made at the end of each hexameter is quite strong.” Daitz argues that Cic. De or. 1.61.261, “implies a pause for breath at the end of each recited verse” (152). Frogs 1281–97 is adduced by West, “Singing of Homer,” 122, and West, Ancient Greek Music, 67. West, “Singing of Homer,” 123.

The melody of Homeric performance  115

















116  C. W. Marshall

50

51

52 53 54 55

56 57 58

59

60

61 62 63

While occasional variants might be attributed to such reasons, it seems imprudent to assume an ongoing lack of concern for accurate representation across all periods in antiquity. The chronology presented here seems to me preferable. Janko, “Iliad and its Editors,” 329–30, provides a summary of the view for the eighth-century origin and a single author. Kurt Raaflaub, “Homeric Society,” in A New Companion to Homer, eds. Ian Morris and Barry Powell (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 624–48, and Walter Donlan, “The Homeric Economy,” in A New Companion to Homer, eds. Ian Morris and Barry Powell (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 649–67 give additional reasons to accept an eighth-century date. M. L. West, “The Date of the Iliad,” MH 52 (1995): 203–6, lists five reasons for the eighth-century date of the Iliad, of which only the third addresses language, citing Richard Janko, Homer, Hesiod, and the Hymns: Diachronic Development in Epic Diction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 204 n. 7. He says none is adequate for an eighth-century date of Iliad, “nor do I know of any other argument that might” (206). This is, I believe, disingenuous, as it takes no account of the oral-formulaic process of composition. This process is described inter alia in Gregory Nagy, Poetry as Performance: Homer and Beyond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). Parry, Making of Homeric Verse, 269 and 451, show that Parry considered the dictation hypothesis. See also Nagy, “inventory of debatable.” West, “Singing of Homer,” 123, and compare 121–2. While he is here describing Serbocroation song, he applies this principle to his reconstruction on the same page. Citations come from Georg Danek and Stefan Hagel, “Homeric Singing – An Approach to the Original Performance.” See also Georg Danek, “‘Singing Homer’: Überlegungen zu Sprechintonation und Epengesang,” Wiener Humanistische Blätter 31 (1989): 1–15. This is also noted in West 1992, Ancient Greek Music, 198–9. Penelope Murray, “Poetic Inspiration in Early Greece,” JHS 101 (1981), 95: “it is at the moment of performance that that the poem is fully composed for the first time.” Franklin observes, “Statistical analysis of Homer’s accent distribution shows a purposeful concentration in key metrical positions” (“Music,” 532, drawing on Stefan Hagel, “Zu den Konstituenten des griechischen Hexameters,” WS 107–8 (1994–5): 77–108. It follows that some melodic combinations will be more familiar than others). We may speculate whether an aoidos could dictate a poem without playing the melody simultaneously. I would suggest that he could not, in that studies of cognition and memory show that music correlates with verbal information. Memory is further reinforced by the muscle-memory from playing the lyre. Thus, the metrically identical βοῶπις πότνια Ἥρη and θεὰ λευκώλενος Ἥρη have a different melody. For discussion of such formulae, see Parry, Making of Homeric, 173–90, John Bryan Hainsworth, The Flexibility of the Homeric Formula (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), 5–8, and Robert Schmiel, “Metrically Interchangeable Formulae and Phrase-Clusters in Homer,” LCM 9 (1984): 34–38. William Whallon, “How Many Repeated Lines Would There Be in Homer Sevenfold?” Mnemosyne 54 (2001): 337. See also Hymn Hom. Ap. 514–16, Hes. fr. 192, in Diog. Laert. 8.1.25, and Herington, Poetry into Drama, 16–17. Michael J. Apthorp, The Manuscript Evidence for Interpolation in Homer (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1980), 160–5, esp. “The external evidence against 604/5

The melody of Homeric performance  117 is thus overwhelmingly strong” (161). Barker believes “The excision may be a mistake” (Greek Musical Writings, 24 n. 16). 64 Keith Stanley, The Shield of Homer: Narrative Structure in the Iliad (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), 311 n. 39: “It would be uncharacteristic of Greek dancing at any period to go unaccompanied…cf. the dancers who mime Demodokos’ song of Ares and Aphrodite at Od. 8.262ff.”; and see Mark W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume V: Books 17–20 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 231. 65 In light of this discussion, it seems hard to agree with Charles Segal, “Bard and Audience in Homer,” in Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes, eds. Robert Lamberton and John J. Keaney (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 7: Despite the importance of music and singing, there is good reason to think that when an ἀοιδός sings people are expected to listen to what he says and not just enjoy a catchy tune. Thus, when Demodocus performs among the Phaeacians, he plays to accompany choral dancing only once, whereas in his three other appearances his words are obviously the primary focus of interest. Barker, “Music,” 1005, agrees that Demodocus is accompanying the dance.

8

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon? The Trojan War and royal succession in the Aegean Bronze Age* Richard Janko

Surprising as it may seem, the Hittite archives suggest that, exactly as later Greek legend claimed, the Trojan War was fought over a woman, namely the wife of the Trojan, or in reality Greek, prince Alexandros, also known to Homer as Paris and to the Hittites as Alakšandu of Wilusa, and that the war was caused by a dispute over the royal succession, because the Hittites and the Mycenaean Greeks had different systems of succession to the royal throne. My argument will build on an important paper by our honorand, to whose inspiration I wish to pay this richly deserved tribute. We must first briefly remind ourselves of the triangle of relations between Troy, the land of Aḫḫiyawa and the Hittites, relying on the Hittite archives, which are now much better dated and translated than they used to be. Whether Troy or Ilion is present in these archives was disputed for many decades, ever since 1924, when Emil Forrer first proposed what then seemed rather doubtful equations1; indeed the link between Alakšandu and Alexandros was first suggested in 1911 by Luckenbill.2 However, so long as controversy raged between the true believers and the hyper-skeptics, the map of Hittite Anatolia had no fixed points: although the relative placings of the toponyms could be agreed upon, the orientation of the map could not, with the result that, for instance, the land of Aḫḫiyawa, Mycenaean Achaiwia, could be argued to be across the Hellespont in Thrace rather than across the Aegean in Greece.3 In 1998 David Hawkins published his decipherment of the famous inscription on Mount Karabel, ancient Sipylus, that Herodotus had ascribed to the Egyptian Pharaoh Sesostris.4 It turned out to be a boundary inscription in Luwian hieroglyphics marking the boundary of the realm of Tarkasnawa, King of Mira, a contemporary of the Hittite king Tudḫaliya IV, and dating from around 1230 BCe. The placing of the Kingdom of Mira fixed the orientation of the map of Hittite Anatolia and allowed Hawkins to confirm the *

I am most grateful to my colleague Prof. Gary Beckman for very kindly giving me and graciously permitting me to include extracts from the original text of the Alakšandu-treaty in the version from which he published his translation of it, and for saving me from various errors. Responsibility for those that remain is mine.

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon?  119 old identifications of Taruisa and Wilusa with the Homeric names “Troy” and “(W)ilios.” He also confirmed that Lazpa is Lesbos, Apasa is Ephesus, Millawanda is Miletus, and Aḫḫiyawa is somewhere across the Aegean Sea, there being no room for this powerful state on the Anatolian mainland.5 The earlier history of Troy can be partly recovered from statements in later documents where Hittite kings rehearse their past dealings with Wilusa. From §2 (B i 2–14) of a treaty between the Hittites and Alakšandu, king of Wilusa,6 we know that, in about 1400 BCe, the Hittite King Tudḫaliya I/II conquered the lands of Arzawa and Aššuwa (Mycenaean /Aswia/), kingdoms in the region of Western Anatolia that later became Ionia: the allies of Assuwa included Ta-ru-i-sa (Troy) and U-i-lu-si-ya = Wilusiya/Wilusa (Ilion).7 We also know of the king’s conquest of “Tarwiza” from a silver bowl of unknown provenance inscribed in hieroglyphic Hittite.8 The treaty with Alakšandu (§3, B i 15–20) also tells us that, after the conquest of Taruisa and Wilusa, these lands defected from the Hittites, which was not surprising as they were so far away, but claims that they continued to maintain friendly relations with them by sending messengers. Even when the land of Arzawa again fought the Hittites, who were then led by King Suppiluliuma I, c.1350–1322 BCe, Kukunni, the King of Wilusa, remained at peace with the Hittites.9 It has been suggested that this Kukunni is the same as the legendary ruler Kyknos, who was said to be king of Colonae near Troy and to have been killed by Achilles (so the Cypria and the mythographer Apollodorus).10 The treaty between the Hittite king Muwatalli II, who reigned in c.1295– 1272  BCe, and Alakšandu of Wilusa is a truly remarkable one. It was evidently the price that Muwatalli exacted for the support that he gave to Alakšandu when Wilusa had been attacked by the land of Arzawa, led by Piyama-Radu, who also attacked Lazpa/Lesbos11; the Hittites came to the rescue and destroyed the land of Masa (§4).12 Among the many Hittite treaties collected and translated by Beckman,13 only the treaty with Alakšandu contains a unique clause about the rules for the royal succession in the vassal state. I quote Beckman’s text and translation of §5 (A obv. i 64´–69´): ̣ ̣ AMA-KA UD-az a-ri nu [ …………. [A-N]A m A-la-ak-ša-an-du ŠA DUMU]-KA-ma ku-in LUGAL-iz-na-an-ni zi-ik ta-pár-ri-ya-ši n[a-aš ma-a-an Š]A DAM-KA ma-a-na-aš-ta ŠA MUNUSNAP-TI-KÀ na-aš ma-a-an nu-u-wa-ya ̣ ̣ ̣ ̣ [DUMU-aš n]a-an-za-an KUR-an-za Ú-UL me-ma-a-i nu kiš-an te-ez-zi NUMUN-wa-ra-aš DU[MU LUGAL e-eš-du[d]UTUŠI -ma-za Ú-UL me-ma-aḫ-ḫi kat-ta DUMU-YA DUMU. DUMU-YA ḫa-aš-ša ḫa-an-za-a[š-ša … ] a-pu-u-un-pát pa-aḫ-ša-an-zi [When your] day of death arrives, Alakšandu, then […] In regard to the [son] of yours whom you designate for kingship, [whether he is by] your wife or by your concubine, and even if he is still a child, if the population of the land refuses him and says as follows: “He is the progeny of

120  Richard Janko […],”14 —I, my Majesty, will not agree. Later my son and my grandson, to the first and second generation, will protect that one alone.15 Alakšandu is a very distinctive name. Its structure is not Anatolian; as we have seen, it was proposed soon after the discovery of the archives that it is in fact the Greek name Alexandros. From a Linear B tablet from Mycenae16 we know that the female equivalent of the same name, A- reka-sa-da-ra, i.e. Alexandra, was already in use in the thirteenth century BCe; if the feminine form of the name was in use, then the masculine on which it was based certainly existed. The transparently Greek meaning of Alexandros, a compound of ἀλέξω and ἀνήρ meaning “he who wards off warriors,” confirms this point. Alakšandu is a Mycenaean Greek name.17 Paris’ other name is Anatolian, being apparently a shortened form of the Luwian name Pariya-muwa that might be the origin of the name of Paris’ father Priamos.18 To turn to Margalit Finkelberg’s contribution to this argument, she showed that the normal system of royal succession in stories about the Greek heroes was that the best suitor for the king’s daughter wins both the girl and the kingdom, proving his excellence in some kind of contest. For instance, Pelops wins Hippodameia by his victory in the chariot-race, Meleager wins Atalanta by running, Menelaus wins Helen in a contest of bride-gifts, and so on. The kingdom goes with the woman: thus Menelaus resides at Sparta, while Helen’s brothers do not inherit Tyndareus’ throne. The king’s own sons go off to other kingdoms and compete there in marriage-contests. They may win them as adventurers, as Bellerophon wins a kingdom in Lycia by killing the Chimaera.19 As she modestly pointed out,20 much the same argument was advanced just before by Atchity and Barber21 jointly and soon after by Lyle,22 but it was only on the basis of Finkelberg’s article that I first came to accept the reality of the Aegean system, having already read about it as a child in the imaginative recreation of Mary Renault (1903–85) in her brilliant novels set in Minoan Crete, The King must Die (1958) and The Bull from the Sea (1962). As Finkelberg showed, the corollary of this system is that myths often depict succession from father to son as unwise, to say the least; it occurs by violence and ends in horror. For instance, Orestes succeeds Agamemnon, but only at the cost of killing his own mother Clytaemestra. Since Clytaemestra’s husband has disappeared on the expedition to Troy, before he has the effrontery to return with a Trojan concubine, she claims her right to choose who would be the next king and selects Aegisthus. Again, Laius is killed by Oedipus, who also takes over his father’s throne by sleeping with his mother, Laius’ former queen Jocasta. Their sons, Eteocles and Polynices, kill each other in a battle to succeed their father. Even in the Odyssey, where the right of sons to succeed fathers is strongly supported by both the gods and the poet, the suitors expect Penelope to replace her absent husband by choosing one of them to marry her and take over the throne, via the contest

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon?  121 with the bow. When Telemachus nearly wins the contest and hence the right to commit incest with his mother, in order to retain his father’s kingdom, this is a relic of the myth’s traditional distaste for royal succession passing from father to son.23 This argument is compelling. Finkelberg went on to show that the situation is more complicated, since there are cases of rule alternating between two patrilinear clans as well as of bigamous Bronze-Age rulers, and rightly proposed that this mythical system had a real basis in historical reality.24 I too believe that it did, and that, like many Greek myths, it can illuminate for us an important reality about the Late Bronze-Age Aegean. Following the lead of Moses Finley25 and John Chadwick,26 it has been widely, but not wholly correctly, held that the decipherment of Linear B has proved that Homer knew little of the Bronze Age.27 Indeed, Ian Morris28 has deduced from my proof that the Homeric poems are the oldest examples of Greek epic to survive, and are therefore likely to be eighth century in date,29 that Homer consistently represents the society of the period shortly before. This is likely, but it does not follow that such a picture does not contain some deliberate archaisms. In terms of material culture, it remains clear that, via fossilized formulae and perhaps the physical survival of heirlooms, Homer knew of objects that date even to early Mycenaean times, like tower-shields and studded swords, as well as objects that date to the palatial period, like cyanus or the massive walls at Tiryns, and to the Iron Age, such as shields with bosses or iron tools. If material objects can reflect a mélange of different historical periods, including the early Mycenaean, palatial, and postpalatial eras, some social customs may also have a similar chronological range. Morris has well argued not only that the prevailing marriage-custom in Homer is the system of bride-price, but also that this may have applied only to the chiefs and nobles.30 However, until a compelling argument is advanced to the contrary, these “Aegean” rules of succession seem profoundly at odds with the father-to-son succession that Homer assumes is normal in his own day, as witnessed by the assumption by the gods and by most of the human characters in the Odyssey that Orestes should rightfully succeed Agamemnon and Telemachus Odysseus. This, after all, is the system that we find almost everywhere in post-Mycenaean Greece; rare exceptions such as the contest for the hand of Agariste, the daughter of Cleisthenes tyrant of Sicyon, are noted as such in our sources.31 Unfortunately, the Mycenaeans have left us no written historical records like those of the Hittites. However, the “Aegean” rules of succession that can readily be discerned in myths that apparently reflect the Mycenaean period would actually make political sense. In a traditional European monarchy, like that of Britain, succession is restricted to the male bloodline, and a ruler’s choice of successor is therefore limited. It would be as if President Trump had to pick Eric or Donald Trump Junior rather than Jared Kushner as the continuation of his dynasty. However, Mr. Trump’s trust in Ivanka’s husband is such that Jared Kushner is obviously his designated successor—at

122  Richard Janko least so long as he is allowed to act as if he holds monarchical power without regard to the Constitution of the United States, which was devised precisely to prevent rule by a mentally unstable monarch like King George III of Britain or an arrogant fool like Homer’s Agamemnon. Mr. Trump’s preference illustrates the advantages of the mythical system: there can be a wide range of choices of son-in-law, and even though one transmits the kingship to a member of a different family, one’s own royal genes are still passed on through the female line. The king chooses among reasonably mature adult males, whose qualities can be assessed by a competitive examination of some kind. Imbeciles and the sick can be excluded, and talent can circulate between different kingdoms. The competition can be tailored to seek out particular qualities, although one hopes that they are not usually as crass as the ownership of valuable buildings in Manhattan or of the greatest amount of wealth in the Mycenaean world, as in Menelaus’ successful courtship of Helen. One must not forget that such a system brought the Roman Empire the least bad governments that it ever had, while rulers from Nerva through Trajan, Hadrian, and Antoninus Pius picked their sons-in-law as their successors, until the philosopher Marcus Aurelius wrecked it by letting his own megalomaniacal son Commodus succeed him. The relevance of this material to my argument is that Muwatalli II’s treaty with Alakšandu of Wilusa suggests that Alakšandu had gained the throne via the Aegean system, rather than by inheriting it from his father in the usual Hittite manner32 (only in the event that a king left no male heirs of first or second rank would the husband of his daughter by his first-ranked wife succeed him).33 Otherwise, why did the Hittite king write into the treaty with Alakšandu, and into this one alone, the clause about a popular challenge to the royal succession? Muwatalli’s tolerance for a Greek interloper in the Trojan royal dynasty clearly had limits, as is clear from his treaty with Alakšandu. As we saw, in return for Alakšandu’s loyalty to him as his vassal he pledges in §5 (A i 64´–69) to support as ruler whichever son of his Alakšandu may pick as his royal successor, whether that son is by Alakšandu’s wife or by his concubine, and promises that he will uphold that son even if the people of Wilusa complain that “he is not of the royal line” or some such phrase.34 The people, presumably, will object that the son of Alakšandu is not the legitimate ruler, because his father was not from the Trojan royal family. As Latacz noted,35 this means that even secondary or adopted sons could succeed to the throne; Alakšandu was not on the throne in regular succession. Long ago Garstang and Gurney conjectured that Alakšandu was an outstanding Greek whom Kukunni had adopted as his successor.36 It follows that Muwatalli does not want Alakšandu to continue to follow the Aegean system of royal succession whereby the latter had himself gained power—the system whereby the king would transmit his kingdom to a prince from elsewhere who, via a competition, had won his daughter’s hand. Instead, Alakšandu must revert to the Anatolian custom of royal succession

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon?  123 from father to son. Why would the Hittite king prefer the latter system? It was, of course, familiar. Also, of course, the Hittites had by this time a long history of trouble with Achaean adventurers nibbling away at their control of Western Anatolia, mostly notably Attarissiya king of Aḫḫiya, and disputing control of Millawanda/Miletus.37 A contest for the throne of wealthy Troy would certainly attract princes from all over the Aegean; if the winner were really talented and energetic, he might prefer an alliance with powers from mainland Greece rather than from Anatolia. Troy was far from the centers of Hittite power—a long march with long and difficult supply-lines, which might need first to pass through the river-valleys of Arzawa. Troy also had good connections by sea, which the Hittites lacked. In a war fought over Troy, the Hittites might not easily win. Muwatalli would certainly have thought of all these factors when he made his scribe insert this clause into the standard template for such treaties. We know not how Alakšandu’s reign ended. The next reliably dated mention of Wilusa is in the so-called “Milawata letter” of the Hittite King Tudḫaliya IV, who ruled from 1237 to 1209.38 Tudḫaliya’s letter is directed to a king in north-west Anatolia, probably Tarkasnawa, king of Mira.39 In §7´ it reveals that Walmu, king of Wilusa, has been deposed by rebels and has come to the land of Mira. Tudḫaliya wants to reinstate him as his vassal, as he had been before. The king’s envoy, Kulana-ziti, retains the wooden tablets, i.e. presumably the treaty, that Tudḫaliya had made for Walmu and wants the recipient to read them: A-NA mWa-al! -mu-ma ku-e GIŠḪUR[.ḪI.A DÙ-un na-at] mKARAŠ.ZA pé-e ḫar-ta na-at ka-a-aš-ma IT-TI DUMU-⎡YA⎤ [kat-t]a-an x [ o ] ú-da-i na-at a-ú ki-nu-un-ma DUMU-Y[A] ku-wa-pí ŠA dUTUŠI SIG5 -tar PAP-aš-ti tu-e-el-za SILIM-an dUTUŠI ḫa-a-mi nu-mu-kán DUMU-YA m Wa-al! -mu-un pa-ra-a na-a-i na-an EGIR-pa I-NA KUR⎡Wi5 -lu⎤-ša LUGAL-iz-na-ni te 9 -eḫ-ḫi na-aš ka-ru-ú GIM-an LUGAL KURWi5 -lu-ša e-eš-ta ki-nu-na-aš QA-TAM-M[A e-eš-du] nu-wa-na-ša-aš ka-ru-ú GIM-an ARADDUM ⎡ku-la⎤-wa-né-eš ⎡e⎤-[eš-ta k]i-nu-na-aš QA-TAM-MA ARAD ku-la-wa-né-eš e-eš-du Kulana-ziti retained possession of the wooden tablets that [I made] for Walmu, and he has now brought them [down] to (you), my son. Examine them! Now, my son, as long as you look after the well-being of My Majesty, I, My Majesty, will put my trust in your good will. Turn Walmu over to me, my son, so that I may reinstall him in kingship in the land of Wilusa. [He shall] now be king of the land of Wilusa, as he was formerly. He shall now be our military vassal, as he [was] formerly. The wooden tablets obviously validated Walmu’s claim to the throne of Wilusa, for which Tudḫaliya was seeking his correspondent’s support.40 It seems reasonably likely, given the chronology of the Hittite kings, that

124  Richard Janko Walmu was in fact Alakšandu’s son and successor, whom, in defiance of the Hittites, the Trojans had driven out in order to reinstate their traditional royal family. One thinks of the hints in the Iliad of rivalry between the family of Priam and the Aeneadae.41 The reader will by now be asking what this has to do with the Trojan War. It is quite true that epic and heroic traditions often confuse events, assign to them participants who lived at other dates, and even mix up enemies, as in the case of the Chanson de Roland and Nibelungenlied; the prudent course is to say nothing on the topic.42 But prudence is less interesting than hypothesis. We do hear that the king who ruled between Muwatalli II and Tudḫaliya IV, namely, Hattusili III, who was on the throne from c.1267 to 1237, was in dispute with a king of Aḫḫiyawa over the kingdom of Wilusa. In §12 of the so-called Tawagalawa letter written by a Hittite king, who is probably Hattusili III, to the unnamed king of Aḫḫiyawa, the Hittite ruler asks the latter to dissuade the Arzawan fugitive Piyama-Radu from making trouble for the Hittites. Let the king tell him either to go to Hatti, or to Aḫḫiyawa, or to Karkisa or Masa, so long as he does not make trouble from his own land, i.e. from Arzawa. He adds an enigmatic reference to Wilusa43: nu-uš-ši ŠEŠ-YA a-pa-a-at 1-an ḫa-at-ra-a-i ma-a-an Ú-UL nu-wa ša-⎡ra⎤-a-⎡ti-i-ya⎤ nu-wa I-NA KURḪat-ti ⎡ar-ḫa i-it⎤ EN-KA-wa-at-ta EGIR-an ⎡kap⎤-pu-[wa-i]t ⎡ma-a-an-ma-wa⎤ UL nu-wa AŠ KUR⎡Aḫ-ḫi-yawa⎤-a [a]r-ḫa ⎡e⎤-ḫu… nu-wa a-pí-ya ⎡i-it⎤ LUGAL KUR Ḫa-at-ti-wa-anna-aš-kán ú-uk ku-e-da-ni A-NA [INI]M URU⎡Wi5 -lu-ša⎤ še-er ku-ru-⎡ur⎤ e-šu-u-en nu[-wa-m]u a-p[é-e-d]a-ni INIM-ni la-a[k-nu-ut] nu-wa ták-šul[a-u-en k]i-nu !? -na!?-[ma-wa-n]a-aš ku-ru-ur UL ⎡a-a⎤-ra nu-uš-ši a-p[aa-at ŠU-PUR] O, my brother, write to him this one thing, if nothing (else): “Get up and go off to Hatti. Your lord has reconciled with you. If not, then come over to Ahhiyawa…. The King of Hatti has persuaded me about the matter of the city of Wilusa concerning which he and I were hostile to one another, and we have made peace. Now(?) hostility is not appropriate between us.”44 [Send that] to him. The Hittite king continues45: nu [ŠA URUWi5-lu-ša ku-e-da-ni me]-mi-ni še-er ku-ru-ri-iḫ-ḫu-e-en nu-zak[án ku-it ták-šu-la-u-en nu na]m-ma ku-it ma-a-[an-za-kán LÚTAP-PU A-NA LÚ]TAP-PÍ-ŠU pé-ra-an wa-aš-túl tar-na-i [na-aš-za-kán ku-it A-NA LÚTAP-P]Í-⎡ŠU⎤ pé-ra-an wa-aš-túl ta[r-na-i na-an-kán ar-ḫa] ⎡Ú⎤-UL pé-eš-ši-ya-iz-zi am-mu-uq-⎡qa⎤[-za-kán am-me-el ku-it wa-aš-tú]l A-NA ŠEŠ-YA pé-ra-an tar-na-aḫ-ḫu-u[n o o o o o o na-a]t A-NA ⎡ŠEŠ⎤-YA le-e nam-m[a… ]

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon?  125 And concerning the matter [of Wilusa] about which we were hostile— [because we have made peace], what then? If [a certain ally] confesses an offense before his ally, [because he confesses] the offense before his [ally], he does not reject [him. Because] I have confessed [my offense] before my brother, [… and] let it […] no further to my brother. After a damaged sentence, it appears that the king of Ahhiyawa had complained of violence46: ŠEŠ-YA-ma-mu ka-ru[-ú ki-iš]-š[a-an IŠ-PUR… ] GEŠPÚ-wa-mu uppé-eš-ta a[m-mu-uk-ma-za nu-u-wa] TUR-aš e-šu-un But my brother already [wrote to me as follows: “…] You have used force against me”. [But I was still] young. Hence it seems that their dispute over Wilusa was violent, and that the Achaeans had the upper hand.47 Even so, this war did not cause the sack of Troy, since archeological evidence proves that Troy’s citadel was not sacked until the end of the thirteenth century BC.48 There was certainly no war at this time that had the consequences of the mythical Trojan War. However, myth and heroic epic often get the big historical picture wrong while recalling minor details accurately, such as the deeply erroneous retelling of the battle of Roncevalles in the Chanson de Roland, where the epic not only misreports the enemy’s identity but even turns defeat into victory.49 The myths about Paris–Alexandros offer a remarkable parallel to the peculiar dynastic succession at Troy that I have outlined. First, Sophocles’ and Euripides’ lost tragedies entitled Alexandros related that, because of terrible prophecies, Priam and Hecabe exposed Paris at birth on Mount Ida. Paris returns to Troy only incognito, after he has grown up as a cowherd in the mountains. When he does so, he wins the funeral games which were then being staged, and is recognized by his parents as their son.50 The motif of contests is unmotivated in the myth, but is crucial: in its original form, if we draw on Finkelberg’s insights, 51 it would imply that, like Odysseus in Phaeacia, Alexandros entered Troy as a stranger in order to win the kingdom in a competition for the hand of the king’s daughter, and that he did indeed win it. The myth declares that, although Paris seemed to be an outsider, by virtue of his bloodline he was in fact the legitimate heir to the throne of Troy. Who would have propagated such a myth? If it went back to the Bronze Age, supporters of Paris, who felt that he rightfully belonged on the throne of Troy, even though he appeared not to do so. Because the myth survives in Greek sources, its promulgators must have included speakers of Greek. Thus, both Hittite and Greek sources suggest that Alakšandu/Alexandros occupied the throne of Troy because he had won a contest on the Aegean model, just as Bellerophon won a kingdom in Caria or Lycia by killing the Chimaera and marrying the daughter of the local king Amisodaros.52 The

126  Richard Janko picture of Mycenaean adventurers taking over states in Western Anatolia fully accords with the Hittite archives. Anatolians like Muwatalli II opposed this trend, insisting that royal families must not adopt the new marriage-custom, which was letting Greek interlopers gain footholds in West Anatolia. However, the princes of West Anatolia, located between two great empires, were experts at playing off the Hittites against the Achaeans and other powers.53 Royal marriages were a favorite tactic, as we learn from the negotiations preserved in the Amarna-tablets between an earlier king of Arzawa, Tarhundaradu, and the Egyptian Pharaoh Amenophis III.54 It is striking, given Finkelberg’s insights, that the myth depicts Paris’ paramour Helen, not Paris himself, as the outsider at Troy. The Trojan, notoriously, snatches her from Lacedaemon, together with a large treasure55; and Homer’s Achaeans seem to care almost as much about recovering that treasure as they do about recovering Helen.56 This curious fact needs to be incorporated into our understanding of possible scenarios for the Trojan War, which need be no more a myth than is the War of the Spanish Succession, which lasted from 1701 to 1714 Ce and was genuinely about that succession. In normal relations between Late Bronze-Age states, a large quantity of treasure would be either exchanged in a friendly way or seized by conquest. Paris’ theft of it from Lacedaemon is such an anomaly in Greek myth that I cannot think of a parallel. One wonders whether in fact there lies behind this story the distant memory of a hostile sea-borne raid on Laconia from across the Aegean in which a great deal of wealth was seized. Such raids are well documented in the later thirteenth century BCe in the opposite direction, by the large numbers of Asiatic women who were enslaved at Pylos.57 To suffer a destructive raid of this kind would be a disgraceful humiliation for a Mycenaean kingdom, one which Greek myth would seek to reclothe in less shocking colors. Is it coincidence that the fiery destruction and abandonment of the apparently unwalled palace at Ayios Vasileios, some 16 km south of Sparta, has most recently been assigned on the basis of pottery to the beginning of Late Helladic IIIB 1, i.e. to the early part of the thirteenth century BCe?58 Here then, for what it is worth, is a speculative reconstruction of the real Trojan War, fought over a real woman, a princess from the eastern Peloponnese. It is, of course, merely the most elegant hypothesis that one can base on the evidence that is currently available, and is readily open to replacement if one can be found that better explains the facts that are known to us; but if we do not test out, and try to refute or improve upon, such speculations, our knowledge will never advance.59 Alexandros, a Greek adventurer, has won control over Troy via a marriage-contest there, marrying the most eligible daughter of the indigenous king. Even if the Hittite king Muwatalli II is anxious that this Aegean custom of marriage-contests be discontinued, he tries to control Alexandros by imposing on him the treaty that we have examined, making him his vassal. According to the treaty, the Hittites will support whichever of Alexandros’ sons he may pick as his successor. Alexandros perhaps upholds his side of the bargain by sending Dardanian

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon?  127 troops (the Drdny of Ramesses II’s inscriptions)60 to fight for Muwatalli at the battle of Kadesh in 1275 BCe. But Alexandros plays a double game. As an insurance-policy to procure a possible successor who would be supported by the Achaeans, Alexandros takes to wife a daughter of the dynasts who control Mycenae and Lacedaemon,61 and who are initiating the great military build-up that is documented by their grandiose wall-building at Mycenae and Tiryns; for this they employed Hittite architects, who helped them construct inter alia the Lion Gate at Mycenae.62 Since lots of gold always smoothes the art of the deal, the Achaeans send the princess with great gifts. In their greedy imaginations, Alexandros, being himself an Achaean and having won the throne via the Aegean system of competition among suitors, is giving them, via this dynastic marriage, the chance to acquire Troy and its accumulated wealth. But this is not what the deal means to Alexandros, who has concubines as well as one or more wives. In his view, he does not renege on the deal when he designates as his successor a son who was born to him by an Anatolian queen, namely, Walmu; according to his treaty with Muwatalli, he has the right to pick whichever son he chooses to succeed him (§5). This would have been in the earlier part of the reign of Hattusili III, which began in c.1267 BCe. The Achaeans launch a large expedition, demanding back their “stolen” gifts and “stolen” princess. They arrogantly imagine that they have enough ships to take Troy. But the Trojans, relying on Hittite support, call in allies from as far afield as Lycia, paying them for their mercenary services63 with their accumulated treasure, and remain safe behind their walls. The Achaean expedition has to return to base without success, as Agamemnon considers doing in Iliad 9. Meanwhile the Trojans, in disgust at their leaders’ machinations, depose Alexandros’ family, including Walmu, handing the throne to a rival branch of the royal family, conceivably that of Aeneas, whose descendants were believed to have lived on and even to have ruled in the Troad.64 In his attempts to restore Walmu to the throne, Hattusili III tries to patch up relations with the king of Aḫḫiyawa, who is providing safe haven to his enemy Piyama-Radu, as the latter is raiding the north-east Aegean and sending Asiatic captive women back to Greece65 via the brother of the king of Aḫḫiyawa, Tawagalawa (i.e. *Etewoklewēs/Eteocles), in Miletus; but relations between the Hittites and Achaeans turn even more bitter under his successor Tudḫaliya IV, who in c.1220 BCe orders his vassal Šaušga-muwa of Amurru to prevent trade between Assyria and Aḫḫiyawa, erases the king of Aḫḫiyawa from the list of Great Kings who are his equals,66 and probably, according to archeological evidence, takes control of Miletus.67 According to archeology, Troy survived until it was sacked in about 1190, probably by the mixed bands of marauders whom we know as the Seapeoples,68 who certainly included unemployed mercenaries and pirates from Greece, including previously marginal areas like Phthia and Locris, which revived as the palaces fell. This was a second Trojan War with a different outcome, when the Mycenaean and Hittite kingdoms were destroyed too. However, during the “real” Trojan War, the Achaeans sacked Troy only in

128  Richard Janko their imaginations; as in the case of the battle of Roncevalles in the Chanson de Roland, the epic tradition turned that defeat into victory, in the Trojan case by confusing it with the eventual sack of Troy VIIa in c.1190.

Notes

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon?  129

























130  Richard Janko

37

38 39 40 41

42

43

44 45 46 47 48 49

adopted you Alaksandus as his son]” (their italics); cf. Latacz, Troia und Homer, 174, whose translation supplies here “nach dem Wort deines Vaters” as the reason why Alakšandu succeeded Kukunni in Wilusa (ibid., 162). The passage is omitted as being too badly damaged by Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts, 82. Cf. Gary M. Beckman, Trevor R. Bryce, and Eric H. Cline, The Ahhiyawa Texts (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 271–4; Bachvarova, From Hittite to Homer, 333–41. We may compare how Tarhuna-Radu usurped the throne of the Seha River land, probably with the support of Aḫḫiyawa, when the faithful Hittite vassal Masturi died childless, but his rebellion was put down by Tudḫaliya IV (Niemeier, “Westkleinasien und Ägäis,” 82). Beckman, Bryce, and Cline, Ahhiyawa Texts, 123–33 (CTH 182, Aḫḫiyawa text no. 5). Bachvarova, From Hittite to Homer, 340–1. For the possibility that it is addressed to Atpa of Millawanda see Latacz, Troia und Homer, 168. Beckman, Bryce, and Cline, Ahhiyawa Texts, 132, §7´ (rev. 38´–44´). For example, Iliad 13. 459–61, where Aeneas is sulking over Priam’s failure to show him due respect, though this has been interpreted as an improvisation; Richard Janko, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume IV: Books Thirteen to Sixteen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 105. So Bachvarova, who argues that the Trojan War is a memory of a long-standing Luwian epic that had the sack of Troy as its subject, but even so accepts that prince Alexandros is a memory inherited from Late Bronze Age Troy (From Hittite to Homer, 354–5, 429). CTH 181 iii. 63–68, iv. 7–11 (text from Beckman, Ahhiyawa Texts). This is Aḫḫiyawa Text no. 4, §12, in Beckman, Bryce, and Cline, Ahhiyawa Texts, 115–16; see also Latacz, Troia und Homer, 179–81, 355–6. On this letter see Niemeier, “Westkleinasien und Ägäis,” 80–82; Bachvarova, From Hittite to Homer, 354 n. 19. My italics. This is translated in Latacz, Troia und Homer, 355, as “ein Krieg wäre nicht gut für uns” but acknowledges that there is some doubt over the reading “Wilusa.” Beckman, Bryce, and Cline, Ahhiyawa Texts, 117, §13 (CTH 176, iv. 16–26). Beckman, Bryce, and Cline, Ahhiyawa Texts, 2011, 117, §15 (CTH 176, iv. 32–34). So Latacz, Troia und Homer, 356–8, well links these hostilities with the presence of slaves from the north-east Aegean in the Mycenaean palaces. So Bryce, Kingdom of the Hittites, 363–7, and The Trojans and their Neighbours (London and New York: Routledge 2006), 185–7, with arguments on both sides. Cf. Cecil M. Bowra, Heroic Poetry (London: MacMillan, 1952), 519–20: the actual fight in the Pyrenees was of no great importance. Charlemagne, returning from a foray into Spain, was attacked by the Basques and lost some of his commanders. The poet makes this a great battle between Christians and Infidels, in which enormous hosts are engaged and many great heroes killed. What was merely a casual engagement becomes one of the great battles of the world.

He cites similar examples from Kara-Kirghiz and Achin epics (ibid., 520–1). 50 Apollodorus 3. 12. 5, Hyginus fab. 91, with Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Source (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 562–4; François Jouan and Herman Van Looy, Euripide: Fragments (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1998), 39–59, and Christopher Collard, Martin J. Cropp, and John Gibert, Euripides: Selected Fragmentary Plays (Oxford: Aris & Phillips, 2004), ii. 35–49. 51 Finkelberg, “Royal Succession in Heroic Greece.” 52 The fifth-century historian Xenomedes of Ceos (FGH 442 F 3) says the kingdom was in Caria, not Lycia (contrast Homer, Iliad 6. 172–95). Xenomedes preserved

Helen of Troy—or of Lacedaemon?  131

53 54

55 56 57

58

59 60 61

62 63

64 65 66 67 68

a memory of another historically verifiable event in Bronze Age history, namely, the Santorini eruption (FGrH 442 F 4, with William D. Taylour and Richard Janko, Ayios Stephanos: Excavations at a Bronze Age and Medieval Settlement in Southern Laconia (London: British School at Athens, 2008), 589–90. Cf. Latacz, Troia und Homer, 169. El-Amarna tablets EA 32 and 31, to be read in that order. Analysis of the clay has proved that “a provenance for EA 32 in northern Ionia, or even Aeolis, seems very probable.” (Yuval Goren, Israel Finkelstein, and Nadav Na’aman, Inscribed in Clay: Provenance-Study of the Amarna Tablets and Other Ancient Near Eastern Texts [Tel Aviv: Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archaeology, 2004], 45–47); this conclusion has been welcomed by John D. Hawkins, “The Arzawa Letters in Recent Perspective,” British Museum Studies in Ancient Egypt and Sudan 14 (2009): 80. Proclus, Chrestomathia, 103, 9 Allen (τὰ πλεῖϲτα κτήματα ἐνθέμενοι). The property that Paris brought to Troy with Helen is mentioned at Iliad 3. 70–72 and 7. 362–4; in Apollodorus (Epit. 3. 3) Helen leaves ἐνθεμένη τὰ πλεῖϲτα τῶν χρημάτων. For the captive slave-women of Mycenaean Greece see Niemeier, “Westkleinasien und Ägäis,” 60; Latacz, Troia und Homer, 356–7; Richard Janko, “Amber Inscribed in Linear B from Bernstorf in Bavaria: New Light on the Mycenaean Kingdom of Pylos,” Bayerische Vorgeschichtsblätter 80 (2015): 49–50. A thin layer of LH IIIB 1 date lies uppermost under the destruction-level (Eleftheria Kardamaki, oral communication at the conference Synchronizing the Destructions of the Mycenaean Palaces, Vienna, 8–9 Nov. 2018); cf. Reinhard Jung, n.d. “Studies on the New Mycenaean Palace of Ayios Vasileios in Laconia,” https://www.orea.oeaw.ac.at/en/research/mediterranean-economies/studieson-the-new-mycenaean-palace-of-ayios-vasileios-in-laconia/. For an excessively skeptical view see Bryce, Trojans and their Neighbours, 182–9. Nancy K. Sandars, The Sea Peoples: Warriors of the Ancient Mediterranean, 1250–1150 B.C. (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978), 45. It has always seemed odd that at Iliad 9. 149–55 Agamemnon could offer Achilles as marriage-gifts seven towns including Kardamyle and others near it on the Messenian gulf. This can now be explained by the existence of a classical and Mycenaean road connecting this area, via a low pass over Mount Taygetus, with Ayios Vasileios, of which I learned from Lisa Bendall (pers. comm., Nov. 2018). Nicholas G. Blackwell, “Making the Lion Gate Relief at Mycenae: Tool Marks and Foreign Influence,” American Journal of Archaeology 118.3 (2014): 475–84. For arguments that Mycenaean e-pi-ko-wo /epikorwoi/ on Pylos tablet An 657.1 and Homer’s ἐπίκουροι both mean “mercenaries” see Janko, “Amber Inscribed in Linear B,” 56–58; similarly Kyle Mahoney, “Mycenaean e-pi-ko-wo and alphabetic Greek ἐπίκουρος revisited,” Kadmos 56 (2017): 39–88. Homer, Iliad 20. 307–8, with Mark W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary. Volume V: Books 17–20 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 299–301. See above, n. 57. Beckman, Bryce, and Cline, Ahhiyawa Texts, 61, §13´ and §15´ (A iv 1–18, 23–26) of Ahhiyawa text no. 2. Niemeier, “Westkleinasien und Ägäis,” 82–84. Niemeier, “Westkleinasien und Ägäis,” 85–86. Arzawa was among the lands that did not withstand the Sea Peoples, according to the inscription of Ramesses III at Medinet Habu; John A. Wilson, “The War against the Peoples of the Sea,” in Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, ed. James B. Pritchard (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1969), 262–3.

9

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick A note on the comparative method and Homer Ian Rutherford

This paper aims to bring together two of the honorand’s primary areas of interest: Homer, and the relationship between ancient Greece and the cultures of early Anatolia. That the Greek-Trojan War tradition is entangled with early Anatolian culture is hardly in doubt.1 Hittite texts of the fourteenth to thirteenth centuries BC mention a place called Wilusa, now known to have been in the NW of Anatolia, with a ruler called Alakšandu, and a god called Apaliuna; it would be a remarkable coincidence if these are not somehow connected with (W)ilion, Alexandros and Apollo.2 Diplomatic records relating to the polity of Ahhiyawa, probably Mycenaean Greece in some form, mention some sort of conflict with the Hittites over Wilusa in the early thirteenth century BC.3 In one text, the united forces of North-Western Anatolia arrayed against the Hittites are described in terms that have been compared to the Catalogue of the Trojans fighting the Greeks in the Iliad.4 In view of these connections, it is perhaps not surprising that we find a number of parallels between the Iliad and early Anatolian rituals. Thus, the funeral of Patroclus in Iliad 23 resembles the Hittite royal funerary ritual in several respects – mostly related to the cremation and to the subsequent gathering and arrangement of the bones – although there are also major differences.5 More recently it has been observed that the episode of the plague sent by the archer god Apollo and subsequent purification by the augur priest Calchas in Iliad 1 resemble a group of Hittite rituals, all from Western Anatolia, in which augur priests take measures against plague in the army.6 In one of them, the plague god Yarri threatens to shoot plague-bearing arrows, as Apollo does in Homer. Again, there are also many differences. Anatolian correlates have also been proposed for the dedication of a peplos to Athena by Hecabe followed by a prayer and vow made by Theano on her behalf that Diomedes’ spear should break (Il. 6. 305–10),7 and also for the analogical oath sworn between the two sides before the truce in Iliad 3.298–31 (“…may their brains be poured out on the ground just as the wine is”).8 Some of these have been shown to occur in other cultures of the Ancient Near East as well (the analogical oath, for example), 9 and it is possible that they occur so regularly in early human cultures that we may want to call

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick  133 them “universals”. On the other hand, some may be more limited in their distribution, confined to the Anatolia-Aegean region, e.g. the Arzawan purification rituals. This could indicate borrowing, or alternatively, they could be part of a general Anatolian substrate in the Aegean which the Greeks absorbed.10 In all such cases, comparison with Hittite evidence has value for Homerists because it shows that rituals similar to the ones described in the poems are actually recorded as having happened in Late Bronze Age societies of the region. It also allows us to appreciate what’s different about Homeric rituals, which are not crude transcriptions of “actual” rituals, but creative adaptations of them, alluding to and resonating with them. Thus, Patroclus is not a king, but the fact that his funeral echoes the Hittite royal funeral ritual (or other early royal funerary rituals) reveals the strength of Achilles’ emotion, honouring his fallen comrade, marking the difference between that and the treatment of Hector (who is royalty), and anticipating his own funeral. Similarly, while the plague-episode in Iliad Book 1 loosely corresponds to a Hittite military ritual from W. Anatolia, Homer’s version is simpler, and whereas a ritual ought to result in the resolution of a crisis, the Greek response to the plague in the First Book of the Iliad actually creates a second major crisis which dominates the poem when Agamemnon compensates himself by seizing Briseis from Achilles. In this paper, I want to focus on another parallel that has been claimed between the Iliad and Anatolian ritual culture, namely, ritual substitutes. In Anatolia they were known by a number of different terms, among them tarpalli or tarpanalli, and the most conspicuous use of them was in the royal substitute ritual, adapted from an Assyrian or Babylonian model, in which a substitute (Akkadian sar puhi) replaces the king on the throne during a period known to be critical. Tarpa(na)lli -substitutes also have a more general use in Hittite religion, as ritual “carriers” to transfer away impurity (somewhat like a scapegoat); thus, in one ritual from SE Anatolia a sheep, identified as a tarpalli, is held above two ritual patrons, they spit in its mouth, and it is killed in a pit, like a sacrifice.11 In the abstract one could distinguish the substitute, which is similar to the ritual agent (a paradigmatic relationship), from the carrier, which has been in physical context with or proximity to him (a syntagmatic relationship), but in reality these categories tend to get mixed up. In early Greece, there is no sign of any “substitute king ritual”.12 In a Greek myth attested at least as early as Euripides, when the fates decree that Admetus king of Pherae must die, his queen Alcestis volunteers in his place, though the difference here is that she never occupies his throne in his place.13 But ritual carriers are attested in early Greece, e.g. the pharmakos who is used to carry impurity from his community (the pharmakos is even a bit like a substitute king since he was feasted for a period before being expelled).14 Sacrifices could also sometimes be seen as substitutes as, e.g. an animal sacrifice being substituted in place of a human one, either at the last moment (Iphigeneia) or at the end of a long tradition.15

134  Ian Rutherford Substitute and carrier rituals are also rare in Greek epic poetry. The most convincing example comes from a Roman epic, the Argonautica of the Roman poet Valerius Flaccus (3:439–43), where the Argonauts, having accidentally killed the Doliones, are advised by Orpheus to perform a complex purification ritual which culminates in the erection of armed wooden effigies of themselves to deflect the anger of the dead.16 As far as concerns the Trojan War tradition, Walter Burkert suggested in 1979 that the Trojan Horse itself might have started out as misunderstanding of a ritual carrier sent by the Greeks in the direction of Troy, and Chris Faraone subsequently advocated a similar approach for Sinon in Vergil’s Aeneid, who pretends to have been scapegoated by the Greeks.17 The purification ritual in Iliad 1, which, as I pointed out, is otherwise similar to the Arzawa plague rituals, does not on the face of it involve substitutes or ritual carriers (unless, as has been suggested by Irene Madreiter (Huber), we think of Chryseis, whose abduction caused the plague, as herself somehow standing for an offering).18 A much greater role for substitution rituals in the Iliad has, however, been suggested. This goes back to the linguist Nadia van Brock who in a study devoted to proving that the Hittite and Luwian19 tarpalli, along with its synonyms tarpassa and tarpanalli, usually means “ritual substitute”, observed in passing that ritual substitutes were also found in Greece and that it might be possible to connect this set of words with the Greek word therapon “servant, attendant”.20 Therapon corresponds to *tarpan, a form postulated on the basis of tarpanalli, and the alternative from theraps to tarpassa. *tarpantarpassa-

therapon theraps

From the point of view of semantics, the argument is that though servants are not generally substitutes or rebels, in the Iliad Patroclus, the “therapon” of Achilles, was killed wearing Achilles’ armour at a time when Achilles was refusing to fight. The claim is not that therapon means “substitute”, but that it had this meaning once, and that the narrative still bore a trace of it.21 Since van Brock’s work, Anatolian substitute rituals have been studied by other scholars and more has been learnt about the semantics of tarpalli and related words.22 Often tarpallis are human, as in the case of the Hittite ritual-substitute ritual23; sometimes they are animals,24 and they can also apparently be inanimate models; human or animal ones can be called “living” by contrast.25 Tarpanalli (and also tarpalli) also occurs in another sense in mythological narratives from the Kingship in Heaven cycle, namely, a “rebel”, “challenger”, who replaces the king of the gods on the throne, and is subsequently removed.26 A good example of this is the narrative about the god Kurunta (written as the sumerogram “LAMMA”), who defeats the king of the gods Tessub and occupies the divine throne as a tarpanalli. This may seem different from the “ritual substitute” sense, but compare the situation in the Royal Substitute Ritual, where the king laments that he has

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick  135 been deposed and that a usurper is on the throne.27 We could think of these as narrative and ritual versions of the same thing.28 If the word was borrowed into Greek, this would probably have happened in the 2nd millennium, since there are proper names in Linear B texts which seem to be related to it.29 A few other lexical borrowings into Greek from Hittite or Luwian have been suggested, and though they are all disputed, some of them are probably right.30 The hypothesis that therapon has an Anatolian origin has been welcomed by some scholars.31 Folke Josephson supported it by analogy with Babylonian dinanu, which means itself “ritual substitute”,32 but is used to express the relation between servant and lord in a common opening-formula of Babylonian letters: “ana dinan beliya lullik” (“may I go as a substitute for my master”).33 Other scholars express doubts, primarily on semantic grounds: therapon doesn’t mean substitute.34 In any case, there was already a good precedent in therapne, “dwelling, abode” (LSJ), so therapon would mean “he of the household” (cf. oiketes from oikia).35 Even if the proposed Anatolian etymology is right, that doesn’t give us a licence to assume the word’s original Greek sense was “ritual substitute”; it’s quite possible the usual sense of the Hittite-Luwian word was a non-ritual one: “substitute, replacement, challenger”, and we get a false impression from the predominantly ritual texts that have survived. An alternative approach was suggested by David Hawkins, à propos of the word tarpalanza (dative plural), which occurs in an early 1st millennium document in Hieroglyphic Luwian from SE Anatolia (the “Kululu Lead Strips”). Hawkins suggests that tarpala here mean the same as therapon in Greek, i.e. “esquire, attendant”. If tarpanalli and tarpasa meant something similar, then the possibility arises that Greek therapon does indeed go back to Anatolian, but never meant “substitute”.36 Van Brock’s 1961 thesis was developed by Greg Nagy and several other scholars working with him in the period 1979–81; I propose to call this the “Harvard Tarpalli-Therapon School” (HTTS).37 More recently their work has been used by Margo Kitts in her 2005 book and in several articles, putting it in the context of battlefield violence in Homer in general; and also by Victoria Tarenza.38 One reason that the thesis appealed to HTTS may have been that its basis was linguistic: Nagy’s early work was on linguistics, and there was a lot of interest at the time, stimulated by the work of Émile Benveniste, in the possibility of tracing early Indo-European social and religious structures by looking at key words in Indo-European languages.39 A good place to look for this sort of thing was likely to be a purportedly very conservative text like Homer’s Iliad, which is almost a linguistic museum, where words may well be used in earlier senses which had been lost in the rest of the language. HTTS was particularly interested in the notions of ritual substitute and sacrifice. Steven Lowenstam (adapting on his 1975 PhD thesis) saw Patroclus as a sacrificial victim, and the whole narrative charged with sacrificial imagery. He suggested that “an early Iliad included the sacrifice of

136  Ian Rutherford Patroklos as the substitute for Achilles; but as the tradition of the Iliad and other epic songs became more humanistic, the brutal details of the tradition were muted”.40 In the case of Patroclus, he traced the sacrifice theme from the episode in Book 11, where he cuts the arrow from Eurpylos’ thigh with a makhaira-knife (also used in sacrifice),41 to the burial of Patroclus in Book 23, where Patroclus’ body is covered in fat before the cremation, and afterwards his bones are wrapped in fat.42 A particular focus for Lowenstam was the motif of “thigh slapping” (μηρὼ πληξάμενος, said of Achilles at Iliad 16. 124–8), which is apparently supposed to suggest sacrifice because the thighs of animals are prominent in animal sacrifice, and because one can strike (πλήσσω) the animal. It is easy to see that a warrior’s death could be likened to a sacrifice. The analogy is in fact suggested by Il. 20.403–6, where the cry of Hippodamas as he dies is compared to a bull being taken to be sacrificed to Poseidon of Helice. Another case might be Neoptolemus’ death at Delphi; as Pindar tells it (Paean 6.117–20; Nem. 7.40–43), he was killed while sacrificing, so that his death could be seen as part of the sacrifice. A different sort of link between Patroclus and sacrifice in the fifth century BC is suggested by the red figure stamnos attributed to the Triptolemos painter on which the name Pat[roklos] seems to be applied to a sacrificed goat lying between Hector and Ajax; Griffiths, who doesn’t seem to know HTTS, suggested that in some version of the story, perhaps a drama, Patroclus had been saved by divine intervention, like Sarpedon, and replaced by a goat, as Iphigeneia was replaced by an animal.43 I said that for Lowenstam a chief indication that Patroclus’ death was like a sacrifice is the motif of slapping one’s thighs.44 It’s true (although Lowenstam doesn’t notice this) that laying on hands can be a feature of animal sacrifice, e.g. among the ancient Hebrews.45 However, the whole thesis is highly implausible: thigh slapping is gesture which conveys a range of intense emotions, including grief and determination, and lacks any ritual significance. It appears in much the same form in Mesopotamian poetry, which may be a sign of a common W. Asiatic and E. Mediterranean poetic tradition.46 Other aspects of Lowenstam’s argument seem implausible as well; notice in particular that he finds supporting evidence in the description of the funeral of Patroclus in Book 23,47 which, as we saw earlier, has parallels with the Hittite Royal Funeral Ritual. This isn’t incompatible with the ritualsubstitute theory, since in the Babylonian sar puhi ritual the substitute could be buried like a king.48 However, I’m troubled by the idea that a ritual substitute would be joined in burial with the very person whose death his own killing was designed to avert. The idea that Patroclus was a tarpalli was taken in a different direction by Nagy himself in the Best of the Achaeans and in later works, and by Dale Sinos in his 1975 thesis, published in 1980.49 Both of them were interested in the fact that Patroclus in his final aristeia where he wears Achilles’ armour ceases to be Achilles’ therapon and enters into a closer association with Ares

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick  137 himself, becoming one of the “therapontes of Ares”.50 For Sinos this process of alienation is analogous to the sacrifice of a ritual substitute; “losing his identity as therapon he becomes the substitute for Achilles… Patroclus becomes Achilles in that the therapon becomes the primary figure’s ritual substitute, his tarpa(na)lli, as it were”.51 Prima facie, this seems to show not that therapon and tarpalli are the same, but that they’re completely different. Similarly, Nagy emphasises that when the hero moves away from his immediate group (comprised of alpha-male warriors and beta-male therapontes) he assumes a complex relationship with Ares or the deity that takes his life: he is the therapon of that deity, but also his antagonist.52 This relationship will be continued after death when he will be worshipped with him (the key example given for this is Neoptolemus and Apollo at Delphi, not a death on the battlefield, and perhaps not a typical case).53 For Nagy, the death of the hero under these conditions involves the transferring of impurity, because that was the function of the tarpalli.54 Nagy takes a similar line in his 2013 book,55 where he imagines the “therapōn or ‘ritual substitute’” becoming “a cult hero who serves as a sacralized ‘attendant’” (i.e. therapon) “of the war god”.56 In the latter book this is developed in quasi-Christian way, inspired by Simone Weil: “we may think of Patroklos as a hero who refuses to pass on the suffering to the next person. He absorbs the suffering and dies in the act of doing so. He short-circuits evil”.57 Nagy is right to show that Homer’s world knows many forms of relationship between warriors: e.g. they can be members of the same family (fathers and sons), they can be equals (philoi or hetairoi), or in a hierarchy (therapontes, opaones, chariot-drivers). But it is not at all clear to me that the idea of ritual substitution has anything to contribute here. True, Patroclus in a sense replaces Achilles temporarily, but his death does not divert fate away from Achilles; in fact, quite the reverse: it accelerates his death.58 Nor can I see how the death of a hero like Patroclus brings about purification. What was impure? The king?59 The community? Does killing in warfare itself create an impurity which needs to be removed? Or does the impurity lie in the fact that the hero attacks the god (Neoptolemus and Delphi again). But then it’s hard to see how the hero-warrior could be simultaneously the cause of impurity and the process by which it is removed. As far as I can see, the only respect in which the HTTS interpretation of therapon coincides with the Anatolian tarpa(na)lli is that of antagonism: we saw that in Hittite myths tarpa(na)llis are the challengers to the gods, and this idea would have something in common with the therapontes Areos if these are rightly interpreted as “antagonists of Ares”; but that of course is not at all clear. The basic problem is that there is no reason to challenge the obvious interpretation of therapon as “attendant”, “retainer” or “sidekick”.60 In the context of Homeric warfare, he is a comrade who supports a warrior, often by driving the chariot. Sometimes the idea seems to be of almost feudal service, as in Odysseus’ lying story about the man who resists service as Idomeneus’ therapon (Od. 13.265–8). The expression “therapontes of Ares”, etc., seems

138  Ian Rutherford likely to be an extension of this, although for all we know it exploits another earlier quasi-religious sense: “sacred attendant of a god”.61 The relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is obviously portrayed as particularly close, so much so that at least from the time of Aeschylus it was represented as sexual,62 but there is no sign that all warrior-therapon relations were of this type. Besides Patroclus, there is only one other therapon who dies wearing the armour of his master: Ereuthalion (Il. 7.149), the therapon of Lycurgus, who had earlier obtained it from a third warrior, Arerithous, whom he slew, and given it to Ereuthalion when he was old. Peter Greenhalgh’s comment on the transfer of weapons is apposite: In short, he (Patroclus) as therapon was his chief’s vice-gerent, and the transfer of armour from Achilles to Patroclus, or from Lycurgus to Ereuthalion, made this doubly clear, possibly combining a symbolic transfer of identity with a magical transfer of the true leader’s prowess which could thus be held less indirectly responsible for whatever success was achieved by his deputy.63 The HTTS are aware that the parallel between therapon and tarpalli is not close. Their premise is that the sacrificial sense is the original one which has been suppressed in some way (Lowenstam, cited above), or that it is part of the deeper “master narrative” contrasting with the surface meaning.64 Kitts speaks of a “ritual leitmotif” that survives, “although the ritual nature of the substitution may not be remembered”.65 The hermeneutic strategy of looking for ancient rituals behind the surface meaning of texts has an illustrious history. Perhaps the most famous case is that of adolescent initiation rituals, introduced into Greco-Roman culture from nineteenthcentury anthropology (if not before),66 and knowledge of “rites of passage” is illuminating, even if it has been a little overdone. The use made of ritual by the Cambridge Ritualists perhaps also fits into this model, e.g. the now discredited “ritual origin of drama”. An underlying assumption here is that rituals tend to be ancient, and that “primitive culture” is characterised by a wide range of rituals that later phases of culture tend to jettison. In other words, it presupposes an evolutionary model of cultural development. But is this necessarily right? Royal substitute rituals of the Hittite and Babylonian type, e.g. seem to presuppose the context of the “complex societies” of the Ancient Near East, which may have been alien to the tribal Indo-Europeans (Dover offers a refreshing jeremiad against the common assumption that rituals are always ancient).67 There is a particular problem with the idea that the Greek epic tradition should have suppressed the idea that a warrior’s death was a sacrifice. This is not something Greeks have been concerned to suppress elsewhere. One thinks of the myth of king Codrus of Athens, who gets himself killed by the enemy when an oracle indicates that this will ensure victory, or Euripides’ Menoeceus who throws himself from the walls of Thebes for a similar

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick  139 68

reason. The Iliad presupposes the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, and culminates in the funeral of Patroclus where 12 Trojan captives are slaughtered and burnt on the pyre like a sort of offering (Il. 23.175–82).69 Roman religiomilitary tradition made it even more explicit: a warrior could perform devotio ritual, undertaking to die for the sake of his army and pledging himself to the underworld gods for his country.70 Thus, the absence of a narrative of warrior-sacrifice in the Iliad should not be taken to indicate that something has been suppressed; rather it indicates that it was not part of the meaning, and never had been. There’s also another reason for doubting the HTTS on ritual substitutes, and it comes from another oriental tradition. As has often been observed, the plot-type: “Two warriors have a close relationship; one dies; the other is distraught, and arranges elaborate funeral ceremonies for him” has a good parallel in the Epic of Gilgamesh, and it seems possible that Homer’s Iliad has drawn either on this poem or on tradition of narratives involving two heroes.71 Some aspects are different – e.g. Enkidu does not die in battle, his death being a later punishment from the gods for the killing of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven; but the intense reaction of Gilgamesh to his death seems very similar, as does the relationship between the two heroes – partly that of two friends and partly that of servant to master.72 Another similarity is that in both narratives one warrior could be said to die in place of another: in Enkidu’s case, it’s not that he dies wearing Gilgamesh’s armour, but that Anu and Enlil decide that one of the two must die, and it has to be Enkidu73; in death Enkidu thus is more like a substitute than Patroclus, but even he is not a substitute in the full sense of the term; that would require that an initial decision was made that Gilgamesh should die and Enkidu then replaced him (like Dumuzi or Alcestis).74 To sum up: it is not my intention in this paper to undermine the comparative approach in Homeric studies, which I believe can yield important results. However, one risk that comes with comparative work is that there may be a temptation to impose the same procrustean model on phenomena from different cultural traditions which are really not very alike.75 The case of Anatolian tarpa(na)lli and Homeric therapon seems to me to fall into the latter category. The only reason to connect them at all is van Brock’s thesis that the word was borrowed into Greek with the meaning “substitute”. But, as we saw, the activities of Homeric therapontes are so unlike those of ritual substitutes that the only way of saving the hypothesis that they are connected at all is to posit that the original sense has been lost except for a faint trace of it which somehow still resonates in the poem. I submit that a more reasonable interpretation of the evidence would be that Greek therapon never had anything to do with Anatolian tarpa(na)lli and that ritual substitution as we find it in Mesopotamia and Hittite religion has nothing to tell us about the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, although the ritual practices of those cultures may well illuminate Homer, and indeed Greek religion outside Homer, in other respects.

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Notes

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick  141

10 11

12

13 14 15

16

17

18

Elemente orientalischer Kulturtechnik in den homerischen Epen, dargestellt am Beispiel des Vertragswesens,” in Griechische Archaik: Interne Entwicklungen – Externe Impulse (Berlin: Akademie, 2004b), 383n.124 is dismissive of the theory that the Homeric oaths point to the Hittite world and argues for a Neo Assyrian context. see Margalit Finkelberg, Greeks and Pre-Greeks: Aegean Pre-history and Greek Heroic Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 42–64. Mastigga’s Ritual against Domestic Quarrel §20–21, For translation, see Alice Mouton (ed.), hethiter.net/: CTH 404.1.I (TRfr 21.03.2012); Jared L. Miller, Studies in the Origins, Development and Interpretation of the Kizzuwatnan Rituals (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2004), 74. See Irene Huber, “Ersatzkönige in griechischem Gewand: Die Umformung der šar puhi-Rituale bei Herodot, Berossos, Agathias und den AlexanderHistorikern,” in Von Sumer bis Homer: Festschrift für Manfred Schretter zum 60. Geburtstag am 25. Februar 2004, eds. Manfred Schretter and Robert Rollinger (Münster: Ugaritverlag, 2005a) The earliest Greek reference to a royal substitute ritual identified by Huber is Herodotus’ story that the Persian Artabanus had a dream on the royal throne while wearing Xerxes’ clothes (7.15–17), but Herodotus seems to misinterpret it (see Huber, “Ersatzkönige in griechischem Gewand,” 357–62). Robert L. Fowler, Early Greek Mythography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000–2013), 2.75. See Jan N. Bremmer, “Scapegoat Rituals in Ancient Greece,” HSCP 87 (1983): 299–320. See Robert Parker, “Substitution in Greek Sacrifice,” in Sacrifices humains: perspectives croisées et représentations, eds. Pierre Bonnechere and Renaud Gagné (Liège: Presses universitaires de Liège, 2013), 147–8, for examples. At Soph. El.  571, Iphigeneia is called a “substitute” (ἀντίσταθμος) because her death is requital for the death of one of Artemis’ deer. On this text, see Pierre Boyancé, “Un rite de purification dans les Argonautiques de Valerius Flaccus,” Rev. Ét. Lat. 13 (1935): 107–36; Robert Parker, Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), 226. There are several stages to this. (1). They march under a bayleaf held by Orpheus. (2). They invoke the sun (Apollo). (3). Animals are sacrificed and parts of them are passed through the army. (4). They set up armed treetrunks as models of themselves with armour. Much of this can be paralleled in Anatolian purification rituals; e.g. stage (1) looks like a ritual gate. In Walter Burkert, Structure and History in Greek Mythology and Ritual (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1979), 61–62; a Hittite ritual unknown to Burkert includes a mare being sent in the direction of the enemy: see Richard H. Beal, “Hittite Military Rituals,” in Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, eds. Marvin W. Meyer and Paul Allan Mirecki (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 73–74. Sinon: Christopher A. Faraone, Talismans and Trojan Horses: Guardian Statues in Ancient Greek Myth and Ritual (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 98–99. Irene Huber, Rituale der Seuchen- und Schadensabwehr im Vorderen Orient und Griechenland. Formen kollektiver Krisenbewältigung in der Antike (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 2005b), 94: “Der Zeitpunkt der Reinigung nach Abfahrt des Schiffes deutet darauf hin, dass Chryseis als Art „Trägerin” des Übels gesehen wurde, deren Entfernung auch die Krankheit beendete. Man kann Chryseis durchaus auch als Art Omenanzeiger bezeichnen, wie sie für die altorientalischen Kulturen vorgestellt wurden: An ihnen zeigte sich ein Unheil – ohne dass sie deswegen von ihm selbst betroffen sein mussten –, das durch ihre Entfernung (auch mittels Schiff!) beendet wurde. Chryseis symbolisierte aber auf jeden Fall

142  Ian Rutherford

19

20 21

22

23

24

25 26

die Krankheit oder wurde indirekt als Schuldige für das Unheil gesehen”. It is interesting that in one of the Arzawa rituals, Ashella’s ritual, one of the carriers is an adorned woman. Albert B. Lord, The Singer of Tales (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960), 189, had envisaged the possibility that it some version of the plot “the return of Chryseis implied her sacrifice to Apollo”. For another interpretation of these carrier-women (as a model for Pandora), see Norbert Oettinger, “Sünderbock, Pandora und Hethitisch dammili pedi,” Hethitica 16 (2010): 111–20. The terms occur in Hittite texts but are assumed to have originated in the related Luwian language because they are usually preceded in writing with the double wedge sign (Glossenkeil), which denotes foreign origin. See Johann Tischler, Günter Neumann, and Erich Neu, HEG III/9 Lieferung 9 T, D/2 (Innsbruck, 1993), 207–9; Frank Starke, Untersuchungen zur Stammbildung des keilschrifliche Nomens: Die Flexion des Substantivus (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1990), 233–4, below. Survival in Lycian was suggested by René Lebrun, “Studia Lyciaca,” Hethitica 14 (1999), 51–52. Nadia van Brock, “Substitution Rituelle,” RHA 65 (1959): 125–6. “Ce ne serait pas le seul exemple d’une survivance d’un passé étrange et sauvage, édulcorée et poétisée par des générations qui ne comprennent plus. En même temps que le rite magique se perdait, le nom du “substitute” perdait aussi la plénitude de son sens original, et le θεράπων qui était autrefois pour l’ ἄναξ le véritable alter ego, confondu avec lui par des liens magiques indissolubles, ne lui est plus attaché que par des liens d’un caractère mi-personnel, mi-féodal, dans une société où le chef s’affirme comme homme et comme guerrier, et affronte comme tel son destin de mortel, dont ni prêtres ni dieux ne sauraient plus l’affranchir”. cf. Nadia van Brock, Recherches sur le vocabulaire médical du grec ancien: soins et Guérison (Paris: C. Klincksieck, 1961), 118n.1; in 115–18 she seems to suggest that all early uses of the word in Greek suggest a religious sense, to which the Hittite parallel lends support, but this seems doubtful. See Johann Tischler, Hethitisches Etymologisches Glossar II/2. Lieferung 14. S/2 (Innsbruck: Universität Innsbruck, 2006), 203–12; Hans Martin Kümmel, “Ersatzkönig und Sündenbock,” ZAW 80.3 (1968): 289–318; Volkert Haas and Daliah Bawanypeck, Materia Magica et Medica Hethitica: ein Beitrag zur Heilkunde im Alten Orient (2 vols.) (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 401–6; Mouton, “tarpalli – tarpassa”. It is one of a range of words with similar senses, including nakusse (“carrier”), sena (“image”), himma (“model”, the last is linked etymologically to Latin imitor), Alice Mouton, “Rituels de ‘boucs émissaires’ en Anatolie hittite,” in Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Hittitology, Warsaw 5 – 9 Sept. 2011, eds. Piotr Taracha and Magdalena Kapełuś (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Agade, 2014), 558–87. According to one possible etymology these words go back to the same Indo-European root as Greek trepo: “turn”: see HEG II/2/14S/2 (2006), 1044, though HEG III/9T,D/2 (1993), 205 is more cautious. KUB 15.2, 1.14–23; text in Hans Martin Kümmel, Ersatzrituale für den hethitischen König (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1967), 56; trans. Kühne in Walter Beyerlin, Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1978), 174–9, 176. As in the prayer in which Gassuliyawiya the ailing wife of the Hittite king Mursili 2, sends a woman as a “tarpassa” or “tarpalli” substitute, as well as a cow-tarpalli and a ewe-tarpalli to the goddess Lelwani of Kummani (CTH 380); Johann Tischler, Das hethitische Gebet der Gassulijawija: Text, Übersetzung, Kommentar (Innsbruck: Universität Innsbruck, 1981). Kümmel, Ersatzrituale, 19–21, 57. Tischler, Hethitisches Etymologisches Glossar, 209; Yakubovich in Luwian Corpus finds the same meaning in Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions of 1st millennium BC. The verb tarpanallassa- seems to mean “rebel”, as in some Hittite diplomatic texts (including ones from Western Anatolia).

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick  143















144  Ian Rutherford 44 At a turning point in the Iliad (16. 122–5) the Trojans set fire to the Greek ships. Achilles, who isn’t fighting, sees this, “strikes his thighs” and tells Patroclus to arm himself. This leads directly to Patroclus’ death and the end of the poem. This echoes an earlier passage in the Iliad where Patroclus himself ‘slaps both his thighs with the flat of his hands’ when he realises that he has no option but to join the battle (Il. 15.395–400). The motif is otherwise rare in the Iliad. In one passage the god Ares slaps his thighs after his son is killed in battle and he decides to join the fight, even if it kills him (Il. 15.133). When Odysseus arrives back in Ithaca, he doesn’t know where he is and strikes his thigh in grief (Od. 13.197–203), a gesture of despair. When Achilles does it, it may be something more like “the situation is serious and I must act”. In fact, thigh-slapping is an old motif which goes back to the ANE. 45 See David P. Wright, “The Gesture of Hand Placement in the Hebrew Bible and in Hittite Literature,” JAOS 106 (1986): 433–46. 46 See Mayer I. Gruber, Aspects of Nonverbal Communication in the Ancient Near East (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1980), 380–4 (who took it as a gesture of grief); M. L. West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), 200–1, n.101 (usually dismay, but in Sumerian poetry deciding to take action). To give some examples of humans thigh-slapping: 1. In the Cuthean Legend of Naram-Sin: “Naram-Sin and the Enemy Hordes” (SB Recension) (Text 22, line 48, Joan G. Westenholz, Legends of the Kings of Akkade: The Texts (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 313): “A scout tried to intercept them, but they smote their thighs. At the beginning of their approach they proceeded against Purushanda”. Is this a gesture of panic? Or determination? 2: Lugal-e, 73 at the start of Ninurta’s conflict with Asag: “the hero beat his thighs with his fists” (Black). 3: Lugal-e, 226: the Sar-ur-weapon slaps its thighs when it hears the prophecy from Enlil. “The weapon its heart…, was reassured: it slapped its thighs, the Sar-ur began to run, it entered the rebel lands, joyfully it reported the message to Lord Ninurta”. In the last case, the thigh-slapping is clearly positive. Cases of gods slapping their thighs: Descent of Ishtar, 101: Asushunamir asks for a water skin, and Ereshkigal rejects it: “when Ereshkigal heard this, she struck her thigh, and she bit her finger, (saying) ‘You, Asushunamir, asked of me an unrequestable request”; Inanna and Dumuzi, 114: (when Inanna arrives) “Ereshkigal slapped the side of her thigh. She bit her lip and took the words to heart”. As Thorkild Jacobsen, The Harps that Once: Sumerian Poetry in Translation (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987), 212n.12 says, the gesture seems to denote arriving at a decision, within the Greek range of meanings (“The gesture is one accompanying and expressing arrival at a decision. Approximately it means ‘Let us get on with it!’ … Here it probably denotes that E. wants to have it out with I. for good or bad”). 47 Lowenstam, Death of Patroklos, 150–9. 48 cf. Huber, “Ersatzkönige in griechischem Gewand,” 352 with references 49 Gregory Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1979); Sinos, Achilles, Patroklos, 29–37. 50 Contrast the view of Tarenza, “Patroclo θεράπων,” that Patroclus is marked as being different from other therapontes (and therefore a substitute) because the term therapon is applied during and after his aristeia, but not before. 51 Dale S. Sinos, Achilles, Patroklos and the Meaning of Philos (Innsbruck: Universität Innsbruck, 1980), 34–35. 52 Nagy, Best of the Achaeans, 292–5, 305–7. 53 Nagy, Best of the Achaeans, 131: “antagonism between hero and god in myth corresponds to the ritual requirements of symbiosis between hero and god in cult”.

Substitute, sacrifice and sidekick  145 54 Cf. the formulation in Nagy, Best of the Achaeans, 307: As the semantic history of the word indicates, the therapon has a distinctly religious function. By losing his identification with a person or a group and by identifying himself with a god who takes his life in the process, the hero effects a purification by transferring impurity. 55 Gregory Nagy, The Ancient Greek Hero in 24 Hours (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2013), 158; cf. Gregory Nagy, “Achilles and Patroklos as models for the twinning of identity,” (2018). 56 “When a warrior is killed in war, he becomes a therapōn or ‘ritual substitute’ who dies for Arēs by becoming identical to the war god at the moment of death; then, after death, the warrior is eligible to become a cult hero who serves as a sacralized ‘attendant’ of the war god”. 57 Nagy, Ancient Greek Hero, 168. 58 This may reflect a broader difference in attitudes to fate and divination between the two cultures. In Assyria, it is possible to avoid a disaster forecast by taking evasive action, e.g. using a substitute, whereas in early Greece, oracles are not so easy to outwit, although here may be some room for manoeuvre in how one deals with it: e.g. Achilles’ fate depends on whether he chooses to stay at Troy. 59 cf. Nagy, Ancient Greek Hero, 162. 60 So Hans van Wees defines the therapon as retainer or “he who serves”, and says a few free men who do not belong to the family may join the household as retainers (therapontes). Such men live in the house of their master; they perform personal services for him, such as preparing and serving his food or grooming and driving his horses; and they follow him to war.

61 62 63 64

According to Greenhalgh they were “non-local aristocrats who enter the service of a distant king, live with him, fight with him or, if he is indisposed, in his place …” (for warriors coming from a distance, see Finkelberg, Greeks and PreGreeks, 65–71). Hans van Wees, Status Warriors: War, Violence and Society in Homer and History (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1992), 54, 333n.61; P. A. L. Greenhalgh, “The Homeric Therapon and Opaon and their Historical Implications,” BICS 29.1 (1982): 84. Cf. van Brock, Recherches sur le vocabulaire, 117–18. See William M. Clarke, “Achilles and Patroclus in Love,” Hermes 106.3 (1978): 381–96; T. K. Hubbard, “Sexuality,” in The Homer Encyclopedia, ed. Margalit Finkelberg (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwel, 2011), 789–90. Peter Greenhalgh, “Homeric Therapon,” 84. Nagy, Ancient Greek Hero, 149: 6§7. The main question comes down to this: how does the conventional definition of therapōn as ‘attendant’ square with that other definition that I gave at the start, ‘ritual substitute’? … My answer is that both meanings apply. Patroklos is the ‘attendant’ of Achilles on the surface, but he is his ‘ritual substitute’ in the deeper meaning of the master narrative.

65 Kitts, “Funeral sacrifices,” 222. 66 See Fritz Graf, “Initiation: A Concept with a Troubled History,” in Initiation in Ancient Greek Rituals and Narratives: New Critical Perspectives, eds. David B. Dodd and Christopher A. Faraone (London: Routledge, 2003), 3–24. 67 Kenneth J. Dover, “Greek Homosexuality and Initiation,” in The Greeks and their Legacy: Collected Papers. Volume II: Prose Literature, History, Society, Influence (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988), 121–2.

146  Ian Rutherford 68 Codrus: Burkert, Structure and History, 62–63; Fowler, Early Greek Mythography, 2.490; Menoeceus: Eur. Pho. 1090–2. 69 Pierre Bonnechere, Le sacrifice humain en Grèce ancienne (Liège: Presses universitaires de Liège, 1994), 284–5. 70 Livy. 8.10.12; Jörg B. Rüpke, Domi militiae: die religiöse Konstruktion des Krieges in Rom (Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1990), 156–61. (In the event that such warriors survived the battle, they were obliged to bury a colossal statue as a substitute.) 71 See West, The East Face of Helicon, 336–8; John R. Wilson, “The Gilgamesh Epic and the Iliad,” Echos du monde classique: Classical Views, 30 (1986): 25–41. The narrative of David and Jonathan, the son of Saul, in the Book of 2 Samuel (18:1–5, 23–27) may be another example; Jonathan gives David his weapons, and David laments when Jonathan is killed. We cannot rule out the possibility that it has been influenced by Greece. Mark S. Smith, Poetic Heroes: Literary Commentaries of Warriors and Warrior Culture in the Early Biblical World (Michigan, Cambridge: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2014), 59–64; Christophe Nihan, “David et Jonathan – une ‘amitié héroïque’? Enquête littéraire à travers les récits de 1-2 Samuel (1-2 Règnes),” in Le jeune héros: recherches sur la formation et la diffusion d’un thème littéraire au Proche-Orient ancien: actes du colloque organisé par les chaires d’Assyriologie et des Milieux bibliques du Collège de France, Paris, les 6 et 7 avril 2009, eds. Jean-Marie Durand, Thomas Römer, and Michael Langlois (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 327–9. 72 See Andrew George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 140. Gilgamesh’s mother Ninsun gives Enkidu a special status, apparently that of sirku to him, which would normally mean the servant of a god (III.122). See George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 581 and 815; compare the Homeric idea of therapon of a god; Wilson, “Gilgamesh Epic”, 32–33 relies on earlier out-of-date editions 73 Hittite version of tablet VII; E. Rieken et al. (ed.), hethiter.net/: CTH 341.III.3 (TRde 2009-08-21). 74 In the Standard Babylonian text at II.109-10 Enkidu is called “puhu” to Gilgamesh in the context of marriage festivals in Uruk, where Gilgamesh practices ius primae noctis. Puhu would usually mean “ritual substitute”, but it seems likely that it is being used in the sense of mehru (‘rival’) here, which actually occurs in the Old Babylonian text: see George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 455–6. Perhaps the semantic range of puhu included “rival”, like Hittite tarpalli/tarpanalli. 75 Cf. Henri Frankfort, The Problem of Similarity in Ancient Near Eastern Religions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951), 21: “… the comparative method is most valuable when it leads not to the spurious equation but to a more subtle distinction of similar features in different civilisations”.

10 The birth of literary criticism (Herodotus 2.116–17) and the roots of Homeric neoanalysis* Bruno Currie

10.1 Introduction My title intends to pay homage to Margalit Finkelberg’s Birth of Literary Fiction in Ancient Greece.1 It also fixes on a text, Herodotus 2.116–17, that Professor Finkelberg has discussed in an important paper on the “problem of multiformity” in early Greek epic.2 My discussion of this text focuses on a different area of Homeric scholarship, again one that has occupied our honorand: Homeric neoanalysis.3 These Herodotean chapters have been hailed as “the earliest known example of Homeric criticism.”4 My aim is to show how Homeric criticism in its earliest attestation is vitally in dialog with modern-day Homeric criticism: specifically, that Herodotus’ thinking in this snapshot may be seen as a curiously ambivalent precursor of the modern neoanalytical method (what I understand by this will presently be made clear). In paying this tribute to one of today’s foremost Homeric scholars I hope to stimulate reflection in several related areas. First, on contemporary neoanalytical Homeric criticism. Second, on the early history of ancient Homeric criticism; in particular, on Herodotus’ relationship to later Homeric scholars, such as Aristarchus and the so-called “Mythographus Homericus.” And third, on what we are to make of a situation where modern and ancient critical approaches converge and diverge in striking ways. In the penultimate section of the paper I consider the implications of such convergences and divergences on the question of putative Near Eastern – or Egyptian – sources of Homer.

10.2 Herodotus 2.116–17 First, a text and translation of Herodotus 2.116–17:5 (116.) (1) Ἑλένης μὲν ταύτην ἄπιξιν παρὰ Πρωτέα ἔλεγον οἱ ἱρέες γενέσθαι. δοκέει δέ μοι καὶ Ὅμηρος τὸν λόγον τοῦτον πυθέσθαι· ἀλλ’, οὐ γὰρ ὁμοίως *

It is a pleasure to dedicate this paper to Margalit Finkelberg, an inspiration and a friend for many years. I am also very grateful to Denis Feeney and Henry Spelman for numerous valuable comments and suggestions. All translations from the Greek are mine unless stated otherwise.

148  Bruno Currie ἐς τὴν ἐποποιίην εὐπρεπὴς ἦν τῷ ἑτέρῳ τῷ περ ἐχρήσατο, [ἐς ὃ]6 μετῆκε αὐτόν, δηλώσας ὡς καὶ τοῦτον ἐπίσταιτο τὸν λόγον. (2) δῆλον δέ, κατὰ αρεποίησε7 ἐν Ἰλιάδι (καὶ οὐδαμῇ ἄλλῃ ἀνεπόδισε ἑωυτόν) πλάνην τὴν Ἀλεξάνδρου, ὡς ἀπηνείχθη ἄγων Ἑλένην τῇ τε δὴ ἄλλῃ πλαζόμενος καὶ ὡς ἐς Σιδῶνα τῆς Φοινίκης ἀπίκετο. (3) ἐπιμέμνηται δὲ αὐτοῦ ἐν Διομήδεος ἀριστηίῃ· λέγει δὲ τὰ ἔπεα ὧδε· ἔνθ’ ἔσαν οἱ πέπλοι παμποίκιλοι, ἔργα γυναικῶν Σιδονίων, τὰς αὐτὸς Ἀλέξανδρος θεοειδὴς ἤγαγε Σιδονίηθεν, ἐπιπλὼς εὐρέα πόντον, τὴν ὁδὸν ἣν Ἑλένην περ ἀνήγαγεν εὐπατέρειαν. (4) ἐπιμέμνηται δὲ καὶ ἐν Ὀδυσσείῃ ἐν τοῖσδε τοῖσι ἔπεσι· τοῖα Διὸς θυγάτηρ ἔχε φάρμακα μητιόεντα, ἐσθλά, τά οἱ Πολύδαμνα πόρεν Θῶνος παράκοιτις Αἰγυπτίη, τῇ πλεῖστα φέρει ζείδωρος ἄρουρα φάρμακα, πολλὰ μὲν ἐσθλὰ μεμιγμένα, πολλὰ δὲ λυγρά. (5) καὶ τάδε ἕτερα πρὸς Τηλέμαχον Μενέλεως λέγει· Αἰγύπτῳ μ’ ἔτι δεῦρο θεοὶ μεμαῶτα νέεσθαι ἔσχον, ἐπεὶ οὔ σφιν ἔρεξα τεληέσσας ἑκατόμβας. (6) ἐν τούτοισι τοῖσι ἔπεσι δηλοῖ ὅτι ἠπίστατο τὴν ἐς Αἴγυπτον Ἀλεξάνδρου πλάνην· ὁμουρέει γὰρ ἡ Συρίη Αἰγύπτῳ, οἱ δὲ Φοίνικες, τῶν ἐστι ἡ Σιδών, ἐν τῇ Συρίῃ οἰκέουσι. (117.) κατὰ ταῦτα δὲ τὰ ἔπεα καὶ τόδε τὸ χωρίον οὐκ ἥκιστα ἀλλὰ μάλιστα δηλοῖ ὅτι οὐκ Ὁμήρου τὰ Κύπρια ἔπεά ἐστι ἀλλ’ ἄλλου τινός· ἐν μὲν γὰρ τοῖσι Κυπρίοισι εἴρηται ὡς τριταῖος ἐκ Σπάρτης Ἀλέξανδρος ἀπίκετο ἐς τὸ Ἴλιον ἄγων Ἑλένην, εὐαέϊ τε πνεύματι χρησάμενος καὶ θαλάσσῃ λείῃ· ἐν δὲ Ἰλιάδι λέγει ὡς ἐπλάζετο ἄγων αὐτήν. Ὅμηρος μέν νυν καὶ τὰ Κύπρια ἔπεα χαιρέτω. (116.) (1) That is how the priests said that Helen came into the presence of Proteus. Homer too seems to me to have learned of this tale; however, as it was not as seemly for epic poetry as the one which he adopted, he [deliberately] dropped it, showing that he knew this tale too. (2) This is clear from how he included as a digression8 in the Iliad (and did not make himself backtrack9 anywhere else) the detour of Alexander: how he was carried off course with Helen, both wandering elsewhere and how he came to Sidon in Phoenicia. (3) He makes mention of it in the aristeia of Diomedes; he speaks hexameter verses as follows: There she had robes of all colours, the handiwork of women of Sidon, whom godlike Alexander himself brought from Sidon, when he sailed over the broad sea, on the voyage on which he had conveyed Helen of illustrious lineage (Il. 6.289–92). (4) He makes mention of it also in the Odyssey in these following verses: Such were the drugs the daughter of Zeus had in her possession, clever ones,

Birth of literary criticism  149 beneficial, which Polydamna had given her, the wife of Thon, of Egypt, where the grain-giving soil bears the greatest quantity of drugs, many of them beneficial when compounded, many again harmful (Od. 4.227–30). (5) And Menelaos speaks these further verses to Telemachos: In Egypt, as I still yearned to come hither, the gods detained me, since I had not sacrificed perfect hecatombs to them (Od. 4.351–2). (6) He shows in these verses that he knew Alexander’s detour to Egypt; for Syria borders on Egypt, and the Phoenicians, whose city Sidon is, live in Syria. (117.) From these verses and this passage it is clear not least but especially that the Cypria is not the work of Homer but of some other; for in the Cypria (fr. 14 Bernabé) it is stated that Alexander came to Troy with Helen on the third day after leaving Sparta, having enjoyed a favourable breeze and a smooth sea; but in the Iliad he says that he strayed off course with her. So much for Homer and the Cypria.

10.3 Herodotus, Aristarchus, the Mythographus Homericus, and modern neoanalysis A notable feature of Herodotus’ method in these chapters is his preparedness to explicate mythological details in the Homeric texts (namely, Paris’ itinerary via Sidon to Troy referenced in the sixth book of the Iliad, and Menelaos’ itinerary via Egypt to Sparta as recounted in the fourth book of the Odyssey) by recourse to independently attested mythology: a story that Herodotus has heard from the priests of Memphis. Before relating this argument to modern neoanalysis, I wish to put it in the context of a debate in ancient Homeric criticism, represented by Aristarchus, on the one hand, and the “Mythographus Homericus,” on the other.10 Aristarchus sees all other poets as “younger” (νεώτεροι) than Homer, and views their versions as reactions to Homer.11 The “Mythographus Homericus” is the modern label for the anonymous compiler of a systematic mythological commentary on the Iliad and Odyssey, dating to the early imperial period.12 The premise of such a commentary is that knowledge of extraneous mythological matter aids the reader’s understanding of Homer’s text.13 This debate becomes tangible for us in a famous exchange of views presented in the scholia to Iliad 1.5 concerning the phrase Διὸς δ’ ἐτελείετο βουλή, “and the plan of Zeus was being accomplished.” Here is schol. D Il. 1.5: Other scholars claimed that Homer has spoken from some myth; for a story goes that the Earth, when she was burdened by the great abundance of men, and when there was no piety among men, begged Zeus to

150  Bruno Currie be lightened of her load… The myth is in Stasinus, poet of the Cypria, who said the following [Cypria fr. 1 Bernabé]: There was a time when countless races roaming continually over the earth the breadth of the deep-chested land; Zeus saw, and took pity, and in his shrewd mind purposed to lighten the all-nourishing earth of men by fanning into flame the great strife of the Trojan War to deplete the burden by death; so they, the heroes, began to be slain in Troy, and the plan of Zeus was being accomplished. That is the myth recounted in the later poets concerning the plan of Zeus. But I agree with the opinion of Aristarchus and Aristophanes that the plan with Thetis is the plan, who in the following narrative besought Zeus and called on him to redress her son’s injury, just as the outline of the poem is set down in the proem. And here is schol. A Il. 1.5–6: “And the plan of Zeus was being accomplished, from the time when first…”: Aristarchus construes these clauses together, so that there does not appear to be a pre-existing plan [sc. of Zeus] against the Greeks, but rather only from the time that the wrath [sc. of Achilleus] came about, so that we do not accept the fabrications in the later poets. The D-scholion records the view of “other scholars” (who for us are most clearly represented by the “Mythographus Homericus”) that in mentioning the plan of Zeus Homer has “spoken from some myth,” which is to be found in Stasinus, the poet of the Cypria. The A-scholion records Aristarchus’ contrary proposal to construe Homer’s temporal clause ἐξ οὗ δὴ τὰ πρῶτα, “from the time when first” as epexegetic of Διὸς… βουλή (rather than of μῆνιν ἄειδε… Ἀχιλῆος: “sing of the wrath of Achilleus…, from the time when first…”), so that the plan of Zeus will refer to the Iliadic plan made by Zeus with Thetis, and any reference will be excluded to “fabrications” of the “later poets” (i.e. Stasinus), who told of an overarching “plan of Zeus” predating Achilleus’ wrath against Agamemnon. Herodotus’ readiness to see Homer as reacting to a story attested after Homer appears to make him a sympathizer with the Mythographus Homericus rather than Aristarchus. Indeed, we might fairly rephrase Herodotus, in the language of the Mythographus Homericus, as saying that Homer in Iliad VI and Odyssey IV “speaks from a certain myth.” But Herodotus’ position on the “sources” of Il. 6.289ff. and of Od. 4.227ff. should also be considered in the context of modern Homeric criticism. On

Birth of literary criticism  151 the one hand, what we may call an Aristarchan view is well represented. For instance, A. B. Lloyd comments: It is likely that H[erodotus] is mistaken even in his view of the implications of Il VI; for there is good reason to believe that H[erodotus’] logos is post-Homeric and that Il VI, 289ff., rather than reflecting it, was one of the elements which contributed to its development.14 This position is Aristarchan to the extent that it sees the Egyptian logos as “younger” than Homer and as influenced by Homeric epic, rather than influencing it. On the other hand, a position resembling that of the Mythographus Homericus is also represented, though less frequently. G. Danek takes issue with the “Aristarchan” position just indicated, noting that “interpreters of the Odyssey hardly ever engage with the relationship with those later mythical variants in which Helen remains in Egypt during the war and only her εἴδωλον goes to Troy.” Danek questions the automatic assumption that “all chronologically later manifestations of the legend depend on the Odyssey and details that deviate from the Odyssey are innovations of the poets or modifications of details of the Odyssey.”15 He suggests rather that, “as regards the εἴδωλον of Helen, it would be possible to assume that we are dealing with a very ancient variant of the myth, which Homer (the poet(s) of the Iliad and Odyssey) also knew.”16 We could fairly characterize this position – both Danek’s on Odyssey IV and that of the Mythographus Homericus on Iliad 1.5 – as “neoanalytical.” Neoanalysts characteristically regard the poems of the Epic Cycle (regarded generally as postdating the Homeric epics) as a possible repository of mythological traditions reaching back beyond Homer. However, the neoanalytical method need not be confined to the material furnished by the Epic Cycle.17 Many are likely to concur with S. Saïd in calling Herodotus’ overall interpretation of Homer in these chapters “far-fetched.”18 Yet it is important to be clear what exactly in Herodotus’ reasoning is hard to accept. It is not absurd of Herodotus to suggest that Homer can have a “source” for Paris’ detour alluded to in Iliad VI and for Menelaos’ detention in Egypt-Pharos as told in his secondary narration in Odyssey IV.19 Regarding the former, M. L. West has written: “Herodotus – justifiably – points to [Il. 6.289ff.] as evidence that Homer knew of wanderings [sc. by Paris, with Helen] in eastern waters.”20 Those “wanderings in eastern waters” featured in the version of the Cypria known to Proclus.21 They will also have been known to Virgil if they are evoked (with the motif being transferred from Paris to Aeneas) in the Juno-sent storm that blew Aeneas off course to Carthage in the first book of the Aeneid.22 However, Herodotus’ chapter 117 makes clear that they were not in the version of the Cypria that Herodotus knew, in which Paris got home from Sparta in a couple of days. (Margalit Finkelberg

152  Bruno Currie addressed this notorious discrepancy in the article on multiformity already mentioned.23) Neoanalysts reconstruct hypothetical pre-Homeric traditions from the poems of the Epic Cycle, including the Cypria, which the Homeric poems are taken to engage with. If we did not have Herodotus’ testimony in chapter 117 that in the Cypria Paris did not detour on the way back to Troy, then neoanalysts would not have hesitated to argue, on the basis of Proclus’ summary, that the Cypria preserves a pre-Homeric tradition referenced at Il. 6.289ff.24 We could argue similarly about the tradition of Helen spending the duration of the Trojan War in Egypt while only her eidolon went on to Troy. This is well established in archaic and classical Greek poetry; its most famous tellings are the “palinode” or “palinodes” of Stesichorus (Stes. frr. 192–3 PMGF = 90–91 Finglass-Davies) and two tragedies of Euripides (El. 1280–3, Hel. 1–55). This is just the sort of case where the Mythographus Homericus might have said: “Homer speaks from a certain myth; the myth is in Stesichorus (or Euripides or Stasinus).” We have seen that some modern scholars – Danek and West – come close to such a position. Herodotus, by contrast, can be paraphrased as saying: “Homer speaks from a certain myth; the myth is told by the Egyptian priests of Memphis.” This difference is all the more striking because there is nothing that Herodotus – or anyone else – could point to in the texts of the Iliad or the Odyssey to indicate knowledge on Homer’s part specifically of Herodotus’ Egyptian logos (according to which neither Helen herself nor a phantom of her goes to Troy), rather than knowledge of the Greek version found in Stesichorus and Euripides (where a phantom Helen goes to Troy). Our challenge is to explain this striking difference of approach: both Herodotus’ disinterest in possible Greek “sources” (Stesichorus and Euripides) and his interest in an Egyptian one.

10.4 Trying to make sense of Herodotus’ position We can in all probability dismiss the possibility that Herodotus was ignorant of the phantom Helen tradition. Stesichorus’ “palinode” was known to Plato (who references it in both the Phaedrus and the Republic), and the mythological variant of Helen seeing out the Trojan War in Egypt is referenced twice by Euripides in the period 422–413 BCE, both times with an allusiveness that implies that it was well known. Herodotus’ knowledge of poetry in general seems too good for us to be comfortable about supposing that he was ignorant of this mythological tradition.25 An alternative possibility is that Herodotus was not making a serious attempt to identify Homer’s sources but was interested rather in bolstering the credentials of his own, rationalized, account of the Trojan War set out in 2.120. To this end we might assume that he first ascribes the account to Egyptian priests (to give it independent validation) and then foists knowledge of it on Homer (to give it a veneer of antiquity). This is, more or less, the view of V. Hunter, for whom Herodotus is uninterested in matters of “Homeric criticism” or “literary criticism.”26 But we should recall here what P. Struck

Birth of literary criticism  153 has said about “positive allegory”; in other words, (to us) contrived-seeming readings of poetry whereby ancient literary critics see their own theories as adumbrated in poets’ works: The classification of “positive” allegory glosses over the rather obvious point that a critic who is charged with reading something into a poem sees the text differently than the one who levels the charge. We can be sure that no reader (ancient or modern) understands himself or herself as foisting ideas onto a text that do not belong there. The one who proposes a reading, I think we are safe to assume, thinks the text will bear it. More interesting questions present themselves at this point: What is different about these readers’ vying notions of the text? What can we learn from them? What effect do these visions have on the history of reading?27 It is, indeed, not easy to say that Herodotus here is not interested in making a literary critical argument. We ought rather to be asking what it was that recommended this literary critical argument to Herodotus. It seems plausible that Herodotus had certain preconceptions about Homer that motivate these differences from other interpreters, such as the Mythographus Homericus, or modern Homerists like Danek or West. One such preconception, I suggest, was that Herodotus wished his Homer to be in touch with the truth: Herodotus (like Strabo and Philostratus after him) may have been happy to allow that Homer fictionalized his account, but not that he was ignorant of the truth or hid it from us altogether. In other words, Herodotus will have recognized the existence of a “poetics of fiction” in Homer, at around the same time that Gorgias – as Margalit Finkelberg has argued – was doing so for tragedy.28 Moreover, we may impute to Herodotus an idealizing view of Homer, akin to that held by the “admirers (or ‘apologists’) of Homer” (Ὁμήρου ἐπαινέται), of whom we hear in Plato and elsewhere;29 or by those who, like the fourth-century Zeno, “found no fault in Homer” (Dio 53.5 = SVF i.274).30 M. Hillgruber observed that “already in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE the philosophers projected their own views, where possible, onto the epics, on the understanding that the greatest poet had the correct view of all things.”31 Here we see the Classical roots of the tradition of crediting Homer with universal knowledge that finds its flowering in the Pseudo-Plutarchan On Homer 2.32 Herodotus could not have regarded the version of (“Hesiod”-) Stesichorus-Euripides as true not merely because it involved the implausible notion of the gods making a phantom of Helen, but also because (as Herodotus goes on to argue in chapter 120) the Trojans would have been bound to surrender even a phantom Helen in order to save themselves (and since they did not do so, they could not have had any Helen, phantom or real, to surrender). A Herodotean interest in having Homer know the truth would not be satisfied by having him know the phantom Helen story. This, then, would be one way of accounting

154  Bruno Currie for the difference in approach between Herodotus and the Mythographus Homericus or a modern Homerist. Another putative preconception is also likely to be relevant. Herodotus apparently saw Homer (with Hesiod) as the originator of all Greek traditions. This emerges from the famous passage 2.53.1–3, where Herodotus opines that Hesiod and Homer are older than the other (known?) Greek poets: Whence each of the gods was born and whether all of them were always there, and what they are like in appearance, the Greeks did not know until yesterday or the day before, so to speak. For I think that Hesiod and Homer were four hundred years older than me, and not more; and they are the ones who created a theogony for the Greeks and gave the gods their epithets and differentiated their honours and accomplishments and indicated their appearances; for the poets who are said to have been earlier than these men were later, in my opinion. The priestesses of Dodona are the ones who make the first statements, I am the one who makes the statements pertaining to Hesiod and Homer. This passage seems to oblige us to recognize a proto-Aristarchan strand to Herodotus’ thinking as well as the one that allied him with the Mythographus Homericus. In Aristarchus’ terminology, Herodotus appears to take the other Greek poets (with the strikingly un-Aristarchan exception of Hesiod) to be younger than Homer. Herodotus emphasizes that this is a personally held view, and it appears to have been usual in the late fifth century to place Orpheus, Mousaios, and Hesiod before Homer.33 When, 30 chapters earlier, Herodotus casually spoke of “Homer or one of the earlier poets” (2.23), he can be understood to have been, for the time being, uncritically assuming this communis opinio, deferring the statement of his own heterodox view until 2.53.34 Accordingly, Herodotus can have resembled Aristarchus who, in the words of J. S. Burgess, “seems to have assumed that Homer is the root of all Greek literature, and that Homer invented most of the myth in his poems.”35 This view of Homer can probably be identified in the Classical period. Plato in the Republic makes Socrates air tentatively the view that Hesiod and Homer are the “composers” of Greek heroic and divine mythology.36 Simonides is supposed to have called Hesiod a “gardener” and Homer a “garland-weaver,” the former since he “planted” the mythologies of the gods and heroes, the latter since he wove the garland of the Iliad and the Odyssey out of them.37 The cognate conception of Homer as “Ocean,” the “source” of all subsequent Greek literature, himself lacking any sources, can be traced back at least as far as Callimachus.38 One might scruple to ascribe such a stark position to Herodotus. Apart from the seeming inconsistency with 2.23, it obliges us to assume that

Birth of literary criticism  155 Herodotus was oblivious to those passages where Hesiod and Homer more or less explicitly inscribe themselves into a tradition of singers, such as the tenth line in the proem of the Odyssey: “speak [sc. Muse] to me, too,” sc. as well as to earlier singers.39 We must, moreover, convict Herodotus of a crude fallacy. As A. B. Lloyd puts it, “Herodotus mistakenly assumes that the beginning of his evidence reflects the introduction of the phenomenon.”40 Aristotle, a century later, knew much better, granting the likelihood that there were many poets before Homer of whom nothing is known.41 By contrast, Herodotus apparently deduces the primacy of Hesiod and Homer from the fact that “the allegedly earlier poets” (2.53.3) are, on his view, later. He is evidently thinking of specific named poets (presumably, the likes of Orpheus and Mousaios), and accordingly (unlike Aristotle) fails to take account of any unknown and unnamed precursors. One way to try to avoid this conclusion would be to understand the primacy being claimed for Hesiod and Homer to be implicitly of the “first of whom I/we know” kind.42 In that case, Hesiod and Homer could represent for Herodotus the historical (i.e. empirically verifiable) beginning of Greek divine mythological poetry rather its beginning tout court. The statement, “they [sc. Hesiod and Homer] are the ones who created a theogony for the Greeks” could amount to a claim that we are unable to point to any other named individual as having created a theogony for the Greeks.43 Herodotus’ wider argument that the names of the gods have been in Egypt “always” (2.50.2–3), but were introduced to Greece only “yesterday or the day before, relatively speaking” (2.53.1), would still go through, though somewhat less compellingly: if the historical evidence for divine mythology in Greece predates Herodotus by a mere four hundred years at most, then (the argument would go) the natural implication is that the phenomenon itself in Greece cannot be very much older, and must in any event be far younger than in Egypt. On the whole it seems easier to ascribe to Herodotus the strong position, on which Hesiod and Homer were seen as literally constituting the beginnings of Greek mythology and lacking any (Hellenic) predecessors. Herodotus will then anticipate “Pseudo-Plutarch,” the author of On Homer 2, of whom J. J. Keaney and R. Lamberton write: Homer, for “Plutarch”, is an absolute source – there is no question of looking beyond him for his sources. The author does not consider Homer the earliest poet, but only one of the earliest (ch. 1), though that does not seem to alter his primal status. The attitude is not original, of course, and antecedents can be found at least as far back as Herodotus (2.54), for whom Homer and Hesiod had a primary creative role that rendered them in some sense personally responsible for the theology of the Greeks. Homer is conceived not as a transmitter of traditions, but as a creative source for the information he conveys.44

156  Bruno Currie A weaker position is also possible, though more difficult to make out. Thus, Herodotus can have allowed that there were Greek poets before Hesiod and Homer, but discounted these as, to all intents and purposes, irrelevant: Hesiod and Homer, though heirs to older mythological traditions, can have been viewed as the exclusive mediators of those traditions to subsequent Greeks. On this view, even if there were poets before Homer, still there were no “rivulets” that by-passed the Homeric “ocean” so as to influence the post-Homeric tradition independently of Homer: all influence (literally, “flowing in”) would be from Homer to post-Homeric poets.45 No later Greek poet (e.g. Stasinus, Stesichorus, or Euripides) would take us back beyond Homer. (The author of A.P. 9.184.3–4 apostrophizes Stesichorus as “you who drew off the Homeric stream into your own courses,” Ὁμηρικὸν ὅς τ’ ἀπὸ ῥεῦμα / ἔσπασας οἰκείοις, Στησίχορ’, ἐν καμάτοις.) Herodotus’ exclusion of the “Stesichorean” version as an indirect “source” of Homer would be explicable as a desire to save Homer’s primal status, which could be deemed compromised if (for instance) Stesichorus gave us access to Greek mythological traditions older than Homer. Here we would have a position, borne of certain preconceptions of Homer, that would be fully consistent with the idealizing views of Homer that I was earlier imputing to Herodotus. It would also be diametrically at odds with the stance of the Mythographus Homericus or modern neoanalysts. In sum, however exactly we wish to inflect it, Herodotus’ commitment to Hesiod and Homer’s primal status within a Greek context would have rendered reference to Stesichorus or Euripides otiose in any discussion by Herodotus of Homer’s sources. I said that we need to account not only for Herodotus’ disinterest in later Greek “sources” such as Stesichorus or Euripides for Homer, but also for his readiness to acknowledge an Egyptian one. Here it is possible to ascribe to Herodotus an appealingly symmetrical argument. Herodotus (again, it seems, unconventionally for his time)46 accorded Egypt much the same primal status vis-à-vis other cultures as I have suggested he (like Aristarchus, Pseudo-Plutarch, etc.) accorded (Hesiod and) Homer vis-à-vis other Greek poets. The Egyptians are, in their own view, (among) the most ancient of nations, just as the Scythians are the most recent.47 Egypt also had, according to Herodotus, a profound, and exclusively one-way, influence on Greece.48 We would have, on the one hand, a model of international cultural influence and, on the other, a model of Greek literary influence. Within world culture, Egypt is seen as the oldest and most influential culture; within Greek poetry, Homer (along with Hesiod) is seen as the “oldest” and most influential poet. In both cases, the influence flows one way. Herodotus, moreover, has enormous respect for Egyptians’ ability to preserve traditions (2.77.1, cf. 2.145.3).49 While Herodotus appears loath to trace Greek mythological traditions back beyond the four hundred years from his own time to the time of Hesiod and Homer, he is predisposed to allow for Egyptian traditions that reach back the full eight hundred years from his own time to the time of the

Birth of literary criticism  157 50

Trojan War itself. The notion of a Greek pre-Homeric tradition appears to have been anathema to Herodotus, but the notion of a non-Greek, and preferentially Egyptian, pre-Homeric tradition was thoroughly congenial. Modern neoanalysts are happy to see reflexes of pre-Homeric mythological traditions in the lyric or tragic poets; a comparable procedure was available to Herodotus only through Egyptian sources. Here, therefore, we would have one possible explanation of Herodotus’ peculiar combination of elements of Aristarchus with elements of the Mythographus Homericus (or modern neoanalysis). It would be too easy to scoff at Herodotus for such putative preconceptions; modern scholars, too, often rely on instinctive preferences when taking a position on the antiquity of a given mythological tradition. Often it comes down just to whether we are happier to see Homer as responding to something else or something else as responding to Homer. Our preconceptions are perhaps no less relevant when it comes to claims of cultural primacy or diffusionism. Naturally, fashions change over the centuries and millennia, and Mesopotamia has the edge over Egypt as the modern preference for the “cradle of civilization.” S. N. Kramer’s History Begins at Sumer: T hirty-nine Firsts in Recorded History makes rather similar “idealizing” claims for primacy for Sumerian civilization in world-cultural terms (the first historian, the first cosmogony, the first proverbs, the first animal fables, the first love song, etc.) as the Pseudo-Plutarchan treatise On Homer does for Homer in Hellenic cultural terms (the first Greek historian, philosopher, geographer, tragedian, comedian, etc.).51 Herodotus’ particular preconceptions may be out of fashion, but the underlying modes of thought in these chapters are enduring.

10.5 Herodotus and modern scholarship on Homer’s non-Greek sources Herodotus’ contention that the Homeric poems have been informed by Egyptian sources finds further elaboration in Diodorus, whose first book repeatedly cites the Egyptian priests as opining that various features of Homeric poetry are mythologized reflections of actual Egyptian practices. The features in question are: epiphanies of gods in the guise of animals or men (1.12.10); the topography of the underworld as described in the Deuteronekyia of the Odyssey (1.96.4–5); Helen’s analgesic drug in Odyssey IV (1.97.7); Aphrodite’s epithet “golden” (1.97.8); Zeus’ habitual absences among the Ethiopians (1.97.9); and the intercourse of Zeus and Hera in Iliad XIV (1.97.9).52 All this runs counter to a modern scholarly position that maintains that ancient Greek readers had no interest in any non-Greek sources of Homer. So F. Budelmann and J. Haubold write:

158  Bruno Currie The Homeric scholia notoriously fail to comment on possible connections with earlier non-Greek texts: even such glaring parallels as Iliad 14 and Enūma eliš 1 are passed over in silence. One might argue that the relevant Near Eastern texts had simply fallen into oblivion; though later Greeks certainly knew some of them, and they could have known even more had they cared to find out. The point is that they did not care: as Glenn Most observes, there is no evidence to speak of that Greek audiences were ever interested in identifying Homer’s sources.53 G. W. Most, referenced here, wrote: The similarities between the Iliad and Gilgamesh, and between the Theogony, the Babylonian Enûma Elis, and the Hittite-Hurrian myth of Kumarbi, are evident, and fascinating, for us: they were quite unknown, and of no interest whatsoever, to the Greeks.54 Claims that modern approaches to Greek poetry are out of step with ancient ones typically tend to undercut those modern approaches. Haubold indeed couples a descriptive argument concerning ancient critical practice with a normative one for modern critical practice: … the fact of borrowing alone, in itself neither surprising nor significant, was of no interest to ancient readers of Gilgamesh and Enūma eliš, Homer and Hesiod. I have argued that it need not detain us either….55 The comments of Haubold and Most compel us to consider how, e.g. Gilg. SBV VI and Enuma elish I can be significant “intertexts” for Iliad V and XIV respectively if ancient readers were so signally disinterested in or ignorant of them. It is worth reflecting on such questions in the light of Herodotus 2.116. The question whether we should be interested in any non-Greek sources of early Greek epic if ancient Greek readers were not has both a normative and a descriptive component; both are controversial. It is unclear whether and to what extent we should aim to approach ancient literature in the same kind of way as its (attested) ancient readers did.56 It also makes a significant difference whether we are dealing with positive or negative normative implications (“ancient readers read this literature in this kind of way and so should we” versus “ancient readers did not read this literature in this kind of way and neither should we”).57 Things are not straightforward on the descriptive level either. Herodotus and Diodorus regard Homer, Hesiod, and Aeschylus as having been influenced by Egyptian “sources” (see below). Relevant here too is Plato’s tongue-in-cheek account of Solon relying on an Egyptian source for an unfinished poetic masterpiece at Timaeus 20d7– 25e2, which appears to parody Herodotus.58 Our question then might be reformulated as follows: what does it mean that the mainstream of ancient

Birth of literary criticism  159 Greek literary critical discourse, apart from a trickle that can be traced to Herodotus, ignored the question of the early poets’ indebtedness to nonGreek sources?59 From one point of view, the disinterest of the literary critical mainstream is not remarkable. A good deal of scholarship, ancient and modern, is not especially interested in questions of Quellenforschung or “intertextuality.”60 Ancient scholarship’s approach to imitatio is in general famously inadequate, lagging far behind the sophistication of both ancient poets’ practice and our own highly developed critical discourse.61 The readiness to recognize both Homeric debts to earlier poets and Greek debts to the Near East depends to a large degree, in both ancient and modern scholarship, on personal critical preferences, ideological leanings, cultural values, and such like.62 It is therefore no great surprise either if the “barbarian-loving” Herodotus (Plutarch, On the Malice of Herodotus 857a) spawns our tradition or if the Homeric scholia, known for their “xenophobic” tendencies, present a contrasting picture.63 Perhaps what should disconcert us most is that precisely when those few ancient scholars come closest to doing the same kind of thing as modern scholars who allege poetic or mythological borrowings by Greek poets from non-Greek peoples, they do it so differently, focusing on quite different textual examples (as with Herodotus 2.116, Diodorus 1.12.10, 1.96–97, and Plato Timaeus 20d), and focusing heavily on Egypt rather than the cultures and regions that dominate modern discussions: Mesopotamia, Anatolia, and the Levant. The question then remains: if attested Mesopotamian and Anatolian mythological poetry (on Gilgamesh and Kumarbi, for instance: poems which seem to have attained the status of international classics within the Near East) had such an influence on early Greek poetry, then why do ancient Greek writers ignore them and address themselves to a host of other examples in which we, in turn, have no interest?64 To this two mutually compatible responses can be made. One is to play down the normative implications for our own critical practice. The extant Near Eastern texts that we have now are just the tip of an iceberg; there is no reason to think that precisely these texts must have been the ones to jump out to ancient Greeks as well; and the kinds of non-Greek “sources” that struck them will necessarily have depended on the kinds of questions they were interested in. Moreover, even fifth-century Greeks, let alone later critics, can have had no very privileged insight into what non-Greek mythological or poetic traditions were known to seventh-century BCE audiences of hexameter poetry. If we are aware of marked and meaningful connections between seventh-century BCE Greek and ancient Near Eastern texts, then it is our legitimate duty to investigate them.65 The other response challenges the descriptive rather than the normative component of our question: when appropriate allowances are made, the concerns of at least some ancient Greeks (Diodorus, Herodotus) do not in fact seem so very far removed from those of modern scholars with respect to

160  Bruno Currie Near Eastern influences on early Greek epic. Consider the following three examples. i

As far as we know (as Most, cited above, pointed out), the ancient Greeks were not interested in possible links between Hesiod’s Theogony and the Hittite-Hurrian myth of Kumarbi. Yet the following statement of Diodorus about the Greek “Succession Myth” is intriguing (1.97.4): “[the Egyptians] say that Melampous brought from Egypt… the myths about Kronos and the War with the Titans, and, in a word, the account of things which happened to the gods.” Diodorus, speaking here of what we must recognize as the mythological matter of Hesiod’s Theogony, reports a purportedly Egyptian claim that Melampous brought this mythological material from Egypt to Greece. We can infer that there was, by at least the first century BCE, a Theogony ascribed to “Melampous” containing similar subject matter to Hesiod’s and, given the chronological priority of its pseudonymous author, pretending to much greater antiquity.66 If we substitute “Hesiod” for “Melampous” and “the Near East” for “Egypt,” then Diodorus’ statement is not very far away from a mainstream modern position, which the mythological backbone of the Hesiodic succession myth comes from the Near East.67 At least one modern scholar has argued for points of contact between the Greek succession myth and Egyptian myth.68 In general, Diodorus presents a plethora of alleged non-Greek (Egyptian) influences that we are not minded to take seriously, alongside others that we are, or at least that have the capacity to divide modern scholars.69 Much the same can be said of M. L. West’s East Face of Helicon.70

ii

At 2.82.1, Herodotus claims that Greek poets adopted Egyptian hemerology:



The following also are discoveries of the Egyptians: to which of the gods each month and each day are sacred, what things a person born on each day will meet with, and how he will die, and what kind of a person he will be; those specializing in poetry among the Greeks availed themselves of these.

That last phrase appears to intend, specifically, Hesiod (compare Works and Days 765–828). Modern scholars point out that, if it is an import, it is more likely to be a Mesopotamian one.71 Here again, it appears, we can see the working of preconceptions: for Herodotus, Egypt was the primal culture, the “cradle of civilization,” and so it is indicated as the origin of borrowings wherever possible. Herodotus’ argument at 2.50.1 is telling: “that [the names of the gods] have come from the barbarians, I discover from investigation (πυνθανόμενος… εὑρίσκω) that this is so; but I consider (δοκέω) that they have come especially from Egypt.” Intermediaries between Egypt and Greece may sometimes be explicitly indicated, as at

Birth of literary criticism  161 2.49.3 (Phoenicians) or 2.50.1.–2.52.3 (Pelasgians), where Herodotus was aware of evidence from Mesopotamia, it would be apt to be viewed as a stepping-stone between Egypt and Greece. Crucially, Herodotus is more interested in cultural origins (the identity of the πρῶτος εὑρέτης) than in the most immediate literary borrowings. Again, once allowance is made for differing presuppositions, the difference between Herodotus, identifying an Egyptian origin for Hesiod’s hemerology, and modern scholars, identifying a Mesopotamian one, is not very great. iii In a tantalizing statement, Herodotus (2.156.6 = Aesch. fr. 333 TGrF) claims that Aeschylus in an unidentifiable lost play was indebted to Egyptian tradition in making Artemis the daughter not of Leto, but of Demeter72:

[The Egyptians] say that Apollo and Artemis are the children of Dionysos and Isis, and that Leto was their nurse and saviour (in Egyptian Apollo is Horos, Demeter Isis, and Artemis Boubastis). From this story and no other Aeschylus the son of Euphorion appropriated what I am about indicate, without any precedent among his poetic predecessors: he made Artemis the daughter of Demeter.

According to R. T. C. Parker, “Herodotus may be right… that the detail is an Egyptianizing one, and the speaker may have been a Greco-Egyptian one like the Danaids in Supplices.”73 Be that as it may, Herodotus here furnishes a fine example of what A. Kelly has called “the argument from isolation,” employed by modern scholars such as W. Burkert and M. L. West. According to the argument, a motif found in a Greek poetic text that is anomalous in Greek tradition but is strongly attested in Near Eastern tradition is inferred to be a borrowing from the Near East.74 Herodotus probably employs the argument also at 2.49.2: for I shall not state that the rituals performed for the god [sc. OsirisDionysos] in Egypt and those performed among the Greeks have come about by coincidence; for if they had, they [sc. the rituals performed for Dionysos among the Greeks] would be of like character to the [sc. other] Greek rites, and would not be recent imports. In these instances, anomalousness and lateness within Greek tradition are used to argue an Egyptian import. On a formal level, the argument strikingly parallels one used by modern scholars.

10.6 Conclusions Modern scholars who claim ancient precedent for their own preferred critical approaches to ancient texts are vulnerable to the charge of selecting and interpreting those ancient texts to suit their case.75 The present discussion is

162  Bruno Currie certainly not immune to this charge. However, it has not been my primary aim to try to vindicate the positions of contemporary neoanalytical or “orientalizing” scholars by alleging ancient precedent arising from my own interpretation of a selection of ancient texts.76 I have tried to emphasize rather that there is here neither consistent divergence nor consistent convergence between ancient and modern critical discourses, neither straightforward undercutting nor straightforward validation. All the same, it should still impress us, I think, that these trends in twentieth- and twenty-first-century Homeric scholarship find anticipations of sorts in Homeric criticism of the fifth century BCE, and we are entitled to wonder how such a situation comes about. The basic common ground between these strains of ancient and modern criticism can be said to be the consequence of shared broad types of assumption: on the macrolevel, that Greek culture in general has been significantly influenced by a non-Greek culture; and on the microlevel, that a number of concrete features in early Greek poetic texts have analogs in that non-Greek culture that can convincingly be ascribed to this influence. Further convergences and divergences will arise from the working out of those assumptions in detail: notably, from the identification of a non-Greek culture of choice (Egypt or Mesopotamia) and from the production of a specific set of textual examples to demonstrate the influence. Some common elements at the argumentative level, such as the “argument from isolation,” are likely to be the result of a finite interpretative toolkit being applied to the same kinds of questions. One noteworthy divergence concerns the assumed mechanisms of influence: whereas Herodotus, Plato, and Diodorus all emphasize Greek poets (Homer, Solon) traveling to Egypt and communicating with the priests, modern scholars tend to highlight the role of bilingual poets as cultural intermediaries.77 Here each set of critics seem to favor the model that is (was) most familiar to themselves, either from their own experience or from their knowledge of parallels.78 In general, this confrontation of ancient and modern approaches cannot aspire to show objectively “right” or “wrong” ways of thinking about Homer. It does show us, however, very differently historically-sited critics thinking about Homeric issues in similar, and also different, ways. I would like to close with one final illustration of this point that will take us back to neoanalysis in its more traditional form,79 and back to Herodotus 2.116. In 2.116, Herodotus states that “[Homer] dropped [the Egyptian logos], showing (δηλώσας) that he also knew this tale,” and, again, that “he shows (δηλοῖ) in these verses that he knew Alexander’s detour to Egypt” (2.116.1, 2.116.6). With this reiterated statement Herodotus maintains that Homer deliberately “shows” his knowledge of a story that he has eschewed in his narrative.80 Herodotus’ position has often been found reminiscent of the ancient, and especially sophistic, critical practice of finding “hidden meanings” (ὑπόνοιαι) in the poets, meanings not accessible to the casual reader: a practice alluded to by Xenophon and Plato, among others.81 I would

Birth of literary criticism  163 like to suggest that it is even more strongly reminiscent of a quite different approach taken by modern Homeric scholars of a broadly neoanalytical bent. I am thinking of a modern approach to narrative inconsistencies that sees Homer as self-consciously juggling alternative narrative possibilities in such a way that when a traditional narrative is passed over in favor of a different, incompatible one, the poet leaves vestigial traces of the traditional narrative unassimilated in order to indicate that he is aware of it, a deliberate strategy of allusion. This approach has been adopted by G. Danek and others.82 Here we would have another quite remarkable convergence between Herodotean and twenty-first-century Homeric criticism. Again, however, there would also be significant divergence within this convergence. One divergence concerns the reasons imputed to Homer for retaining the rejected version: Herodotus prizes a Homer who knows the truth and does not mislead the discerning reader, whereas modern neoanalytical scholars tend to prize a Homer who self-consciously advertises his own innovations.83 Another divergence concerns the reasons ascribed to Homer for preferring one version over the other: Herodotus emphasizes Homer’s concern to promote a version that is more “becoming” (εὐπρεπής) for epic poetry, whereas modern scholarship is more apt to emphasize a desire on Homer’s part to develop a novel conception of heroic mortality or a novel interpretation of a traditional plot and/or a traditional character.84 Here, with the shared argument that Homer signposts an alternative version that is incompatible with his actual narrative, we appear to have another example of the finite interpretative toolkit being put to the service of different critical agendas. In all this it is hardly possible to say that modern neoanalysts or orientalizing scholars are reading Homer in the same way as the ancients – or as one ancient – read him. At the same time, we cannot say that such modern readings are entirely without purchase in antiquity either. Modern neoanalysis may not have its roots in Herodotus in the fifth century BCE; but it seems reasonable to say that the seeds of what we may recognize as neoanalytical and orientalizing thinking were capable of taking root also in the fifth century BCE as long as the soil was receptive, in terms of the critic’s values and assumptions. The point of this discussion has not been to make Herodotus’ Homeric criticism into some kind of charter myth for modern neoanalytical and orientalizing approaches: this is not a case where ancient reception can be straightforwardly enlisted as a “guide” or invested with “prescriptive force.”85 Rather, it provides both another illustration of the inevitable “historical sitedness”86 of both ancient and modern approaches, and also of the fact that these ancient and modern approaches can be ref lective of their times without necessarily speaking for them (of course, there were, then as now, very diverse strains of Homeric criticism). The investigation of Herodotus’ (and Diodorus’) Homeric criticism has the potential to deepen our understanding both historically and conceptually of modern

164  Bruno Currie neoanalytical and orientalizing approaches. These modern approaches are not, as is sometimes suggested, wholly out of step with ancient ones. Neoanalysts and orientalizing critics of Homer, for their part, may draw some vague comfort from the fact that aspects of these approaches were capable of recommending themselves to intelligent critics in very different historical situations.

Notes

Birth of literary criticism  165

10

11 12

13

14 15

16

17 18 19

the beginning’”; Aeschin. 3.192 πολλάκις ἀνεπόδιζον τὸν γραμματέα καὶ ἐκέλευον πάλιν ἀναγιγνώσκειν τοὺς νόμους καὶ τὸ ψήφισμα, “they made the secretary repeatedly go over the same ground again and asked him to read again the laws and the decree.” Aristarchus (second century BCE) cannot be polemicizing against the Mythographus Homericus (probably first century CE); the historical butt of Aristarchus’ polemic is sometimes thought to be Zenodotus: Albert Severyns, Le cycle épique dans l’école d’Aristarque (Liège: Vaillant-Carmanne, 1928), 44, 98–99; Jonathan S. Burgess, The Tradition of the Trojan War in Homer and the Epic Cycle (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), 18. Cf., e.g. schol. A Il. 24.735a, schol. T Il. 22.62–64, schol. A Il. 24.257b. Severyns, Cycle épique, 99–100. Franco Montanari, “The Mythographus Homericus,” in Greek Literary Theory after Aristotle: A Collection of Papers in Honour of D. M. Schenkeveld, eds. Jelle G. Abbenes, S. R. Slings and I. Sluiter (Amsterdam: VU University Press, 1995), 139–41, 145, 148, esp. 162 (on schol. D Il. 1.5); Franco Montanari, “Ancora sul Mythographus Homericus (e l’Odissea),” in La Mythologie et l’Odyssée: Hommage à Gabriel Germain; Actes du Colloque International de Grenoble, 22-22 mai 1999, eds. André Hurst and Françoise Létoublon (Genève: Librairie Droz, 2002), passim. “[A] mythological commentary to the Homeric poems, giving fuller versions of the stories alluded to in the text”: Eleanor Dickey, “Scholarship, ancient,” in: The Homer Encyclopaedia Vol. III, ed. Margalit Finkelberg (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), 766. Lloyd, Herodotus Book II, iii.50; cf. 47; similarly, Lloyd, “Book II,” 740; Carolyn Dewald, “Explanatory Notes,” in Herodotus: The Histories, trans. Robin Waterfield (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 625. Georg Danek, Epos und Zitat: Studien zu den Quellen der Odyssee (Vienna: Verlag der Osterreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1998), 101 (translated); Cf. Guy Smoot, “Did the Helen of the Homeric Odyssey ever go to Troy?”, in Donum natalicium digitaliter confectum Gregorio Nagy septuagenario a discipulis collegis familiaribus oblatum: A Virtual Birthday Gift Presented to Gregory Nagy on Turning Seventy by his Students, Colleagues and Friends, eds. Victor Bers, David Elmer, and Leonard Muellner (Washington, DC, 2012), https://chs.harvard. edu/CHS/article/display/4643 (accessed: 13/04/2020). Danek, Epos und Zitat, 102–3 (translated). There is no reason to assume that the eidolon-motif must be the invention of Stesichorus: Danek, Epos und Zitat, 103; (contra M. L. West, The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women: Its Nature, Structure, and Origins [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985], 134–35); William Allan, Euripides: Helen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 20–21; Malcolm Davies and Patrick Finglass, Stesichorus: The Poems (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 305–6, 314. Bruno G. F. Currie, Homer’s Allusive Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 23–24. Suzanne Saïd, “Herodotus and the ‘Myth’ of the Trojan War,” in Myth, Truth and Narrative in Herodotus, eds. Emily Baragwanath and Mathieu de Bakker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 92. Danek, Epos und Zitat, 79–86, esp. 80, 86; Ioannis Petropoulos, “The Telemachy and the Cyclic Nostoi,” in Homeric Contexts: Neoanalysis and the Interpretation of Oral Poetry, eds. Christos Tsagalis, Antonios Rengakos and Franco Montanari (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), 291–308. Differently, Stephanie R. West, “Books I–IV,” in A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, Volume I: Introduction and Books I–VIII, eds. A. Heubeck, S. R. West, and J. B. Hainsworth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988), 53 n. 10, 194; (contra: Burgess, Tradition of the Trojan War, 154).

166  Bruno Currie 20 Martin L. West, “Immortal Helen,” in Hellenica: Selected Papers on Greek Literature and Thought: Volume I: Epic, ed. Martin L. West (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011 [1975]), 80; cf. id., The Making of the Iliad: Disquisition and Analytical Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 181; followed by Davies and Finglass, Stesichorus: The Poems, 300 n. 8; cf. James M. Neville, “Herodotus on the Trojan War,” G&R 24.1 (1977): 4; Danek, Epos und Zitat, 104. 21 Cypria, Argumentum Procli, p. 39 ll. 18–19 Bernabé; cf. Ps.-Apollod. Epit. 3.4; Dict. Cret. 1.5; Ps.-Plut. de Homero 1.7. 22 For Aeneas as potentially a “second Paris,” cf. Aen. 4.215; Carthage, a Phoenician city, can be seen as a second Sidon (though Dido hails from Tyre), which Aeneas symbolically sacks (4.669–71), much as Paris sacks Sidon. Virgil apparently presupposes a Cypria like that which Proclus later knew (cf. Joel B. Lidov, “Hera in Sappho, fr. 17 L-P, V – and Aeneid 1?”, Mnemosyne 57 [2004]: 404) – yielding a higher terminus ante quem for the presence of the Sidon episode in the Cypria-tradition than assumed by Martin L. West, The Epic Cycle: A Commentary on the Lost Troy Epics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 92 n. 30. 23 Finkelberg, “The Cypria, the Iliad,” 1–11. 24 Cf. M. L. West, Making of the Iliad, 181; Davies and Finglass, Stesichorus: The Poems, 300 n. 8, 301–2. 25 Andrew Ford, “Herodotus and the Poets,” in The Landmark Herodotus: The Histories, eds. Robert B. Strasler and Andrea L. Purvis (New York: Pantheon Books, 2007), 816–18; cf. Neville, “Herodotus on the Trojan War,” 10 n. 8: “[Herodotus] had almost encyclopedic knowledge of the poets.” 26 Virginia Hunter, Past and Process in Herodotus and Thucydides (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1982), 55–56 nn. 8, 9. 27 Peter T. Struck, The Birth of the Symbol: Ancient Readers at the Limits of their Texts (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004), 16. 28 Finkelberg, Birth of Literary Fiction, 177, cf. 26. On Herodotus and the “birth of fiction,” cf. Kim, Homer between History, 33. 29 Plat. Rep. 606e1–5 (the reference seems to be to persons like Nikeratos at Xen. Symp. 4.6); cf. 383a7, Ion 536d3, 536d6, 541e2, 542b4, Prot. 309a6. Cf. Aristot. Poet. 1460a5 Ὅμηρος δὲ… ἄξιος ἐπαινεῖσθαι; Dio Chrys. 11.17 οἱ πάνυ ἐπαινοῦντες [sc. Ὅμηρον]. Compare and contrast Philostr. Her. 25.10 μέμφεται δὲ τοῦ Ὁμήρου ἐκεῖνα…, 11 ἐπαινουμένου δὲ οὐδὲ…, 13 οὐδὲ ἐκεῖνα ὁ Πρωτεσίλεως ἐπαινεῖ τοῦ Ὁμήρου…. Karl Lehrs, De Aristarchi studiis Homericis (Regimontii Prussorum: sumtibus fratrum Borntraeger, 1882), 201–2; cf. Struck, Birth of the Symbol, 15. The “praisers of Homer” are identified with rhapsodes by Michael Hillgruber, Die pseudoplutarchische Schrift De Homero I–II (Stuttgart: B. G. Teubner, 1994–1999), i.15, but we should not restrict the reference to them: Willem Jacob Verdenius, Homer, the Educator of the Greeks (Amsterdam and London: North-Holland Publishing Company, 1970), 9. 30 James I. Porter, “Stoic Interpretations,” in The Homer Encyclopaedia Vol. III, ed. Margalit Finkelberg (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), 824–25. 31 Hillgruber, Pseudoplutarchische Schrift De Homero, i.16, after F. Wehrli (original in German). 32 Hillgruber, Pseudoplutarchische Schrift De Homero, i.4–35; Struck, Birth of the Symbol, 43; Kim, Homer Between History, 5–7, 8–9. 33 This was, apparently, the position, for instance, of Hippias, Gorgias, Hellanicus, Demastes, and Pherecydes. See Hippias 86 B6; Ar. Ran. 1030–36; Plat. Apol. 41a6–7. Cf. Philostr. Her. 25.2, 25.8; Procl. Chrest. pp. 99.20–100.6. M. L. West, Hesiod Theogony (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), 40 with n. 1; Emily de Strycker and S. R. Slings, Plato’s Apology of Socrates: A Literary and Philosophical Study with a Running Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 228 and n. 82.

Birth of literary criticism  167 34 Herodotus mentions the Epigoni as a Homeric poem, adding “if it really is by Homer” (4.32): here the qualification of a communis opinio follows immediately; in 2.53 it would follow after an interval of 30 chapters. Herodotus’ reference to “the Homeric poems” at 5.67.1 probably intends the Thebaid and Epigoni, poems on whose Homeric authorship he had previously cast doubt (4.32); he would therefore here again be adopting the communis opinio on authorship, rather than his own more skeptical position. 35 Burgess, Tradition of the Trojan War, 196 n. 12. 36 Plat. Rep. 377d4–5, 377e1. 37 Sim. Test. 47(k) Campbell (Loeb). 38 See especially Dion. Hal. De comp. verb. 24; Callim. HAp. 105–13. Frederick Williams, Callimachus: Hymn to Apollo: A Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 88–89, 98–99; Llewelyn Morgan, Patterns of Redemeption in Virgil’s Georgics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 32–33; Richard L. Hunter, “Homer and Greek Literature,” in The Cambridge Companion to Homer, ed. Robert L. Fowler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 235. 39 Cf. Od. 1.325–7 (Phemios), 8.73–82 (Demodokos); Il. 2.486, 20.203–4; Hes. Th. 99–101, WD 26. 40 Lloyd, “Book II,” 274. 41 Aristot. Poet. 1448b28–30. 42 πρῶτος τῶν ἡμεῖς ἴδμεν, Hdt. 1.6.2 (etc.); on Herodotus’ use of the phrase, see Binyamin Shimron, “Protos ton hemeis idmen,” Eranos 71 (1973): 45–51. 43 We may compare Herodotus’ claim (1.23) about Arion’s being “the first of men of whom I know to have composed a dithyramb and named it (as such?) and produced it in Corinth.” If Herodotus means that the historical (empirically verifiable) dithyramb begins with Arion, rather than that the dithyramb did not exist before Arion tout court, then we are removed from the necessity of positing obliviousness on his part both to references to the dithyramb predating Arion (Archil. fr. 120 West), and to claims of other city-states than Corinth to be the birthplace of dithyramb (Naxos: Pind. fr. 71 Maehler; Thebes: Pind. fr. 115 Maehler; for Corinth, cf. also Pind. O.13.18–19). 44 Plutarch, Essay on the Life and Poetry of Homer, eds. John J. Keaney and Robert Lamberton (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 13. 45 Cf. Ps.-Plut. On Homer 74, 91, 102. 46 Mary R. Lefkowitz, Not Out of Africa: How Afrocentrism Became an Excuse to Teach Myth as History (New York: Basic Books, 1996), 62–63. 47 Egyptians: Hdt. 2.2.2–4, 2.15.2–3. Scythians: 4.5.1. 48 Hdt. 2.49.2–3, cf. 2.51.1. Greek debts to Egypt: Hdt. 2.4.2, 2.49.2–3, 2.58, 2.64, 2.79, 2.81, 2.123, 2.171. Lloyd, Herodotus Book II, i.50–51, 147–9; id. 2007: 737; Lefkowitz, Not Out of Africa, 9–19; John E. Coleman, “Did Egypt Shape the Glory That Was Greece?”, in Black Athena Revisited, eds. Mary R. Lefkowitz and Guy M. Rogers (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996), 280–302; Mathieu de Bakker, “Herodotus’ Proteus: Myth, History, Enquiry and Storytelling,” in Myth, Truth, and Narrative in Herodotus, eds. Emily Baragwanath and Mathieu de Bakker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 114–15. 49 Cf. Plat. Tim. 23a1–b3. P. Vannicelli, “Herodotus’ Egypt and the Foundations of Universal History,” in The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, ed. Nino Luraghi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 214–15, 224; Nino Luraghi, “Local Knowledge in Herodotus’ Histories,” ibid., 151–54. 50 Hunter, Past and Process, 57–58; Barbara Graziosi, Inventing Homer: The Early Reception of Epic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 113; Irene F. de Jong, “The Helen Logos and Herodotus’ Fingerprint,” in Myth, Truth, and Narrative in Herodotus, eds. Baragwanath and de Bakker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 141.

168  Bruno Currie

















Birth of literary criticism  169

70

71 72 73

74

75 76 77 78

79

80 81

82

83

(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 72, 73–74, 87–88, 98; differently, Lefkowitz, Not Out of Africa, 73–74. Diod. 1.97.6 (on early Greek statues and Egypt): cf. Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, 72; John Boardman, Greek Sculpture: The Archaic Period: A Handbook (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978), 18; differently, Sarah P. Morris, Daidalos and the Origins of Greek Art (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 240–41. For example, Ken Dowden, “West on the East: Martin West’s East Face of Helicon and its Forerunners,” JHS 121 (2001): 172–75 on Martin L. West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997). Martin L. West, Hesiod Works and Days (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 349; West, “Criticism Ancient and Modern,” East Face of Helicon, 329; Lloyd, “Book II,” 296–97. Cf. Lefkowitz, Not Out of Africa, 70–71. Robert T. C. Parker, “Aeschylus’ Gods: Drama, Cult, Theology,” in Eschyle à l’aube du théâtre occidental: neuf exposés suivis de discussions: Vandoeuvres – Genève, 25–29 aout 2008, eds. Mark Griffith, Jacques Jouanna, Franco Montanari and Alain-Christian Hernández (Genève: Fondation Hardt, 2009), 128. Adrian Kelly, “The Babylonian Captivity of Homer: The Case of the ΔΙΟΣ ΑΠΑΤΗ,” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 151 (2008): 260–61; cf. Haubold, Greece and Mesopotamia, 31; André Lardinois, “Eastern Myths for Western Lies: Allusions to Near Eastern Mythology in Homer’s Iliad,” Mnemosyne 71 (2018): 902; West, East Face of Helicon, 329 employs the argument in connection with the hemerology of Hes. WD 765–828. Feeney, “Criticism Ancient and Modern,” 443–4; Heath, “Interpreting Classical Texts,” 125. The term “orientalising” here is due to Kelly, “Babylonian Captivity of Homer,” 259–60. Currie, Homer’s Allusive Art, 218–19. Jasper Griffin, “The Emergence of Herodotus,” Histos 8 (2014): 9–10 “In the travels of Solon, Herodotus sees his own predecessor; perhaps he saw Homer in the same light.” For modern scholars’ production of parallel examples of bilingual poets, see Currie, Homer’s Allusive Art, 219 n. 386. For the affinity between the study of Near Eastern “sources” and neoanalysis, see Wolfgang Kullmann, “Ergebnisse der motivgeschichtlichen Forschung zu Homer,” in id., Homerische Motive: Beiträge zur Entstehung, Eigenart und Wirkung von Ilias und Odyssee (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1992), 104–8; Currie, Homer’s Allusive Art, 24 n. 146, 211 and n. 243. The deliberateness of Homer’s procedure will be all the more strongly emphasized if we read Stein’s correction ἑκών of the manuscripts’ [ἐς ὃ] at 2.116.1 (see n. 6 above). See especially Benjamin Sammons, “History and HYPONOIA: Herodotus and Early Literary Criticism,” Histos 6 (2012): 57–58; Kim, Homer between History, 35–37; Graziosi, Inventing Homer, 117. For ὑπόνοιαι, cf. Xen. Symp. 3.6, Plat. Rep. 378d5–7; Plut. Quomodo adolescens 19e; Ps.-Plut. On Homer 92; Strab. 3.4.4 157C. Cf. Richard B. Rutherford, Homer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 94; Danek, Epos und Zitat, 11–12; Johathan S. Burgess, “Neoanalysis, Orality, and Intertextuality: An Examination of Homeric Motif Transference,” Oral Tradition 21.1 (2006): 170; James J. O’Hara, Inconsistency in Roman Epic: Studies in Catullus, Lucretius, Vergil, Ovid and Lucan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 13–14; Currie, Homer’s Allusive Art, 336 “General Index” s.v. “narrative inconsistency.” Centrality of truth in ancient literary criticism: Finkelberg, Birth of Literary Fiction; Stephen Halliwell, Between Ecstasy and Truth: Interpretations of Greek Poetics from Homer to Longinus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). For

170  Bruno Currie Homer as interested in advertising his innovations, see Currie, Homer’s Allusive Art, 28 and n. 179, 54 and n. 100. 84 On “seemliness” (τὸ πρέπον) in ancient criticism, cf. Max Pohlenz, “Τὸ πρέπον: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des griechischen Geistes,” in Kleine Schriften I (Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1965), 100–39. For 21st-century approaches, cf. Currie, Homer’s Allusive Art, 65–66, 54–55. 85 For these notions, see Heath, Interpreting Classical Texts, 120–21, 125. 86 On criticism’s “historical sitedness,” see, e.g. Feeney, “Criticism Ancient and Modern,” 443.

11 Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard (on Aeneid 1.740–747) Andrea Rotstein

This chapter examines possible Phoenician-Punic resonances in the description of Iopas’ performance at the end of Aeneid 1. By highlighting elements linked to Phoenician-Punic culture and ancient perceptions of it I aim to unearth qualities of meaning that may have been accessible to ancient audiences but may remain invisible when using an exclusively Graeco-Roman lens. I hope this cross-cultural examination of a singer in performance is a suitable token to celebrate the career of Margalit, an accomplished classical scholar and dear mentor.1 The role of the Phoenicians as cultural agents in the Mediterranean, particularly in relation to Greek literature and religion, enjoys a renewed interest in recent years.2 At the same time, attention to the role of Punic culture in shaping Roman identities3 has developed into the study of literary responses to Carthage in Roman literature, beyond Plautus’ Poenulus.4 The very terms “Phoenician” and “Punic” are a matter of intense debate, given the lack of insiders’ accounts,5 yet the hyphen inserted usually between them is perfectly appropriate when speaking of Vergil’s Aeneid. It reflects the awareness of kinship between Tyre and Carthage, conveyed by a variety of epithets, the more prevalent “Tyrian” alternating with “Sidonian”, “Punic” and “Phoenician”.6 Dido herself is named “Phoenician”.7 Distinctions between the Eastern and Western Mediterranean, archaic and present times, seem to have been deliberately blurred in the Aeneid. The first and fourth books of the Aeneid reenact the ambivalent attitudes toward Phoenicians and Carthaginians typical of both Greek and Roman literature ever since Homer, a combination of prejudice (cf. Tyrios bilinguis, Aen. 1.661) and admiration.8 Carthage itself is depicted by a conflation of images. On the one hand, the city that, according to standard chronology, was founded in synchrony with Rome, is being built almost 400 years earlier, just after the fall of Troy. On the other hand, the city destroyed in 146 BCE is being rebuilt by Augustus as the Colonia Concordia Iulia Karthago.9 Furthermore, to readers familiar with the Odyssey, Carthage appears as a literary equivalent of Scheria, whose Phaeaceans could easily be identified as Phoenicians.10 Vergil’s Carthage can be and has been viewed through a prism of earlier Greek and Roman texts.11 Some details, however, go beyond

172  Andrea Rotstein Vergil’s extraordinary arte allusiva. They may also respond to the broader and complex cultural context in which the Aeneid was produced, including aspects of Punic culture and an image of the Phoenician past, of which Vergil and his audiences may have had direct or indirect knowledge.12 Book 1 of Vergil’s Aeneid concludes with a banquet held by Dido in Carthage for Aeneas and his men, in which a bard named Iopas performs a song: Cithara crinitus Iopas personat aurata, docuit quem13 maximus Atlas. Hic canit errantem lunam solisque labores14; unde hominum genus et pecudes; unde imber et ignes; Arcturum pluviasque Hyadas geminosque Triones15; quid tantum Oceano properent se tinguere soles hiberni, vel quae tardis mora noctibus obstet. Ingeminant plausu Tyrii, Troesque sequuntur. Long-haired Iopas, whom the greatest Atlas taught, plays on a gilded cithara. He sings of the wandering moon and the toils of the sun; where from came the race of men and the animals; where from rain and lightning16; of Arcturus, the raining Hyades and the twin Triones; why the Winter sun17 hurries to wet itself in the Ocean, or what delay stands against the tardy nights.18 The Tyrians redouble their applause, and the Trojans follow.19 The passage is usually compared in scholarly literature with the performances of Phemius and Demodocus in the Odyssey, and of Orpheus in Apollonius’ Argonautica. In those poems the reactions to the songs are intense: Penelope and Telemachus argue, Odysseus weeps, whereas Orpheus’ song stops a quarrel among heroes.20 Unlike them, however, Vergil’s bard has no impact on the plot. Were the lines omitted, only the mood, not the narrative, would be affected, for the calm order of things implied in Iopas’ song contrasts with the literal storm at the beginning of book 1, and the emotional one in book 4.21 These and other aspects of Iopas’ performance have been fully investigated.22 What have not been sufficiently explored are the implications of Iopas possible origins from the ancient Canaanite city of Jaffa, as his name seems to advertise. Much has been written on Iopas’ identity. Assuming that the name disguises a reference to someone else, it has been suggested that it may allude to a historical person, Maecenas23 or Iuba II of Numidia, a younger contemporary of Vergil, brought up in Rome.24 Or, as Homer’s blind Demodocus has been considered a mask of Homer, it was suggested that Iopas could be an alter ego of Vergil himself.25 Iopas, however, may be a Phoenician name, as suggested by Leopold and Kranz,26 or at least it may have sounded as such.

Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard  173 The fashioning of Iopas as a Phoenician-Punic seems consistent with the poetic context. Not only is the scene geographically located in Carthage, but the Tyrian origins of the town, a matter of common knowledge for most ancient readers, are emphasized already at the opening of the Aeneid. Nothing denies the assumption that Iopas accompanied Dido to Libya. In a wider literary context, Aeneas’ forced visit to Carthage is in many ways equivalent to Odysseus’ stopover in Scheria: Aeneas arrives to an unknown land by sea, is received kindly by a benevolent ruler and honored with a regal banquet.27 Perhaps Vergil was aware of a possible identification of Homer’s idealized Phaeacians with the historical Phoenicians.28 But could Iopas’ name truly involve an allusion to Jaffa, as it has been suggested? To the philologically oriented, the single consonant in Iopas’ name may appear an obstacle, since the standard spelling of Jaffa is Ioppe in Latin, Ἰόππη in Greek. Evidence, however, suggests otherwise. Phoenician writing rarely displays double consonants.29 The earliest reference to Jaffa in Phoenician epigraphy, on the sarcophagus of king Eshmunazar of Sidon (dated fifth to third centuries BCE), reveals a single consonant: YP30 (compare ancient Hebrew yapō, ‫)יפו‬. In Greek and Latin, the languages in which Vergil probably read the town’s name, the spelling varies, and we find Iope and Ἰόπη as frequently as Ioppe and Ἰόππη. Greek papyri show a single consonant, Ἰόπη,31 as do two Greek ostraca from Maresha.32 Inscriptions, in contrast, tend to have Ἰόππη, whereas coins have either form.33 Both variant readings appear in the manuscript tradition of Diodorus, Strabo, Vitruvius, Pliny, Dionysius Periegetes and Stephanus Byzantius,34 but the double consonant dominates Josephus’ manuscripts as well as the Greek Old and New Testament.35 In sum, given the fluctuation in the ancient textual tradition, it seems that the name Iopas need not have been spelt with a double consonant for readers familiar with the name to find an allusion to Jaffa.36 The manuscript tradition of the Aeneid as well reveals some oscillation in the spelling of Iopas’ name. The late antique manuscripts (MPR) have a clear preference for the single consonant, Iopas, as does a fourth / fifth century CE palimpsest with a Greek translation of the passage, and most ninth- century manuscripts.37 However, two Carolingian manuscripts have interlinear corrections. Bernensis 165 (b) has “iopes” corrected into “ioppas”, possibly by the same hand (image A), and Bernensis 184 (= c; non vidi) has “iopas” corrected into ioppas.38 Similarly, a ninth-century manuscript of Servius has “Ioppas” (P = Parisinus Bibl. Nat. Lat. 1750). It seems, therefore, that a minor branch of manuscripts preserved the variant readings “Iopes”, and “Ioppas” (perhaps also “Ioppes”) along with “Iopas”.39 The tradition is somewhat less monolithic than the standard editions would let us believe. Thus, it seems possible that educated audiences may have taken Iopas as “the man from Jaffa”.40 An allusion to Jaffa may have been less obscure to the ancients than it seems to some of us. The coastal town, located less than 200 km south from Tyre, was one of the main harbors of the East Mediterranean, and considered a very ancient town indeed.41 Though Jaffa was

174  Andrea Rotstein Hellenized and Romanized by Vergil’s time, its name could allude to an area that, in spite of changing political realities,42 was known usually as Phoenicia.43 The ending of the name Iopas could evoke the familiar endings of Greek proper names, such as Scopas and Gorgopas, or Aeneas and Atlas, mentioned in our passage. It could also remind readers of well-known Punic names, such as Barkas,44 and the African king Iarbas (mentioned in Aeneid 4.36, 296, 326).45 All the above would suffice to mark Iopas as a foreigner, a non-Roman, and more precisely, as a Hellenized Phoenician or Punic/ North-African bard. Iopas’ short description,46 though reminiscent of Homer’s and Apollonius’ bards, differs from them in meaningful ways. Iopas is described as having long hair and playing a gilded cithara. In the classical iconography and literary descriptions of citharodes long hair is the rule.47 In contrast, we know nothing about the Homeric bards’ physical appearance. Their attributes are of more generic and abstract nature: “divine” (θεῖον) and “famous” (περικλυτός). Similarly, Iopas’ cithara is gilded, whereas the instruments played by the Odyssean bards are qualified usually as “beautiful” and “clear-toned” (φόρμιγξ λίγεια, φόρμιγξ γλαφυρή, no epithet in Apollonius), qualifications formulaic rather than descriptive. The gold in Iopas’ lyre is a manifestation of Dido’s court’s wealth and luxury,48 and his long hair has been associated with the god Apollo since Servius (cf. crinitus Apollo, Aen. 9.638). Both attributes, long hair and a golden artifact, appear in a description of Apollo in Ennius’ lost play Alcmeon49: intendit crinitus Apollo arcum auratum luna innixus Dianam facem iacit a laeva (Ennius, Alcmeo fr. 15.28–30, ap. Cic. Ac. 2.89) Long-haired Apollo stretches his gilded bow leaning on its curve, while Diana hurls a torch from the left.50 To audiences familiar with the passage, the recollection would contribute to Iopas’ description an Italic or Roman hue. Later on Augustan poets such as Tibullus (2.5.1-10), Propertius (2.31.15-16) and Ovidius (Met. 11.165–171) went on to fashion Apollo as a citharode, with elegant robes and long hair (longas … comas Tib. 2.5.8), inspired probably by the statue of Apollo in the Palatine.51 It seems, therefore, that the detailed specification of Iopas’ physical appearance, somewhat foreign to Homeric imagery and diction, placed the singer from Jaffa closer to home. Iopas’ professional pedigree too distances him from the Greek literary tradition. Not that mentioning a teacher is unusual. On the contrary, diadochai, successions of teachers and their disciples are typical of Greek cultural histories and a token of erudite poetry.52 Atlas, however, is an unusual choice. A tradition, transmitted by the Suda,53 fashions him an ancestor

Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard  175 of both Homer and Hesiod, while in most later genealogies their ancestor is Orpheus.54 Iopas would then have a teacher preceding not only Homer and Hesiod but even Orpheus. Furthermore, Atlas is qualified as maximus – highest, strongest, eldest – all possible interpretations are supported by literary and visual tradition. Atlas is, indeed, a Titan born before the Olympic gods. Elsewhere in the Aeneid he is located in the far West (Aen. 4.480–2), sustaining the axis of the sky, as often in the literary tradition, beginning with Hesiod (Th. 507–20).55 Similarly, he is a personified mountain located in North Africa (Aen. 4.246–51). In book 8, at the site of what would eventually become Rome, Aeneas makes a genealogical argument, in which Atlas is presented as a shared ancestor of Trojans and Arcadians (Aen. 8.134–42). His role of holding up the heavens is emphasized twice (aetherios umero qui sustinet orbis, l. 137; caeli qui sidera tollit, l. 141; Atlas’ epithet maximus on l. 135 appears in the same line-end position as in our passage). As often noted, Atlas’ firsthand knowledge of the skies makes him an ideal teacher of astronomy. Pliny, following traditional catalogs of inventions, presents him as the first inventor of astronomy (Pliny NH 7.203).56 Atlas’ customary location in the far West – known as part of the Phoenician trade route, with Phoenician settlements side by side the Greek ones – also makes perfect sense. Unlike the Homeric bards Phemius and Demodocus, Iopas is not singing about the heroic past. Phemius’ theme is the return of the Achaeans (Od. 1.325–7), while Demodocus sings of Odysseus’ and Achilles’ quarrel (Od. 8.73–82), of Aphrodite and Ares (Od. 8.266–366) and the Trojan horse (Od. 8.499–520). Perhaps the closest Homeric parallel to our passage is the reference to the constellations in the description of Achilles’ shield, a passage mentioning “the Pleiades and the Hyades and the strength of Orion and the Bear” (Πληϊάδας θ’ Ὑάδας τε τό τε σθένος Ὠρίωνος).57 The prominence of the natural world and the compressed style of that passage recall the song of Orpheus in the Argonautica (1.494–511). Orpheus’ song, as reported by Apollonius, describes the creation of the universe, beginning with the separation of the elements, earth, sky and sea. It continues with the location of the stars, the moon and the sun, and the appearance of mountains and rivers. Orpheus then proceeds to depict the generations of pre- Olympian gods, until Zeus’ childhood. Thus, the song embraces a cosmogony, a theogony and a succession myth. Iopas’ song, in contrast, is not about the origins of the universe or of the gods, not mentioned at all. Iopas sings about the nature of things: the movement of celestial bodies, the origins (unde…) of human and animal life, the origins (unde…) and causes (quid, quae) of phenomena affecting the weather and the changing length of days and seasons. It is hinted that Iopas’ is a song about archai, both origins and principles, and aitiai, causes, akin, in this respect, to the poetry of Empedocles, Aratus and Lucretius.58 Iopas’ song is often termed a cosmogony, a favorite Vergilian theme.59 A parallel often cited is the song of Silenus in Eclogue 6 that opens with a description of the world’s origins (mundi orbis, l. 34) from a huge void (magnum

176  Andrea Rotstein per inane, l. 31), and the separation of earth and sea (ll. 25–26) and their consolidation. Astronomical phenomena are mentioned (sun, clouds and rain, ll. 37–38), as well as the origins of living creatures and humans (ll. 39–42). Thus, Silenus’ song offers a cosmogony and an anthropogony, with an emphasis on presenting the beginnings as a process.60 Iopas’ song, in contrast, does not deal with the beginnings of the physical world, narrating the process by which earth, sky and sea were formed, typical of the opening of cosmogonies. The song inquires about the origins of living beings and atmospheric phenomena as issues of scientific research. The outlook is similar to the end of the second book of the Georgics (2.475–84), where Vergil states he is unable to write about the paths of the sky, the stars, eclipses and earthquakes. The structure (indirect questions: unde… quid…) and phrasing (lunaeque labores in l. 478, vs. solisque labores, and the self-reference in ll. 481–2) are very similar. This passage of the Georgics does not allude to cosmogonic but to astronomical poetry. As this brief comparison with similar Vergilian passages indicates, Iopas’ song is construed as a poem of natural philosophy mainly focused on astronomy, a field the ancients acknowledged as a Phoenician-Punic achievement.61 Strabo (16.2.24) and Pliny (NH 5.67) may not be reliable sources for the history of science, but they voice the common opinion on the Phoenician contribution. Not only literary sources credit the Phoenicians with astronomical knowledge, but evidence outside literature also supports this reputation. The orientation of temples and the iconography of artifacts suggest that Phoenicians and Punics practiced observational astronomy from early times.62 Iopas’ scene stands at a crossroad of traditions. Frame and content anchor it in Graeco-Roman epic tradition. Indeed, Vergil shares with Homer and Apollonius the technique of reporting songs, setting Iopas at a performance occasion similar to that of Phemius and Demodocus, a regal banquet. From the point of view of content Iopas’ song belongs to the didactic tradition represented by Hesiod and encapsulated in Orpheus’ song in the Argonautica, though the specific focus on the natural world draws it closer to the philosophical poetry of Empedocles, Aratus and Lucretius. Thus, Iopas’ scene is emblematic of the epic genre, though delivered in the compression and brevity praised by Callimachus and practiced by the new poets of Rome and by Vergil himself. At the same time, several details carry PhoenicianPunic connotations. The name Iopas not only sounds Punic but may also be etymologically related to the city of Jaffa, known as a Phoenician town. Moreover, Iopas’ teacher, Atlas, alludes to primordial times, to firsthand astronomical knowledge, and to a geographical location in the far West, an area known for the presence of Phoenicians, Punics and Carthaginians. Finally, the emphasis on stars, weather and seasons, suggests that Iopas is singing about astronomy, a field often associated with the Phoenicians and Carthaginians particularly because of its practical application to navigation.

Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard  177

Figure 11.1 Burgerbibliothek Bern, Cod. 165, f. 66r (lines 739–41).

It seems, therefore, that through Iopas Vergil presents an indirect, stylized and Hellenized reflection of a Phoenician-Punic bard. But was there such a thing as Phoenician-Punic song? The actual existence of Phoenician literature is a matter of controversy.63 Given that no literary texts have survived on papyrus or clay tablets, the issue can be addressed only by combining indirect references with material and comparative evidence.64 Most of the debate, however, focuses on text-based practices, leaving aside the realm of orality.65 Yet the universality of storytelling and singing hardly requires any proof, and is not dependent on literacy. Some forms of oral traditions must have been alive among Phoenician- and Punic-speaking communities across the Mediterranean in both private and public spheres, in religious as well as in social contexts, and must have traveled along with slaves and mercenaries, traders and immigrants.66 Phoenician-Punic oral poetic traditions may have been alive not less than the poetry before Homer was alive. Be as it may, Vergil’s representation of Iopas is consistent with ancient Greek and Roman view of Phoenicians and Carthaginians having certain forms of literature. The Romans, in Erich Gruen’s words, “manipulated Carthaginian images in complex and shifting ways that produced a multidimensional construct – one that may indeed have approximated the truth”.67 Vergil’s Iopas may be one of such constructs that approximates the truth about the lost Phoenician bards (Figure 11.1).

Notes

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3

4

5

6

7 8

2010). For a methodological overview of cultural contacts in antiquity, see Irad Malkin, A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), and Christoph Ulf, “Rethinking Cultural Contacts,” in Kulturkontakte in antiken Welten: vom Denkmodell zum Fallbeispiel. Proceedings des internationalen Kolloquiums aus Anlass des 60. Geburtstages von Christoph Ulf, Innsbruck, 26. bis 30. Januar 2009, eds. Robert Rollinger and Kordula Schnegg (Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 507–64. Robert E. A. Palmer, Rome and Carthage at Peace (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1997); Erich S. Gruen, Rethinking the Other in Antiquity (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011), 115–40; Andrew Erskine, “Encountering Carthage: Mid-Republican Rome and Mediterranean Culture,” in Creating Ethnicities and Identities in the Roman World, eds. Andrew Gardner, Edward Herring, and Kathryn Lomas (London: Institute of Classical Studies, School of Advanced Study, University of London, 2013), 113–29. The special issue on “Carthage and Rome” by the journal Classical Philology (112.3 [2017]) sums up this line of research. Denis C. Feeney, “Carthage and Rome: Introduction,” CP 112 (2017): 301–11; Nora Goldschmidt, “Textual Monuments: Reconstructing Carthage in Augustan Literary Culture,” CP 112 (2017): 368–83; Elena Giusti, Carthage in Virgil’s Aeneid: Staging the Enemy under Augustus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). See Jonathan R. W. Prag, “Phoinix and Poenus: Usage in Antiquity,” in The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule, eds. Josephine Crawley Quinn and Nicholas C. Vella (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 11–23 for both ancient and modern uses of the terms, and Josephine Crawley Quinn, In Search of the Phoenicians (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018), for a critical assessment. For our purposes, what matters is the perceived image of Phoenicians and Punics in Vergil’s times (see below, n. 8), rather than the Phoenician-Punic speakers’ own self-identification. The terms Tyrii / Tyrius dominate (1.12, 20, 336, 338, 340, 346, 388, 423, 568, 574, 661, 696, 707, 732, 735, 747; 4.104, 111, 162, 224, 262, 321, 468, 544, 622). There are a few instances of Poeni (1.302, 442, 567 [Dido’s self-reference], 4.134) and Punicus (1.338, 4.49). Phoenici only in 1.344, in reference to Sychaeus as the wealthiest man among the Phoenicians. Sidon is Dido’s place of origin (1.619, Dido’s recounting of a childhood memory); the use of Sidonius is similar to Tyrius and Punicus (1.678 referring to Carthage; 4.75, 137, 545, 683; and applied to Dido, cf. next note). For the construction of Punic ethnicity in the Aeneid, see James Donald Reed, Virgil’s Gaze: Nation and Poetry in the Aeneid (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), 73–100, and Tedd A. Wimperis, “Cultural Memory and Constructed Ethnicity in Vergil’s Aeneid,” (PhD diss., University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2017), 69–78. Phoenissa and Sidonia are the only ethnic or geographical epithets applied to Dido (Phoenissa… Dido 1.670, 4.348, 6.450; Phoenissa 1.714; infelix Phoenissa 4.529; Sidonia Dido 1.446, 613). See Gruen, Rethinking the Other, 116–22, for the “plural images” of Phoenicians in ancient Greek sources; Irene J. Winter, “Homer’s Phoenicians: History, Ethnography, or Literary Trope? [A Perspective on Early Orientalism],” in The Ages of Homer: A Tribute to Emily Townsend Vermeule, eds. Jane B. Carter and Sarah P. Morris (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995), 247–71, for Homer’s view; Benjamin Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004), 324–51; Gruen, Rethinking the Other, 112–40; and Erskine, “Encountering Carthage,” for Roman perceptions. Mario

Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard  179

9 10

11 12

13

14

15

16 17 18

Liverani, “L’immagine dei fenici nella storiografia occidentale,” Studi Storici 1 (1998): 5–22, examines some of the prejudices underlying ancient historiography; Frederico Mazza, “The Phoenicians as Seen by the Ancient World,” in The Phoenicians, ed. Sabatino Moscati (Milan: Bompiani, 1988), 548–67, gives a general overview of ancient sources. Giusti, Carthage in Virgil’s Aeneid, 143, fittingly sums up the difference between Homer and Vergil: “whereas in Homer there is no direct hint at an identification between Phoenicians and Phaeacians, [in Vergil] these people are authentic Tyrians only disguised and presented as Phaeacians”. Edward L. Harrison, “The Aeneid and Carthage,” in Poetry and Politics in the Age of Augustus, eds. David West and Anthony John Woodman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 95–115. Keith W. Leask, “The Homeric Phæacians,” The English Historical Review 10 (1988): 292–4; Carol Dougherty, The Raft of Odysseus: The Ethnographic Imagination of Homer’s Odyssey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 102–21, and see also Pamela Gordon, “Phaeacian Dido: Lost Pleasures of an Epicurean Intertext,” CA 17 (1998): 188–211. As Giusti, Carthage in Virgil’s Aeneid, has recently done. For the Phoenician and Punic presence in the Western Mediterranean, see Josephine Crawley Quinn and Nicholas C. Vella, The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), with further references. Servius and some early modern editors (e.g. Juan Luis de la Cerda (ed.), P. Virgilii Maronis priores sex libri Aeneidos argumentis, explicationibus notis illustrati (Lugduni: sumptibus Horatii Cardon, 1612), 137) prefer the reading quae from later manuscripts, which renders the clause an object to personat: “he sings to a gilded lyre what the greatest Atlas taught him”. Similar phrasing in G. 2.478, see below. Labores referring to eclipses of the sun (OCD s.v. labor), but see Will Richter, “Lunae labores,” WS 11 (1977): 96–105, for the full poetic force. Quintilian cites the line (1.10.10) as evidence for the link between music and Philosophy. The line is a variation of Il. 18.486, Hes. Op. 615, and Verg. G. 1.138 (see Robert D. Brown, “The Homeric Background to a Vergilian Repetition (Aeneid 1.744 = 3.516),” AJP 111 (1990b): 182–6). Vergil replaces Homer’s Pleiades with the Hyades (both were considered Atlas’ daughters). On the repetition of the line in Aen. 3.516, the Palinurus scene, see Robert Hannah, “The Stars of Iopas and Palinurus,” AJP 114 (1993): 123–35, who disentangles the meteorological associations evoked by the stars mentioned in Iopas’ song. The Little and the Great Bear (geminos Triones) were traditionally associated with the Phoenician and the Greek ways of navigation respectively (Aratus’ Phaenomena 26–27, 36–44, with Margalit Finkelberg, “‘She Turns about in the Same Spot and Watches for Orion’: Ancient Criticism and Exegesis of Od. 5.274 = Il. 18.488,” GRBS 44 (2004): 231–44). In a cosmogonic reading of the passage, rain and lightning may be taken as representing the elements water and fire (James Henry, Aeneidea (London: Williams and Norgate, 1873–92) 1:853–4). Reading soles as poetic plural for translation’s sake. Either the nights are slow to begin (i.e. short Summer nights: Servius; Douglas A. Little, “The Song of Iopas: Aeneid 1.740–6,” Prudentia 24 (1992): 31–33; Otto Schönberger, “Der Sänger beim Gastmahl (Vergil, Aeneis 1,723 f.),” RhM 136 (1993): 303) or slow to end (i.e. long Winter nights: John Conington (ed.), The Works of Virgil, Vol. 1, The Eclogues and Georgics (London: Whittaker, 1858), 245, ad G. 2.482; Viktor Pöschl, The Art of Vergil: Image

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19

20

21

22

and Symbol in the Aeneid, trans. Gerda Seligson (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1962), 154; Ronald Gregory Austin (ed.), P. Vergili Maronis Aeneidos liber primus (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 225; Keith Maclennan (ed.), Aeneid I (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2010), 161), the reference thus antithetically encompassing the seasons (Summer days vs. Winter nights) or alternatively referring twice to Winter in different words (i.e. Winter’s short days and endless nights). Both interpretations are consistent with the style known as parallelismus membrorum typical of ancient Northwest Semitic traditions (Ugaritic and Hebrew poetry), of which traces have been found in early Phoenician inscriptions too (Yitzhak Avishur, Phoenician Inscriptions and the Bible: Select Inscriptions and Studies in Stylistic and Literary Devices Dommon to the Phoenician Inscriptions and the Bible, Tel Aviv: Archaeological Center Publication, 2000); I study elsewhere Vergil’s use of synonymous parallelismus membrorum, known in Vergilian scholarship as Theme and Variation (Henry, Aeneidea, 4:36) and dicolon abundans (Gian Biagio Conte (ed.), P. Vergilius Maro: Aeneis (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), 30, 100–1; Lisa Piazzi, “Un marchio di stile virgiliano: il dicolon abundans,” Materiali e discussioni 82 (2018): 9–62). The unanimous applause makes a modern reader wonder, in what language would ancient readers have imagined that Tyrians and Trojans communicated? Would they have assumed Iopas’ performance was anything but Latin or Greek? Except for 2.423, the Aeneid maintains the rarely broken Homeric fiction of linguistic homogeneity (cf. Il.2.804, 4.437–8, 20.248–9, h.Hom. 5.113–17), with Edith Hall, Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Definition through Tragedy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), 19–20; Hayden Pelliccia, Mind, Body and Speech in Homer and Pindar (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprech, 1995), 80 n.132; Deborah L. Gera, Ancient Greek Ideas on Speech, Language, and Civilization (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 1–4. Brown, “Homeric Background,” 324, and Wendell Clausen, Virgil’s Aeneid: Decorum, Allusion, and Ideology. (Munich: K. G. Saur, 2002), 56. On the calming role of cosmogonies as incantatory poetry, see López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born, 182–8. Henry, Aeneidea, 1:850; Pöschl, Art of Vergil, 151–4; Charles Segal, “The Song of Iopas in the Aeneid,” Hermes 99 (1971): 336–49. Wendell Clausen, Virgil’s Aeneid and the Tradition of Hellenistic Poetry (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 31; Robert D. Brown, “The Structural Function of the Song of Iopas,” HSCP 93 (1990a): 332, points at the transitional role of the scene, which brings the day to a climax. Philip. R. Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid: Cosmos and Imperium (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), 65, suggest Iopas’ song may be a preface to Aeneas’ narrative in books 2 and 3. The bibliography on Vergil’s Iopas is extensive: Leopold, “Ad Verg. Aen. I.740;” Theodore Thomas Duke, “Vergil – A Bit Player in the Aeneid?” CJ 45 (1950): 191–3; Walther Kranz, “Das Lied des Kitharoden von Jaffa,” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 96 (1953): 30–38; Pöschl, Art of Vergil, 151–4; Léon Herrmann, “Crinitus Iopas,” Latomus 26 (1967): 474–6; Segal, “Song of Iopas”; Thomas Edmund Kinsey, “The Song of Iopas,” Emérita 47 (1979): 77–86; Charles Segal, “Iopas Revisited (Aeneid I 740 ff.),” Emérita 49 (1981): 17–25; Thomas Edmund Kinsey, “The Song of Iopas (II),” Emérita 52 (1984): 69–76; Charles Segal, “Iopas Again,” Emérita 52 (1984): 77–82; Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid, 52–66; Clausen, Virgil's Aeneid and the Tradition of Hellenistic Poetry, 29–31, 108–10 (an appendix omitted from Clausen, Virgil's Aeneid: Decorum, Allusion, and Ideology; Thomas Edmund Kinsey, “Iopa,” in Enciclopedia Virgiliana, ed. Francesco Della Corte (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1987), 3:9–10; Brown,

Iopas, Vergil’s Phoenician Bard  181

23 24

25 26 27 28 29

30

31 32 33

34 35

“Structural Function,” and “Homeric Background”; Little, “Song of Iopas;” Schönberger, “Sänger beim Gastmahl;” Giovanna Garbarino, “Mitici cantori: Iopa nel I libro dell’ Eneide,” in Voce di molte acque: Miscellanea di studi offerti a Eugenio Corsini, ed. Giorgio Bàrberi Squarotti (Turin: Zamorani, 1994), 183–97; Paul Carranza, “Philosophical Songs: The ‘Song of Iopas’ in the Aeneid and the Francesca Episode in Inferno 5,” Dante Studies 120 (2002): 35–51; Timothy Power, “Vergil’s Citharodes: Cretheus and Iopas Reconsidered,” Vergilius 63 (2017): 93–124. Herrmann, “Crinitus Iopas,” following his own earlier suggestion that Iollas in Eclogues 2.57, 3.76, 79, alludes to Maecenas. Alexander G. McKay, “Dido’s Court Philosopher,” in Daimonopylai: Essays in Classics and the Classical Tradition Presented to Edmund G. Berry, eds. Rory B. Egan and Mark Joyal (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba, Centre for Hellenic Civilization, 2004), 297–307; Power, “Vergil’s Citharodes,” endorses McKay’s proposal by pointing at Juba’s contributions to the field of musicology. Duke, “Vergil,” 191; Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid, 56. J. H. Leopold, “Ad Verg. Aen. I.740,” Philologische Wochenschrift 42 (1922): 887; Duke, “Vergil,” 191; Kranz, “Lied des Kitharoden;” Austin, Aeneidos liber primus, 221; Schönberger, “Der Sänger beim Gastmahl,” 302. Unlike Odysseus, however, Aeneas tells his own true story, and at much more length. Giusti, Carthage in Virgil’s Aeneid, 141. Albert van den Branden, Grammaire phénicienne (Beyrouth: Librairie du Liban, 1969), 9; A useful comparison for YPY, the genitive of YP, Jaffa, is ʿKY, the genitive of ʿK, Akko (Charles R. Krahmalkov, Phoenician-Punic Dictionary (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), s.v.). Punic and Neo-Punic sometimes display double consonants, but cf. the transcription of Agrippina with single unvoiced labial occlusive in a Libyan inscription from Labdah: ʿgrypun[ʿ] (KAI 122, 1 = Karel Jongeling, Handbook of Neo-Punic Inscriptions (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), No. 14; 14-19 CE). As for cuneiform documents, “Jaffa/Joppe is known with the following spellings: yapu, yapu, yappu” (Ludwig Köhler, Walter Baumgartner, M. E. J. Richardson, and Johann Jakob Stamm, The Hebrew and Aramaic L exicon of the Old Testament, 5 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1994–2000), 405 n. 118). wʿd ytn ln ʾdn mlkm / ʾyt dʾr wypy ʾrṣt dgn h'drt ʾš bšd šrn (KAI 14 = CIS, vol. 1, No. 3, lines 18–19). … the lord of kings gave us / Dor and Joppa, the mighty lands of Dagon, which are in the Plain of Sharon … (James B. Pritchard (ed.), Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament with Supplement (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1969), 662). PSI 4 406, line 16, P. Cairo Zen. 14, line 11, P. Lond. 2086, line 9 (all dated to the mid-third century BCE). Avner Ecker, “The Greek Inscribed Pottery,” in Maresha Excavations Final Report – Subterranean Complex 169, ed. Ian Stern (Jerusalem: Hebrew Union College Press, 2019), 284–5. Emil Schürer, Géza Vermès, and Fergus Millar, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135) Vol. II, eds. Matthew Black and Pamela Vermes (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 110–1 n. 132; cf. Avner Ecker, “The Coinage of Jaffa in the Roman Period,” Israel Numismatic Journal 17 (2009–10): 158. Diodorus 1.31.2, 19.59.2; Strabo 1.3.35, 16.2.28; Pliny NH 5.69 (“Iope Phenicum”), 5.128, 6.213, 9.11; Dionysius Periegetes 910–2; and Stephanus Byzantius s.v. Ἰόπη (citing Philon of Byblos). Schürer, Vermès, and Millar, History of the Jewish People, 110–1 n. 132; cf.  Kaizer’s decision “to stick to Iope” (Ted Kaizer, “Interpretations of the Myth of Andromeda at Iope,” Syria 88 (2011): 329n4). However, that perceived

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36 37

38

39

40 41 42

43 44

45 46 47 48 49 50

etymological connections between Iope and Aethiope and Cassiope may have underlaid ancient literary authors’ preference for the single consonant cannot be ruled out. For a similar oscillation (kinyra vs. kinnyra), see John Curtis Franklin, Kinyras: The Divine Lyre (Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2015), 213–16. Ambrosianus L 120 sup., f. 120r (Johannes Kramer, “Der lateinisch-griechische Vergilpalimpsest aus Mailand,” ZPE 111 (1996): 1–20), represented by the siglum П8 in Mario Geymonat (ed.), P. Vergili Maronis Opera. 2nd ed. (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 2008), a palimpsest containing a Greek translation of our passage, reads Iopas, which is rendered as Ἰώπας. To my knowledge, among modern editors only Otto Ribbeck (ed.), P. Vergili Maronis opera, 5 vols (Leipzig: Teubner, 1859), reports the variant readings in both manuscripts (iopes b ioppas c), while Geymonat, P. Vergili Maronis Opera, mentions only b (Iopes b), omitting the double consonant; neither makes clear the interlinear addition. The silence of other editors, such as R. A. B. Mynors (ed.), Vergilius: Opera (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) and Conte, Vergilius Maro, creates the impression of an absolutely unanimous tradition. Some early editions print “Ioppas” (Lambertus Hortensius (Lambert van der Hove) Enarrationes in sex priores libros Aeneidos Vergilianae (Bâle: H. Petrus et Oporinus, 1559); Cerda, Priores sex libri Aeneidos). There is some scope to wonder whether the corrections stem from the tradition and are thus variant readings, or whether they rather result from metrical (adding a p would signal a long vowel for scansion) or etymological reasoning (a perceived link to Ioppe). Kranz, “Lied des Kitharoden von Jaffa,” 30. The traditions of Jaffa existing prior to the flood (i.e. Deucalion) are reported by Pliny (NH 5.69: Iope Phoenicum, antiquior terrarum inundatione, ut ferunt) and Pomponius Mela (Chronographia 1.11.64: est Iope ante diluvium ut ferunt condita). Steven R. Notley, “Greco-Roman Jaffa and its Historical Background,” in The History and Archaeology of Jaffa 1, eds. Martin Peilstöcker and Aaron A lexander Burke (Los Angeles, CA: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, 2011), 95–107 and Benjamin Isaac, “Ioppe: Introduction,” in Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae. Vol. 3, South Coast, 2161–2648, eds. Walter Ameling, Avner Ecker, and Robert Hoyland (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 19–31 with further references. Plin. NH 5.69; Strabo 1.2.35; Dionysius Periegetes 910–2 (Isaac, “Ioppe: Introduction,” 23). Other Punic names documented in Latin are Bagas, Beryas and Amilkas for Amilkar (Klaus Geus, Prosopographie der literarisch bezeugten Karthager (Leuven: Peeters, 1994)). Incidentally, Arybas is the name of the Sidonian woman in Od. 15.425. Scholars tend to dismiss Servius’ identification of Iopas as an African king and a suitor of Dido as a mistaken reference to Iarbas (Iopas vero rex Afrorum, unus de procis Didonis, ut Punica testatur historia). Only a line and a half are devoted to a description of the bard. Concision is accompanied by assonance and non-linear word order. References in Cerda, Priores sex libri Aeneidos, 141 (a note that commentators tend to overlook). Kranz, “Lied des Kitharoden von Jaffa,” and Segal, “The Song of Iopas,” Power, “Vergil’s Citharodes,” 118 n. 57, finds an allusion to Lucretius, RN 2.28: citharae reboant laquea aurataque templa, “an image meant to emblematize useless luxury”. Clausen, Virgil’s Aeneid, 108, and Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid, 57 n. 59. Elaine Fantham, Roman Readings: Roman Response to Greek Literature from Plautus to Statius and Quintilian (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), 23, with slight adaptation.

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12 Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews of Late Antique Palaestina1 Maren R. Niehoff

Given Homer’s canonical status in Greek culture, it is not surprising that he is discussed in Origen’s Contra Celsum as part of a broader negotiation between Christianity and “Paganism” about the Classical heritage.2 It is rather more remarkable that Homer also played a role for the Jews of Late Antique Palaestina, who were committed to another canonical text, namely, the Bible, which they often read in Greek, especially in Caesarea.3 A passage in the Jerusalem Talmud, however, approves of reading Homer and thus throws new light on the debate about the Greek poet in Contra Celsum. The triangular relationship, which I investigate in this article, is anchored in the circumstances of Origen’s composition. He wrote the Contra Celsum toward the end of his career in Caesarea and admits that he only reluctantly accepted his patron Ambrosius’ request to write a response to the “Pagan” philosopher, whose personal identity was already shrouded in some uncertainty.4 Origen does not explain his decision to heed Ambrosius’ advice. Has he simply grown tired of his patron’s reminders? But then we must ask why Ambrosius insisted on this task. In contrast to other works he requested, Contra Celsum neither comments on the Scriptures nor explains the principles of Christian faith in distinction from Gnostic ideas, with which Ambrosius as a former Valentinian and even Origen in his youth were personally familiar.5 An intriguing remark in Contra Celsum suggests that Origen is not primarily addressing a Christian audience. He says once that he avoids a certain topic because it “is a matter for some private discussion among believers” (οὔσης τινὸς … οἰκείας ζητήσεως τοῖς πιστεύουσιν, CC 1.66). This reference to an inner circle, with whom Origen shares ideas he cannot spell out in the Contra Celsum, points to a broader, non-Christian audience. “Pagan” readers naturally come to mind, especially Greeks with an intellectual profile such as that of Porphyry, the Platonist philosopher and literary scholar, who briefly visited Origen, most likely in Caesarea.6 This encounter left Porphyry with a highly negative impression of Origen and contributed to his resolve to write a detailed critique of Christianity, the Contra Christianos. While many passages in Contra Celsum appeal to “Pagan” readers, a close analysis of his discussion of Homer shows that in this context he does not

186  Maren R. Niehoff anticipate readers identifying with Celsus’ commitment to traditional Greek literature and practices. Rather than systematically responding to Celsus’ interpretations of specific Homeric passages and invalidating their theoretical assumptions in view of “Pagan” positions, Origen turns to other matters which seem more important, but then introduces the Greek poet in new contexts not prompted by his declared adversary. In these new contexts Origen speaks about Homer in a far more general way than Celsus had done and Porphyry would subsequently do. We get the impression that Origen does not address his Homeric arguments to readers immersed in the epics and keen on discussing each of its lines and words. How then do we have to imagine the context of Origen’s arguments? A different solution to the riddle of Origen’s motivation is offered by Ronald Heine, who suggests that he may have been concerned that contemporary Jews would take encouragement from Celsus’ attack on Christianity, especially as he quotes a Jewish voice in the first two parts of his treatise.7 Celsus’ True Logos must indeed have been attractive to such contemporaries of Origen as Rabbi Hoshaya, the head of the rabbinic study house in Caesarea, who was conversant in Greek, most likely familiar with Philo and critical of Origen’s Christian interpretations of the Book of Genesis.8 Moreover, Origen once responds to the arguments of the Jew quoted in Celsus’ treatise by recalling “a dispute with those said to be wise among the Jews, when many people were present to judge what was said” (CC 1.45). Origen draws here a direct connection between Celsus’ Jew and contemporary rabbis, whom he regularly identifies as “those said to be wise”, a term which reflects the Hebrew designation of rabbis as “sages”.9 A potential connection between Origen’s implied audience in Contra Celsum and contemporary Jews is furthermore suggested by the fact that the first explicit reference in rabbinic literature to Christianity mentions “Yeshua ben Pantira”, a polemical expression previously attested only in the Jewish text quoted by Celsus.10 The Contra Celsum emerges as a highly complex text, which needs to be interpreted on multiple levels with special attention to its context in late antique Palaestina. I shall analyze three perspectives on Homer, namely, the one presented by Celsus in the True Logos from the mid-second century CE, Origen’s response as a Christian theologian addressing a third- century audience in Caesarea, and, finally, the discussion of Homer in a passage from the Jerusalem Talmud, which was probably redacted in the late fifth century CE. Origen, as the author of Contra Celsum, who quotes from the True Logos and addresses contemporary, partly Jewish readers, plays a key role and provides access to the other two perspectives. The impact of his mediation always needs to be kept in mind, because it influences our understanding of both Celsus and Caesarean Jews. Rabbinic literature will be analyzed as an independent piece of evidence, which throws important light on the question of Homer’s status among Jews and thus on the implied Jewish audience of Origen’s Homeric arguments in Contra Celsum.

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  187 Initially, a word about the intellectual background of the two speakers in Contra Celsum, namely, Origen and Celsus. Both were probably trained in Alexandria. While Eusebius explicitly mentions Origen’s upbringing and education in this city (H. E. 6.2.1–6.3.12.), Celsus’ Alexandrian context can be inferred with reasonable certainty. Horacio Lona has offered the following arguments: Celsus’ Middle-Platonism is typically Alexandrian, he discusses Platonic passages interpreted also by Clement of Alexandria, he refers to the “controversy between Papiscus and Jason” (CC 4.52), a text known in Alexandria, and, finally, he is apparently familiar with Philo.11 Celsus refers to “the most reasonable of the Jews and Christians”, who allegorize their canonical texts, a reference which Origen already takes as a sign of Celsus’ familiarity with Philo and perhaps Aristobulus (CC 4.50–51). In the intellectual milieu of Hellenistic Alexandria, where Plato had been dominant for many generations, Celsus and Origen naturally became familiar with the Platonic dialogs.12 Celsus “adduces many passages from Plato’s dialogues” and speaks of the philosopher as a spokesman of ideas held among all the Greeks.13 His conviction that “truth is associated with being, error with becoming; knowledge concerns truth, opinion the other”, is a classical Platonic view, which was cherished in the Platonic tradition.14 According to Origen, Celsus regarded Plato as the foremost “of the divine men of old”, thus embracing the typically Alexandrian approach to Plato as a dogmatic rather than a skeptical thinker.15 Origen, however, adopts a more circumspect attitude and stresses that Moses lived even earlier and expressed superior ideas (CC 6.3–7). Nevertheless Origen quotes Plato against Celsus and defends Christianity against the charge of misunderstanding his dialogs, stressing that Christian teachings are congenial to those of the Greek philosopher, but implement them far more effectively among the masses.16 Celsus’ and Origen’s approach to Homer must thus be investigated in view of their similar philosophical background, taking into account that each of them used it for diametrically opposite narratives of religious identity.

12.1 Celsus’ view of Homer The first brief mention of Homer in Celsus’ True Logos comes even before the Jewish document, which he quotes at length in the first two parts of his treatise.17 Celsus suggests here a certain congeniality between Homer and the Jews, saying that “the Galactophagi of Homer, the Druids of the Gauls and the Getae are very wise and ancient nations, who embrace doctrines akin to those of the Jews” (περὶ τῶν συγγενῶν τοῖς Ἰουδαικοῖς λόγοις διαλαμβάνοντας, CC 1.16). Celsus includes here the Jews among the wise nations sharing the true doctrine to which also Homer attests. This snippet of information is remarkable in view of many other passages, where Celsus criticizes the Jews and their Bible.18 Origen throughout his treatise highlights the latter aspect, as if wishing to prevent any alliance between Jews and “Pagans” against Christianity, which is already established by the fact

188  Maren R. Niehoff that Celsus heavily relies on a Jewish critique of Christianity in the first two parts of his book. Without directly responding to Celsus’ above-mentioned statement about Homer, Origen merely says: “I do not know whether their writings are available, but he [Celsus] excludes only the Hebrews, as far as he can, in respect of both antiquity and wisdom” (CC 1.16). Guided by such theological interests, Origen abbreviates Celsus’ positive statements about the Jews and isolates passages, which could be taken either way. Despite promises to render Celsus’ text faithfully, Origen once says that as Celsus “aims at refuting things not said by us, it is superfluous to quote these very things or to offer a refutation of them”.19 He explicitly admits to not “quoting his wordings” (τιθέναι τὰς λέξεις αὐτοῦ) and omitting lines which are in his view beyond discussion. Given Origen’s editorial work on Celsus’ text, it is more than likely that Celsus’ comment that “Moses has heard this doctrine held by wise nations and famous men and acquired a name for divine power” (CC 1.21), which Origen presents in the context of harsh criticism, was originally meant in a sympathetic manner. Homer, it seems, was adduced by Celsus in support of the notion that the Jews are a respectable people of old times, sharing wisdom with other ancient nations. Homer subsequently plays a significant role in Celsus’ argument that the Christians “were misled by the divine riddles (ἀπὸ θείων αἰνιγμάτων πεπλανημένοι) and invented some adversary whom they call in the Hebrew language Satan” (CC 6.42). Celsus assumes a theological truth in the Greek heritage, which is transmitted in enigmatic form, and accuses the Christians of taking the Greek stories literally. Consequently, they wrongly imagine a Satanic figure as a real adversary of the highest god. Celsus seems to refer to Mt. 4.1–10, where Satan is said to tempt Jesus and asks him to hurl himself to the ground. Luke’s story about Satan entering Judas Iscariot is also likely to have been on his mind (Lk. 22.3). This intervention led to Jesus’ trial and execution, which Jesus accepted without resistance, admonishing followers who bewailed him (Lk 23.27). Celsus criticizes these Gospel stories from a distinctly Platonic perspective: “such thoughts are entirely human, and it is impious to say that the highest god, who wishes to bestow something good on humanity, has an enemy and is powerless” (CC 6.42). The Platonic notion of a benevolent and strong god, who wishes to bestow good on humanity, is borrowed from the Timaeus and was enthusiastically embraced in Alexandria by Philo and the anonymous author of the Timaios of Locri.20 Celsus turns the Platonic notion of the demiurge against the Gospel, stressing that the Greeks embrace the true theology and assume the highest god to control the lower powers. Homer is adduced as laying the foundation for this Greek tradition: In this way he [Celsus] also understands Homer as hinting at similar things as Heraclitus and Pherecydes and those who introduce the mysteries concerning the Titans and the Giants, in the words which Hephaestus says to Hera: “For once already, when I intended to defend

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  189 you, he [Zeus] took me by the foot and hurled me from the divine threshold” (Il. 1.590–1); and similarly, in the words of Zeus to Hera: “do you not remember when you were hanging from on high, and from your feet I suspended two anvils and about your wrists cast a golden chain that cannot be broken? And in the air and among the clouds you were hung. And the gods were wrath throughout high Olympus but were unable to free you even though they were close by. But whomever I would seize, I took and hurled him from the threshold until he reached the earth, with little power left” (Il. 15.18–24). Setting out in detail the Homeric words (καὶ διηγούμενός γε τὰ Ὁμηρικὰ ἔπη), he [Celsus] says that Zeus’ words to Hera are god’s words to matter (φησὶ λόγους εἶναι τοῦ θεοῦ πρὸς τὴν ὕλην τοὺς λόγους τοῦ Διὸς πρὸς τὴν Ἥραν), and that the words to matter hint (αἰνίττεσθαι) that god at the beginning took matter, which was defective, and bound and ordered it in certain proportions; and that he cast out the demons around matter, so far as they were arrogant (ὅσοι ὑβρισταί), punishing them and sending them down here. He says that Pherecydes understood these Homeric words in this way, when he said: “beneath this land is the Land of Tartarus. The daughters of Boreas, the Harpies and Thyella, guard it, and there Zeus casts out any of the gods, if ever one becomes arrogant (ὅταν τις ἐξυβρίσῃ)”. And he [Celsus] says that these ideas are also connected to the robe of Athena, which is seen by every spectator at the procession of the Panathenaea. For he says that it indicates that some motherless and undefiled goddess rules over earthborn men, who had become emboldened (θρασυνομένων τῶν γηγενῶν). Accepting the legends invented by the Greeks, he [Celsus] adds an accusation of our stories, saying: “the son of God is punished by the devil and this teaches us that when we are punished by the same devil, we ought to be patient. All such stories are in every respect ridiculous (πάντῃ καταγέλαστα). I think that it is necessary to punish the devil (ἐχρῆν γὰρ οἶμαι κολάσαι τὸν διάβολον) and not to threaten those who have been attacked by him.21 Initially, we note the complexity of the passage: Origen partly quotes Celsus verbatim, partly summarizes his views on the robe of Athena and partly abbreviates materials, we no longer have access to. Origen’s summary remark that Celsus was “setting out in detail the Homeric words” as well as his transitional phrase that Celsus was “accepting the legends invented by the Greeks” indicate that he left out some parts of Celsus’ original text and presented only what appeared to him the most important lines. This editorial intervention of course raises serious questions regarding Origen’s choice of lines, an issue to which we will return after analyzing the directly quoted passage. In the explicitly quoted lines Celsus treats Homer as part of the broader Greek heritage, which includes also Heraclitus, Pherecydes22 and

190  Maren R. Niehoff the “mysteries” about the Titans and the Giants. He posits a homogeneous Greek heritage, which relies on true doctrines, especially the notion of a strong demiurge able to control and punish adversary elements. Greek theology is then contrasted to Christian ideas, which stray from the accepted common sense. The bone of contention is the question of divine power. Relying on images of Zeus hurling down his adversaries and on Platonic theology, Celsus rejects the Christian idea of a powerful Satanic figure and the implied message of accepting punishments at his hands. Celsus’ critique echoes the position of the anonymous Jew earlier quoted by him, who mocks the story of Jesus’ vicarious death and Christian acceptance of suffering.23 While the Jew pointed to inner contradictions in the Gospels, trusting that they will expose the inferiority of Christianity, Celsus discusses the Christian text by comparison to Homer. Celsus’ discussion of Homer is embedded in Alexandrian discourses. He adduces two passages, which the Alexandrian scholars had discussed in view of each other, noting their similarities and trying to solve the problem of their mythological character. Zenodotus, the first chief librarian in Alexandria and pioneering Homer scholar in the early third century BCE, was apparently so alarmed by the redundancy of the scenes and the image of Hera’s physical punishment that, according to a later scholiast, he “does not at all write the punishment of Hera” (Ζηνόδοτος οὐδὲ ὅλως τὴν κόλασιν τῆς Ἥρας γράφει), i.e. excised the whole passage from his text.24 Zenodotus’ version of the Iliad was thus free of the redundancy and contained only the less shocking myth. Aristarchus of Samothrace, the leading Homer scholar of Alexandria and chief librarian in the early second century BCE, restored the Homeric text and marked the connection between the two passages by a text-critical sign called diple. He explained that “the myth” is told in both places, in the latter “through the reminder of Hera’s chains”.25 Probably referring to the mythological dimension of the passage, Aristarchus further remarks that it is “difficult to solve” (δυσδιάλυτον).26 While Celsus is unlikely to have had direct access to the Alexandrian Homer scholars, he easily imbibed their ideas in the city, which deeply cherished their heritage, and consequently took for granted the connection between the two Homeric passages.27 Unfortunately, Origen abbreviates the quotation from Celsus precisely at this point, summarily saying: “he set out in detail the Homeric words”. It is thus impossible to know how Celsus interpreted the Homeric passages on the literal level. Did he point to their mythological quality and show how the Christians “were misled by the divine riddles”? Celsus may have explained the motif of the hurling down, which appears in both the Homeric and the Christian story, probably arguing that the Christians misunderstood Homer’s epic by taking it too literally and applying it to Satan. Such a hermeneutic move is perfectly in line with Celsus’ argument in the next section, where he says that the Christians mistakenly call Jesus son of god “in imitation of what is said about the world” as a child of god (CC 6.47).

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  191 Origen then introduces Celsus’ metaphorical interpretation of Zeus’ speech to Hera. This interpretation is also embedded in Alexandrian discourses and shows similarities with Philo of Alexandria, the first extant Platonist, who defended Homer against Plato’s criticism and showed how he can be read as a teacher of Platonic ethics.28 Philo similarly assumed that his canonical text, namely, the Jewish Scriptures, contains “riddles” pointing beyond the literal and often mythological meaning.29 Following in Philo’s footsteps, Celsus applies notions from Plato’s Timaeus to Homer and argues that the epic scene treats the shaping of primordial matter in the process of creation. He borrows from the Timaeus the images of defective matter (πλημμελῶς), the binding of the material by a bond (δεσμόν) and the right proportion (ἀναλογία).30 Celsus thus understands Homer to hint at ideas popular among Alexandrian Platonists. Philo testifies to the broad outline of this interpretation. He stresses that the Sophists have invented the names of the elements – Hera for air, Hephaistos for fire, Poseidon for water and Demeter for earth – “but the elements themselves are lifeless matter (ἄψυχος ὕλη), which is incapable of movement of itself and has been laid by the artificer as a sub-stratum for every kind of shape and quality” (Cont. 4). Philo interprets Hera as well as other Greek gods as primordial elements, which are shaped by the demiurge in the process of creation. He, too, models the demiurge on the Timaeus. Both Alexandrian Middle-Platonists thus translate Homeric mythology into Platonic philosophy. While Origen offers a long response to Celsus’ charge, he never discusses his interpretation of Homer. This is remarkable given his emphasis elsewhere on his familiarity with Homeric scholarship. Origen says in his Letter to Africanus from roughly the same period as the Contra Celsum: “we have placed next to these [words] the [sign] called by the Greeks obelus so that this may be clear to us, as well as asterisks next to the lines present in the Hebrew copies but missing in ours”.31 In the newly discovered Homilies on Psalms Origen similarly employs Homeric techniques to explain a discrepancy between a psalm and the Gospel of Matthew.32 Did Origen not respond to Celsus’ interpretation of Homer in Contra Celsum, because he felt that attacking his allegorical approach would be unwise, as he himself relied on both allegory and Plato’s Timaeus? He may indeed have avoided a discussion of Homer, because he had omitted Celsus’ arguments regarding the literal level, which probably traced the Christian misunderstanding of the passage. Silence may have seemed the best remedy to the accusation that Christians misconstrued Homer. In another context of Contra Celsum, however, Origen discusses Greek myth without being directly challenged by Celsus. The context is Celsus’ comment that “the more reasonable of the Jews and Christians try their hand at allegorizing these things” (CC 4.50). Origen takes this opportunity to introduce a rather lengthy discussion of Greek myth and attacks it as well as its allegorical interpretation. He shows himself familiar with Chrysippus’ allegorical method, according to which Hera symbolizes

192  Maren R. Niehoff matter, and stresses that “not out of ill will did Plato banish such myths and such poems” (CC 4.48–50). Plato is recruited against Celsus the Platonist, while it is overlooked that Homer had long been philosophically rehabilitated in Middle-Platonism. Origen’s discussion remains remarkably general and aims at defending Jewish and Christian allegorizers rather than engaging “Pagan” readers with a vested interest in the details of Homer’s epics. Origen may well have been prompted by Celsus’ self-positioning visà-vis both Christians and Jews, which encouraged him to construct a united Christian-Jewish camp against “Paganism”. When Celsus’ arguments have direct implications for Jewish-Christian relations, Origen is happy to discuss Homer on a general level, while showing no interest in Celsus’ interpretation of specific epic passages, which would have interested “Pagan” contemporaries. This asymmetry of Origen’s interest in Homer is striking and requires an explanation. His Homeric arguments do not seem to have been directed toward “Pagan” readers, but rather toward an audience, which would be impressed by the numerous passages from the Bible as well as II Thess. 2.1–12, quoted in response to Celsus’ interpretation of the Homeric passage. Likely readers are the Jews of Caesarea, who would have recognized the Biblical quotations and would then have been treated to a Christian punch line, assuming their sympathy with Christianity. A similar dynamic of interpretation is visible in CC 7.28, where Celsus once more quotes Homer and associates him with Plato. And after these things about God, in which he slanders us, he asks us: where are we about to go? And what hope do we have? And as if these were our answers, he presents the following as our words (καὶ ὡς ἁποκριναμένων τίθησι δῆθεν ἡμετέρας φωνὰς οὕτως ἐχούσας): to another earth, a better one than this. And to this he adds (καὶ πρὸς τοῦτό φησιν): the happy life (which belongs) to fortunate souls has been described by divinely inspired men of old (ἱστόρηται θείοις ἀνδράσι παλαιοῖς). Some called it the Islands of the Blessed, while others the Elysian Fields because of the release from earthly evils, as also Homer says: “but immortals will send you to the Elysian Fields and the ends of the earth, where life is easy” (Od.4.563–5). And Plato, who thinks the soul immortal, openly called the place where the soul is sent a land, when saying thus: “the world is rather enormous, and we who dwell between from the Phasis to the pillars of Hercules inhabit a small part of it about the sea, like ants or frogs around a marsh, and many other people elsewhere living in similar places. For I believe that there are in all directions of the earth many hollows of various shapes and sizes into which the water and the mist and the air have poured together. But the land itself is pure and lies in pure heaven”. (Pl., Phaed. 109a–b) (CC 7.28) This passage, too, is textually very complex. Origen relates to a rhetorical question posed by Celsus, which he, however, does not fully quote, but

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  193 rather explains by highlighting his adversary’s insincerity (“as if these were our answers”). Celsus then seems to have pointed to “Pagan” models for Christian ideas of the afterlife. He may have suggested once more that the Christians took ancient Greek stories too literally and consequently arrived at mistaken notions. Celsus points to Homer’s Elysian Fields and Plato’s concept of another and truer world, described by Socrates in the Phaedo. Did he suggest Plato’s vision of the soul’s journey after death as a metaphorical interpretation of Homer? This is likely as Socrates speaks about the righteous souls being accompanied by gods to a place befitting them, while the wicked are left to themselves, wandering around without orientation. This philosophical image easily matches Homer’s line about “the immortals” sending man to a place where “life is easy”. This interpretation is supported by the fact that Celsus stresses the difficulty of understanding Plato, probably originally showing how the Christians misunderstood him (CC 7.31). Origen broadly confirms Celsus’ charge of Christian imitation by summarily saying that “Celsus then assumes that we have taken the notion of another earth, which is far better and distinct from this one, from some men considered by him as divinely inspired men of old” (CC 7.28). Origen’s defense relates surprisingly little to the Homeric passage or its Platonic counterpart. He instead points to Moses as the source of Christian inspiration, stressing that he anteceded even the Greek alphabet. The Biblical description of the Promised Land “as good and large, flowing with milk and honey” (LXX Ex. 3.8) is quoted as a counterpart to the “Pagan” traditions. Origen then adds a revealing comment: “the good land is not, as some think (ὡς οἴονται τινες) the lowly land of Judaea, which indeed lies in the land cursed from the beginning by the works of Adam’s transgression” (CC 7.28). This concern for the right identification of the Promised Land clearly transcends Celsus’ charge and raises questions concerning implied readers, who may insist on Judaea. Equally surprising is Origen’s subsequent comment that he could discuss many things but will focus on “dispelling the mistaken assumption that the words about the good land, which God promises to the righteous, are said concerning the land of Judaea” (ibid). His implied readers are familiar with Psalms, which Origen now quotes at length, especially verses from LXX Ps. 36. Defending himself against the charge that he speaks “against the intention of the Divine spirit concerning the Mosaic land, which is good and large” (CC 7.29), he stresses that he has already explained in “our studies of the forty-fifth and forty-seventh Psalm” (CC 7.31), that the Promised Land is to be taken metaphorically. Origen thus points to another context from which he has taken his arguments against Celsus. This context can now be identified through the newly discovered Homilies on Psalms, which have already been edited, but are not yet translated. They throw light on Origen’s argument in Contra Celsum and show that he presents views which he developed in the context of contemporary Jewish-Christian debates. The three extant homilies on LXX Ps. 36, which had been known through Rufinus’ rather free Latin translation, reflect his consistent concern to define the land which those “who patiently await the

194  Maren R. Niehoff Lord” are said to inherit.33 He asks which land is meant and emphatically argues for a metaphorical interpretation, according to which the land is an internal land in the human soul, which is announced by Christ and cultivated by Christian virtues.34 In his view, God says that “my soul, whenever it is beautiful and good, is the good land” (εἴπε τὴν ἐμὴν ψυχήν ἐὰν ῇ καλὴ καὶ ἀγαθή εἴναι γῆν ἀγαθήν).35 The food of the righteous is Jesus and Paul, who provide spiritual nourishment and represent the properly understood fruits of the ground (ibid, par. 2). Origen offers these interpretations in the context of Jewish-Christian relations: And whenever you see the Jew not moved from the presence of the nations, but looking at idolatry and not hating idolatry, he is not kept apart from them. But he is hated by the Christian, who has left behind idolatry, even though he [theoretically] agrees with him in this matter. Whenever you see that the Jew hates in a certain way and contrives against the Christian, know that the prophecy has been fulfilled which says: “I will steer in them jealousy with those who are no people” (Deut. 32.21). We are no people, few of us having come to the faith from this city and others from another. Nowhere a people, as the Jewish people was a people and the Egyptian people was a people – unlike them the Christian people never was a people nor is it now a people, but we are sporadically gathered from the nations. (Hom 1 Ps. 36, par. 1, ed. Perrone et al., 115)36 This passage from Origen’s homily on LXX Ps. 36.9 indicates that he answers Celsus’ charges by arguments from a completely different context. Instead of engaging Celsus’ views of Homer and Plato on their own terms and thus meeting the expectations of potential “Pagan” readers, Origen refers to a dispute about the significance of the Holy Land in the context of contemporary Jewish-Christian debates. In view of the homily it is not difficult to identify the anonymous people in Contra Celsum, who are said to insist on Judaea as the concrete Promised Land. They were undoubtedly Jews. Origen implies a connection between nationhood and land, suggesting that the Christians, who do not form an ethnically defined nation, allegorize the specific land of God’s promise. He recalls material from these Jewish-Christian debates when refuting Celsus’ Homeric arguments, thus indicating that his implied readers in these passages were Jews. Such anticipated Jewish readers were probably from Caesarea, where they were immersed in the Greek language and exposed to Christian claims. Celsus’ last reference to Homer toward the end of the True Doctrine directly refers to politics and solicits an engaged response from Origen. Celsus quotes Il. 2.205 in support of the Roman emperor, whose power must not be undermined by Christianity: Celsus says that one should not disbelieve the ancient man (ἀνδρὶ ἀρχαίῳ), who long ago said “[let there be] one king, to whom the son of

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  195 crafty Kronos has given power” (Il. 2.205). And he adds: for, if you give up this doctrine (ἄν τοῦτο λύσῃς τὸ δόγμα), the emperor will take revenge on you. If everybody did the same as you, there would be nothing to prevent him from being abandoned, alone and deserted, while earthly things would come into the power of the most lawless and uncultivated barbarians, so that no report of your worship and your true wisdom would be heard among men. (CC 8.68) Celsus relies here on Homer as an authority of political thought. The line about the king appointed by Zeus is presented as a true “dogma”, which must be heeded. Parallel to other Greek intellectuals from the Eastern part of the empire, Celsus identifies with Rome and recognizes the emperor as a guarantor of stability and administrative functioning.37 He also points with remarkable foresight to Christian uses of Roman infrastructures for the dissemination of their message. This argument seems to have been part of a larger passage, which Origen continues to quote in the next paragraph: You will surely not say that if the Romans were convinced by you and neglected the customary honors to the gods and men and would call upon the “most high”, or whatever name you prefer, he would descend and fight on their side, so that they would no longer need any other defense. In earlier times the same god made these promises and even much greater ones than these, as you say, to those who pay regard to him. But look how much he has helped both those and you. Instead of being masters of the world, they have been left with no earth and hearth of any kind, while anyone of you, who still wanders around unnoticed, is sought out for the death penalty. (CC 8.69) Celsus already imagines the conversion of the Roman Empire to Christianity, but warns that Zeus, who supports the empire, is infinitely stronger than the god of the Jews, who has not proven to be a political asset to His believers. Celsus illustrates this imbalance of power by alluding to the suppression of the Bar Kokhba Revolt in 132-6 CE, which led to the expulsion of the Jews from Jerusalem and prompted Jewish migration to the Galilee.38 Hadrian, he implies, ruled with Divine support, while the Jews had to comply, being left without help from their god. Celsus also points to the illegal status of Christianity, which leads to the execution of its members by the Roman authorities. Origen hardly required a reminder as his father was among the Alexandrian martyrs (Eus., H.E. 6.2.12). Origen passionately replies to Celsus’ political interpretation of Homer, which has direct implications for his audience in third-century Caesarea. He initially insists that the Homeric verse refers to the monotheistic God, most probably following Philo, who had already interpreted Homer as speaking about the Jewish God (Conf. 170). Origen furthermore challenges Celsus’

196  Maren R. Niehoff conclusion about God’s weakness and insists that He offered concrete help to the Jews as long as they were obedient, taking them out of Egypt, for example. However, they lost Divine support and political status, when rejecting Jesus. The suppression of the Bar Kokhba Revolt is thus seen as a direct consequence of the Jews’ “crime” against Jesus.39 The newly discovered Homilies on Psalms show Origen’s triumphant use of this theme: even if the sons of Israel want to conduct themselves according to the Law of Moses, whatever they may do, it is impossible. Let them do the Passover [sacrifice] in the place which the Lord has chosen! Yet they cannot [as they lack access to the Temple in Jerusalem].40 Regarding Christianity, Origen envisions a remarkable reversal of roles. Rather than admitting to being powerless and persecuted in the Roman Empire, he points to the Gospel of John 16.33, where Jesus says: “in the world you experience tribulation, but be of good cheer, I have conquered the world” (CC 8.70). Origen creates a triangular space by using the Roman defeat of the Jews as a sign of their inferiority and implying that the Christians assume a superior position in the Empire. This fervent response to Celsus’ political interpretation of Homer does not appear to be directed toward “Pagan” readers, who would identify with Celsus and find Origen’s protestations of Christian power less than convincing. Origen rather seems to address contemporary Jews, recovering from the defeat of the Bar Kokhba Revolt, whom he invites to consider the political benefits of joining Christianity. Recovering Celsus’ attitude toward Homer has involved deciphering Origen’s editorial interventions. Celsus’ perspectives have been obscured by the fact that his text has not been faithfully quoted and his views have been presented out of context. Origen moreover added remarks intended to make him look inconsistent and unreasonable. Careful study of Celsus’ lines and Origen’s paraphrases has nevertheless made it clear that Celsus regarded Homer as a foundational and canonical author, who represents Greek civilization as such. He interpreted the poet from a typically Alexandrian perspective, namely in view of Plato’s philosophy. Celsus seems to have included the Jews among the wise nations of old, emphasized the role of the demiurge as a benevolent and providential god and took pride in the Roman empire as a structure intended by Homer. We have moreover noticed that Origen’s responses to Celsus were curiously misplaced. Rather than treating the Homeric passages, which Celsus had discussed, with a view to contemporary “Pagan” values, Origen consistently addresses other readers who turned out to be Jewish.

12.2 Origen’s views of Homer According to Eusebius, Origen was trained in Alexandria in “Greek learning”, which must have included the Homeric epics,41 and combined

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  197 them with “philosophical learning” and “accurate examination” of the Christian Scriptures.42 As far as Eusebius was concerned, Origen steered Christianity on a perfectly balanced, scholarly and philosophical course (H.E. 6.18.3). While Eusebius was proud to mention general Greek appreciation of Origen’s philosophical achievements, he admitted that Porphyry, the most important Platonist of his time, mocked him as merely “imitating the Greeks” (ἑλληνίζων), while in reality “he drifted into the barbarian adventure” (H.E. 6.19.7). Origen’s Greek identity was thus contested by a prominent pagan intellectual, who had come to Caesarea and heard his lectures, but then turned for instruction to Longinus and Plotinus. While Origen did not live to see the output of Porphyry’s work, he must have been aware that his difference with the “Pagan” Platonist would raise questions in contemporary circles. Homer assumes a more prominent place in Contra Celsum than in Origen’s previous works, where the poet is surprisingly absent. In his earlier writings Origen refers only once to an explicit Homeric motif, namely the Sirens, and mentions for this reference Symmachus, the Jewish translator of the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek.43 This absence of Homer in Origen’s work up to the Contra Celsum remarkably differs from his vivid presence in the writings of Clement of Alexandria, whose rhetorical style and argumentation are replete with Homeric references, especially in his Address to the Greeks. Having grown up one generation later in a Christian and distinctly ascetical environment, Origen hardly uses the poet. Refuting Celsus’ True Doctrine Origen felt prompted to pay closer attention to Homer, enrich his style by Homeric expressions and define his position vis-à-vis the canonical poet of the Greeks. In Contra Celsum he speaks of Homer as the “best of the poets” (ὁ τῶν ποιητῶν ἄριστος) and “wonderful Homer” (θαυμαστὸς Ὅμερος).44 Moreover, he casually uses epic expressions, which he assumes to be known by his audience.45 Origen introduces Homer in several places where Celsus’ True Logos apparently did not mention him. The first such case occurs in the context of Celsus’ Jew questioning the veracity of the story about the Holy Spirit descending on Jesus in the form of a dove. The Jew asks: “what trustworthy witness saw the apparition or who heard the voice from heaven adopting you as a son of God?”46 Origen responds by pointing to Greek discussions about the veracity of Homer: Before we begin our defense, it is necessary to say that the attempt to show that almost any story, even if it is true, took place and to produce a provable image of it is one of the most difficult tasks and in some cases impossible. Suppose, someone says that the Trojan War never took place, especially as it is mingled with the impossible story (μάλιστα διὰ τὸ ἀδύνατον προσπεπλέχθαι λόγον) about a certain Achilles, who was the son of Thetis a sea-goddess and Peleus a human being, or that Sarpedon was the son of Zeus or Ascalaphus and Ialmenus of Ares and Aeneas

198  Maren R. Niehoff of Aphrodite. How can we substantiate such a story, especially if we are distressed by the fictitious story, which is somehow mingled with the opinion that has prevailed everywhere, namely that the war between the Greeks and the Trojans truly took place in Troy? Suppose also that someone does not believe the story about Oedipus and Jocasta…? The reader who comes to these stories with a reasonable spirit and wants to keep himself from being led astray by them, will judge which stories he accepts and which he interprets allegorically (κρινεῖ τίσι μὲν συγκαταθήσεται τίνα δὲ τροπολογήσει), searching for the intention of those who have written such fictitious stories, and which stories he will disbelieve as having been written out of a desire to gratify someone (διὰ τὴν πρός τινας χάριν). (CC 1.42) Origen points to numerous known Homeric episodes, which have been discussed as problems of veracity in Greek literature. He emphasizes that the criteria for judging them are applicable for all types of text, including the New Testament, which is thus raised to the highest literary category. Origen traces the problem of veracity in the Gospel back to a long tradition of scholarship on such matters. Aristotle already offered literary solutions to such problems and insisted on the poet’s license to violate the norms of historiography and geography.47 His aim was not accuracy, but dramatic effect and catharsis in the reader. In Ptolemaic Alexandria Eratosthenes raised the issue of Homer’s veracity with renewed vigor and insisted that the epics cannot be used for scientific inquiry, such as geography, because they were written merely for “entertainment”.48 The geographer Strabo responded to Eratosthenes’ claims by stressing Homer’s desire to educate rather than to amuse and developed the notion of truth mingled with myth. While Homer knew geography well and was generally reliable, he often added fictional elements to arouse interest.49 Sometimes Homer created “impossible” scenes to “gratify the taste for the marvelous and entertaining” (Strabo 1.2.35). Whether or not Origen relied directly on Strabo, it is precisely this notion of myth mingled with truth that he uses in the above quoted passage. He invites his readers to distinguish between stories that are true and those that serve to gratify or appeal to the reader’s soul. Like Strabo, Origen rejects radical doubt and assumes the reality of the Trojan War. As much as Greek foundations should not be shaken by the discovery of some fictitious elements in the Homeric epics, so the Christian foundations should not be questioned, even if one doubts the veracity of an individual motif. Origen has positioned himself as a Greek intellectual familiar with the discussion about the canonical text of Greek education and demands that the Christian Scriptures be judged by the same standards. Origen concludes on a remarkably tolerant tone, apparently leaving it to the discretion of each reader to decide where to draw a line between reliable passages and those that require allegorical interpretation. Immediately

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  199 afterwards, however, he accuses Celsus of having falsely attributed the above criticism to a Jew, who believes many miraculous stories in his Scriptures and would therefore not hesitate to trust the story about the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove. Origen argues with increasing passion for the veracity of the Gospel scene as a story of similar truth value as that of the Biblical prophecies. This defense of the Gospel is based on the Jewish Scriptures and would appeal to Jewish critics of Christianity, who regard the Biblical prophets as canonical. No pagan reader would be convinced by such prooftexts. Seeing that Origen ultimately relies on the authority of Scripture, we must ask why he added the initial excursus on Homer and Greek literature. May his implied audience have prompted him to start with the reputation of Homer, even if he ultimately does not rely on it, but adopts a more authoritative, religious position? Origen expects his readers to share “the opinion that has prevailed everywhere, namely that the war between the Greeks and the Trojans truly took place in Troy”. He enlists conservative Greek sentiments without going into the details of Homer’s epic, which would have interested a “Pagan” audience. Did he anticipate such sentiments among the Jews of Caesarea? Origen introduces Homer on another unwarranted occasion, namely when dealing with Celsus’ criticism that the Gospel account of the risen Christ contradicts philosophical notions. Celsus explains that only a “carnal race” can rely on sense-perception and trust accounts of the fleshly apparition of a man, who is known to be dead (CC 7.36). He calls his readers to flee such deceivers and sorcerers, who deny other gods as phantoms, while themselves putting their faith in someone “who is not even any longer a phantom”. Origen responds to these charges by an interesting literary argument. He suggests that the authors of the Gospels did not themselves hold such unphilosophical notions, but rather expressed their ideas in a way that would appeal to simple people. Origen insists that it is “a virtue in a writer, who puts words into the mouth of a figure, to pay attention to the outlook and character of the person to whom the words are attributed”. It would be a mistake to attribute to a speaker words that are not suitable to his character. The author’s philosophy must thus not be “put into the mouth of barbarians or uneducated people or servants, who have never heard philosophical doctrines and never expressed them properly” (CC 7.36). This literary principle is illustrated by reference to Homer: On this account Homer is admired by many, as he kept the characters of the heroes the same as when he initially set them up, such as the character of Nestor, or Odysseus, or Diomedes, or Agamemnon, or Telemachus, or Penelope, or one of the others. But Euripides is mocked by Aristophanes as an unseasonable talker, because he often attributes to barbarian women or domestic girls, words that contain ideas he learnt from Anaxagoras or some other wise man. (CC 7.36)

200  Maren R. Niehoff The notion of proper characterization in Homer’s epics was already introduced by Aristotle. He insisted that an author must pay careful attention to whom he attributes what kind of deeds or words, considering not only the specific character of the figure involved, but also the circumstances of each deed or speech-act (Poet. 1461a4-9). This notion became so popular in Greek education that Aelius Theon mentions it in his progymnasmata, written probably in first-century CE Alexandria. He introduces precisely the comparison between Homer and Euripides mentioned by Origen: “we praise Homer first because of his ability to attribute the right words to each of the characters he introduces, but we find fault with Euripides, because his Hecuba philosophizes inopportunely”.50 Origen thus relies on a literary notion which had become a basic theme of Greek education. He identifies Aristophanes as the first critic of Euripides and adds some examples of his own, peppering his argument with learning.51 Origen implies that the Gospels should be appreciated on the same literary grounds as Homer’s epics. The literary argument of Homer’s style, which was a standard theme in Greek education, serves Origen to discredit Celsus’ charge that Christians rely on sense-perception and “are not able to understand anything” of the ethereal nature of real gods (CC 7.36). Origen counters by suggesting that the literary quality of the New Testament has been misunderstood and needs to be appreciated in view of the Greek epic. Like Homer, the Christian authors put appropriate words into the mouth of their characters and present uneducated people as perceiving the risen Christ in physical images. Origen stresses that Christians do not share Stoic epistemology, which is materialistic and denies intelligible entities, but rather appreciate God as an invisible existence and transcendental mind. He moreover insists that both Paul and Moses taught that men begin their search of the Divine by looking at the visible world, which they increasingly transcend. Origen thus suggests a common Christian-Jewish denominator based on a shared Greek education, while at the same time admitting that his readers are highly skeptical about Christianity and need to be convinced that the Gospels do not fall short of Homer’s literary qualities. Such readers are likely to be the Jews of third-century Caesarea, who had access to Greek education and wider literary discourses. Finally, Origen quotes Homer at great length in the context of a dispute with Celsus about the uniqueness of man in comparison to the animals. Celsus objected to the notion that “God made all things for man”, insisting that “everything was just as much made for the irrational animals as for men” (CC 4.74). Human beings, he continues, are not made to rule over the animals, which are in any case better equipped by Nature for hunting (CC 4.78). Celsus then adds an argument about the superior qualities of animals, which render them at least equal to man, if not superior. The ants, for example, build cities like man and have congregations that take decisions for the community, preserve food for the winter season and arrange graveyards. They have a “completely developed Logos and common notions of certain general matters and a language to communicate” (CC 4.84).

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  201 Celsus expresses here the characteristic approach of the Platonic school and assumes a general notion of Divine providence, which takes care of the whole cosmos rather than specifically of man (CC 4.99). Such views were also defended by Philo of Alexandria’s nephew Alexander in a special treatise on The Rationality of the Animals.52 Philo himself adopts Stoic notions of a sharp separation between humans and animals, stressing that the Biblical creation account suggests a special affinity between man and God. Following in Philo’s footsteps, Origen rejects Celsus’ arguments and insists on the animals’ inferiority. He initially refers to Homer and then relies on the authority of Moses. For this purpose, he quotes at length two known epic passages, cited also by Plato and Cicero in the context of divination, and suggests that the animals depicted there suffer so much that they cannot possess any divinatory powers.53 Homer is once more used as a general educational asset to disprove Celsus’ argument. Origen then expresses admiration for Moses who declared as unclean such animals as were appreciated in Egypt for their prophetic powers and legislated against augury as well as the study of bird omens (CC 4.94–95). Appealing to readers recognizing Moses’ authority, Origen passionately argues that the animals cannot be nearer to God than man. Mocking the ideas presented by Celsus, he insists that only genuinely wise and pious men can approach God. Origen’s discussions of Homer in Contra Celsum show a recurrent pattern. While the Caesarean theologian never discussed the poet when Celsus introduces him, he refers to him on several other occasions when Christianity is criticized on literary grounds, either by the anonymous Jew or Celsus himself. Origen positions himself as a connoisseur of Greek traditions and appeals to well-known literary features and Homeric passages. His discussion remains remarkably general and suggests to his readers that their resistance to Christianity is not compatible with their Greek education. Anybody enjoying a basic training in Greek literature and familiar with Homeric questions should accept similar solutions to the literary problems of the New Testament. Origen enlists Homer’s reputation to recuperate Christianity after Celsus’ attack and convince his readers of the literary value of the Christian texts. At the same time Origen regularly appeals to the authority of the Bible and uses it as the ultimate proof of his argument. Such appeals to Scripture aim at an audience with a Jewish background, who combined Biblical learning with a broad Greek education, including Homer. Thus far I have argued that Contra Celsum shows clear signs of engaging a Jewish audience in third-century Caesarea, whom Origen expected to be versed in the Jewish Scriptures and taking a keen interest in general Greek paideia, which naturally included Homer. He expected his readers to be familiar with the famous literary problems of the Homeric epic and hoped that they would agree to apply the traditional solutions to such problems also to the New Testament. Origen’s responses to Celsus’ arguments from Homer are peculiarly displaced and do not directly address a “Pagan” audience identifying with the Alexandrian Platonist. They open a precious

202  Maren R. Niehoff window into the cultural and intellectual milieu of the “Hellenistic party” among Palestinian Jews about whom we have otherwise very little evidence. This party now deserves our special attention. Homer among the Jews of Late Antique Palaestina Justinian provides us with a first glimpse into the cultural orientation of Greek-Speaking Jews. In his novella of February 553 he still addresses them as a lively group, actively preventing the Hebraization of the Jewish liturgy supported by the Hebrew-speaking rabbis, probably centered in Tiberias.54 Interestingly, Justinian expresses similar hopes as Origen about such Greek readers of the Jewish Scriptures, who are warned of the Mishnah as a merely human “chatter” that has “nothing of the divine” (l. 47–48). They are expected not to pay attention to the naked letters (μὴ ψιλοῖς δὲ προσέχειν τοῖς γράμμασιν), but grasp the truly more divine intentions of the things that have taken place, in order that they shall study better55 what is more beautiful and cease at some time to err and to sin in what is most vital – we speak about the hope in God. (l.73–76) Libanius, the famous rhetor of fourth-century Antioch, illuminates another aspect of Greek paideia in Late Antique Palaestina, namely, that of the patriarch, with whom he entertained a lively correspondence in Greek. Moshe Schwabe, who analyzed these letters, highlighted the patriarch’s high standing in the cultural and political circles of his time.56 Epistle 1098 is of special interest, because Libanius mentions the education of the patriarch’s son, who received some initial training by Argeius and then arrived in his school in Antioch.57 The son was apparently not qualified for such higher studies and fled from the school. Libanius writes to the disappointed father to cheer him up by a Homeric reference: “still perhaps some gain has accrued to him, as to Odysseus, for he saw many cities [on his way to Antioch]”. Libanius’ reference presupposes the patriarch’s Greek learning as well as his keen appreciation of Greek literature. Moreover, wishing the best rhetorical education for his son, the Jewish patriarch obviously anticipated that he would also study Homer. Closer to the time of Origen, rabbinic literature echoes debates about the extent of Greek in the synagogues. The Mishnah and the Jerusalem Talmud present the patriarch Rabban Gamliel as accepting written Greek translations as enough to fulfill the duty of reading Scripture.58 Willem Smelik associates the Greek Torah readings especially with the synagogue of Caesarea, where even the prayers of the Shema and the Amida were recited in Greek.59 Nicholas de Lange similarly pointed to the presence of a strong Hellenizing party in Palestine, which opposed the notion of Hebrew as the Holy Tongue and only valid language of Torah reading. The continuous use of the LXX in Palestinian synagogues as well as the diverse translation

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  203 activity into Greek, including that of Aquila, shows the vibrancy of Jewish Greek culture in Late Antique Palaestina.60 This situation is also reflected in the rabbinic Midrash Genesis Rabbah, which interprets the Biblical expression “Japhet in the tents of Shem” as indicating that “the words of Torah will be said in the language of Japhet in the tents of Shem”.61 The inscriptions from Caesarea confirm the centrality of the Greek language among its Jewish inhabitants.62 The Jewish funerary inscriptions from this city are virtually all in Greek, some featuring a rather decorative “shalom” in Hebrew at the bottom.63 It is to such Caesarean Jews that Origen speaks in his Contra Celsum, appealing to their general Greek education as well as their appreciation of Homer and hoping to render Christianity acceptable to them. Jewish Greek paideia in Late Antique Palaestina is further illuminated by a famous passage in the Jerusalem Talmud, which mentions “the books of Homer” (‫)סרימה ירפס‬. This passage echoes the views of the “Hebraizing party” mentioned by Justinian. Even in this milieu, probably anchored in Tiberias, the reading of Homer has become an issue prompting discussion. The debate revolves around wrong believes, Rabbi Akiva mentioning the reading of “apocryphal books” (‫ )םיינוציחה םירפס‬as preventing a man to enter the world to come (mSan. 10.1). The Jerusalem Talmud comments R. Akiva’s saying by a reference to Homer: apocryphal books – such as Ben Sira and the books of Ben Lana. But the books of Homer and all the books written from now onwards, the reader of them is like a reader of a letter. What does this mean? “be aware, my son, of anything beyond these” (Koh. 12.12). For reading they were given, but not for intensive study (‫ ליגיעה לא ניתנו‬,‫”)להגיון נתנו‬.64 Saul Lieberman in a pioneering study interpreted this passage as a sign of the rabbis’ positive attitude toward Homer, as part of their general openness toward Greek education.65 He stressed that Homer was by no means regarded as a heretical author, but enjoyed more esteem than the apocryphal books. The rabbis indeed recommended the epic for leisurely reading, while warning not to study it as intensively as the Torah. This position is likely to be a reaction to Jewish Greek paideia, as reflected in the Contra Celsum. Homer had become too current among Jews in post-Mishnaic times to be ignored. The Hebrew-speaking rabbis thus accepted the reading of the epic, while also setting limits ensuring that it would not rival Torah study. The lively debates about Homer in and around the Contra Celsum, which we have investigated in this article, show the central role of the epic in Late Antique negotiations about the Classical Greek heritage. None of the authors examined here made Homer the main object of study, but all of them related to his work during the crucial period when Christianity became visible and adopted both Greek and Jewish traditions. We have also observed a significant change of emphasis from second-century Alexandria to

204  Maren R. Niehoff third-century Caesarea. Celsus as a Platonic philosopher in Alexandria was intimately familiar with Homer and regarded him as the canonical poet, who represents and consolidates Greek civilization. His references to the epic rely on a careful reading of specific passages in view of Plato’s philosophy. While Origen had also been raised in Alexandria, he was socialized in a Christian milieu with less esteem for the Greek poet. Not directly addressing “Pagan” readers in the Contra Celsum, Origen rather turns to contemporary Jews in Caesarea and appeals to their Greek paideia in his attempt to win them over to Christianity. In this context Homer plays the role of a general educational asset appreciated also among Jews in Late Antique Caesarea. Aware of this cultural situation, Hebrew-speaking rabbis sanctioned the reading of the epic.

Notes 1 It is a special pleasure to dedicate this article to Margalit Finkelberg, mentor and long-standing friend, from whom I have learnt so much about Homer and his reception. I thank the ISRAEL SCIENCE FOUNDATION (grant no. 1720/17) for its generous support of the research on which this article is based and Yakir Paz for comments on a draft. The Israel Institute for Advanced Studies, where I spent the academic year of 2017–18 as the co-head of a research group on “Contours and Expressions of the Self in Ancient Mediterranean Cultures”, provided a most supportive environment for the composition of this article. 2 On Homer as a canonical author in Greek culture, see Margalit Finkelberg, “Canonising and Decanonising Homer: the Reception of the Homeric Poems in Antiquity and Modernity,” in Homer and the Bible in the Eyes of Ancient Interpreters, ed. Maren R. Niehoff (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 15–28; Margalit Finkelberg, Homer (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 2014), 15–23 [in Hebrew]. I use “Pagan” in inverted commas to signal that this term reflects an external perspective, as already stressed by Michel Fédou, Christianisme et Religions Païennes dans le Contre Celse d’Origène (Paris: Beauchesne, 1988), 31–37. On the dangers of Christianizing interpretations, see John Scheid, Les dieux, l’Etat et l’individu: Réflexions sur la religion civique à Rome (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 2013). 3 The Jews of Caesarea were exposed to the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the capital of the Roman province and were fluent in Greek, even reciting the prayer of the Shema in that language (jSot.7:1). Origen attests that Jews “ignorant of the Hebrew language” relied on Aquila’s translation as the “most successful of all” the Greek translations (Ep.Afr. 4, discussed by Pierre Nautin, Origène. Sa Vie et son Œuvre (Paris: Beauchesne, 1977), 314–42). The inscriptions from the synagogue of Caesarea not only show that its functionaries carried Greek titles, such as “archisynagogos”, but also contain a quotation from the LXX; see W. Ameling, Hannah Cotton et al. (eds.), Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palestinae (Berlin and Boston, MA: De Gruyter, 2011), vol. II.1440, 1442. 4 Origen says that Celsus has “already been dead for a long time” (CC pref. 4), that “in many points he wishes to imitate Plato” (καὶ γὰρ ἐν πολλοῖς πλατωνίζειν θέλει, CC 4.83) and that he “has often shown reverence” for Plato (πολλάκις ἐσέμνυνεν, CC 6.47). At the same time Origen introduces him as an Epicurean, most likely as a rhetorical means to manipulate the readers (CC 1.8; see also Henry Chadwick, Origen: Contra Celsum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1953), XXIV–XXVI. On Ambrosius, see Orig., frag. Com.Gen. in Eus., H.E. 6.24.2, Com.Jn. 6.2.8–12; Nautin, Origène, 58–59, 378–81.

Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  205

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Homer between Celsus, Origen and the Jews  207

33

34 35 36

37

38

39

40

41

discussed by Margaret Mitchell, “Origen and the Text-Critical Dilemma: An Illustration from One of His Newly Discovered Greek Homilies on the Psalms,” Biblical Research 62 (2017): 61–82. οἱ δὲ ὑπομένοντες τὸν κύριον αὐτοι κληρονομήσουσιν γῆν (LXX Ps. 36.9), cf. The Masoretic text ‫( ארץ וקוי יהוה המה יירשו‬Ps. 37.9). Rufinus’ Latin translation can be found in Emanuela Prinzivalli, Henri Crouzel, and Luc Brésard (eds.), Origène, Homélies sur les Psaumes 36 à 38 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1995). See summary statements in Hom.2 Ps. 36, par. 4 (ed. Perrone et al., 132), Hom. 1 Ps. 36, par. 3 (ed. Perrone et al., 121). Hom. 1 Ps. 36, par. 3 (ed. Perrone et al., 121). Καὶ ἐὰν ἴδῃς Ἰουδαῖον ἐπὶ μὲν τῶν ἐθνῶν μὴ κινούμενον, ἀλλὰ βλέποντα εἰδωλολατρίαν καὶ μὴ μισοῦντα εἰδωλολατρίαν μηδὲ ἀπεχόμενον αὐτων, Χριστιανῷ δὲ ἀπεχθανόμενον tῷ καταλιπόντι τὰ εἴδωλα κἄν κατὰ τοῦτο ὁμονοοῦντι αὐτῷ. ἐπὰν ἴδῃς οὖν τὸν Ἰουδαῖον τίνα τρόπον μισεῖ, τίνα τρόπον ἐπιβουλεύει Χριστιανῷ, νόει ὅτι πεπλήρωται ἡ προφητεία λέγουσα “καὶ ἐγω παραζηλώσω αὐτοὺς ἐπ’ οὐκ ἐθνει. Ἡμεις γὰρ οὐκ ἔθνος, ὀλίγοι ἀπὸ ταύτης τῆς πόλεως πεπιστεύκαμεν καὶ ἄλλοι ἀπὸ ἄλλης. Οὐδαμοῦ ἔθνος, ὥσπερ γὰρ τὸ Ἰουδαῖον ἔθνος ἔθνος ἦν καὶ τὸ Αἰγύπτιον ἔθνος ἔθνος ἦν, οὐκ οὕτως τὸ Χριστιανὸν ἔθνος ἔθνος ἦν καὶ ἔθνος ἐστιν, ἀλλὰ σποράδην σύνάγονται ἀπὸ τῶν ἐθνῶν. For details on Greek Intellectuals in the Roman Empire, see Christopher P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971); Thomas Schmitz, Bildung Und Macht: Zur Sozialen Und Politischen Funktion Der Zweiten Sophistik in Der Griechischen Welt Der Kaiserzeit (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1997); Simon Swain, Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, A.D. 50–250 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996); Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Philip A. Stadter, Plutarch and His Roman Readers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Niehoff, Philo of Alexandria. See esp. Shlomit Weksler-Bdolah, “The Foundation of Aelia Capitolina in Light of New Excavations along the Eastern Cardo,” Israel Exploration Journal 64 (2014): 38–62, whose excavations have shown that Hadrian’s construction activities near the Temple mount antedate the revolt and probably caused it. CC 8.69, 4.73. This interpretation follows Justin’s martyr’s strategy, discussed by Maren R. Niehoff, “A Jew for Roman Tastes: The Parting of the Ways in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho from a Post-Colonial Perspective,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 27 (2019), 549–578. Hom. 1 Ps. 77, par. 3 (ed. Perrone et al., Die neuen Psalmenhomilien, 357); see also Margaret M. Mitchell. “Origen, Christ, the Law and the Jewish People: Some Important Arguments in the New Greek Homilies on the Psalms,” in Origen’s Homilies on the Psalms, eds. Robin Darling Young and Joseph W. Trigg (The Catholic University of America, forthcoming); Alfons Fürst, “Judentum, Judenchristentum und Antijudaismus in den neuentdeckten Psalmenhomilien des Origenes,” Adamantius 20 (2014), 275–87; Harald Buchinger, “Pascha in Third-Century Palestine: Origen’s Newly Identified Homilies on the Psalms,” in Origeniana Duodecima: Origen’s Legacy in the Holy Land – A Tale of Three Cities: Jerusalem, Caesarea and Bethlehem. Proceedings of the 12th International Origen Congress, Jerusalem, 25–29 June, 2017, eds. Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony, Oded Irshai, Aryeh Kofsky, and Lorenzo Perrone (Leuven: Peeters, 2019), 75–90. ἐν τοῖς Ἑλλήνων μαθήμασιν (Eus., H. E. 6.2.15); on Homer’s centrality in Hellenistic Egyptian education, see Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011).

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61

62 63

64 65

Shoval-Dudai (eds.), The Words of Japheth. An Anthology of Writings by Greek Intellectuals in Ancient Palestine (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2018 [in Hebrew]); Joseph Geiger, The Tents of Japheth, Greek Intellectuals in Ancient Palestine (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2012 [in Hebrew]). GR 36.8 ‫ ;יהיו דברי תורה נאמרים בלשונו של יפת בתוך אהלי שם‬similarly, in yMeg. 71b (but here without the specific reference to words of “Torah”). The proximity of this Midrash to the Greek milieu is also reflected in its quotation of Aquila’s Greek translation in transliteration (‫תרגם עקילס אקסיוס ואיקנוס‬, without translation into Hebrew, GR 46.3) as well as its massive use of Greek loanwords, on which see Menahem Hirshman, “The Greek Words in the Midrash Genesis Rabbah,” in Tiferet Israel. Festschrift for Israel Francos (2009): 21–34 (in Hebrew); see also Menahem Hirshman, “Reflections on the Aggada of Caesarea,” in Caesarea Maritima: A Retrospective after Two Millenia, eds. Avner Raban and Kenneth G. Holum (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 469–75. GR requires further study in the context of Late Antique Palaestina. See above note 3. Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palestina, ed. by Walter Ameling, Hannah Cotton, Werner Eck, Benjamin Isaac, and Jonathan Price (Berlin and Boston: de Gruyter, 2011), vol. 2 no. 1445–1678; no. 1610 contains the fragment of an Aramaic inscription (‫)דרבי‬, discussed by Jonathan Price. jSan. 10.1 (ed. Sussman 1317). Lieberman, Hellenism in Jewish Palestine, 108–10. Lieberman’s interpretation has recently been challenged by Shlomo Naeh, “Yaryana d’igarta: Notes on Talmudic Diplomatics,” in Sha’arei Lashon, eds. Aaron Maman, Steven Fassberg, and Yohanan Breuer (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 2007), 2.228–55; for English summary, see Shlomo Naeh, “Reception of Homer, in Rabbinic Judaism,” in The Homer Encyclopedia Vol. III, ed. Margalit Finkelberg (Oxford: WileyBlackwell, 2011), 716–17. His textual emendation in support of his argument, however, is not justified.

13 Unreportable tokens, speech representation and conventions of textual composition1 Donna Shalev

13.1 Opening remarks: unreportable utterances and διήγησις ἁπλῆ Unreportable tokens such as particles and similarly functioning forms (e.g. νυ or ἴθι), nominal forms (e.g. the vocative πατέρ, or superlative vocative carissima) and phrases, many of them extra-clausal (e.g. vocatives, ethical datives, the illocutionary parenthetical κρήηνον ἐέλδωρ or the tag question ἦ γάρ;), all resist a move from their verbatim production to report in indirect discourse, abstraction, paraphrase and summary, alongside transitions across authorial style, genre, text-type and language. Margalit Finkelberg’s presentation of διήγησις ἁπλῆ sets the stage for a challenge to the received notion of “report”—in particular vis-à-vis μίμησις,2 and for exploring a little corner of the map of διήγησις, or reporting, and the challenge this poses for certain elements of utterance less amenable to report. Socrates, in the famous passage from the Republic III, after his theoretical taxonomy of modes of διήγησις, performs a paraphrase (φράσις) of the first scene in the Iliad. This exercise of turning a passage involving both narrator and character text into a mimesis-free report cannot be carried out, since those unreportable tokens are less amenable to conversion into reported formats. Often such elements are associated, correctly, with affective expression and pathos, vividness or emphasis, but this does not cover all instances of mimetic elements less amenable to report. I would like to focus in this article on these other factors, such as ritualized utterance (in worship, in forensic cross-examination, and in highly conventionalized settings such as geometric proof), where retention of verbatim wording is essential, and to syntactic constraints involved such as addressee orientation and extra-clausal status. Although the unreportability of tokens with these characteristics is sometimes scalar, I refer to them all as “unreportable”; when such tokens resist suppression within parameters of reported speech, it is precisely the dissonance with the diegetic setting and format that lends greatest effect.

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  211

13.2 Persephone’s κεκλομένη πατέρα Κρονίδην ὕπατον καὶ ἄριστον and Iphigeneia’s πάτερ: between invoking witnesses to supplication. 13.2.1 Persephone’s κλῆσις Persephone’s cry to her father Zeus at the moment of her abduction by her uncle Hades is narrated in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter: in the words of the narrator, the maiden ἰάχησε δ’ ἄρ’ ὄρθια φωνῇ / κεκλομένη πατέρα Κρονίδην ὕπατον καὶ ἄριστον (“cried with a piercing voice, calling upon her father the son of Kronos, highest and best”) (1a) ἁρπάξας δ’ ἀέκουσαν ἐπὶ χρυσέοισιν ὄχοισιν ἦγ’ ὀλοφυρομένην· ἰάχησε δ’ ἄρ’ ὄρθια φωνῇ 20 κεκλομένη πατέρα Κρονίδην ὕπατον καὶ ἄριστον. οὐδέ τις ἀθανάτων οὐδὲ θνητῶν ἀνθρώπων ἤκουσεν φωνῆς, οὐδ’ ἀγλαόκαρποι ἐλαῖαι, εἰ μὴ Περσαίου θυγάτηρ ἀταλὰ φρονέουσα ἄϊεν ἐξ ἄντρου Ἑκάτη λιπαροκρήδεμνος, 25 Ἠέλιός τε ἄναξ Ὑπερίονος ἀγλαὸς υἱός, κούρης κεκλομένης πατέρα Κρονίδην· ὁ δὲ νόσφιν ἧστο θεῶν ἀπάνευθε πολυλλίστῳ ἐνὶ νηῷ δέγμενος ἱερὰ καλὰ παρὰ θνητῶν ἀνθρώπων. He seized her against her will, put her on his golden chariot, and drove away as she wept. She cried with a piercing voice, calling upon her father [Zeus], the son of Kronos, the highest and the best. But not one of the immortal ones, or of human mortals, heard her voice. Not even the olive trees which bear their splendid harvest. Except for the daughter of Persaios, the one who keeps in mind the vigor of nature. She heard it from her cave. She is Hekatê, with the splendid headband. And the Lord Helios [Sun] heard it too, the magnificent son of Hyperion. They heard the daughter calling upon her father, the son of Kronos. But he, all by himself, was seated far apart from the gods, inside a temple, the precinct of many prayers. He was receiving beautiful sacrificial rites from mortal humans. H. Dem. 19–29 (transl. G. Nagy) It is important for the narrator to report to us Persephone’s cry, and to report that it went unheard by its addressee and by the rest of the gods and men (except Hekatē and Helios).3 It is not entirely clear whether (a) we are

212  Donna Shalev told that Persephone is invoking her father, son of Kronos the highest and best (i.e. we are being given a diegetic summary, à la Rimmon-Kenan, or a mention of her act of invocation, oratio memorata in Laird),4 or whether (b) we are given a report of what Persephone is crying out. What we are not offered is a reproduction of Persephone’s crying. The wording of verse 21 strongly favors alternative (a), a mention of the invocation governing its recipient in the accusative κεκλομένη πατέρα Κρονίδην ὕπατον καὶ ἄριστον, reinforced by the more compact version of the oratio memorata in verse 27 κεκλομένη πατέρα Κρονίδην. The verb καλέομαι in the middle voice, “to invoke” (LSJ I.3) with accusative of the god, covers the general use of the verb καλέομαι in (1a) above, and as we shall see further below, some instances of the middle of καλέομαι fall under a more technical legal use of a legal summons (LSJ I.4; Stephanus’ Thesaurus col. 872a s.v.) or a call to witness by a plaintiff, with the person (or god) called in the accusative (LSJ I.4b). The expression detailing the delivery of this invocation, the volume and tone of this “calling out,” is more specifically supplied by the expression in verse 20, ἰάχησε δ’ ἄρ’ ὄρθια φωνῇ (“cried with a piercing voice”).5 The persona whom Persephone invokes to hear (and thus bear witness to) her outrage and trespass is her father, Zeus Kronidēs, who is referred to in verse 27 in the accusative of person being invoked, πατέρα Κρονίδην (“[invoking] her father Kronidēs”); such uses of καλέομαι c. acc. pers. have many parallels in the lexicographical entries. More ambiguous is the accusative of καλέομαι in verse 21: πατέρα Κρονίδην ὕπατον καὶ ἄριστον (“[calling upon] her father [Zeus], the son of Kronos, the highest and the best”). In this verse the epithets tacked onto the kinship term and patronymic echo a fullblown κλῆσις6; although extended naming formulae with epithets do appear in the narratorial material between speeches,7 they are more usually found in character speeches, and there, often in the vocative—a form already enumerated in McHale’s inventory of elements which expose indirect discourse as free, i.e. forms which cannot be tamed by “plain” diēgēsis.8 How much clearer for our analysis if the narrator had used here the delocutive πατερίζουσα which retains the vocative locution πάτερ at the base of its derivation and, as a mention of the locution is the closest the language comes to retaining a verbatim token in reporting it (see further on this the discussion with [4] below, and Rosén).9 But we are not peddling in “what if” philology, and we are left to make do with the phrasing in which this act of κλῆσις is packaged, and the unresolved nature of the mention of the act which is clearly a conventionalized invocation. When we recreate the ipssisima verba underlying the outcry, what resonates is “mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht” (stanza 4, line 1 of Goethe’s poem Erlkönig), also involving a relational noun, denoting a kinship term, in a partly analogous setting. When the event in the Hymn is retold by Persephone herself in line 432, the bare mention of the act is given ἐβόησα (“I cried”).

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  213 (1b) βῆ δὲ φέρων ὑπὸ γαῖαν ἐν ἅρμασι χρυσείοισι πόλλ’ ἀεκαζομένην, ἐβόησα δ’ ἄρ’ ὄρθια φωνῇ. He took me away under the earth in his golden chariot. It was very much against my will. I cried with a piercing voice. H. Dem. 431f (transl. G. Nagy) This rape story is rehearsed in Ovid, involving cries, as we see in (2a, b) below, cries usually read on the surface level of the pathos they evoke. Deborah Beck makes much of the pathos and mother-daughter bonding, as does Foley.10 But Foley, like Richardson,11 also emphasizes the significance of the cry at the moment of rape and abduction—an utterance dictated by sociocultural convention, according to which a violation is immediately followed by the victim’s cry, traditionally stemming from the obligation by the victim to invoke witnesses to the crime, and to establish the victim’s protestation; parallels may be found in descriptions of victims’ reactions to violation, e.g. in forensic narrative, such as in Lysias contra Simonem in (1c), where the same verb βοῶ is used, reinforced by another verb emphasizing the force of the outcry, κράζω, as well as μαρτύρομαι, explicitly commenting on the legal role of the outcry.12 (1c) μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα τὸ μὲν μειράκιον εἰς γναφεῖον κατέφυγεν, οὗτοι δὲ συνεισπεσόντες ἦγον αὐτὸν βίᾳ, βοῶντα καὶ κεκραγότα καὶ μαρτυρόμενον. After this the boy took refuge in a fuller’s shop; but these men dashed in after him and laid violent hands on him, while he shouted and cried out and called the bystanders to witness. Lys. 3.15 (transl. W. M. Lamb) As such, an outcry (ἰαχήσε … κεκλημένη in (1a), ἐβοήσα in (1b), βοῶντα καὶ κεκραγότα καὶ μαρτυρόμενον in (1c)) might be considered a performative utterance in danger of losing its sting if reported “plainly.” And so, although Beck is correct to observe the difference between the overwhelming tendency for direct speech in Homeric epic versus the much greater use of reported speech in the Hymns, and to bring to the fore the difference in genre, perhaps the role of pathos and subjectivity she attributes to the employment of direct speech needs to be tempered by the roles of factors such as conventionalized and ritualized utterances, as well as syntactic constraints such as extra-clausal utterances, and other factors. The issue of mode of discourse chosen is an interesting one in itself, and can enter into quite technical territory; it is addressed here as part of a package— the motif of violation, abduction and loss of life concomitant with the cry—not

214  Donna Shalev only a cry for help, and not only as expressions of pathos out of a child-parent instinct, but also a cry as a part of the script in a violation scenario. There are no exegetical or paraphrastic passages to the locus classicus in (1a), but there are alternatives reported in many generic variants, enumerated in Richardson, Foley and elsewhere.13 I adduce (2a, b), two distinct retellings, in Latin, in Ovid’s poetic artistry: matrem clamare in oratio memorata (2a) with pathos (maesto …ore), and io carissima mater … auferor in oratio recta in (2b).14 (2a) Dea territa maesto / et matrem et comites, sed matrem saepius, ore / clamat; The frightened goddess cries out to her mother, to her friends, most of all to her mother, with piteous mouth. Met. 5.396ff (transl. Ted Hughes) (2b) Patruus uelociter aufert / regnaque caeruleis in sua portat equis / illa quidem clamabat “io, carissima mater, / auferor!” … Her uncle … swiftly carried her off, and bore her on shadowy horses to his realm. She called out: “Oh, dearest Mother, I’m being carried away!”… Fast. 4.445–8 (transl. A.S. Kline). The retelling in Fasti (2b) cannot be reported retaining the interjection io or the superlative carissima—these, not unlike diminutives and other affective and relational terms can at best be integrated into looser reported speech (“free indirect discourse”),15 διήγησις which is not fully ἁπλῆ. Stephen Hinds implicates the shifts from the Homeric Hymn’s reported cry to Ovid’s direct speech in the Fasti with the shift from a formal plea to Zeus to a focus on the child-parent planctus.16 The reworking of a text, or a combination of a storyline and its wording, always involves choices as well as constraints which perpetuate the tension between repetition and transformation, as we saw in the shift from Greek to Latin, from one genre to another, and from one work to another by the same author. By extension, then, tokens and elements which are unreportable may also be untranslatable. 13.2.2 Iphigeneia’s ἱκεσία The ῥῆσις of Iphigeneia in Euripides’ Iphigeneia at Aulis is compared with Persephone’s cry in (1 and 2) above. The script is not the same in the IA— Iphigeneia is on the cusp of being sacrificed rather than abducted, but she is appealing to her father and to their father-daughter relation, as she is

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  215 on the verge of going to the underworld, and although there is no explicit narratorial observation to the unrequited pleas (there is no narrator, it is Iphigeneia’s words which tell the story), the repeated calls underscore that her appeals go unheard. (3) Ιφ. Εἰ μὲν τὸν Ὀρφέως εἶχον, ὦ πάτερ, λόγον, / πείθειν ἐπάιδουσ’, ὥσθ’ ὁμαρτεῖν μοι πέτρας κηλεῖν τε τοῖς λόγοισιν οὓς ἐβουλόμην, / ἐνταῦθ’ ἂν ἦλθον· νῦν δέ, τἀπ’ ἐμοῦ σοφά, / δάκρυα παρέξω· ταῦτα γὰρ δυναίμεθ’ ἄν. (1215) / ἱκετηρίαν δὲ γόνασιν ἐξάπτω σέθεν / τὸ σῶμα τοὐμόν, ὅπερ ἔτικτεν ἥδε σοι· / μή μ’ ἀπολέσηις ἄωρον· ἡδὺ γὰρ τὸ φῶς / βλέπειν· τὰ δ’ ὑπὸ γῆς μή μ’ ἰδεῖν ἀναγκάσηις. / πρώτη σ’ ἐκάλεσα πατέρα καὶ σὺ παῖδ’ ἐμέ· (1220) / πρώτη δὲ γόνασι σοῖσι σῶμα δοῦσ’ ἐμὸν / φίλας χάριτας ἔδωκα κἀντεδεξάμην. / λόγος δ’ ὁ μὲν σὸς ἦν ὅδ’· Ἆρά σ’, ὦ τέκνον, / εὐδαίμον’ ἀνδρὸς ἐν δόμοισιν ὄψομαι, / ζῶσάν τε καὶ θάλλουσαν ἀξίως ἐμοῦ; (1225) / οὑμὸς δ’ ὅδ’ ἦν αὖ περὶ σὸν ἐξαρτωμένης / γένειον, οὗ νῦν ἀντιλάζυμαι χερί· / Τί δ’ ἆρ’ ἐγὼ σέ; πρέσβυν ἆρ’ ἐσδέξομαι / ἐμῶν φίλαισιν ὑποδοχαῖς δόμων, πάτερ, / πόνων τιθηνοὺς ἀποδιδοῦσά σοι τροφάς; (1230) / τούτων ἐγὼ μὲν τῶν λόγων μνήμην ἔχω, / σὺ δ’ ἐπιλέλησαι, καί μ’ ἀποκτεῖναι θέλεις. / μή, πρός σε Πέλοπος καὶ πρὸς Ἀτρέως πατρὸς / καὶ τῆσδε μητρός, ἣ πρὶν ὠδίνουσ’ ἐμὲ / νῦν δευτέραν ὠδῖνα τήνδε λαμβάνει. (1235) / τί μοι μέτεστι τῶν Ἀλεξάνδρου γάμων / Ἑλένης τε; πόθεν ἦλθ’ ἐπ’ ὀλέθρωι τὠμῶι, πάτερ; / βλέψον πρὸς ἡμᾶς, ὄμμα δὸς φίλημά τε, / ἵν’ ἀλλὰ τοῦτο κατθανοῦσ’ ἔχω σέθεν / μνημεῖον, ἢν μὴ τοῖς ἐμοῖς πεισθῆις λόγοις. (1240) / ἀδελφέ, μικρὸς μὲν σύ γ’ ἐπίκουρος φίλοις / ὅμως δὲ συνδάκρυσον, ἱκέτευσον πατρὸς / τὴν σὴν ἀδελφὴν μὴ θανεῖν· αἴσθημά τοι / κἀν νηπίοις γε τῶν κακῶν ἐγγίγνεται. / ἰδού, σιωπῶν λίσσεταί σ’ ὅδ’, ὦ πάτερ. (1245) / ἀλλ’ αἴδεσαί με καὶ κατοίκτιρον †βίον†. / ναί, πρὸς γενείου σ’ ἀντόμεσθα δύο φίλω· / ὁ μὲν νεοσσός ἐστιν, ἡ δ’ ηὐξημένη. / ἓν συντεμοῦσα πάντα νικήσω λόγον· / τὸ φῶς τόδ’ ἀνθρώποισιν ἥδιστον βλέπειν, (1250) / τὰ νέρθε δ’ οὐδέν· μαίνεται δ’ ὃς εὔχεται / θανεῖν· κακῶς ζῆν κρεῖσσον ἢ καλῶς θανεῖν. If I possessed Orpheus’ power of speech and could persuade by incantation so that rocks would follow me and I could charm anyone I pleased, I would use that power. But now all the skill I have is in my tears, and these I will give you: that is all I can do. (kneeling before Agamemnon) As a suppliant I lay my body at your knees, and body she gave birth to. Do not kill me before my time: to see the light of day is sweet. And do not compel me to look upon the Underworld. I was the first to call you father, and you called me your daughter first of all. I was the first to be dandled on your knees and to give and receive that dear joy. You used to say, “Shall I see you happy in your husband’s house, living a flourishing life worthy of me?” and I used to say as I hung about your chin, the chin I now grasp with my hand, “And how shall I see you faring, father? Shall I lovingly receive you into my house as an old man, father, repaying you for the toil of my nurture?” I remember these words, but you have

216  Donna Shalev forgotten them and wish to kill me. I beg you by Pelops and Atreus your father, don’t do it! And by my mother, who brought me forth in travail and now has further travail here. What have I to do with Alexandros’s and Helen’s marriage? Why has that come to destroy me, father? Look at me, give me your glance and your kiss so that when I have died I may at least have that to remember you by, if you are not moved by my words! [Brother, the aid you can give is slight, but weep with me and supplicate our father that your sister shall not die; even babes have some perception of trouble. See, father, he supplicates you by his silence. So have a care for me and take pity on my life. We two blood kin entreat you by your beard, one a mere babe, the other grown. I shall say one thing and overtop all argument: this light is the sweetest thing to look on, and what is below is nothing. Anyone who prays for death is a fool: better to live ignobly than to die nobly. E. IA 1212–52. (transl. D. Kovacs) Τhe ῥῆσις merits reading in full, along with verses excised by some editors,17 so that we get a maximum “πάτερ” count. The IA at large makes much of patronymics as well, ingredients of a κλῆσις in the prayer format, found also in Khryses’ appeal to Apollo in the opening scene of the Iliad, and not entirely reportable in Socrates’ φράσις of that scene ([6a] below). Before parting with the Persephone and Iphigeneia passages, mutatis mutandis, and with allusions to the Erlkönig, I observe that Stockhammer does not refer to Greek passages, but does analyze the blend of the dramatic, the narrative and the epic in the Ballade version which Goethe fashioned, with its dialogal innovation, drawing on traditional Danish folklore and other raw materials.18 This dialogal insert is interesting in the context of Margalit Finkelberg’s notion of dialogal or dramatic diēgēsis discussed in the opening of this paper (with note 2 above). The variegated reception of Iphigeneia’s sacrifice and its most salient moments, her ἱκεσία and lament, culminates in a contemporary recasting of her story zooming in on her repeated calls to her father, crystallized into a one-word version of her invocation in Katie Mitchell’s production of The Home Guard. Lisa Maurice describes this reduction of Iphigeneia’s speech into the one word: “Her sacrifice is played out graphically on stage during the speech describing the event, and she herself ‘speaks’ only one word, namely ‘Father’, in a powerful dramatic moment.”19 The iterated locution “Father” is the fittest survivor of this motif’s longlived tradition. 13.2.3 Verbs derived from locutions: the delocutive πατερίζειν conveys the act of address πάτερ In the context of considering the options for incorporating such verbatim locutions into a report, without recourse to oratio recta, and without merely reducing them to oratio memorata, I wish to return in (4) to the previously mentioned delocutive expression πατερίζειν, a verb derived not merely from a noun (such as the Latin patrissare, which means “to take after one’s father”),

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  217 but from the locution “πάτερ” “father!,” a delocutive used in Aristophanes in close juxtaposition (by son and father in a comic role-reversal) to the locution from which it is derived. (4) Βδ. ἀτάρ, ὦ πάτερ ἡμέτερε Κρονίδη—Φι. παῦσαι καὶ μὴ πατέριζε Bdelykleon: Yet, O dread Cronides, Father and Lord—:: Philokleon: Stop, stop don’t talk in that father-me way. Ar.V.652–3 (transl. B.B. Rogers) As demonstrated in Rosén, in some cases the delocutive is difficult to identify.20 The verb πατερίζειν is derived specifically from the vocative form πάτερ, a rare instance of derivation from a declined form, even in Greek, very productive in delocutive derivation. Passage (4) shows the locution delivered by the son Bdelykleon “Oh, our father, son of Kronos,” whose turn-at-talk is interrupted by his father Philocleon’s protestation, involving a delocutive verb derived from his son’s preceding utterance, and implying persistent nagging on the son’s part: “Stop πάτερ-πάτερ-ing me!.” Hardly a nuance that would survive either oratio memorata or oratio obliqua. In the context of (1 and 2b), note the interjection ὦ, the vocative, the possessive first-person pronoun ἡμέτερε, and the patronymic—a virtual κλῆσις; in the context of (3) above, note the repetitive nature of the locution underlying the derived delocutive verb. Often a delocutive verb, or the back-story, involves repetition, to the point of pestering.

13.3 Events packaged as nouns 13.3.1 Socrates’ diegetic version of the opening scene of the Iliad Along with tokens discussed above, including vocatives, superlatives and interjections, other elements less reportable—or unreportable—and their formal or grammatical nature may be excavated from Socrates’ exercise in διήγησις ἁπλῆ. One of the forms employed by Socrates in his exercise of reducing a dramatic exchange of character speech into a “plain” diēgēsis, involves the derivation into a verbal noun to encapsulate actions including, as in (5), encapsulating a ritualized action with all its detail and formulaic verbiage, into more reportable form.21 (5)22 Republic 394a4–5 (ὁ δὲ πρεσβύτης… ηὔχετο… καὶ ἀπαιτῶν) εἴ τι πώποτε ἢ ἐν ναῶν οἰκοδομήσεσιν ἢ ἐν ἱερῶν θυσίαις κεχαρισμένον δωρήσαιτο (The old man … prayed … asking requital for) any of his gifts that had found favor, whether in the building of temples or the sacrifice of victims.

218  Donna Shalev Iliad 1.39–40 (ἠρᾶθ’ ὃ γεραιός…) εἴ ποτέ τοι χαρίεντ’ ἐπὶ νηὸν ἔρεψα, / ἢ εἰ δή ποτέ τοι κατὰ πίονα μηρί’ ἔκηα ταύρων ἠδ’ αἰγῶν (the old man prayed…) “if ever [in the past] I roofed over a pleasing temple for you / or if ever I burnt for you fat thighs of bulls or goats…” Toward the end of the Iliad scene which Socrates tries to convert into διήγησις ἁπλῆ he resorts to nominalizing Khryses’ ἐπὶ νηὸν ἔρεψα (“I roofed over a … temple”) and κατὰ πίονα μηρί’ ἔκηα (“I burnt … fat thighs”) in Homer; these are two verbalizations in the highly formalized pattern of the ὑπόμνησις section of the prayer, whose anatomy and format were studied by Norden and whose conditional structure was commented on by Wakker.23 The two acts “I roofed over a temple,” and “I burnt fat” in (5) are per se reportable, but the ὑπόμνησις, with its conditional form, involving the “ever” “ποτέ,” and its sheer ritual force, clearly loses out when it is no longer verbatim. Socrates resorts to abstraction through the use of verbal nouns—in the plural—οἰκοδομήσεις and θυσίαι. In Socrates’ version in (5) above, by framing his report of the temple-building and sacrificing with “καὶ ὑπομιμνῄσκων καὶ ἀπαιτῶν,” he labels what he is reporting as an ὑπόμνησις—a specific member in the anatomy of prayer. Socrates begins his conversion of the Homeric κλῆσις with a dutiful, almost doctrinaire report of Khryses’ act of prayer ηὔχετο, breaking it down into the use of invocation by names, again through diegetic summary: τάς τε ἐπωνυμίας τοῦ θεοῦ ἀνακαλῶν. In (6a) Socrates’ oratio memorata fully suppresses the ritual performance conveyed in Homer’s recital of the words of the prayer: (6a) Iliad 1.37–9: κλῦθί μευ ἀργυρότοξ’, ὃς Χρύσην ἀμφιβέβηκας / Κίλλάν τε ζαθέην Τενέδοιό τε ἶφι ἀνάσσεις / Σμινθεῦ Hear me, [lord] of the silver bow, who protect Chryse, / and holiest Cilla and rule over Tenedos in might, / Smintheus Republic 393e1: ηὔχετο, τάς τε ἐπωνυμίας τοῦ θεοῦ ἀνακαλῶν He prayed, invoking the appellations of the god. But even Socrates cannot entirely suppress the resonances of the verbatim format: he adds εἴ τι πώποτε which Griffin would identify as character speech.24 A fortiori, we can see in (6b) that the paraphrast Aristeides, who has set this opening of the Iliad into oratio obliqua, breaks down when it comes to the prayer, persevering throughout the κλῆσις in oratio obliqua framed by καλῶν and πάντα ὀνομάζων, including rendering the originally vocative sobriquets ἀργυρότοξ’ and Σμινθεῦ in Homer’s κλῆσις introduced by

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  219 κλῦθί μευ into the accusative, as follows: τὸν Ἀπόλλωνα … Σμίνθιον, Τενέδιον, Χρύσιον, Καλλίτοξον.25 I provide in (6b) Aristeides’ paraphrase (Aristides, in Ludwich II, 483–5): (6b) τὸν Ἀπόλλωνα καλῶν (35) Σμίνθιον, Τενέδιον, Χρύσιον, Καλλίτοξον, πάντα ὀνομάζων, εἴ ποτέ σοι, δέσποτα, ἢ θυσίαν ἔθυσα ἢ νεὼν ἤρεψα εἰς χάριν, τοῦτό μοι νῦν ἀντ’ ἐκείνων γένοιτο, ἐξομόρξασθαι τοὺς Ἀχαιοὺς τὰ δάκρυα ταῦτα τοῖς ἑαυτῶν σώμασι, σὺ δὲ αὐτοῖς ἔλθοις τοξότης. δέχεται τὰς (40) εὐχὰς ὁ θεὸς καὶ αὐτίκα πρὸς τὴν τιμωρίαν ἐστέλλετο After the final frame of his compromised indirect report of Homer’s addressee-oriented κλῆσις in Khryses’ prayer voided of all indications of addressee, and other unreportable elements, Aristeides succumbs and reverts to direct speech for the ὑπόμνησις. It seems that these ritual utterances are unreportable, or at least strongly resistant to incorporation in διήγησις ἁπλῆ. 13.3.2 Verbal nouns in narrative In putting these action nouns into Socrates’ mouth, Plato is employing a use one may compare with the action nouns used in diegetic summary in passages of or about narrative, e.g. the verbal nouns insidias, casus and errores in Dido’s request for Aeneas’ story in (7a), 26 and the verbal nouns καταδρομή and ἐμβολή in the ecphrastic précis in Daphnis and Chloe in (7b). (7a) “immo age et a prima dic, hospes, origine nobis / insidias” inquit “Danaum casusque tuorum / erroresque tuos: nam te iam septima portat / omnibus errantem terris et fluctibus aestas.” “Nay more” [Dido] cries, “tell us, my guest, from the first beginning the treachery of the Greeks, the sad fate of your people, and your own wanderings; for already a seventh summer bears you a wanderer over every land and sea”. Verg. Aen. 1.752–55 (transl. H. Rushton Fairclough) (7b) Ἐν Λέσβῳ θηρῶν ἐν ἄλσει Νυμφῶν θέαμα εἶδον κάλλιστον ὧν εἶδον· εἰκόνα γραπτήν, ἱστορίαν ἔρωτος. Καλὸν μὲν καὶ τὸ ἄλσος,… ἀλλ’ ἡ γραφὴ τερπνοτέρα καὶ τέχνην ἔχουσα περιττὴν καὶ τύχην ἐρωτικήν… Γυναῖκες ἐπ’ αὐτῆς τίκτουσαι καὶ ἄλλαι σπαργάνοις κοσμοῦσαι, παιδία ἐκκείμενα, ποίμνια τρέφοντα, ποιμένες ἀναιρούμενοι, νέοι συντιθέμενοι, λῃστῶν καταδρομή, πολεμίων ἐμβολή. Πολλὰ ἄλλα καὶ πάντα ἐρωτικά

220  Donna Shalev On Lesbos while hunting I saw in a Nymph’s grove a display, the fairest I ever saw: an image depicted, a story of love. Fair also was the grove, … But that depiction was lovelier still, owning outstanding technique and an amorous subject… In it were women giving birth and other women adorning babies in swaddling clothes, babies abandoned and beasts feeding them, shepherds taking them up, youngsters plighting their troth, a pirate raid, an enemy invasion, and much more, all of it amorous. Longus, Daphnis and Chloe, Prooimion 1–2 (transl. Jefferey Henderson).

13.4 Extra-clausal tokens Machtelt Bolkestein’s study on unreportable utterances in Latin focuses on their shared extra-clausal nature.27 In a sense, vocatives and other addressee-oriented utterances are also extra-clausal, but this syntactic constraint covers also extra-clausal elements which are not necessarily pathos-laden or affective or subjective or addressee-oriented. They may or may not involve conventionalized or phatic speech, but, again, it is important to lend stronger weight to the syntactic dimension as part of what contributes to elements which are less amenable to reportability. Rosén also devotes a section of her discussion of free indirect discourse in Latin to extra-clausal elements;28 McHale includes in his study on free indirect discourse (based on English) many tokens and elements which happen to be extra-clausal but does identify this syntactic criterion.29 I will give examples of four such types of utterance which are found in Greek in abundance: hortatory particles (8), illocutionary parentheticals (9), tag questions (10) and responses (11). 13.4.1 The hortatory particle ἴθι Greek offers a repertoire of what are called hortatory particles (but include a range of expressions derived from other parts of speech, such as ἄγε and ἴθι), used as prompts to commands. Literally imperative of εἶμι, come, go, ἴθι is regularly used in Homer and in Plato for encouragement, “come!,” “well then!.” In (8), Plato resolves into oratio obliqua Homer’s ἴθι in a literal use, rather than as the command prompt: (8) Republic 393e8–394a1 ἀπιέναι δ’ ἐκέλευεν καὶ μὴ ἐρεθίζειν, ἵνα σῶς οἴκαδε ἔλθοι. He ordered [the old man] to be off and not disturb [him], if he wished to get home safe.

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  221 Iliad 1.32 (κρατερὸν δ’ ἐπὶ μῦθον ἔτελλε…) ἀλλ’ ἴθι μή μ’ ἐρέθιζε σαώτερος ὥς κε νέηαι. (He began to bellow orders…) Now then, don’t annoy me, so that you return relatively safely. In Homeric Greek, ἴθι is used both as a verb of motion and (very often with an imperative of a verbum dicendi or in a messenger scenario) as a hortatory particle, in varying combinations with other particles and imperatives. In Plato, ἴθι is almost exclusively used as a hortatory particle, primarily with imperatives, and occasionally with first-person directives in subjunctive. Both authors use ἴθι as hortatory particles; Thesleff incudes ἴθι δή among the markers of the style he classifies “colloquial” (style 1).30 Plato either interprets this Homeric word as a verb of motion, or may paraphrase it as one in order to deliberately suppress a form he identifies as colloquial, mimetic or both. Greek lexicographers may partially offer a clue as to why the ἴθι was taken literally,31 and why this conversion to ἀπιέναι was perpetuated in the paraphrastic tradition,32 even when there was no need to compromise on an unreportable element. 13.4.2 Illocutionary parentheticals The extra-clausal tokens in (9) are illocutionary parentheticals such as Homer’s κρήηνον ἐέλδωρ in (9a) or the Hellenistic Jewish dramatist Ezekiel’s λέξον τάχος in (9b), which help to identify an accompanying utterance as a wish to be granted or a question—respectively. Plato and Drama abound in illocutionary parentheticals,33 and are managed in interesting ways in translations of Plato into Latin and medieval Arabic (where techniques parallel to those of literary and colloquial dialog may be identified), but (9a, b) are rare in having diegetic parallels: (9a)34 Iliad 41–2: τόδε μοι κρήηνον ἐέλδωρ· / τίσειαν Δαναοὶ ἐμὰ δάκρυα τοῖς ἐκείνου βέλεσιν. Fulfil this wish: I ask you: let the Danaans pay for my tears with your arrows. Republic 394a6–7: ὧν δὴ χάριν κατηύχετο τεῖσαι τοὺς Ἀχαιοὺς τὰ ἃ δάκρυα σοῖσι βέλεσσιν. In return for these things he prayed that the Achaeans should suffer for his tears by the god’s shafts. (9b) Ezekiel Exagoge 120–26: Θ. τί δ’ ἐν χεροῖν σοῖν τοῦτ’ ἔχεις; λέξον τάχος. 120

222  Donna Shalev Μ. ῥάβδον τετραπόδων καὶ βροτῶν κολάστριαν. Θ. ῥῖψον πρὸς οὖδας καὶ ἀποχώρησον ταχύ. δράκων γὰρ ἔσται φοβερός, ὥστε θαυμάσαι. Μ. ἰδοὺ βέβληται· δέσποθ’, ἵλεως γενοῦ ὡς φοβερός, ὡς πέλωρος· οἴκτειρον σύ με· πέφρικ’ ἰδών, μέλη δὲ σώματος τρέμει.

125

God: What is that in your hands? Speak quickly. Moses: A rod wherewith to chastise beasts and men. God: Throw it on the ground and withdraw quickly. For it shall turn into a fearsome snake, and you will marvel at it. Moses: There, I have thrown it down. Oh, Master, be merciful. How dreadful, how monstrous. Have pity on me. I shudder at the sight, my limbs tremble. (transl. Howard Jacobson)35 LXX Exodus 4.2ff: (εἶπεν δὲ αὐτῷ κύριος) Τί τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ ἐν τῇ χειρί σου; (ὁ δὲ εἶπεν) Ῥάβδος. (καὶ εἶπεν) Ῥῖψον αὐτὴν ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν ----------------------------καὶ ἔρριψεν αὐτὴν ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν, καὶ ἐγένετο ὄφις· καὶ ἔφυγεν Μωυσῆς ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ. 2

Then the Lord said to him, “What is this in your hand?” And he said, “A rod.” 3 And he said, “Throw it on the ground!” --------------And he threw it on the ground, and it became a snake, and Moyses fled from it. (transl. Larry Perkins, NETS) The transitions between the parallel texts Homer and Plato (from dramatic to “plain” diegetic) in (9a) and LXX and Ezekiel (from diegetic to purely dramatic) in (9b) share the presence of extra-clausal illocutionary phrases (“fulfil this wish” and “speak quickly,” respectively), present in both (9a and b) in the character speech of Homer and Ezekiel, but in (9a) probably36 and in (9b) certainly are not represented in the narrator speech in the diegetic parallels in Plato and LXX. 13.4.3 Tag questions The extra-clausal expressions in (10) are tag questions such as ἦ γάρ; (“do we not?”) or φῂς ἢ οὔ; (“Yes or no?”), tacked onto statements, to make them

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  223 more conducive to confirmation or response, veering them toward a more interrogatory function. (10a) ΣΩ. ἀγαθὸν μὲν εἶναι τὸν φρόνιμον καὶ ἀνδρεῖόν φαμεν. ἦ γάρ; ΚΑΛ. Ναί. We say that the wise and the brave man is good, do we not? :: Yes. Pl. Grg.504d1–4 (transl. W.D. Woodhead). (10b) ΣΩ. Ταῖς δέ γε τῆς ψυχῆς τάξεσι καὶ κοσμήσεσιν νόμιμόν τε καὶ νόμος, ὅθεν καὶ νόμιμοι γίγνονται καὶ κόσμιοι· ταῦτα δ’ ἔστιν δικαιοσύνη τε καὶ σωφροσύνη. φῂς ἢ οὔ; ΚΑΛ. Ἔστω. And the words lawfulness and law are applied to all order and regularity of the soul, whence men become orderly and law-abiding, and this means justice and temperance. Yes or no? :: So be it. Pl. Grg. 499a1–3 There is a clear link between the conduciveness—detailed by Quirk et al. in their discussion of tag questions in contemporary English—and between addressee orientation of many unreportable tokens37; this, along with their extra-clausal nature, and their function beyond the message at the layer of managing the discourse, puts them firmly in the category of tokens which are unreportable in “plain” diēgēsis; i.e. found in dramatic mode, in oratio recta, but omitted or glossed over in oratio obliqua, where their presence would contribute to diagnosing stretches of indirect discourse as “free.”38 13.4.4 Response formulae and tokens We already saw some intertextual parallels and omissions for the extra-clausal illocutionary parentheticals in (9a), and also for a response, in (9b) which I now discuss: in the LXX Moses’ fulfillment of God’s command in oratio recta, Ῥῖψον αὐτὴν ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν’ (“‘Throw it on the ground!’”) is rendered diegetically: καὶ ἔρριψεν αὐτὴν ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν (“And he threw it on the ground”). By contrast, the exchange in Ezekiel ῥῖψον :: ἰδοὺ βέβληται· reworks the reported response of his diegetic model into a direct discourse response using the token ἰδού along with the anaphora by synonym of the verb of command, in the perfect: βέβληται (two very typical mechanisms for consents to commands in Classical Greek dialog). The following instances of response formulae do not relate to the ritual of worshipping gods by making sacrifices or praying or communicating with him, but do involve conventionalized procedure, as well as linguistic constraints. The verbatim form of the anaphoric response, which we see in

224  Donna Shalev conventionalized procedures such as Andocides’ forensic protocol style in (11a) Ἦσθα; :: Ἦ, Οἶσθα :: Οἶδα, ἐστι ταῦτα :: Ἔστι ταῦτα reflect the Greek response mechanism as well as a forensic value: (11a) Πρώτη μέν, ὦ ἄνδρες, μήνυσις ἐγένετο αὕτη ὑπὸ Ἀνδρομάχου κατὰ τούτων τῶν ἀνδρῶν. Καί μοι κάλει Διόγνητον. Ἦσθα ζητητής, ὦ Διόγνητε, ὅτε Πυθόνικος εἰσήγγειλεν ἐν τῷ δήμῳ περὶ Ἀλκιβιάδου; Ἦ. Οἶσθα οὖν μηνύσαντα Ἀνδρόμαχον τὰ ἐν τῇ οἰκίᾳ τῇ Πουλυτίωνος γιγνόμενα; Οἶδα. Τὰ ὀνόματα οὖν τῶν ἀνδρῶν ἐστι ταῦτα, καθ’ ὧν ἐκεῖνος ἐμήνυσεν; Ἔστι ταῦτα. This was the first information, gentlemen; it was due to Andromachus and implicated the persons mentioned. Now call Diognetes, Please. Witness: You were on the commission of inquiry, Diognetus, when Pythonicus impeached Alcibiades before the Assembly? Yes. You recollect that Andromachus laid an information as to what was going on in Pulytion’s house? Yes. And these are the names of those implicated by that information? Yes. Andocides, 1.14, De Mysteriis (transl. Maidment) Although passage (11a) is a unique attestation of a cross-examination of a witness in a corpus where testimonies are indicated but not represented, a handful of cross-examinations of defendants are documented, only one in reported form.39 Bers discusses the oratio recta form of (11a) in the context of the rhetorical and forensic weight of eye-witness and viva voce modes visà-vis reported speech, hearsay and written modes.40 In the report of forensic proceedings in the fiction of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica in (11b), the question given in the original in oratio obliqua ἠρώτα … εἰ … ἐπῆλθον most accurately, “he asked whether I had drawn a sword on my father,” is translated by Reardon as free indirect discourse: “Had I drawn a sword on my father?.” In his account of his positive response to the yes-no question, expressed by an anaphoric response formula, a repetition of the leading verb in the question, the first-person narrator shifts from a diegetic account of his experience to oratio recta “ἐπῆλθον”: “‘I did’ I replied.” (11b) Ἐπεὶ δὲ μεταδοῦναι κἀμοὶ λόγων ἠξίουν, ὁ γραμματεὺς προσελθὼν ἠρώτα στενὸν ἐρώτημα, εἰ τῷ πατρὶ ξιφήρης ἐπῆλθον. Ἐμοῦ δὲ «ἐπῆλθον μὲν» εἰπόντος, «ἀλλ’ ὅπως, ἀκούσατε» ἀνεβόησαν ἅπαντες καὶ οὐδὲ ἀπολογίας μοι μετεῖναι κρίναντες οἱ μὲν λίθοις βάλλειν οἱ δὲ τῷ δημίῳ παραδιδόναι καὶ ὠθεῖσθαι εἰς τὸ βάραθρον ἐδοκίμαζον. When I asked leave to speak, the secretary stepped forward and asked one simple question: Had I drawn a sword on my father? “I did” I replied “but let me explain”; There was a general outcry, and they decided

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  225 I did not even have the right to speak in my own defense. Some held that I should be stoned to death, others that I should be handed over to the public executioner and cast into the Pit. Heliodorus, Aethiopica, 1. 13. 4 (transl. Reardon) If the response were a mere “yes,” and the narrator chose to forfeit the anaphoric formula, which cannot be conveyed in reported form, he could resort to the oratio memorata “he assented,” by having recourse to the Greek ἔφη. But rather than a “yes,” we have “yes, but…,” namely an evasive response of the type recommended (e.g. Aristotle Rhet. III.19) to the defendant in a cross-examination where the questioner will try to corner him into pointblank admission (or denial) of a claim. This characteristically worded and thus easily recognizable qualified response is best conveyed by retaining the verbatim form, especially when the crowd cuts it short. It is not surprising that many of our examples for response formulae resisting report, and in (11b) motivating a transition from diegetic to mimetic mode, are attested in forensic contexts involving cross-examination and procedural discourse; another literary example, to complement (11b) from an ancient novel, is adduced in Rosén in her section on extra-clausal tokens, from Agatha Christie’s Death in the Clouds, in a report of a police investigation in which the responses by the suspect are rendered in free indirect discourse (with questions implied).41

13.5 The power of verbatim reproduction in conclusions to geometric proofs The final example in (12) is an instance of verbatim reproduction, which is consistently upheld not in the service of pathos, nor as addressee-oriented, nor by syntactic constraint, but as a procedure vouchsafing validity, and is taken from the proof of the Pythagorean Theorem in Euclid’s Elements. In (12) I give the general proposition in the first paragraph, followed by the beginning of the first specific part of the proof, and skipping to the conclusion (συμπέρασμα), which involves a verbatim repetition of the proposition, with the consistently accompanying logical connector ἄρα, leading up to the conventionalized closing formula ὅπερ ἔδει δεῖξαι (“being what it was required to prove”), familiarly known as quod erat demonstrandum. (12) Ἐν τοῖς ὀρθογωνίοις τριγώνοις τὸ ἀπὸ τῆς τὴν ὀρθὴν γωνίαν ὑποτεινούσης πλευρᾶς τετράγωνον ἴσον ἐστὶ τοῖς ἀπὸ τῶν τὴν ὀρθὴν γωνίαν περιεχουσῶν πλευρῶν τετραγώνοις. Ἔστω τρίγωνον ὀρθογώνιον τὸ ΑΒΓ ὀρθὴν ἔχον τὴν ὑπὸ ΒΑΓ γωνίαν· λέγω, ὅτι τὸ ἀπὸ τῆς ΒΓ τετράγωνον ἴσον ἐστὶ τοῖς ἀπὸ τῶν ΒΑ, ΑΓ τετραγώνοις. Ἀναγεγράφθω γὰρ ἀπὸ μὲν τῆς ΒΓ τετράγωνον τὸ ΒΔΕΓ, ἀπὸ δὲ τῶν ΒΑ, ΑΓ τὰ ΗΒ, ΘΓ, …

226  Donna Shalev Ἐν ἄρα τοῖς ὀρθογωνίοις τριγώνοις τὸ ἀπὸ τῆς τὴν ὀρθὴν γωνίαν ὑποτεινούσης πλευρᾶς τετράγωνον ἴσον ἐστὶ τοῖς ἀπὸ τῶν τὴν ὀρθὴν [γωνίαν] περιεχουσῶν πλευρῶν τετραγώνοις· ὅπερ ἔδει δεῖξαι. In right-angled triangles the square on the side subtending the right angle is equal to the squares on the sides containing the right angle. Let ABG be a right-angled triangle having the angle BAC right; I say that the square on BC is equal to the squares on BA, AC. For let there be described on BC the square BDEC, and on BA, AC the squares GB, HC; … …Therefore etc. Being what it was required to prove. Euclid Elements I.47 (transl. Heath) Netz studies the anatomy, composition and formal patterns of Greek mathematical proofs at large, analyzing the consistent reprisal particularly in Euclidean proofs in the non-arithmetic books, and explains the consistent verbatim recasting in the conclusion of the proposition, signposted by a symperasmatic ἄρα.42 This pattern, analogous to the Ringkomposition in literary and medical texts, where some verbal echo is usually involved, testifies to a need for (verbatim) repetition; Netz explains that the final general element of the proof echoing the initial general proposition involves a content construction which, he says, derives from repeatability.43

13.6 Closing remarks Some tokens and utterances cannot be reported, or paraphrased, or translated. Their presence in a diegetic text leave traces, rendering indirect discourse “free”; at other times their presence is suppressed in report. They may be mentioned (oratio memorata), packaged as verbs derived from their locution (delocutives), or encapsulated in verbal nouns, whether they are one-word tokens, fixed phrases or elaborate formulae. Unreportable utterances are often associated with affective or subjective modes and pathos, but a philological analysis shows the important role of language constraints, such as addressee-orientation, or their extra-clausal nature. There are instances when levels of reportability or resistance to it hinge on a combination of these factors (subjective affective tone and language constraints), with the ritual or procedural requirement of retaining a verbatim reproduction, often involving performative elements of legal or social convention, and other culturally conventionalized procedures such as reference to a poetic incipit or the symperasmic validation of a geometric proposition.

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  227

Notes 1 Research for this paper was funded in part by ISF Grant 659/17. 2 Finkelberg presents διήγησις ἁπλῆ (“plain” diēgēsis) in the 2019 volume-length study on narrative voice in Plato’s dialogs. Finkelberg discusses mimetic diēgēsis in detail from a narratological vantage-point, deeply entwined with philological, literary and philosophical considerations, in particular in the treatment of dramatic narrative (in dramatic authors deprived of τὰ μεταξὺ τῶν ῥήσεων, or in Platonic dialogues, some with interlocutors’ speeches framed, even exponentially). Margalit Finkelberg, The Gatekeeper: Narrative Voice in Plato’s Dialogues (Leiden, Boston, MA: Brill, 2019). My own focus is limited primarily to formal features of diegetic modes and the tokens which resist report, a concern firmly oriented in transitions from and mutual comparisons between reports and interlocutions. Finkelberg’s discussion of mimetic diēgēsis and dramatic narrative are essential for the discussion generated also by the (literary and formal) approach of Neil R. Norrick, Conversational Narrative: Storytelling in Everyday Talk (Amsterdam, Philadelphia, PA: Benjamins, 2000). Eduard Fraenkel in the opening pages of his 1912 thesis discussed formats of tragic messenger speech at play in Comedy, where he identifies a generic distinction between Tragedy with its continua oratio and Comedy with its narratio interrupta. Eduard Fraenkel, De media et nova comoedia quaestiones selectae (Göttingen: Officina academica Dieterichiana typis expressit, 1912), cf. Donna Shalev, “Economy of Information in Ancient Greek Comic Dialogue,” in Dialogue Analysis IX Dialogue in Literature and the Media: Selected Papers from the 9th IADA Conference, Salzburg 2003. Part I: Literature, eds. Anne Betten and Monika Dannerer (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 2005b), 39–50. 3 The tension between Iphigeneia’s cries and their audibility by her father are not spelled out in (3) below; the cases of child-parent contact and discontinuity in such contexts of bereavement are worth further investigation, beginning with the manifold versions of the myths of Persephone and Iphigeneia, as well as parallel scenarios perennially informing poetry, from the Danish folk ballad Elveskud and its German reworking as Herder’s Erlkönigs Tochter and Goethe’s Erlkönig, the composition of Mahler’s musical poems, Nabokov’s Pale Fire and beyond. 4 Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan, Narrative Fiction: Contemporary Poetics (London: Methuen, 1983); Andrew Laird, “Modes of Reporting Speech in Latin Fictional Narrative,” (PhD Thesis, Oxford University, 1992), 20–23. 5 Narrative styles in some languages resort to a two-pronged framing (by two verbs with coordination, or by verb and participle) of indirect (or direct) discourse, particularly involving an act with emotional charge or non-declarative intonation—as discussed for Latin frames of direct discourse in Shalev (Donna Shalev, “Exclamatory Sentences, Intonation and the Verbs clama- vs. Neutral verba dicendi,” in: Papers on Grammar VIII, ed. Gualtiero Calboli (Roma: Herder, 2002), 254–8), involving a more neutral verbum dicendi and another detailing the delivery. Some languages use verba non-dicendi with transferred meaning more flexibly than others to frame speech (see Ivan Fónagy, “Reported Speech in French and Hungarian,” in Direct and Indirect Speech, ed. Florian Coulmas (Berlin, New York, Amsterdam: Mouton de Gruyter, 1986), 255–309), and although Greek attests collaborations between neutral and non-neutral frame verbs and expressions, further work needs to be carried out to put passage (1a) in the context of the generic, stylistic, diachronic and other considerations.

228  Donna Shalev

6 7

8

9 10

11 12

13 14

15

In (1a) above, then, one may observe a collaboration between a verb detailing the tone of delivery ἰαχέω (which can frame non-verbal sounds as well as meaningful utterances), along with detail of volume of delivery (ὄρθια φωνῇ), and the concomitant participle κεκλομένη specifying the speech act of invocation. Persephone’s plea for her father to bear witness in (1a) is delivered as a crying out, and is at the border between a sounding and a full utterance, and as such its content is difficult to report in oratio obliqua, whereas the act of the plea is more amenable to diegetic summary or oratio memorata. See discussion below (p. 11f, with passage [6]) of the unreportability of the κλῆσις (among other elements) in Khryses’ prayer to Apollo when converted by Socrates into “plain” dihēgēsis. Epithets with superlative forms such as ὕπατον and ἄριστον or with forms which bolster their “clearly evaluative and emotional” quality, to quote Griffin occur rarely outside of character speech in Homer (Jasper Griffin, “Homeric Words and Speakers,” JHS 106 (1986): 49). Our instance of ὕπατον, in H. Dem., an extraand post-Homeric text, is discussed in the next note. As for the form ἄριστον, its sizeable occurrence in Homeric report and narratorial material (in the Odyssey more often than in character speech) is explained by Griffin through a weakening of the superlative force and transferred use of the term (“leader,” “fighter”) in battle scenes. Brian McHale, “Free Indirect Discourse: A Survey of Recent Accounts,” Poetics and Theory of Literature 3 (1978): 249–87. The epithet ὕπατον used here as an epithet of Zeus in an appeal by his daughter Persephone mentioned if not quoted, is not attested elsewhere in the Homeric Hymns; its vocative form is put in the Homeric corpus into the mouth of Athena in appeals to her father Zeus in the formula involving also interjection and possessive pronoun (see also note 12 below, and, in Aristophanic parody in passage [4]): ὦ πάτερ ἡμέτερε Κρονίδη ὕπατε κρειόντων (Od.1.35; 1. 81; 24.473. Il.1.45 is part of a passage rejected by Aristarchus). Hannah Rosén, “Les délocutifs en revue,” Bulletin de la Société de linguistique de Paris 113.1 (2019): 145–77. Deborah Beck, “Direct and Indirect Speech in the Homeric ‘Hymn to Demeter’,” TAPA 131 (2001): 53–74; Helene P. Foley, “Interpretive Essay on the Homeric Hymn to Demeter,” in The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, ed. Helene Foley (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 79–178. Nicholas J. Richardson, The Homeric Hymn to Demeter (Oxford: Clarendon, 1974), ad locum. Christopher Carey, Lysias: Selected Speeches (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), ad locum after observing the “effective use of detail for vividness,” notes also the role of μαρτύρομαι “calling bystanders to witness” as a regular procedure for a person attacked in a public place. Richardson, Homeric Hymn to Demeter; Foley, “Interpretive Essay.” For oratio recta as a consistent stylistic and generic predilection of the Fasti (vis-à-vis oratio obliqua in parallel passages in Livy’s ab urbe condita) see Laird, “Modes of Reporting Speech,” 146. For the interplay of voice in the Metamorphoses generally and for this episode see Alessandro Barchiesi, “Narrative Technique and Narratology in the Metamorphoses,” in: The Cambridge Companion to Ovid, ed. Philip Hardie (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 180–99, with references (esp. n.21), mostly narratological, but with some remarks on the commingling of narrator and character speech (e.g. p. 186). Both interjections and superlatives (along with particles and many epithets and other types of words deemed subjective or attitudinal) were shown by Jasper Griffin (1986: 49f) to belong to character rather than narratorial speech in

Tokens, speech representation, conventions  229 Homer. Rosén (2015a: 24) on free indirect discourse in Latin brings a passage in oratio obliqua with the superlative carissima along with other unreportable elements; and (19–20) passages with diminutives. 16 The verbatim power of Hinds’ observation defies summary: …Ovid does more than simply redirect Persephone’s cry from her father to her mother. The attachment of πάτερα to the stately Κρονίδην ὕπατον καὶ ἄριστον in her reported cry in the Hymn has the effect of suggesting a formal plea to the king of the gods as much as a cry to a father; in Ovid the affecting use of direct speech and the replacement of all the stately epithets by the intimate carissima relegate divine power-relations to the background and scale Persephone down to a mere frightened girl who wants her mother.

17

18 19

20

The act of crying for help is given the briefest mention in the much later Claudian’s De raptu Proserpinae (2.204f: rapitur Proserpina curru / imploratque deas. “Proserpine is hurried away in the chariot, imploring aid of the goddesses” transl. Platnauer), followed by fierce but unsuccessful defense from the two virgin goddesses Pallas and Diana. After her abduction, Proserpina’s futile lamentation (planctu 2.248) fused with a battery of indignant questions (questus … tendit 2.250) and another call for help from her mother, are given voice in a long rhēsis (2.250–72) with elements reminiscent of Iphigeneia’s appeal to the father-daughter relations (nullane te flectit pietas, nihilumque paternae / mentis inest? 2.253–4), but only one pater (2.251) and one mater io! (2.267). In Claudian’s version, the initial cries are heard and help is offered, but the outcome is the same. Stephen Hinds, The Metamorphosis of Persephone: Ovid and the Self- Conscious Muse (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 61. Matthiae deletes 1237; Wecklein and England excise lines 1241–8. See Denys Page, Actors’ Interpolations in Greek Tragedy. Studied with Special Reference to Euripides’ Iphigeneia in Aulis (Oxford: Clarendon, 1934) esp. 186 for arguments to keep the last eight lines of the passage. Robert Stockhammer, “Dichter, Vater, Kind,” in Interpretationen: Gedichte von Johann Wolfgang Goethe, ed. Bernd Witte (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1998), 97–108. Lisa Maurice, “The House of Atreus as a Reflection of Contemporary Evil: Performance Reception and the Oresteia,” in The Reception of Ancient Virtues and Vices in Modern Popular Culture: Beauty, Bravery, Blood and Glory, ed. Eran Almagor and Lisa Maurice (Leiden, Boston, MA: Brill, 2017), 45, with note 33. For example, the verb χελιδονίζω which can either mean “to make the sound of a swallow” (a denominative verb) or mean “to sing the poem beginning with the words ‘ἦλθ᾽ ἦλθε χελιδών…’” (a delocutive, deriving from the locution, here the incipit of a poem, an “unreportable”). Jean-Louis Perpillou, Recherches lexicales en grec ancien: Étymologie, analogie, representations (Louvain, Paris: Peeters, 1996), ch.3 gives a thorough study of delocutives in Greek sources; Hannah Rosén, “Playing with Words: θυράζε Κ...!” in Argumenta: Festschrift für Manfred Kienpointner zum 60. Geburtstag, eds. Peter Anreiter, Elisabeth Mairhofer, Claudia Posch and Manfred Kienpointner (Vienna: Praesens-Verl, 2015b), 493–8 discusses the mise-en-scène of a delocutive expression with its backstory; her study is a cross-linguistic survey of delocutives (Hannah Rosén, “Autour de la délocutivité migratoire,” in Histoire des mots: Études de linguistique latine et de linguistique générale offertes en hommage à Michèle Fruyt, eds. Michèle Fruyt, Pedro Duarte, Frédérique Fleck, P. Lecaudé and Aude Morel (Paris: PUPS, 2017), 213–22); her, “délocutifs en revue,” investigation focuses on base elements and phrases, and paths of linguistic derivation in a range of languages and cultural traditions.

230  Donna Shalev























Tokens, speech representation, conventions  231

37 38

39 40 41 42

43

illocutionary parenthetical: τόδε μοι κρήηνον ἐέλδωρ, with none of the elements rendered in Socrates’ version, where the verb κατηύχετο frames the content of the prayer to follow in oratio obliqua. Randolph Quirk, Sydney Greenbaum, George Leech, and Jan Svartvik, A Comprehensive Grammar of the English Language (London: Routledge, 1985). I have discussed the attenuating and modalizing role of these non-informationseeking interrogatives tacked onto statements, rendering them conducive of response by the addressee in Donna Shalev, “Attenuated, Modified, Assent-Seeking Declaratives, Interrogation and Urbanitas in the Greek of Platonic Dialogue,” in Ancient Greek Linguistics: New Approaches, Insights, Perspectives, eds. Felicia Logozzo and Paolo Poccetti (Berlin, Boston, MA: De Gruyter, 2017), 441–57. Preliminary work indicates that other attenuating devices are not unreportable, but further investigation awaits. Lys. 12.25 and 22.5 (verbatim); 13.30–32 (mentioned but not reported); and Dem. 29.51–52 (briefly reported in oratio obliqua). Victor Bers, Speech in Speech: Studies in Incorporated Oratio Recta in Attic Drama and Oratory (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997), 135–6. Rosén, “continuum des discours,” 17. Reviel Netz, The Shaping of Deduction in Greek Mathematics: A Study in Cognitive History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999a), 138; Reviel Netz, “Proclus’ Division of Mathematical Proposition into Parts: How and Why Was it Formulated?” CQ 49.1 (1999b): 282–303. Reviel Netz, The Shaping of Deduction in Greek Mathematics: A Study in Cognitive History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999a), 269.

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Part II

A. Drama – text

14 Boughs and daggers Reading “hand” in Aeschylus’ Suppliants and the Danaid trilogy1* Christos C. Tsagalis As soon as the chorus of Danaids enters the orchestra at the very beginning of Aeschylus’ Suppliants, they inform the audience that they are following the plan of their father Danaus,1 who acted as their leader and advised them to flee Egypt with him and sail to Argos, the land of their ancestor Io.2 It was from Zeus’ divine touching and breathing on her that their entire race stems (11–18). At this point the Danaids ask themselves: Is there a land friendlier to arrive at than this, σὺν τοῖσδ’ ἱκετῶν ἐγχειριδίοις, | ἐριοστέπτοισι κλάδοισιν; (21–2) with these suppliants’ weapons in our hands | boughs decked with wool?3 The word ἐγχειριδίοις, which literally means “things held in the hand”, marks the departure point of my analysis. It is a hapax legomenon in Aeschylus and in all of Greek tragedy and it always means in classical Greek “dagger or short sword”. This was no doubt the standard use of ἐγχειρίδιον when the Suppliants was performed. Aeschylus’ re-etymologizing of a well-known term so as to denote “suppliants’ daggers” must have had a purpose, as is the case with his re-etymologizing of ἐχενῆιδας in Ag. 149.4 In fact, the playwright’s decision to invert the placement of the “normal word” κλάδοισιν, which here follows ἐγχειριδίοις, is a practice well attested in the Suppliants5 and aims at highlighting this term.6 The repetition of a single word is “the simplest type of recurrent motif”,7 marking Aeschylus’ style. This play offers a handful of relevant examples: in v. 117, βοῦνιν means “hilly land” but also alludes to the “land of the cow”, which pertains to the story of Io. Ἀπίαν (in the same verse) is an early and rather rare name for Argos but it also

* I wish to thank Alan Sommerstein and Thaleia Papadopoulou who have read a draft of this paper and made important suggestions that have shaped my thought. This piece, which combines textual analysis with interpretation is in tune with the core of Margalit Finkelberg’s research interests that feature a careful reading of the text, a keen eye for detail, and a special feeling for interpretation. It is my great pleasure to dedicate this piece to Margalit, an excellent scholar and cherished friend.

236  Christos C. Tsagalis recalls the Egyptian Apis, who is the equivalent of Epaphus (Hdt. 2.153: ὁ δὲ Ἆπις κατὰ τὴν Ἑλλήνων γλῶσσάν ἐστι Ἔπαφος).8 The use of this device at the beginning of this play (if not of the whole trilogy)9 seems to serve the same goal, i.e. that of highlighting this deliberate oxymoron. In the words of Gantz, “the audience must have had a momentary vision of something less conciliatory”,10 something that would allude to the future death of the Aegyptioi. In this light, we are justified to ask: why did Aeschylus employ this rare word meaning “dagger” in a context of supplication? The answer is that he is alluding to a later point in the trilogy pertaining to the murder of the sons of Aegyptus by the Danaids during their wedding night, which we assume was carried out by daggers11 they concealed under their clothes.12 The dramatic irony of such an allusion is powerful. The daughters of Danaus come to Argos as suppliants but in the course of the trilogy become murderers.13 They remind the locals of the Argive origins of their family but end up bringing death to this same family in the face of their cousins. Along these lines, the allusion to daggers is even stronger. A word employed in association with the expression “wool-decked bough” is presented in “quasi-martial” terms, since its base meaning “dagger” enhances a double entendre.14 The boughs as the figurative weapons of the suppliants will become the literal weapons of the women-murderers. The former will make the supplicandi yield to their request, the latter will make the Danaids free from male subjugation. In this paper I will show how the reference to the supplication boughs is dramatically exploited throughout the Suppliants, paving the way for the substitution of the boughs by daggers and the turning of the suppliants into murderers.

14.1 The imagery of the “hand”: background The imagery of the “hand” as an associative device between supplication and murder has an interesting literary background.15 In the Iliad, the “hands” of Achilles are twice designated as ἀνδροφόνους (“manslaying”) in two key-passages (18.317 and 23.18), when Achilles places his hands on the chest of his friend Patroclus who has been killed by Hector. Since the same epithet (ἀνδρόφονος) is systematically applied to Hector (11x), its clustering (5x) in Books 16–18, in the context of Patroclus’ death, fight over his armor, and Hector’s preeminence in the battlefield, paves the way for its most climactic use in 24.478–9 (χερσὶν Ἀχιλλῆος λάβε γούνατα καὶ κύσε χεῖρας | δεινὰς ἀνδροφόνους),16 where Priam kisses the “terrible, manslaying hands” of Achilles, the man who has killed his most beloved son, “manslaying” Hector. The final supplication scene with the emphasis on Priam’s hands touching Achilles’ legs and kissing his hands not only conjures an important topic of the entire epic, i.e. the interlocking of Achilles’ and Hector’s fates via Patroclus, but also recalls the poem’s beginning, Thetis’ supplication to Zeus (1.500–30). It was in that emotionally loaded scene that the

Boughs and daggers  237 mother-suppliant virtually asked Zeus to set in motion a course of events that would make many Achaeans die at the hands of manslaying Hector, among whom her son’s best friend Patroclus, and ultimately lead to ­­Achilles’ revenge and Priam’s supplication.17 In the Odyssey, the imagery of the “hand” is increasingly exploited in the last part of the epic to highlight two opposing aspects of the “hands”, the murderous and the affectionate. The formula μνηστῆρσιν ἀναιδέσι χεῖρας ἐφήσει(ς)/ω (Od. 13.376, 20.29, 20.39, 20.386) and its allomorphs becomes particularized in the type of murder Odysseus will inflict on the suitors. Thus the “hands” of Odysseus acquire a specific function as they are indispensable both for winning the contest of the bow and for its use in the actual μνηστηροφονία (21.59–60, 21.98–9, 21.149–51, 21.378–9). In fact, the Odyssey makes the most of the hero’s superiority against the suitors by even toying with the pun χείρ-χείρων (21.325: ἦ πολὺ χείρονες ἄνδρες). But as soon as the killing is over, the imagery of the “hand” is employed in scenes of reunion and bliss: the housemaids (22.500), Penelope (23.207–8; see also 23.87), Dolios (24.397–8) and his children (24.409–10), and Laertes (24.347: ἀμφὶ δὲ παιδὶ φίλωι βάλε πήχεε), all embrace Odysseus.

14.2 Political overtones Instead of trying to find contemporary political relevance in Aeschylus’ Suppliants and the entire Danaid trilogy, a method that has produced in the past notoriously misguided theories,18 it is more fruitful to note the play’s emphasis on larger political issues such as (a) supplication and granting asylum,19 (b) δημοκρατία in the form of decision-making by the people,20 and (c) political rights.21 a

b

The Danaids come to Argos as suppliants seeking protection against the threat posed by Aegyptus’ sons. This is clearly a political issue, i.e. whether asylum should be granted to them and on what grounds.22 The arguments put forward are two: asylum should be granted to the Danaids because of the protection given to all suppliants by Zeus Hikesios, and also because they are Argives in the sense that they are the great-greatgreat-grandchildren23 of the Argive Io and Zeus. According to the report of Danaus after the deliberation of the assembly (616–24), the decisive factor that convinced the citizens of Argos to grant asylum to the Danaids was the wrath of Zeus Hikesios and the double pollution for the city.24 Although generic reasons determined that the story is placed in the mythical past, when king Pelasgus ruled Argos, Aeschylus presents his audience with a bizarre political environment.25 There is an assembly of the people that the king needs to address with respect to the matter of granting asylum to the Danaids. The suppliants try to convince him but the “democratic” king26 repeatedly reminds them that the final decision will be taken by the people of Argos (365–70, 398–401, 483–9, 517–18).

238  Christos C. Tsagalis c

When Danaus returns from the assembly he informs his daughters that the Argive citizens have decided that the suppliants (both Danaus and the Danaids) are allowed to live in Argos as μέτοικοι (609: μετοικεῖν τῆσδε γῆς),27 free people, “not liable to reprisal and safe from violation by men”28 (609–10: ἐλευθέρους | κἀρρυσιάστους ξύν τ’ ἀσυλίαι βροτῶν). Moreover, if any local or newcomer hales them off and exercises violence on them, landowners should come to their assistance or be exiled by the people (611–14: καὶ μήτ’ ἐνοίκων μήτ’ ἐπηλύδων τινὰ | ἄγειν· ἐὰν δὲ προστιθῆι τὸ καρτερόν, | τὸν μὴ βοηθήσαντα τῶνδε γαμόρων | ἄτιμον εἶναι ξὺν φυγῆι δημηλάτωι). Aeschylus’ use of current political language with respect to this issue is unmistakable. Pelasgus is first called πρόξενος, i.e. by the technical term for the Athenian spokesman for foreigners. Later on, both the king and the people of Argos are “the protectors” of the Danaids. In fifth-century Athens the term προστάτης designated the Athenian citizen who was the patron and representative of a metic.29 Finally, the expression δήμου κρατοῦσα χείρ (604)30 is, as has been observed, a pun on the term δημοκρατία.31

These are strong political overtones, but they do not allude to any specific event of the 460s (the play being performed between 465 and 459 BC, perhaps in 463). They rather allow Aeschylus to explore standard Athenian beliefs concerning broad political issues such as asylum, decision-making, and citizen rights. To this end, he has employed a term whose literal, metaphorical, and symbolic functions have been systematically orchestrated since the beginning of the Suppliants. This is the imagery of the “hand”.

14.3 Love, democracy, and murder Love, democracy, and murder represent three crucial themes of this trilogy, which are verbally stressed and visually highlighted by recourse to the word “hand”. In order to see how the playwright has exploited this imagery within the entire trilogy, some preliminary thoughts on Aeschylus’ dramatic art are under way: 1

The technique of mirror scenes traced between the first and second parts of the Suppliants allows us to detect long-range mirror scenes or features between the Suppliants and the continuation of the trilogy. Repetition in form 32 is to be expected on a large scale, as is the case within the Suppliants. Seen from this vantage point, the reference to the ἐγχειρίδια at the beginning of the play acquires a programmatic role. It alerts the audience to a well-known background story about love, democracy, and murder presented by means of balanced scenes: a Zeus’ love for Io is counterbalanced by the Danaids’ rigid denunciation of marriage.

Boughs and daggers  239 b

2

In the Suppliants Aeschylus lays great stress on the democratic decision by the Argive citizens to grant asylum to the Danaids at Argos (followed by a decree). Such emphasis is built on the mixed identity of the Danaids who are coined ἀστόξενοι (356), as is the case with their ancestor Io who is called μειξόμβροτος (568). c Murder, in the form of suicide, is brought up to the fore twice in the Suppliants (160, 788–9) when the Danaids leave open the possibility that they may hang themselves, if they are not granted asylum by the Argive citizens. Later on, murder becomes the means chosen by the Danaids to reject the tyranny of marriage, to get rid of what they regard as subjugation and loss of freedom.33 The imagery of the “hand” constitutes the epicenter of the Suppliants. Murray, 34 who has persuasively argued that the story of Io is the vehicle for the development of a set of ideas permeating the entire trilogy, has drawn attention to the fact that Aeschylus unravels four main motifs that all stem from the comparison between Io and her female descendants, the Danaids. These are: (1) the bull and cow motif; (2) the contrast of male and female; (3) touch and seizure; (4) breath, wind, and storm.35 As I will show, most of these motifs are one way or another unified under the imagery of the “hand”, be it of Zeus touching Io, of the Danaids holding supplication boughs in the beginning and daggers later on, of the Aegyptioi threatening to seize the Danaids, of Zeus whose hand can bring both destruction and healing.

Each of the above-mentioned mirror scenes is dramatically exploited by Aeschylus by recourse to the imagery of a hand gesture. Their dramatic unification is a slow but remarkably effective process, which is initiated by the use of the word ἐγχειριδίοις (v. 21) in the prolog of the Suppliants. 14.3.1 Touching Throughout the play, the tragedian emphasizes Zeus’ physical touch of Io, a gesture of erotic connotation but also of final salvation. In vv. 15– 18 the Danaids explicitly declare that they “claim descent, by touch and on-breathing of Zeus, from the cow buzzed by a gadfly” (ὅθεν δὴ | γένος ἡμέτερον τῆς οἰστροδόνου | βοὸς ἐξ ἐπαφῆς κἀξ ἐπιπνοίας | Διὸς εὐχόμενον, τετέλεσται). A few verses later they add that Io’s offspring was named after Zeus’ “touching” (45: Ζηνός ἔφαψιν· ἐπωνυμίαν … 48: Ἔπαφόν δ’ ἐγέννασεν). The same idea is repeated by the chorus’ koryphaios in vv. 313 (καὶ Ζεύς γ᾽ ἐφάπτωρ χειρὶ φιτύει γόνον), 315 (Ἔπαφος, ἀληθῶς ῥυσίων ἐπώνυμος), and 535 (ἔφαπτορ Ἰοῦς), the latter in the context of the chorus’ prayer to Zeus, when the god is invoked by a linguistic coin mirroring both his action and name of his offspring (Ἔπαφος—ἔφαπτορ).

240  Christos C. Tsagalis The imagery of the hand is also exploited by recourse to the theme of “feminine untouchability” expressed in the twofold status of the Danaids as suppliants and brides.36 Violation of untouchability is worked out by the playwright in such a way as to operate on two complementary levels: first, the threat is posed externally by the sons of Aegyptus who want to drag the suppliant maidens from the altars and “lay hands on them”. Second, the Danaids threaten to annul the supplication (by hanging themselves) and reject their bridal status by murdering the Aegyptioi. In both levels, only the second scenario actually happens: The Danaids will not commit suicide and the Aegyptioi will not drag them from the altars, but marriage will take place only to be followed by murder. When similar diction is used by speakers other than the Danaids, Aeschylus seems to turn the meaning on its head in order to exploit the semantic potential of the relevant term and produce a powerful interplay. By having king Pelasgus recommend that they should think deeply and carefully about the situation so that “Strife does not get its hand on goods in compensation” (412: καὶ μήτε Δῆρις ῥυσίων ἐφάψεται), Aeschylus “toys” with the past of the Danaids whose origin goes back to a “primeval” touching of Io by Zeus. The use of the diver’s simile that compares the literal plunging in the depths of the sea (paired with the look of “a penetrative and not much intoxicated eye”, 409: δεδορκὸς ὄμμα, μηδ᾽ ἄγαν ὠινωμένον) with the figurative plunging into the depths of the mind is timely chosen. The simile is expressed within the framework of the exploitation of the nuanced meaning of “touching” in its positive, Zeus-originating sense that belongs to the early stage of the mythical axis, and its negative, Aegyptioi-based threat that is imminent.37 Whereas Zeus’ hand is an expression of his divine love that liberates Io from Hera’s pursuit through the birth of Epaphus, the hands of the Aegyptioi threaten the Danaids with subjugation and loss of their freedom. The word ἐφάπτωρ which designates both “one whose touching caresses” and “one whose touching seizes”38 is a typical example of this phenomenon, the more so since the positive meaning of the term is introduced in vv. 45–8 (ἔφαψιν· ἐπωνυμίαν | δ’ ἐπεκραίνετο μόρσιμος αἰὼν | εὐλόγως, Ἔπαφόν δ᾽ ἐγέννασεν), only to be paired with the term ῥυσίων in v. 315 (Ἔπαφος, ἀληθῶς ῥυσίων ἐπώνυμος) that prepares the “leap” to the negative meaning of ἐφάπτωρ in v. 728 (ῥυσίων ἐφάπτορες “people laying hands on alleged stolen property”) in reference to the Aegyptioi.39 14.3.2 Voting The power of the demos is key to the decision that is being taken in the assembly. It satisfies the Danaids, is based on the fear of Zeus Hikesios, and makes the people responsible for the consequences of such a deliberation The Argive citizens vote by raising their right hands and fill the sky with this impressive move (603–10):

Boughs and daggers  241 KΟΡ. ἔνισπε δ᾽ ἡμῖν ποῖ κεκύρωται τέλος, δήμου κρατοῦσα χείρ θ᾽ ὅπηι πληθύνεται. ΔΑΝ. ἔδοξεν Ἀργείοισιν, οὐ διχορρόπως, ἀλλ᾽ ὥστ’ ἀνηβῆσαί με γηραιᾶι φρενί— πανδημίαι γὰρ χερσὶ δεξιωνύμοις ἔφριξεν αἰθὴρ τόνδε κραινόντων λόγον— ἡμᾶς μετοικεῖν τῆσδε γῆς ἐλευθέρους κἀρρυσιάστους ξύν τ᾽ ἀσυλίαι βροτῶν. COR. But tell us with what effect ratification has been achieved, in what way the people’s ruling hand comes to a majority. DAN. The Argives have decided, with no divergence of view—indeed, it brought rejuvenation to my aged wits, because the sky bristled with right hands as one and all they endorsed the following proposal—that we are to live in this land as free people, not liable to reprisal and safe from violation by men. This extract from the dialog between the coryphaeus and Danaus is full of terms pertaining to the imagery of the “hand” that are systematically employed throughout the play and allude to the future murder of the sons of Aegyptus. The interplay between the majority and undisputed support by the demos makes one think of Danaus’ plan of murder that will be carried out unanimously by the Danaids but Hypermestra. As observed by Friis Johansen and Whittle,40 “[t]he wide separation of πανδημίαι from κραινόντων adds extra emphasis to this extraordinary aspect of the voting”. The use of decree language (ἔδοξεν Ἀργείοισιν) filtered with the emphatic οὐ διχορρόπως is in tune with this line of interpretation. The same applies to other important words such as κραινόντων (“ordain”) and κἀρρυσιάστους (“not liable to reprisal”). But the one expression with a double entendre is the ominous χερσὶ δεξιωνύμοις | ἔφριξεν αἰθὴρ (“the sky bristled with right hands”), since the verb φρίττω is regularly employed in a military context, the hands brandishing weapons rather than voting.41 Even the nonce word δεξιωνύμοις may have been employed euphemistically (in the manner of εὐωνύμοις) so as to ironically create a good omen, i.e. that the people’s decision will come out well. At the same time, through the second part of the compound that recalls εὐωνύμοις, it dramatically exploits the fact that the Danaids hold their supplication boughs with their left hands (191–3: ἀλλ’ ὡς τάχιστα βᾶτε, καὶ λευκοστεφεῖς | ἱκετηρίας, ἀγάλματ’ αἰδοίου Διός, | σεμνῶς ἔχουσαι διὰ χερῶν εὐωνύμων), while they make supplication gestures with their right ones.42 Thus, the raised right hands of the Argive citizen body allude to the raised hands of the Danaids, the left ones holding supplication boughs and then the right ones holding their daggers. The point is subtle but powerful: the assembly has voted for asylum, but ironically for murder. While the raising of the hands of the Argive citizens directly evokes the function of the democratic polis, a distinct, yet relevant, form of politicization

242  Christos C. Tsagalis of the imagery of the “hand” is effected by recourse to the vocabulary of subjugation. Nowhere is this made more explicit than in vv. 392–5: μή τί ποτ᾽ οὖν γενοίμαν ὑποχείριος κράτεσιν ἀρσένων. ὕπαστρον δέ τοι μῆχαρ ὁρίζομαι γάμου δύσφρονος φυγάν. May I never become subjected to the powers of males! The flight that I am shaping as my device against a malevolent marriage is anywhere under the stars. The phrase ὑποχείριος | κράτεσιν ἀρσένων (echoed in δήμου κρατοῦσα χείρ θ᾽ ὅπηι πληθύνεται) (604) enriches the imagery of the “hand” by employing a political filter.43 The chorus wish that they never come under the power of males. They do so by employing a compound the second part of which is formed by χείρ, while the first is echoed in the first part of the nonce word ὕπαστρον in the next verse. The loss of freedom, the main threat for any democracy, is here “read” as subjugation inherent in the very notion of marriage. For the Danaids the hostile male χεῖρες of the Aegyptioi mean that they will be ὑποχείριοι to their husbands. The bond of marriage becomes for them the yoke of servitude. On the same note, the imagery of the “hand” is used to denote a figurative form of subjugation that is superficially interpreted as obedience, though it may also evoke deception. In v. 509, Pelasgus asks the Danaids to leave their boughs before moving to a “level meadow” (βέβηλον ἄλσος). The coryphaeus has said (507): “I do so leave them, in obedience to your words” (καὶ δή σφε λείπω, χειρία λόγοις σέθεν). In the preceding example, the chorus expressed their wish that they do not become ὑποχείριος | κράτεσιν ἀρσένων (“subjected to the powers of males”), but now they willingly become χειρία to the “words” (λόγοις) of Pelasgus with respect to letting go their supplication boughs. They will later become ὑποχείριοι to the advice of another male, their own father Danaus, who will ask them to lay their murderous hands on the Aegyptioi before the latter lay their own hands on the girls’ untouched bodies. The above observations are in tune with the use of other, non “hand”oriented language of subjugation capitalizing on a Wortfeld delineated by words such as ἀδάματος, δμωΐς, ἀδμής, and δάμναμαι: 143 = 153: ἄγαμον ἀδάματον ἐκφυγεῖν 149–50: ἀδμῆτος ἀδμήτα | ῥύσιος γενέσθω 333–5: τί φής μ᾽ ἱκνεῖσθαι τῶνδ᾽ ἀγωνίων θεῶν, | λευκοστεφεῖς ἔχουσα νεοδρέπτους κλάδους; | ὡς μὴ γένωμαι δμωῒς Αἰγύπτου γένει 905: ἰὼ πόλεως ἀγοὶ πρόμοι, δάμναμαι

Boughs and daggers  243 As shown by the list above, the untamed nature of the virgin girls is systematically mentioned in the play. In fact, the word δμωΐς designating a slave is inscribed in the core of the play’s political framework.44 14.3.3 Killing Mythological exempla are often used as an “orange” light alerting the audience about a forthcoming development of the plot. Aeschylus employs a technique by which he highlights only one aspect of a similar or analogous situation in myth, leaving for his audience room to “fill-in” the other, non-expressed aspect. In vv. 58–67, the chorus draw an analogy between their plea of pity and the cry of Procne45: εἰ δὲ κυρεῖ τις πέλας οἰωνοπόλων ἔγγαιος οἶκτον ἀίων, δοξάσει τιν᾽ ἀκούειν ὄπα τᾶς Τηρεΐας μήτιδος οἰκτρᾶς ἀλόχου, κιρκηλάτου γ᾽ ἀηδόνος, ἅτ᾽ ἀπὸ χλωρῶν ποταμῶν εἰργομένα πενθεῖ νέον οἶκτον ἠθέων, ξυντίθησι δὲ παιδὸς μόρον, ὡς αὐτοφόνως ὤλετο πρὸς χειρὸς ἕθεν δυσμάτορος κότου τυχών. If some native bird-diviner living nearby hears our plea for pity, he will think he is hearing the voice of Tereus’ wife, pitiable and cunning as she was, (the voice) of the hawk-pursued nightingale. Who, shut away by green rivers, mourns for the new pity of her way of life, composing her child’s doom, how he perished finding murderously by her own hand an unmotherly wrath. The chorus underscores only the analogy between their plea for pity and the mourning of Procne.46 But the reference to the murder of Itys by the hand of his own mother is a powerful innuendo to the murder to be committed by the Danaids’ own hands. Moreover, while in the story of Procne the theme of murder spins around the annulment of motherhood, in the Danaid myth it revolves around its a priori negation, since the Danaids struggle against marriage itself, the legitimate precondition of motherhood. This preliminary reference to the theme of murder via the story of Procne is verbalized by diction focusing on the “hand”, in line with Aeschylus’ strategy of gradually developing this topic throughout the Suppliants and perhaps the entire trilogy. Another relevant case pertaining to the imagery of the “hand” can be reconstructed on the basis of the playwright’s insistence on the Danaids’ Amazonian nature (287–9)47 and the plot of the satyr drama Amymone

244  Christos C. Tsagalis rounding off the tetralogy. The fighting spirit of the Danaids 48 is a built-in feature of the myth. In the epic Danais (fr. 1 EGEF) the Danaids are presented while arming themselves by the banks of the Nile.49 We may assume that some reference like this may have been embedded in the Danaid trilogy in the form of a flashback. Along these lines, Aeschylus’ stress on the Amazonian husbandless Danaids evokes fighting imagery, such as hurling of spears, holding of weapons, in other words the perilous and menacing aspect of the imagery of the “hand”. It is exactly this filtering that is evoked when Amymone hurls her dart/spear at a deer, only to rouse a satyr by accident.50 In this way, the menacing hands of the sons of Aegyptus threatening to snatch the Danaids from the altars are parodically translated in the Amymone into the aggressive seizure of a satyr. This time the hands of Poseidon who save the girl effecting a mutually desired sexual union are protective,51 as was Zeus’ divine sexual touch on Io (1064–7),52 though in the Suppliants the chorus had expressed their fear that the Aegyptioi will never keep their hands off them, since they do not fear the god’s tridents (755–6).53

14.4 Conclusion The arguments presented above show that Aeschylus aimed from the very beginning of the Suppliants to exploit the themes of love, democracy, and murder by recourse to the imagery of the “hand” that constitutes a figurative summary of the entire trilogy: the Danaids, born from the touch of Zeus on their ancestor Io who was thus saved from Hera, pray with supplication boughs in their hands for a new divine “touch” by the father of gods and men, so that they can resist the polluted touch of the hands of their cousins. To their support come the Argive citizens, who raise their hands in the assembly in favor of the proposal pertaining to the granting of asylum. When the Egyptian herald threatens to drive the girls off to the ships, the people are ready to fight back if he touches their kinswomen of old. The interplay, from what we can guess, must have spanned the entire trilogy. The Argives will later bear arms in order to protect the Danaids; the Aegyptioi will be ready to lay hands on them for sexual purposes, but the Danaids will kill them by raising their hidden daggers. By exploiting the imagery of the “hand”, the two meanings of which correspond to two of the basic topics of the play and trilogy (supplication and murder), Aeschylus explores not only the darker sides of human nature but also the laws governing natural order. For him, as for us, violence is a double-edged weapon. As Gantz has neatly put it, “[The Danaids] never appreciate the contradiction between the violence they fear and the violence they will offer”.54 The same is true for the citizens of Argos: they stand against the violence of the Aegyptioi toward the Danaids by virtually turning it against themselves.

Boughs and daggers  245

Notes 1 On the role of Danaus in the play, see A. F. Garvie, Aeschylus’ Suppliants: Play and Trilogy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), 135, who argues that his limited dramatic role is explained by Aeschylus’ attempt to counterbalance the chorus’ leading role by using him as a source of detached contemplation; Sheila Murnaghan, “Women in Groups: Aeschylus’ Suppliants and the Female Choruses of Greek Tragedy,” in: The Soul of Tragedy: Essays on Athenian Drama, eds. Victoria Pedrick and Steven M. Oberheman (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 191 argues that he functions as a chorus leader (see 11, 970: βούλαρχος and 12: στασίαρχος). 2 On Io in the Suppliants, see Sara Brill, “Violence and Vulnerability in Aeschylus’ Suppliants,” in Logos and Muthos: Philosophical Essays in Greek Literature, ed. William Wians (New York: University Presses Marketing, 2009), 173–80. 3 All translations are by Anthony J. Bowen, Aeschylus: Suppliant Women. Edited with a Translation, Introduction, and Commentary (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2013) with slight modifications at times. 4 See Eduard D. M. Fraenkel, Aeschylus. Agamemnon vol. 2 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1950), 90 οn Ag. 149 (with examples also from Hesiod, Sophocles, and Plato); Holger Friis Johansen and Edward W. Whittle, Aeschylus. The Suppliants vol. 2 (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1970–80). 5 See 134–5, 156–8, 224–5, 414–15, 538–40, 558–61, 635–6. I owe these examples to Friis Johansen and Whittle, Aeschylus. The Suppliants, 21 on Aesch. Suppl. 21. 6 Contrary to LSJ (s.v.), the word ἐγχειριδίοις is not employed here as an adjective but as a noun, since κλάδοισιν is in apposition to it; see Bowen, Aeschylus, 148 on Aesch. Suppl. 19–22, who stresses Aeschylus’ frequent use of apposition as a stylistic device. Ingrid Waern, ΓΗΣ ΟΣΤΕΑ: The Kenning in Pre-Christian Greek Poetry (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1951), 49–51 argues that Aeschylus is the first author to invert the order “normal word followed by appositional kenning”. 7 Garvie, Aeschylus’ Suppliants, 71. 8 J. T. Sheppard, “The First Scene of the Suppliants of Aeschylus,” CQ 5.4 (1911): 226; see also Garvie, Aeschylus’ Suppliants, 71. 9 Since scholarly views are divided as to whether the first two plays of the trilogy were the Suppliants and the Aegyptioi (e.g. Garvie, Aeschylus’ Suppliants, 171, 185–6) or vice versa (e.g. Alan Sommerstein, Aeschylean Tragedy (London: Duckworth, 20102), 101–4), I have refrained from evaluating the relevance of the “normal word” on the assumption that the Suppliants are the first play of the trilogy. Although I am more inclined toward the view held by the majority of modern scholars who argue that Aeschylus’ Danaid-trilogy consisted in the Suppliants, the Aegyptioi, the Danaids, and the satyr-drama Amymone (see, e.g. Garvie, Aeschylus’ Suppliants, 2–3, 10) the order of the first two plays is not significant for my argument. The view that the Aegyptioi was the first play dominated in the nineteenth century and was recently revived by W. Rösler, “Der Schuß der ‘Hiketiden’ und die DanaidenTrilogie des Aischylos,” RhM 136 (1993): 1–22 and Alan Sommerstein, “The Beginning and the End of Aeschylus’ Danaid trilogy,” in Griechische-römische Komödie und Tragödie, ed. Bernhard Zimmermann (Stuttgart: JB Metzler, 1995), 111–23. 10 Timothy Gantz, “Love and Death in Aeschylus’ Suppliants,” Phoenix 32.4 (1978): 280. 11 See Apollod. Bibl. 2.1.5: ὡς δὲ ἐκληρώσαντο τοὺς γάμους, ἑστιάσας ἐγχειρίδια δίδωσι ταῖς θυγατράσιν. 12 For hiding daggers (ἐγχειρίδια) to be used in murder, see Hdt. 5.20.3–5 (under clothing: τῆι τῶν γυναικῶν ἐσθῆτι σκευάσας καὶ ἐγχειρίδια δοὺς παρῆγε ἔσω); Pl. Gorg. 469d (under armpit: ἐν ἀγορᾶι πληθούσηι λαβὼν ὑπὸ μάλης ἐγχειρίδιον).

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Boughs and daggers  247

27

28 29

30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37

find out who was the Greek leader at Salamis only to receive the response that the Greeks are free men living under no man’s rule (241–2). See also 994. The noun μέτοικος is a contemporary term; see Papadopoulou, Aeschylus: Suppliants, 70, Thalia Papadopoulou, “The Argive Decision in Favour of the Danaids in Aeschylus’ Suppliants,” Dioniso. Rivista di studi sul teatro antico 5 (2015), 16; Bowen, Aeschylus, 274 on Aesch. Suppl. 609–14 with further bibliography. Translation by Bowen, Aeschylus, 101. On προξενία and μετοικία in Aeschylus’ Suppliants, see St. Girgenis, “Πολιτική, ιδεολογία και θεσμοί της δημοκρατικής Αθήνας στις Ἱκέτιδες του Αισχύλου” (PhD. diss., Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, 2009), 314–44. See also Rachel Zelnick-Abramovitz, “Supplication and Request: Application by Foreigners to the Athenian Polis,” Mnemosyne 51.5 (1998), 554–73, who draws attention to the act of supplication to the institutions of the polis. In the case of Athens during a meeting dedicated to supplications (Ar. Ath. Pol. 43.6), a citizen or foreigner ‘lays the bough of supplication and addresses the demos on any matter he desires, private or public’ (563 with nn. 26–7). She also (570–1) sees in Pelasgus’ advice to Danaus to transfer the supplication from him as king to the demos (ll. 481–5) a dramatic reflection of the transfer of responsibility from the individual to the city. See also 699: τὸ δάμιον, τὸ πτόλιν κρατύνει. On this aspect of the play, see Rüdiger Bernek, Dramaturgie und Ideologie. Der politische Mythos in den Hikesiedramen des Aischylos, Sophokles und Euripides (Munich and Leipzig: De Gruyter, 2004), 52–3 with further bibliography. See Bowen, Aeschylus, 21. On the Danaids’ death-wish and the play’s third stasimon that resembles an escapist ode, see Elise P. Garrison, Groaning Tears: Ethical and Dramatic Aspects of Suicide in Greek Tragedy (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 84–87. Robert D. Murray, The Motif of Io in Aeschylus’ Suppliants (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1958), passim. See Garvie, Aeschylus’ Suppliants, 70. On the association between suppliant and bride, see Iamblichus VP 9.48 (ἔτι δὲ τὴν γυναῖκα νομίζειν ἀπὸ τῆς ἑστίας εἰληφότα μετὰ σπονδῶν καθάπερ ἱκέτιν ἐναντίον τῶν θεῶν εἰσῆχθαι πρὸς αὑτόν); on this topic, see Marcel Detienne, “Les Danaides entre elles ou la violence fondatrice du mariage,” Arethusa 21 (1988), 165; Zeitlin, “Patterns of Gender” 105, 109–10; Elizabeth Belfiore, Murder among Friends: Violation of Philia in Greek Tragedy (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 49–56; Mary R. Bachvarova, “Suppliant Danaids and Argive Nymphs in Aeschylus,” CJ 104.4 (2009), 290 n. 5. See S. Ireland, “The Problem of Motivation in the Supplices of Aeschylus,” RhM 117.1/2 (1974), 15–16. The barbarian aspect of the Aegyptioi is partly subordinated to the women-men conflict within the social framework of marriage (on women overcoming men, see Eur. Hec. 886–7 where the Danaids and the Lemnian Women are mentioned as mythical exempla). The strife is not explained in terms of incest (as the Danaids would be, after Danaus’ death, ἐπίκληροι forced to marry their next of kin) but of unwillingness to commit oneself to marriage; see D. S. Robertson, “The End of the Supplices Trilogy of Aeschylus,” CR 38 (1924): 51–3. On Aeschylus’ exploration of the barbarism of the Aegyptioi as opposed to the “Greekness” of the Danaids, see Papadopoulou, Aeschylus: Suppliants, 12 and 17), who examines how Ae schylus highlights “in a spermatic form, the ideology that closely associates democracy with foreign policy” (7).

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15 Episodic tragedy, Antigone, and indeterminacy at the end of Euripides’ Phoenissae1* Thomas Hubbard

Margalit Finkelberg’s Else lecture at the University of Michigan makes the important observation that Aristotle’s unitarian condemnation of episodic tragedy was already challenged in its time not only by the popularity of episodic tragedy itself, but by Plato’s mimetic practice in episodic dialogs with no tightly bound connections of “probability and necessity.”1 Both episodic tragedy and dialog challenge the audience to trace implicit filiations and tensions between the shifting characters and arguments; both genres are intensely allusive, metapoetic, and open-ended, even post-modern in their alienation of the audience from emotional identification with a single hero. Instead of passive emotional absorption of the sort created by the ideal Aristotelian plot, we are challenged by conundrum and aporia. In this contribution I would like to apply this arguably more “Platonic” paradigm to the interpretation of what is perhaps the most episodic of Greek tragedies, Euripides’ Phoenissae. Phoenissae has long been condemned not only for its loose episodic structure. Due to its long history of re-performance from the fourth-century forward, 2 it has been thought especially prone to interpolation, to the extent that supposed infelicities or inconsequentialities of plot should be removed with appropriate textual surgery. In particular, the character of Antigone has seemed to critics otiose and inessential to the core plot. Dihle thinks the entire Teichoscopy scene (88–201) interpolated.3 A. W. Verrall went so far as to excise her from the play altogether, supposing that her role was added by a later reviser who wanted to capitalize on the popularity of her myth. Verrall notes that she features most prominently at the beginning and end of the play, where it might be easiest to add new material, and that both scenes are thought independently to show signs of heavy interpolation.4 Neither Jocasta before Antigone’s entrance nor the Chorus afterward pay any attention to her presence. Verrall is also uncomfortable with Jocasta delaying her otherwise hasty departure to intervene between her sons on the battlefield in order to call Antigone out of the house and ask the girl, whose role in the play had been inconsequential up to this point, to accompany her (1264–83); this scene too has been suspected of interpolation. * All translations are mine.

250  Thomas Hubbard However, if Antigone’s role in the drama was a later addition, it must have become canonical quite early in the tradition, as she features prominently in iconographical representations of the play as early as a neck amphora of the Ixion Painter dateable to around 325 BCE5; this piece shows her with the Tutor. A bowl from the following century that is clearly based on the Phoenissae shows Antigone in no fewer than three scenes, including the one where she accompanies her mother to the battlefield.6 The iconographical reception of the play suggests that ancient audiences in no way found Antigone’s role extraneous. The play’s end has also been thought to show confusion between Antigone’s announced intentions first to bury her brother’s corpse (as she announces in l. 1657), then to accompany her blind father into exile (as she seems determined to do in 1679–1736), or then again to stay and bury the corpse, even at the expense of her own death and abandonment of her father (as she subsequently announces in 1737–57). Critics as distinguished as Wilamowitz, Kitto, and Fraenkel have proposed radical textual surgery to disambiguate her future actions.7 However, even before this back-and-forth, lines 1644–45 already link the two issues as points of contention with Creon: Τί τόνδ᾿ ὑβρίζεις πατέρ᾿ ἀποστέλλων χθονός; Τί θεσμοποεῖς ἐπὶ ταλαιπώρῳ νεκρῷ; Why do you violence to my father here by driving him out of the land? Why do you make laws against a wretched corpse? Moreover, Antigone spends the following 25 lines of her stichomythic exchange with Creon (lines 1646–71) debating his interdiction of Polyneices’ burial, entirely consistent with her final announcement. At least initially, Antigone sees no contradiction between her two intentions. Even a more sympathetic recent critic like Laura Swift, although not so ready to delete lines, reads the ending very pessimistically, seeing Antigone bound to destruction by the same ancestral curse upon the Labdacids that afflicted the rest of the family.8 However, it should be remembered that the myth of Antigone was very unstable in the classical period, not having been canonized in archaic epic tradition; the Thebaid had Haemon killed by the Sphinx before Antigone was even born. The plot of Sophocles’ Antigone, ending in her entombed death, was not the only version available even in tragedy; Euripides’ own Antigone, probably produced in the decade prior to Phoenissae judging from metrical criteria,9 had a happy ending with a lovestruck Haemon helping her bury the corpse and then marrying Antigone, who was destined to bear a son (according to Aristophanes of Byzantium’s hypothesis to Sophocles). The same hypothesis also relates that Ion of Chios wrote a dithyramb in which both Antigone and Ismene were later killed by Laodamas, the son of Eteocles, who burned down a temple of Hera in which they had taken refuge (fr. 740 PMG). The fourth-century tragedian

Episodic tragedy, Antigone, indeterminacy  251 Astydamas the Younger produced another version (60T5 TGrF, perhaps preserved in Hyginus, Fab. 72): in this story, Haemon kills both Antigone and himself many years later, after Creon recognizes their grown-up son, who comes to Thebes to compete in athletic games. Hyginus and Statius (Thebaid 12.177–804) preserve yet another narrative in which Antigone and Polyneices’ wife Argeia together secretly place the corpse on Eteocles’ funeral pyre. At least according to Statius, Antigone is saved from execution by Theseus’ invasion of Thebes. I would therefore propose that the open-endedness of Phoenissae, rather than being a loose end in the plot, is an intentional effort to acknowledge the fluidity of the myths surrounding the last survivors of the Labdacid era. Francis Dunn has considered the play’s lack of traditional closural conventions and open-endedness a reflection of the polymorphous mythography and Euripides’ conscious desire to stuff the play with a multitude of discrete and independent sub-plots.10 Suzanne Saïd also sees the never-ending exodos as a conscious play with fins manquées and deceived expectations.11 I would add that a more limited open-endedness is observable already in Euripides’ principal intertextual model, at the end of Aeschylus’ Septem, which I believe is authentic and in any event was probably the ending that would be known by Euripides’ time: although in the Septem Antigone and a semi-chorus move offstage to bury Polyneices, we are left in the dark about her subsequent fate.12 Antigone’s accompaniment of the blind Oedipus into exile, staged in Sophocles’ later Oedipus at Colonus, was almost certainly not Sophocles’ innovation; its acknowledgment in the earlier Phoenissae suggests it may have been an Attic cult tradition preserved at Colonus, which Euripides’ Oedipus already knows will be his final resting place (1705–7). Brooke Holmes has recently argued for an open-ended reading of Antigone’s role at the end of Oedipus at Colonus, which calls into question whether her fate in Sophocles’ earlier Antigone was inevitable and invites the audience “to reimagine tragic futurity.”13 In this view, OC presents a more positive Antigone who might live instead of being wedded to death, who tries to dissuade her brother from a self-destructive course of action rather than promising to bury his body in death. Rather than fighting for familial supremacy over the corpse of a deceased kinsman, as she did in the earlier play, she cedes its superintendence to the state, as represented by Theseus and the grove at Attic Colonus. While providing an interesting interpretation of OC’s revisionary relationship to Sophocles’ two earlier Theban plays, Holmes entirely ignores the interceding role of Euripides’ play, performed a scant three years before Sophocles’ likely composition of OC. Not only had Phoenissae already adumbrated Oedipus’ final resting spot in Colonus as a tragic theme (1705–7), but it too presents us with an open-ended fate for Antigone, who might go on to enact either Sophocles’ or Euripides’ Antigone (or Ion of Chios’ dithyramb), or who might even present subject matter for a play about accompanying her father into exile. An Antigone peripheral to the action of the play, but present as a spectator to the events almost from

252  Thomas Hubbard beginning to end (as Holmes notes of Antigone in OC) was already present in Euripides’ ambitious treatment of Oedipus’ curse and its aftermath. Rather than seeing Antigone’s role in Phoenissae as an independent subplot, as Dunn reads it, I would argue that her function within the overall plot is actually quite important and integral, as the female counterpart to the play’s other heroic youngster, Menoecius. But whereas Menoecius becomes frozen in time as a figure of what Vernant called “the beautiful death,” Antigone is a young person who learns and evolves during the course of the play.14 In the Teichoscopy scene (88–201), she appears as an eager child on a field trip, with permission from her mother, excitedly posing questions with a mix of wonder and revulsion. Her immaturity sometimes expresses itself through inattention, as when she asks the Tutor how he knows the identity of the seven Argives (141–4), something he had already explained 45 lines earlier in his opening speech (95–98). Rather than being evidence for an incompetent interpolator,15 her need for repetition serves to delineate her character at this stage in the drama. The Tutor clearly considers her a child, so protective is he against her tender sensibilities coming into contact with the chatter and gossip of the entering chorus (193–201). Some critics have noted that the diction and imaginative topography used to describe the armies in the Teichoscopy scene is not drawn so much from actual experience of war as from its aestheticized representation in the visual arts, 16 as if the Tutor considers this a more familiar lexicon for a young girl who knew war only through art. Antigone must first view mimetic images on a Platonic screen before progressing to her vision of the real war and its aftermath later in the play. Her maidenly vulnerability is emphasized by her two most emotional reactions to the Argive warriors: her fear of Capaneus, with his threats of rape for Theban women (179–92), and her dismissal of the beautiful young Parthenopaeus, whom one might normally expect to excite some sympathy in a girl (145–52)17: Αν. τίς δ’ οὗτος ἀμφὶ μνῆμα τὸ Ζήθου περᾶι καταβόστρυχος, ὄμμασι γοργὸς εἰσιδεῖν νεανίας, λοχαγός, ὡς ὄχλος νιν ὑστέρωι ποδὶ πάνοπλος ἀμφέπει; Θε. ὅδ’ ἐστὶ Παρθενοπαῖος, Ἀταλάντης γόνος. Αν. ἀλλά νιν ἁ κατ’ ὄρη μετὰ ματέρος Ἄρτεμις ἱεμένα τόξοις δαμάσασ’ ὀλέσειεν, Antigone: Who is this one who proceeds around the tomb of Zethus, hair hanging down, a youth grim to behold in his eyes, a chieftain, since a fully armed company attends him, following on foot. Tutor: This is Parthenopaeus, the son of Atalanta. Antigone: May Artemis, shooting with her arrows, tame and destroy him in the mountains with his mother…

Episodic tragedy, Antigone, indeterminacy  253 Against both she invokes the wrath of Artemis, the goddess of maidenly isolation and protection.18 Artemis is interpellated in her underworld and celestial aspects in the Teichoscopy (109–10, 175–6),19 suggesting Antigone’s awareness of diverse feminine roles and powers, and thus diverse potentialities of her own femininity. Artemis is also a goddess who supervises the transition from virginity to motherhood and adult responsibility. As Thalia Papadopoulou observes, Antigone matures rapidly throughout this play.20 I would add that her emotional development comes about precisely through her initial role as an internal audience to the play’s events, foregrounded already in her Teichoscopic voyeurism in the prolog. At the moment of greatest crisis, when Eteocles and Polyneices are about to face off in a duel, Jocasta drags a confused Antigone down to the battlefield with her (1264–83), only to have her witness the deaths of her two brothers and Jocasta’s own suicide. The messenger relates that in the aftermath of this familial carnage, Antigone shows the presence of mind to sneak away from the armies as they engage with each other, although some critics, including Diggle’s OCT text, needlessly delete line 1465.21 While the Theban soldiers despoil the corpses of their Argive counterparts and think of nothing but plunder, she assumes leadership of those tending to the bodies of the Theban dead, including her own family (1476–77). She is now effectively the head of her household, in charge of funeral arrangements. She is also now the object of descriptive narrative herself, a consequential actor become spectacle rather than spectating from a safe distance, as in her naïve Teichoscopy scene. In the exodos, Antigone returns to the stage as a person transformed by her tragic spectatorship, taught by exposure to her family’s suffering to become bold and independent. Whereas at the beginning of the play, she needed a Tutor’s guidance to comprehend the vast spectacle before her, she has now not only become a protagonist of the spectacle, but narrates to her unseeing father all that has happened, herself tutor and guide to an isolated and uninformed invalid. She moves meta-theatrically from audience to actor to narrator to choreographer of tragic lament. Enlightened by pathei mathos, tragic knowledge, she now feels herself empowered to defy Eteocles’ (757–60) and Creon’s (1672–78) arrangements concerning her marriage to Haemon, not wanting to be bartered among men as a token of political exchange, as her mother had been by Creon after Laius’ death (45–49), with such devastating results. Now in command of the full tragic repertoire, Antigone alludes to the wedding night of the Danaid maidens (1675) as a possible course of action she is prepared to consider. Free from the patriarchal control of her brother, uncle, and fiancé, she even asserts independence from her enfeebled father: she first resists his attempt to dissuade her from sharing his exile (1685–92), but after he agrees to it, she then abandons the plan to attend him in favor of staying behind in Thebes to defy Creon’s interdiction of burial (1743–46). She finally appears even to reject Oedipus’ fatherly advice about fulfilling rituals along with

254  Thomas Hubbard her age-mates at the appropriate altars and shrines (1747–52), responding bitterly that her previous Dionysiac devotions have brought her no return of charis (1753–57): Οι. σὺ δ’ ἀμφιβωμίοις λιταῖς πρὸς ἥλικας φάνηθι σάς. Αν. ἅλις ὀδυρμάτων ἐμῶν, κόρον ἔχουσ’ ἐμῶν κακῶν. Οι. ἴθ’ ἀλλὰ Βρόμιος ἵνα τε σηκὸς ἄβατος ὄρεσι μαινάδων. Αν. Καδμείαν ὧι νεβρίδα στολιδωσαμένα ποτ’ ἐγὼ Σεμέλας θίασον ἱερὸν ὄρεσιν ἀνεχόρευσα, χάριν ἀχάριτον ἐς θεοὺς διδοῦσα.

1749 1747 1750

Oedipus: Appear to your age-mate girls for the prayers around the altars. Antigone: Enough of my laments! They have satiety of my ills. Oedipus: But go where Bromius and the shrine of the Maenads are isolated in the mountains. Antigone: For whom I once, garbed in a Cadmean fawnskin, danced with the sacred band of Semele in the mountains, giving to the gods a favor which received no favor in return. With these aporetic last words, the once-pious Antigone appears to realize the futility of religious faith, thereby freeing herself also from the ultimate patriarchal authority of the gods. At this point, she becomes a figure of open destiny, a self-determining existential agent whose future actions are in no way preordained. Having been spectator, spectacle, narrator, and choreographer, she now renounces the god of drama himself; she is done with him and prepared to confront an open future.22 Despite choral talk of ancestrally inherited curses, critics since Verrall have remarked on the absence of direct divine causation to the events of Phoenissae.23 As Desmond Conacher noted, Menoecius, Eteocles, Polynices, and Jocasta all freely choose their own deaths.24 His father was only too willing to shield Menoecius from the consequences of Tiresias’ prophecy; Eteocles’ and Polynices’ fratricide was already pointless in virtue of Menoecius’ self-sacrifice and the decisive outcome of the first battle; Jocasta committed suicide out of no compulsion whatever, but out of a feeling that her sons’ deaths outweighed any obligation she felt toward the stillliving. Even the Theban army chose freely to annihilate the remnants of the Argives, although it was clear the Argives no longer were a threat. All the death was pointless, which makes Antigone’s free choice to live, however indeterminately and uncertainly, the more compelling. In a detailed intertextual reading of Phoenissae against Aeschylus’ Seven, Lamari sees the play asserting female agency and power against the strongly

Episodic tragedy, Antigone, indeterminacy  255 masculinist power dynamics of the Aeschylean model.25 Ruth Scodel has noted the heightened interest in female spectatorship in Euripides’ late work, whether with the touristic choruses of this play and Iphigenia in Aulis, Antigone’s Teichoscopy, or Hypsipyle’s encounter with the Argive host.26 Could it be related to Athenian women constituting a larger proportion of the tragic audience, because the men were either dead or off at war in 409 BCE? The women were, like Antigone, the ones having to make difficult adjustments to properly mourn the dead and care for infirm parents. They were the ones who had to endure even after having witnessed the tragedies of so much death due to war and plague. This fundamental familial obligation might explain why Antigone alone of the play’s protagonists is left to have a future.

Notes 1 Margalit Finkelberg, “Aristotle and Episodic Tragedy,” G&R 53 (2006): 60–72. 2 Thalia Papadopoulou, Euripides: Phoenician Women (London: Bloomsbury, 2008), 104–9. 3 Albercht Dihle, Der Prolog der “Bacchen” und die antike Überlieferungsphase des Euripides-Textes (Heidelberg: Winter, 1981), 60–71. For a defense of the scene against Dihle’s objections, see Dana L. Burgess, “The Authenticity of the Teichoskopia of Euripides’ Phoenissae,” CJ 83 (1987/88): 103–13. 4 Arthur Woollgar Verrall, Euripides the Rationalist: A Study in the History of Art and Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1895), 251–9. 5 London F338 = LIMC s.v. Antigone 17. 6 London G104 = LIMC s.v. Antigone 6, 9. 7 U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, “Der Schluss der Phönissen des Euripides,” SPAW (1903): 587–600; H.D.F. Kitto, “The Final Scenes of the Phoenissae,” CR 53.3 (1939): 104–11; Eduard Fraenkel, Zu den Phoenissen des Euripides (Munich: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1963), 86–120. In furtherance of this approach, see also Wolf H. Friedrich, “Prolegomena zu den Phönissen,” Hermes 74 (1939): 275–98; more cautiously, Desmond J. Conacher, “Themes in the Exodus of Euripides’ Phoenissae,” Phoenix 21 (1967): 92–101 and Richard A. S. Seaford, “The Imprisonment of Women in Greek Tragedy,” JHS 110 (1990): 89; H. O. Meredith, “The End of the Phoenissae,” CR 51.3 (1937): 97–103 presents one of the few defenses of the scene’s integrity and authenticity. 8 Laura A. Swift, “Sexual and Familial Distortion in Euripides’ Phoenissae,” TAPA 139.1 (2009): 60–69. 9 Martin Cropp and Gordon Fick, Resolutions and Chronology in Euripides: The Fragmentary Plays (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 1985), 74. Zimmermann links the play with the proscription of burial to traitors in the oligarchic revolution of 411 (Christiane Zimmermann, Der Antigone-Mythos in der antiken Literatur und Kunst (Tübingen: Narr, 1993), 189–90). 10 Francis M. Dunn, Tragedy’s End: Closure and Innovation in Euripidean Drama (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 180–202. 11 Suzanne Saïd, “Euripide ou l’attente déçue: l’exemple des Phéniciennes, ” ASNP 15.2 (1985): 501–27. 12 See Hugh Lloyd-Jones, “The Ending of the Seven against Thebes,” CQ 9.1–2 (1959): 80–115. 13 Brooke Holmes, “Antigone at Colonus and the End(s) of Tragedy,” Ramus 42 (2013): 23–43.

256  Thomas Hubbard













16 Dramatic contexts and literary fiction in Euripides, Heracles 1340–461* Justina Gregory

Margalit Finkelberg’s Birth of Literary Fiction in Ancient Greece distinguishes a Greek “poetics of truth” that regarded poetry as inspired by the Muses from a “poetics of fiction” that regarded poetry as the product of art.1 In what follows I consider how this distinction maps onto the notorious passage in Euripides’ Heracles (1340–46) in which the protagonist disavows poetic λόγοι that reflect poorly on the gods.2 Heracles’ statement has been read as undermining the foundation of the plot and characterized either as a metapoetical provocation by the poet or as a free-standing statement of his personal credo.3 In contrast, I frame the passage as Heracles’ targeted response to the prior argument advanced by Theseus, his kinsman, friend, and rescuer. I define it further as compatible with the hero’s prior characterization, with the play’s motifs of inclusion and exclusion, and with Euripides’ exploration of the function and truth-value of μουσική. By situating Heracles’ remarks in these three overlapping contexts I aim to demonstrate that the passage is organic to the play. The rhesis that Theseus addresses to Heracles (1313–39) meshes so closely with Heracles’ reply (1340–93) that the two speeches are best understood as 4 Arriving in Thebes when Heracles has newly awakened part of an agοn. ͅͅ from the stupor that brought his murderous rampage to a close, the Athenian king undertakes to dissuade his despairing friend from suicide. The opening of Theseus’ speech is missing5 but can be inferred from the context; it presumably acknowledged that if Heracles’ misfortunes were unique, ending his life would be an understandable choice.6 Such, however, is not the case, Theseus continues, for no mortal lives “undefiled by fate” (ταῖς τύχαις ἀκήρατος, 1314). As for the gods, if the poets’ accounts are reliable (ἀοιδῶν εἴπερ οὐ ψευδεῖς λόγοι, 1315), divinities commit crimes just like mortals—at this point he offers two examples, one involving unlawful sexual relations between gods and the other a god who deposed his father by putting him in chains—yet they continue to inhabit Olympus despite their transgressions. How then, Theseus continues, will Heracles justify overreacting to his own * Translations from the Greek are my own.

258  Justina Gregory misfortunes (1320–21)? But the Athenian king does not confine himself to this a fortiori argument against suicide. To facilitate his friend’s decision, Theseus proceeds to offer him ritual purification, asylum, property, and an eventual hero cult in Athens. The passage at issue begins with Heracles’ depreciating his own forthcoming discussion of his friend’s remarks as “tangential to my troubles,” thus appropriating Theseus’ sentiments as his own before he sets out to discredit them. He has his reasons for adopting this strategy: in terms of “politeness theory,” it saves Theseus’ positive face.7 Then he proceeds to repudiate Theseus’ examples in the order they were presented. In Diggle’s text (1340–46): οἴμοι· πάρεργα < > τάδ’ ἔστ’ ἐμῶν κακῶν· ἐγὼ δὲ τοὺς θεοὺς οὔτε λέκτρ’ ἃ μὴ θέμις στέργειν νομίζω δεσμά τ’ ἐξάπτειν χεροῖν οὔτ’ ἠξίωσα πώποτ’ οὔτε πείσομαι οὐδ’ ἄλλον ἄλλου δεσπότην πεφυκέναι. δεῖται γὰρ ὁ θεός, εἴπερ ἔστ’ ὀρθῶς θεός, οὐδενός· ἀοιδῶν οἵδε δύστηνοι λόγοι.

1340

1345

Alas! What I am about to say8 is tangential to my troubles. For my part, I don’t think and have never accepted and will never believe that the gods enjoy unlawful unions, or that they put [each other] in chains, or that one god is master over another. For a god, if he is a god in the true sense of the word, needs nothing. These are poets’ unfortunate tales.9 Some critics, as noted, regard Heracles’ words as denying not only Theseus’ arguments, but also the reality of his own experience. After all, in the play’s opening line Amphitryon had identified himself as τὸν Διὸς σύλλεκρον, “the man who shared his marriage bed with Zeus,” in reference to Zeus’ adulterous union with Alcmene. Furthermore, in an e arlier speech addressed to Theseus Heracles had enumerated Hera’s efforts to destroy him, beginning with the snakes she sent to strangle him in his cradle, continuing with his labors, and culminating in his madness (1263–1310). He had attributed Hera’s persecution to her jealousy of Alcmene (1308–10)—hardly the behavior of a god who “needs nothing.” In short, divine wrongdoing has been presented from the outset of the play not as a poetic construct but as the engine of events. Do Heracles’ words undermine that premise? Analysis of the passage in its dramatic context, with attention to how Theseus reacts to Heracles’ earlier remarks and how Heracles, in turn, responds to Theseus, points to a different conclusion.

Dramatic contexts and literary fiction  259

16.1 The weaknesses of Theseus’ arguments Although Heracles does not point out all the weak points in Theseus’ argument, the members of the audience can spot them unaided. First, Theseus knows that multiple factors are drawing his friend toward suicide, and his strategy of countering them as economically and compendiously as possible entails a noticeable loss of precision. Heracles had already mentioned four motives: the inescapable fact that he killed his own children (1146–47), his obligation to avenge their deaths (1150), the loss of esteem (δύσκλεια) that awaits him if he remains alive (1152), and last but not least the religious factor10: because of his ἀνόσιον μίασμ’ (1233), he can neither remain in Thebes (1281–84) nor go elsewhere (1285–90). Theseus had already anticipated and attempted to blunt his friend’s religious scruples (1232; he reverts to the topic at 1400), and in his rhesis he tries to counter Heracles’ other concerns. When Theseus claims that the gods, whom he is proposing as models for Heracles, “continue to inhabit Olympus and have put up with their own mistakes” (οἰκοῦσ’ ὅμως /῎Ολυμπον ἠνέσχοντό θ’ ἡμαρτηκότες, 1318–19), he does not specify whether their distress should be attributed to social opprobrium, personal guilt, or both.11 When he proposes that Heracles should quit Thebes τοῦ νόμου χάριν (1322) for Athens, he gestures toward Heracles’ determination to take legal responsibility for his crimes but implies that exile, not death, will constitute sufficient punishment. As he aims to close off all possible justifications for suicide, Theseus keeps his language unpersuasively vague. Second, the a fortiori reasoning that Theseus deploys is not apposite here, although it can be effective in other situations. For example, when Phaedra’s nurse suggests (Hipp. 451–8) that it is unreasonable for Phaedra to resist her own desire for Hippolytus, since even the Olympian gods yield to eros,12 her argument carries a certain force; sexual passion, after all, is regularly featured in myth as affecting both gods and human beings. Suicide, in contrast, is not even an option for the immortals; since they have no choice but to endure whatever befalls them, their situation is hardly relevant to Heracles’. A third mismatch between Theseus’ argument and Heracles’ plight turns on agency. In contrast to Heracles, the gods commit wrongdoing in full consciousness of their actions, not while occluded by madness imposed by an outside force; as one critic notes, “the gods err, while Heracles is erred against.”13 Nevertheless, Heracles makes no attempt to deny his role in the murder of his family; that role, indeed, is his chief reason for contemplating suicide (1146–52, 1237). The same is true of his interlocutors. Even as Amphitryon implicates three separate agents of the carnage—Heracles, his bow and arrows, and divinity (1135)—he urges Heracles to confront his own responsibility (1129, 1139), and Heracles largely takes the old man’s advice. Like Amphitryon, Theseus blurs the disaster’s external causation with the human culpability that results from it when he observes (1314) that no mortal is ταῖς τύχαις ἀκήρατος. Theseus too encourages Heracles not to

260  Justina Gregory regard himself as a victim but to endure his situation with resolve; indeed, he adduces his two instances of divine wrongdoing with that end in view. Although there is a distinction to be drawn between the crimes committed by the gods of their own volition and the murders committed by Heracles under the influence of god-sent madness, Theseus elides that contrast.

16.2 The relevance of Theseus’ arguments Even though Theseus’ arguments do not dovetail with Heracles’ situation, they are sufficiently germane that Heracles feels impelled to address them. That is because the two instances of divine malfeasance adduced by the Athenian king (and which Heracles in his reply expands into three) do parallel Heracles’ experience in one crucial respect: both are instances of wrongdoing committed by the gods against their kin.14 Theseus explicitly confines his first example to the gods’ adultery “with one another” (ἐν ἀλλήλοισιν, 1316); the prepositional phrase excludes divine couplings with mortals, such as Zeus’ with Alcmene.15 His second example refers to another instance of intraOlympian crime, Zeus’ deposing and shackling of his father Cronos. The familial dimension of Heracles’ murderous rampage was fundamental to Hera’s plan (831–2); it elicited frantic entreaties from the victims (975–6, 988–9), left the members of the chorus groping for mythological parallels (1016–24), and inspired Heracles’ suicidal aspirations (1146–52). By limiting his a fortiori examples to crimes occurring within the divine family, Theseus aims to mitigate the aspect of Heracles’ crime that is most distressing to all concerned. Heracles’ characterization both of Theseus’ examples and the reflections they inspire in his own mind as “tangential to my troubles” might be taken as an extra-dramatic signal to the audience to regard the entire topic as a digression, but another Euripidean passage warns against that conclusion. At an equally fraught moment in Euripides’ Hecuba the protagonist offers some general reflections about nature and nurture, then apologizes for her excursus16 before turning to the situation at hand. Hecuba’s observations are in fact pertinent to the context, and her apology serves a transitional function. 17 Although Heracles’ dismissal of his own words is prospective18 rather than retrospective, it too serves a transitional purpose. As noted earlier, politeness also comes into play: the hero takes Theseus’ statement as the point of departure for his own discussion of divinity while gracefully shouldering blame for its inadequacy. In fact, his statement is far from a digression, for it draws together motifs that have figured throughout the play.

16.3 Characterization Heracles’ refusal to believe ill of the gods is consistent with his piety as described by others and confirmed by his own actions.19 At the opening of the play, as the hero’s family takes refuge from the tyrant Lycus at the altar of Zeus Soter, Amphitryon reports that this structure was erected by Heracles

Dramatic contexts and literary fiction  261 after he defeated the Minyans (48–50). Heracles himself alludes to the initiation into the Eleusinian Mysteries that preceded his journey to Hades,20 and accepts (606–9) Amphitryon’s recommendation (599–600) that he should salute Hestia, goddess of the family hearth, as his first order of business upon entering the palace. When Lyssa, the goddess of madness, protests her assignment of driving Heracles into a murderous frenzy, she reminds Iris of the hero’s distinctive role in restoring divine honors (ἀνέστησεν μόνος/ τιμὰς πιτνούσας ἀνοσίων ἀνδρῶν ὕπο, 852–3). Iris overrules her, however, and madness strikes the hero just as he embarks on a purificatory ceremony for his murder of Lycus (922–31). Even in the throes of madness Heracles remains mindful of ritual norms (939–41). Once the hero regains his sanity, he quickly recognizes his own impurity and takes measures to avoid transmitting it. When Heracles sees Theseus approaching, he veils his head (1159) and warns him by hand signals to keep his distance (1218). Theseus attempts to assuage Heracles’ dread by claiming that there is no concealing his misfortune (1216–17), that a mortal cannot contaminate the divine (1232), and that friendship trumps pollution (1234, cf. 1400); despite these assurances, Heracles imagines all nature as recoiling from contact with him (1295–97). Even though Theseus promises to purify his friend once the two of them reach Athens (1324–25), the hero continues to regard himself as polluted (1399). In short, he is delineated not as ordinarily but as conspicuously pious, not just before but also after he is struck by god-sent disaster. After conjuring an image of Hera as she dances on Olympus to celebrate her triumph, Heracles demands rhetorically, “Who could pray to such a goddess?” (1307–8). His bitterness is in direct proportion to his idealistic estimation of divinity. When subsequently he refuses to believe the poets’ tales of wrongdoing on Olympus and asserts that “a god, if he is a god in the true sense of the word, needs nothing” (1345–46), there is no need to attribute to Euripides sentiments that are entirely in character for his protagonist.

16.4 Motifs of inclusion and exclusion Heracles’ statement also subsumes a cluster of motifs, easier to discern than to describe, that focus on the criteria for defining certain groups and the differentiated treatment of those who fall inside or outside the category in question. When Heracles suggests that “a god in the true sense of the word” needs nothing, he alludes to the standard of ὀνομάτων ὀρθότης (correctness in word usage21) previously introduced by Amphitryon22 with reference to φίλοι, a term whose built-in slippage between “friends” and “relatives” both illustrates and invites boundary confusion. In the opening of the play Amphitryon had suggested that of the group comprising the beleaguered family’s φίλοι, some did not manifest friendship, whereas others, friends “in the true sense of the word” (οἱ δ’ ὄντες ὀρθῶς, 56), lacked the power to help. Subsequently Amphitryon continues to ponder the responsibilities

262  Justina Gregory incumbent on a true φίλος, now with reference to Zeus. He observes that even though Amphitryon and Zeus have a wife and a son in common, the god has not measured up to expectations (339–41); whether out of ignorance or injustice, Zeus does not know how to save his kin (346–7). Upon his return to Thebes Heracles volunteers his own understanding of φιλία when he rejects his public accomplishments, the labors, in favor of his private obligation to help family members; his honorific epithet καλλίνικος depends, he asserts, on the latter not the former (574–82). The members of the chorus also touch on the criteria for assessing φιλία. Although they hail Zeus as Heracles’ father after the hero returns quasi-miraculously in time to save his family (696, 801–4), his madness and murderous rampage call the god’s commitment into question once again (1087–88). In the end, the play suggests that genuine φιλία can be found only within the human community, as Theseus, Heracles’ “kinsman and friend” (1154), comes to the rescue of his unhappy comrade.23 The differentiation between kin and non-kin comes starkly into view with respect to the treatment of children. As he prepares to murder Heracles’ father, wife, and sons, the tyrant Lycus explains that killing an enemy’s offspring to forestall any possibility of vengeance in the future reflects not shamelessness (ἀναίδειαν, 165) but prudence (εὐλάβειαν, 166). When Heracles upon his return from Hades observes that all members of the human race love their children (πᾶν δὲ φιλότεκνον γένος, 636), it is their own, not other people’s offspring he has in mind.24 Indeed, when in the throes of madness the hero imagines that his own children are Eurystheus’ sons (970–71, 982–3, he slaughters them without compunction. Such an attitude is not unusual.25 Young boys may not go to war (as Theseus remarks, 1176), but they become casualties of violence by other means. The second stasimon evokes the same cluster of motifs when it mentions divine versus mortal concepts of merit and the need for a clear division between the good and the wicked.26 The old men of the chorus propose a utopian enhancement of mortal existence: if divine understanding and wisdom were commensurate to men’s (εἰ δὲ θεοῖς ἦν ξύνεσις/ καὶ σοφία κατ’ ἄνδρας, 655–6), virtuous mortals would enjoy a second youth and indeed two successive lifetimes, so that it would be a simple matter to distinguish them from evildoers.27 The chorus’ desire for such a “clear boundary established by the gods” (ὅρος ἐκ θεῶν/…σαφής, 669–70) builds on Megara’s lament that “nothing about the gods is clear (σαφές, 62) for human beings,” and Amphitryon’s condemnation of Thebans who were not manifestly friends (οὐ σαφεῖς… φίλους, 55). The play’s recurrent emphasis on the importance of clear distinctions ensures that Heracles’ subsequent reference to gods “in the true sense of the word” will not strike the audience as extraneous.

16.5 The poetics of truth The most consequential link between Heracles’ speech and the rest of the play remains to be explored: its evaluation of the function and truth-value of

Dramatic contexts and literary fiction  263 μουσική. This motif emerges as early as the first stasimon. Here the old men of Thebes, like many another tragic chorus, take refuge in introspection.28 Convinced that Heracles is dead, they embark on a narrative of the hero’s labors as a means of enhancing his memory. They take their cue from Apollo (who in the Iliad accompanies the Muses on the lyre when they perform on Mount Olympus29) for a song that “combine[s] eulogy and lament.”30 After noting that Apollo appends a song of sorrow to one of good fortune,31 the members of the chorus do the same. They begin their ode by celebrating the labors triumphantly completed by Heracles and conclude it by reporting his final disastrous assignment—the journey to Hades to fetch Cerberus the dog, from which he has not returned—and decrying their own age and debility (436–41). Having thus chosen a divine precedent for their performance, they repeat the move in the second stasimon; this time, however, their model is not Apollo but the Muses, who here as elsewhere serve “as a way of talking about poetry itself.”32 The second stasimon carries over from the first the themes of youth, age, and μουσική, but in a different mood: since Heracles’ fortunes have now taken an astonishing turn for the better, the old men sing a jubilant encomium.33 In the opening strophe and antistrophe they denounce old age, praise youth as more valuable than wealth, and express the wish that the gods would arrange a δίδυμαν ἥβαν (657) to reward the good, while reserving old age as a punishment for the wicked. Then they assert their determination to continue performing as a chorus (673–86): οὐ παύσομιαι τὰς Χάριτας ταῖς Μούσαισιν συγκαταμειγνύς, ἡδίσταν συζυγίαν. 675 μὴ ζῴην μετ’ ἀμουσίας, αἰεὶ δ’ ἐν σταφάνοισιν εἴην· ἔτι τοι γέρων ἀοιδὸς κελαδῶ Μναμοσύναν, ἔτι τὰν Ἡρακλέους 680 καλλίνικον ἀείδω παρά τε Βρόμιον οἰνοδόταν παρὰ τε χέλυος ἑπτατόνου μολπὰν καὶ Λίβυν αὐλόν. οὔπω καταπαύσομεν 685 Μούσας αἵ μ’ ἐχόρευσαν. I shall not stop combining the Graces with the Muses, sweetest of joinings. May I never live without the Muses! May I ever wear wreaths! Even as an aged singer I still celebrate Mnemosyne. I still sing of Heracles’

264  Justina Gregory glorious victory, along with Dionysus the wine-giver, and along with the song of the seven-stringed lyre and the Libyan pipe. Not [for a while] yet will I put a stop to the Muses, who set me to dancing. The conspicuous references to the Muses define a poetic agenda. The proem of Hesiod’s Theogony, “the foundational text for the mythology of the Muses,”34 describes three aspects of these goddesses.35 First, they function as a model collective of singers and dancers for mortal performers of μουσική. Second, they guarantee the truth of the events celebrated by the individual ἀοιδός,36 whom Hesiod calls the “Muses’ attendant” (Μουσάων θεράπων, Theog. 100). Because the Muses enjoy a panoptic relationship to time—according to Hesiod (Theog. 38, cf. 32), the songs they sing on Olympus encompass past, present, and future— and because they are often described as living on Olympus,37 they serve mortals as eye-witnesses who can authorize what would otherwise be inaccessible and unverifiable: historical events because of their remoteness in time, and the activities of the gods because of their remoteness in space.38 Third, they offer solace and distraction to their audience: when the ἀοιδός celebrates “the glorious deeds of earlier men and the blessed gods who inhabit Olympus,”39 a listener “quickly forgets his sad thoughts and does not remember his cares” (Theog. 102–3, cf. 55). The same three aspects of the Muses are reflected in the second stasimon of HF. By “mingling the Graces with the Muses,”40 the members of the chorus simultaneously evoke and replicate the performance of those two maiden collectives. The choristers’ reference to Mnemosyne alludes to the Muses’ role in validating the authenticity of poetic accounts; as daughters of Memory, the Muses assist the singers in selecting what material to consign to oblivion and what to target for preservation. While the Muses famously fulfill this function in epic, realm of the “seven-stringed lyre,” according to Euripides’ chorus they do the same in tragedy, domain of “Dionysus, who gives men wine” and the “Libyan pipe.”41 Additionally, their song provides comfort, which in a variation from Hesiod benefits the performers rather than the listeners: “continued participation in khoreia is … implicitly seen as a resource for these old men in the face of old age and decay.”42 Lament is not alien either to the epic or the tragic Muses.43 The goddesses are more commonly associated, however, with celebration and praise,44 and in the second stasimon the old men have every reason to rejoice. They are confident that τὸ εὖ / τοῖς ὕμνοισιν ὑπάρχει (“the good [outcome of events] grounds my songs”45), and they specify one particular outcome, Heracles’ newly confirmed status as “son of Zeus” (Διὸς ὁ παῖς, 696). Earlier in the play doubts about Heracles’ divine conception had been expressed both by Lycus, who disparaged the story as an “idle boast” (148), and by the members

Dramatic contexts and literary fiction  265 of the chorus themselves (353–4). The story was neither inherently plausible nor subject to verification by ordinary means, and Heracles’ disappearance into Hades, together with Zeus’ failure to come to his family’s aid, had cast it further into question. Now the story has been validated both in deed and in word: through Heracles’ return, and through the Muses who inspire the chorus’ account. If the second stasimon maintains continuity with the first, the third stasimon carries forward themes from both previous odes. The members of the chorus invite another maiden chorus, the daughters of the Boeotian river-god Asopus, together with “Apollo’s crag” (Parnassus), and the “dwelling of the Muses on Helicon,” to participate in another joyful performance (785–93). They take note of Time’s role (805–6) in revealing Heracles’ prowess— arguably yet another allusion to the Muses, if an oblique one, for as we have seen, these goddesses enjoy a privileged relationship to time— and thus proving “trustworthy” (πιστόν, 802) the old story of Zeus’ union with Alcmene. As the third stasimon draws to a close, the members of the chorus continue to celebrate a μουσική that is embodied in their own performance, but inspired and validated by the Muses.

16.6 The poetics of fiction The old men’s mood and preoccupations change abruptly with the appearance of Lyssa and Iris. Their use of anadiplosis charts the transformation: having announced choral performances (χοροὶ χοροί, 763) and affirmed the gods’ concern for justice (θεοὶ θεοί, 772), the old men abruptly cry out in terror (ἔα ἔα, 815) and issue a call to flight (φυγῇ φυγῇ, 818). Both the chorus and the goddess of madness herself describe Lyssa’s catastrophic intervention as a travesty of μουσική 46 that employs the wrong agents (it is Lyssa, not the Muses, who sets Heracles to dancing, 871) and the wrong instruments (the dance lacks Dionysus’ tympana, 889–90) to the wrong ends (the pipe plays a δάιον μέλος or song of destruction, 895). “[C]onceived as a chorus gone awry and as a dance deprived of its normal distinguishing orderliness, Heracles’ madness gives a bad name to the dance, including the dancing and singing of the chorus.”47 Already at a loss for mythological parallels that match the horror of Heracles’ crime (1016–27), the old men fall silent at Amphitryon’s request (1042–44, 1047–51) and do not reassert themselves again. When the topic of μουσική is next raised, the Muses no longer figure as its sponsors or the members of the chorus as its performers. Instead Theseus directs Heracles’ attention to a different divine precedent and a different poetics, to the wayward deeds of the gods among themselves as narrated in poets’ independent accounts—provided, he notes carefully, that these are not inaccurate (ἀοιδῶν εἴπερ οὐ ψευδεῖς λόγοι, 1315). Theseus’ ἀοιδοί are not the same as Hesiod’s “Muses’ attendants,” even though they go by the same name48; rather than drawing inspiration from the divine singers and dancers, they construct stories out of their own imagination.49 Theseus

266  Justina Gregory acknowledges the possibility that these stories might be ψευδεῖς or “unreliable.”50 The λόγοι he has in mind take past activities on Mount Olympus as their subject, as the songs of the Muses do. He recognizes, however, that because they lack the trans-historical eyewitness authority provided by those goddesses, they have the potential to mislead. What Theseus acknowledges as possible Heracles takes as certain. When he condemns the ἀοιδῶν λόγοι as δύστηνοι, he too has in mind accounts that are invented by the poets rather than underwritten by the Muses. His language suggests that they lack authority and are “unfortunate” in the sense of deluded, regrettable, and distressing.51 But Heracles’ words do not deny the reality of his personal experience, for he leaves out of consideration λόγοι that concern divine relationships with human beings, and does not condemn even the λόγοι he does consider as lies. Rather, Heracles’ statement adds depth and resonance to motifs already prominent in the play. In particular, it underscores the difference between λόγοι inspired by the Muses and those invented by the poets. Having had his say about divinity, in the remainder of his rhesis Heracles reverts to more immediate concerns. Changing his mind about committing suicide, he accepts Theseus’ offers of help with gratitude and makes arrangements for the future. He puts Amphitryon in charge of the family burials, bids a heartbroken farewell to his children and wife, decides to keep his bow and arrows (the instrument of the murders, but inseparable from his identity as καλλίνικος), requests Theseus’ help in disposing of Cerberus the dog, and enjoins the people of Thebes to mourn himself and his children. Only at the very end of his rhesis does the hero revert to Hera, naming the goddess as responsible for his downfall (1392–93). As the play draws to a close Heracles’ humanity shows through his wretchedness just as the stars shine through clouds for sailors (ἴσον ἅτ’ ἐν νεφέλαισιν ἄ-/στρων ναύταις ἀριθμὸς πέλει, 667–8). His decision to accept mortal remedies for Hera’s persecution leaves unresolved, however, the question of why the goddess targeted him in the first place. Did she destroy an innocent man out of sexual jealousy, as Heracles believes (1308–11), or to maintain divine prerogatives, as Lyssa maintains (841–2)? The audience cannot know. The Muses and the poet alike maintain silence.

Notes 1 Margalit Finkelberg, The Birth of Literary Fiction in Ancient Greece (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 20–7 and passim. 2 For a summary of critical interpretations see S. E. Lawrence, “The God That Is Truly God and the Universe of Euripides’ Heracles,” Mnemosyne 51.2 (1998): 129–46. 3 For the passage as requiring the audience “to consider that Herakles itself…is also a mere fiction, a tale told by a poet who may be lying” see Ann Michelini, Euripides and the Tragic Tradition (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987), 275; contra, P. Kyriakou, “The Chorus in the Heracles and the Iphigeneia

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4

5

6

7

8

9 10

11

in Tauris of Euripides,” Hellenica 49 (1999): 9–10. For metapoetry as “an appropriate umbrella term for the multifarious kinds of self-referentiality present in Euripides’ oeuvre” see Isabelle Torrance, Metapoetry in Euripides (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 3. For the statement as reflecting Euripides’ personal beliefs see A. L. Brown, “Wretched Tales of Poets: Euripides, Heracles 1340–6,” PCPS 24 (1978): 22–30. For this interpretation see Markus Dubischar, Die Agonszenen bei Euripides: Untersuchungen zu ausgewählten Dramen (Stuttgart and Weimar: J. B. Metzler, 2001), 70–71. Dubischar defines as decisive to an agon a confrontation between two speakers, the ἁμαρτάνων/ δυστυχῶν and the παραινέτης, over a βούλευμα that triggers their debate. He assigns HF 1214–1426 to his category of “consolatory advice-agon,” with Herakles the ἁμαρτάνων/ δυστυχῶν, Theseus the παραινέτης, and Heracles’ desire to commit suicide as the βούλευμα. Dubischar notes (73) that in this type of agon the advice of the παραινέτης is invariably followed, and indeed Heracles, while rejecting Theseus’ argument about the gods, accepts his views on suicide and his offers of practical help. In contrast, Michael Lloyd, The Agon in Euripides (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 10 regards the formal balance of two symmetrical speeches as constitutive of the form. He describes HF 1255–1310 as an “epideixis scene” that “lacks the balance of speeches … so characteristic of the agon,” but features “agonistic terminology” (i.e., ἁμιλληθῶ λόγοις at 1255); he does not, however, assign Theseus’ and Heracles’ two subsequent speeches to either category. Shirley A. Barlow, Euripides: Heracles (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1996), Heracles ad HF 1214–1426 terms the exchange “a kind of agon…It is not the more usual form…but is rather more fluid.” Goffrey W. Bond, Euripides: Heracles (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1981), ad loc. discusses the rationale for attributing HF 1311–12 (the kind of couplet that typically marks a transition from one rhesis to another) to the chorus leader rather than Theseus, and for positing a lacuna at the opening of Heracles’ speech. So Bond, Euripides: Heracles, ad loc. supplements the lacuna that presumably precedes 1313. F. A. Paley, Euripides, Vol. III (London: Whittaker, 1860), suggests, “I cannot advise you to die by your own hand” rather than to go on suffering ills. Both editors assume that suicide is the missing alternative to πάσχειν κακῶς. For a succinct discussion of face in politeness theory see Michael Lloyd, “Politeness in the Prologue of the Troades,” in The Play of Text and Fragments: Essays in Honour of Martin Cropp, eds. J. R. C. Cousland and James R. Hume (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 185. I adopt translation of τάδε by D.J. Mastronarde, “The Optimistic Rationalist in Euripides,” in Greek Tragedy and its Legacy: Essays Presented to D. J. Conacher, eds. Martin J. Cropp, Elaine Fantham, and S. E. Scully (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 1986), 201–11, at 211 n. 28.” As often, τάδε points forward, here to Heracles’ commentary on Theseus’ words, but it simultaneously looks back to the opening of Theseus’ rhesis; because the two speeches are interlocked, the substantive does double duty. Bond, Euripides: Heracles, ad loc. suggests that τάδε “refers to the honours which Theseus has offered,” but those are anything but tangential to Heracles’ troubles; far from disdaining them, Heracles proceeds to accept them with gratitude and relief. James Diggle, Euripidis Fabulae, Vol. 2 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986). Renate I. Schlesier, “L’Héraclès et la critique des dieux chez Euripides,” ASNP 15 (1985): 28 n. 70 and Sumio Yoritake, “Disgrace, Grief and Other Ills: Herakles’ Rejection of Suicide,” JHS 114 (1994): 139 enumerate the first three motives but do not discuss the fourth. For Zeus’ freedom to do as he pleases at the risk of social disapproval see Il. 4.29, 16. 443, and 22.181. Guilt seems unknown to both the Homeric and the tragic gods, although they occasionally adopt a defensive tone (as when Athene

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12

13 14

15

16

17 18 19 20 21

22

half-apologizes to Odysseus for neglecting him, Od. 13. 341–3, and the same goddess tries to mitigate Apollo’s poor behavior at Eur. Ion 1555–65). The similarity is noted by U. von Wilamowitz-Möllendorff, Euripides: Herakles (Berlin: Weidmann, 1895) and Bond, Euripides: Heracles, ad loc. In another parallel with the earlier play, Theseus’ statement that the gods “remain on Olympus” despite their crimes—i.e., in contrast to mortal wrongdoers they are not only not liable for a death sentence but also exempt from the penalty of exile—echoes the statement by Phaedra’s nurse at Hipp. 456–7. See Jacqueline de Romilly, “L’excuse de l’invincible amour dans la tragédie grecque,” in Miscellanea Tragica in Honorem J.D. Kamerbeek, eds. J. M. Bremer, S. L. Radt, and C. J. Ruijgh (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1976), 309–21 for other a fortiori passages in tragedy, ranging from explanations to excuses, that discuss the influence of eros on gods and mortals alike. Michael. R. Halleran, “Rhetoric, Irony and the Ending of Euripides’ Herakles,” CA 5.2 (1986): 174 n.12. This point, noted by George M. A. Grube, The Drama of Euripides (London: Methuen, 1941), 58, is stressed by Justina Gregory, “Euripides’ Heracles,” YCIS 25 (1977): 273 and Justina Gregory, Euripides and the Instruction of the Athenians (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991), 153 n. 51. Bond, Euripides: Heracles, ad 1341–46, observes that Theseus constructed “an ad hoc thesis, intended for a man who has just killed his children; hence the emphasis on the violation of close relatives.” He suggests (1316) that Theseus has the Olympians’ incestuous unions in mind; David Kovacs, Suppliant Women, Electra, Heracles. Euripides, Vol. III (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 443 n. 38 adduces the adultery of Ares and Aphrodite as recounted in the Odyssey. Brown, “Wretched Tales of Poets,” 23 argues that “if Euripides wished Heracles to… object… only to the gods’ adulteries with each other, he should surely have made this explicit.” But Theseus had made this limitation explicit in his remarks, which Heracles proceeds to track point by point with only minor variations in wording. Euripides also introduces a literary intertext to elucidate his meaning. When Theseus says that the gods enjoy lawless unions ἐν ἀλλήλοισιν (1316), Heracles paraphrases his friend’s statement by referring to λέκτρ’ ἃ μὴ θέμις (1341), the language suggests an allusion to Xenophanes, who accused Homer and Hesiod of ἀθεμίστια ἔργα, κλέπτειν μοιχεύειν τε καὶ ἀλλήλους ἀπατεύειν (B12 D-K) See Daniel Babut, “Xénophane critique des poètes,” AC 43 (1974): 84–85. καὶ ταῦτα μὲν δὴ νοῦς ἐτόξευσεν μάτην, Hec. 603. Michelini, Euripides and the Tragic Tradition, 274 also cites Hecuba’s apology in connection with Heracles’ statement, but interprets both passages self-referentially as “hav[ing] a significance that goes beyond what [the] character can intend.” See Justina Gregory, Euripides: Hecuba (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999) and Kjeld Matthiessen, Euripides: Hecuba (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), ad Hec. 599–602. See n.8 above. Waltraut Desch, “Der ‘Herakles’ des Euripides und die Götter,” Philologus 130.1 (1986): 12. See Bond, Euripides: Heracles, ad 613. Noted by Bond, Heracles: Euripides, ad 1345 and Harvey Yunis, A New Creed: Fundamental Religious Beliefs in the Athenian Polis and Euripidean Drama (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1988), 161–2. See Lara Pagani, “Language Correctness (Hellenismos) and its Criteria,” in Brill’s Companion to Ancient Greek Scholarship, Vol. II, eds. Franco Montanari, Stefanos Matthaios and Antonios Rengakos (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 801–3 for the relationship of this concept to the nomos-phusis debate and the contributions of Democritus, Protagoras, Prodicus, and Plato. Yunis, A New Creed, 165.

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17 Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy Niall W. Slater

Comedy navigates a fascinating path from a poetics of truth to a poetics of fiction in its representation and manipulation of space. The earliest comedies may have had little need for a conscious poetics of space—although the multiple origins of comedy (Sicilian, Megarian, or Attic) complicate any attempt to trace a simple linear progression. The Attic world of padded dancers and animal choruses, reaching down to the comedies of Magnes, required a space no more articulate than the here and the now, in which mockery and animal performance stood far closer to the world of lyric immediacy. With the introduction of more organized notions of comic plot in the generation before Aristophanes, often attributed to Cratinus, new narrative fictions demanded more specificity of space as their realm of performance, gradually if not consciously growing closer to tragic mimesis. The political comedies of Aristophanes’ early career begin to sketch out the parameters of both domestic and public space, yet these spaces remain highly elastic, fully dependent on the needs of the plot as imagined by the poet. The Old Comedy of Cratinus, Eupolis, and Aristophanes can expropriate the spaces of the heavens or the underworld from tragic representations, but primarily as extensions of the fluid space of the polis rather than entities with their own controlling structures. Only in the world of New Comedy does dramatic space commit itself firmly to representation and a developed poetics of fiction, both in the public space the audience beholds on stage and in the often richly delineated spaces that the poet creates behind the house and temple façades and beyond either end of the street that runs across the stage. In the works of Menander the poet places new demands on the audience’s ability to follow the actions of characters in imagined spaces beyond the stage, as wholly fictional spaces make their contributions to the full dramatic experience. It is important to acknowledge at the outset of our story that Doric comedy in the hands of Epicharmus already possessed complex narrative and with it a perhaps more complex fictionality of time and space, apparently

272  Niall W. Slater representing both private and public spaces. Even his dating is controversial, but a good starting point is the entry in the Suda: Ἐπίχαρμος Suda 2766 Ἐπίχαρμος, Τιτύρου ἢ Χειμάρου καὶ Σικίδος, Συρακούσιος ἢ ἐκ πόλεως Κραστοῦ τῶν Σικανῶν: ὃς εὗρε τὴν κωμῳδίαν ἐν Συρακούσαις ἅμα Φόρμῳ. ἐδίδαξε δὲ δράματα νβ’, ὡς δὲ Λύκων φησὶ λε’… ἦν δὲ πρὸ τῶν Περσικῶν ἔτη ἕξ, διδάσκων ἐν Συρακούσαις: ἐν δὲ Ἀθήναις Εὐέτης καὶ Εὐξενίδης καὶ Μύλος ἐπεδείκνυντο. … καὶ Ἐπιχάρμειος λόγος, τοῦ Ἐπιχάρμου. Son of Tityros or Cheimaros and Sikis. He came from Syracuse or from the Sican city Krastos. He was the inventor of comedy in Syracuse, together with Phormos. He produced 52 plays, or 35 according to Lykon… He was producing plays in Syracuse six years before the Persian Wars; in Athens [sc. at this time] Euetes and Euxenides and Mylos were exhibiting [their plays]. Also [sc. attested in the phrase] “Epicharmian argument”, [meaning that] of Epicharmos. (trans. Suda Online) Here Epicharmus is explicitly labeled the inventor of comedy, though his works are referred to individually as δράματα rather than comedies. He slightly predates Aeschylus, and it seems very likely that they knew each other’s work from Aeschylus’ time in Sicily.1 Epicharmus’ titles mix the mythological with the apparently contemporary, from Medea to the Persians. A few examples will suffice to suggest that Epicharmus created fictions of both public and private spaces in his dramas and may even have articulated successive times within a single play. Let us begin with his Θεαροί or Sacred Envoys (Athen. 8.362b, fr. 68.2–4): Ἐπίχαρμος … ἐν τοῖς Θεαροῖς μέμνηται τοῦ βαλλισμοῦ … ἐν οὖν τῷ δράματι οἱ θεωροὶ καθορῶντες τὰ ἐν Πυθοῖ ἀναθήματα καὶ περὶ ἑκάστου λέγοντές φασι καὶ τάδε· λέβητες χάλκιοι, κρατῆρες, ὀδελοί. τοῖς γα μὰν ὑπωδέλοις † καιλωτε † βαλλίζοντες † σιοσσον χρῆμα εἴη †. Epicharmus … uses the term ballismos in his Sacred Envoys … In the play, at any rate, the envoys are examining the dedications at Delphi and discussing them individually, and they say the following (fr. 68.2–4): bronze basins, mixing-bowls, and spits. On the spit-supports, in fact, [corrupt] dancing (ballizontes) [corrupt] † a matter might be. † (trans. Olson)2

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  273 The list of dedications, one of which may represent dancers, is what interests Athenaeus, but for our purposes the context shows that the play represented on stage the envoys visiting the shrine at Delphi. We cannot be certain whether this visit takes place in mythological times or the contemporary world, just as we might not know whether the touristic chorus in Euripides Ion were myth or travelogue, if it only survived as a fragment, but Athenaeus’ summary implies the poet’s ability to create a very specific and detailed space, with or without the aid of scene painting, by focusing on the dedications that fill that space. Another fragment in Athenaeus shows Epicharmus’ skill in creating domestic spaces. The context is an argument about who invented the parasite character, a question we must leave aside, but note the claim about what is represented on stage (fr. 31 Athen. 6.235e): τὸν δὲ νῦν λεγόμενον παράσιτον Καρύστιος ὁ Περγαμηνὸς ἐν τῷ Περὶ Διδασκαλιῶν εὑρεθῆναί φησιν ὑπὸ πρώτου Ἀλέξιδος, ἐκλαθόμενος ὅτι Ἐπίχαρμος ἐν Ἐλπίδι ἢ Πλούτῳ παρὰ πότον αὐτὸν εἰσήγαγεν οὑτωσὶ λέγων· ἀλλ᾿ ἄλλος ὧδ᾿ ἔστειχ᾿ τοῦδε κατὰ πόδας, τὸν ῥᾳδίνως λαψῇ τὺ κὰτ τὸ νῦν γά θην εὔωνον ἀείσιτον· ἀλλ᾿ ἔμπας ὅδε ἄμυστιν ὥσπερ κύλικα πίνει τὸν βίον. Carystius of Pergamum in his On Dramatic Records (fr. 17, FHG iv.359) claims that the character referred to today as a parasite was invented by Alexis, forgetting that Epicharmus in Hope or Wealth (fr. 31) introduced one at a drinking party and said the following: But another fellow came here, hot on his heels, someone you’ll easily get, I think, as matters stand now, as a low-priced perpetual guest. At any rate, this guy gulps down his livelihood without pausing for a breath, as if he were emptying a cup. (trans. Olson) The phrase παρὰ πότον αὐτὸν εἰσήγαγεν strongly implies that this symposium was represented on the stage, a private and even interior space somehow opened to public view.3 Finally at least one version of the famous “Epicharmean argument” referred to in the Suda entry suggests that in addition to changing spaces during his plays, Epicharmus could also represent significantly separated times. The fullest version of this is preserved in a fragmentary papyrus commentary on Plato’s Theatetus, where the commentator tells us Epicharmus put a version of the paradox about change over time into one of his plays (fr. 136 K-A [P. Berlin 9782])4:

274  Niall W. Slater κα[ί ἐκωμῳδησεν αὐτὸ ἐπὶ τοῦ ἀπαιτουμένου συμβολὰς καὶ [ἀ]ρνουμένου τοῦ αὐτοῦ εἶναι διὰ τὸ τὰ μὲν προσγεγενῆσθαι, τὰ δὲ ἀπεληλυθέναι, ἐπεὶ δὲ ὁ ἀπαιτῶν ἐτ[ύ]πτησεν αὐτὸν καὶ ἐνεκαλεῖτο, πάλιν κ[ἀ]κείνου [φά]σκοντος [ἄλλ]ο μὲ[ν] ε[ἶ]ναι τὸν τ[ετυ]πτηκότα, ἕτερο[ν δὲ] τὸν ἐγκαλούμ[ε]νον. He also made it into a joke about a man who was asked to make a payment and claimed he wasn’t the same man, because some parts were subsequent arrivals, and some had departed, and when the collector beat him and was charged with it, the other in turn claimed that the man who had done the beating and the defendant were different people. (trans. Rusten) Whether Epicharmus was specifically parodying a philosophical doctrine or invented the joke on his own, two intriguing points about fictional space and time emerge in his unknown play here: first, the setting is surely contemporary, with its scenario of debt collection. The noun συμβολὰς probably also implies the debt is for shared party expenses, a more specifically comic theme than finance in general. Second, however, it looks as though the demand for payment, the physical violence employed by the would-be debt collector, and the subsequent trial or arbitration over that episode of violence, were all staged within the play. That implies the fictional space moved from one setting to another, from private to possibly public, judicial space, and the events took place over more than one day, for even a private arbitration would take some time to set up. Of course, Epicharmus need not have been very specific about the time lapse, any more than Dicaeopolis, to whom we shall soon turn, is clear about the amount of time required from the opening assembly to the return of Lamachus from a failed expedition. Nonetheless even in its fragmentary state the comedy of Epicharmus demonstrates just as much fluidity of space and time in its representations as Aristophanes’ version of Old Comedy will show. Despite some temptingly plausible connections between titles and themes of Epicharmus and the world of Old Comedy in Attica, it was perhaps in the patriotic interest of the Athenians to suppress any such connection and invent an Attic origin for comedy. The anonymous treatise On Comedy summarizes a number of ancient accounts from an Athenian point of view. After the standard and somewhat dubious division of comedy into Old, Middle, and New, the author gives us one or two details about Old Comedy not easily found elsewhere (Koster V): καὶ αὐτὴ δὲ ἡ παλαιὰ ἑαυτῆς διαφέρει. καὶ γὰρ οἱ ἐν Ἀττικῇ πρῶτον συστησάμενοι τὸ ἐπιτήδευμα τῆς κωμῳδίας—ἦσαν δὲ οἱ περὶ Συσαρίωνα—καὶ τὰ πρόσωπα εἰσῆγον ἀτάκτως, καὶ μόνος ἦν γέλως τὸ κατασκευαζόμενον. ἐπιγενόμενος δὲ ὁ Κρατῖνος κατέστησε μὲν πρῶτον τὰ ἐν τῇ κωμῳδίᾳ πρόσωπα μέχρι τριῶν στήσας τὴν ἀταξίαν καὶ τῷ χαρίεντι τῆς κωμῳδίας τὸ ὠφέλιμον προστέθεικε τοὺς κακῶς πράττοντας

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  275 διαβάλλων καὶ ὥσπερ δημοσίᾳ μάστιγι τῇ κωμῳδίᾳ κολάζων. ἀλλ᾿ ἔτι μὲν καὶ οὗτος τῆς ἀρχαιότητος μετεῖχε καὶ ἠρέμα πως τῆς ἀταξίας. Old Comedy has differences within itself. For those at Athens who first put together the business of comedy—these were Susarion and his people—would bring characters on haphazardly and the humour lay in the performance. But when Cratinus followed these, he first fixed the number of dramatic parts at three, thereby stopping the disorder, and to the fun of comedy he added a usefulness by attacking those who behaved badly and punishing them by using comedy as a sort of public whip. But he too did share partly in the old style and in some degree of its lack of order. (trans. Storey, modified)5 The first credits the Athenian origins of comedy to a very shadowy figure Susarion, whose poetry survives in one extremely dubious fragment (probably a late forgery), and his cohort (οἱ περὶ Συσαρίωνα). Note that “Susarion” here is an almost certain correction for the name of Sannyrion, a much later but well attested comic poet, in the only surviving manuscript. Also intriguing is the phrasing: this group is not credited with inventing the idea of comedy but setting up the practice or business of comedy (τὸ ἐπιτήδευμα τῆς κωμῳδίας). Susarion managed to get himself recorded as a landmark on the Marmor Parium, and that entry gives us a better sense of what later generations thought that practice was (239 A 39 [t1]): ἀφ᾿ οὗ ἐν Ἀθ[ήν]αις κωμῳ[δῶν χο]ρ[ὸς ἐτ]έθη, [στη]σάν[των πρώ]των Ἰκαριέων, εὑρόντος Σουσαρίωνος, καὶ ἆθλον ἐτέθη πρῶτον ἰσχάδω[ν] ἄρσιχο[ς] καὶ οἴνου με[τ]ρητής. From the time when a chorus of comic players was instituted at Athens, the people of Icaria being first to do so, the inventor being Susarion, and a prize was established, at first a basket of figs and a quantity of wine. (trans. Storey)6 There are certainly reasons to be nervous about the claims here. Later generations tried to associate everything about the origins of theater with the Attic deme of Icaria. Nonetheless the association of the specific name of Susarion with the organization of a competition in comic performance,7 and first in a deme rather than at the City Dionysia, seems plausible. Notably however such performances lacked any particular internal order (ἀτάκτως). The treatise contrasts this specifically with the innovations of Cratinus in the generation before Aristophanes. Cratinus is credited with putting a stop to the disorder (στήσας τὴν ἀταξίαν) by two means, one the familiar notion of adding social utility to comedy, but the other a structural innovation. The claim is that Cratinus set a limit on πρόσωπα in comedy at three (τὰ ἐν τῇ κωμῳδίᾳ πρόσωπα μέχρι τριῶν). The translation here somewhat tendentiously

276  Niall W. Slater (and still not perfectly) modifies Storey’s to say “dramatic parts” rather than “characters,” because it is clear even in the fragmentary state of his corpus that Cratinus cannot have limited the total number of different characters in his plays to three. While this late source seems little if at all discussed in treatments of the validity or lack thereof for the “three-actor rule” in comedy, this sounds very much as though Cratinus began to imitate tragic practice and write for at most three characters in dialogue at a single time. In what way was this a limitation? We are deep in the realms of speculation here, but it seems unlikely that early Attic comedy could have had too many characters simultaneously interacting with each other and the chorus, for πρόσωπα surely implies actors as opposed to members of the chorus. It suggests instead that the previous haphazard form of comedy lacked connection between songs, having perhaps a much more rudimentary idea of character as well as plot. While the treatise writer is very focused on the teleological growth of order in the history of comedy (where even the innovator Cratinus occasionally falls short), such order probably implies an increasingly specific fictionality of both characterized narrative and the space in which it transpires. We can only study the fictions of comic space in detail once we reach the surviving plays of Aristophanes. A very few of these build a detailed representation of one or two fixed spaces: the Wasps essentially plays out before the house of Philocleon and Bdelycleon, with the interior space of the house brought temporarily out in front of the façade to represent the home law court. Other plays revel in the vast transformability of comic space that can carry its players and audience alike to the heights of Mount Olympus, the realms of the birds, or the underworld. Insistence on and play with this metamorphic quality of comic space is visible from the very beginning of our first surviving Aristophanic play, the Acharnians.8 While very well known, some of the details of this play’s spatial metamorphoses will aid in the pursuit of a clearer understanding of its fictions of comic space. It will also become clear that fictions of space cannot be divorced from fictions of time. What the audience knows and does not know as the play opens is almost equally intriguing. Dicaeopolis’ opening monologue uses both language and movement in its creation of the imagined space (Acharnians 1–6, 9–11, 17–20): Ὅσα δὴ δέδηγμαι τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ καρδίαν, ἥσθην δὲ βαιά, πάνυ δὲ βαιά, τέτταρα· ἃ δ’ ὠδυνήθην, ψαμμακοσιογάργαρα. φέρ᾿ ἴδω, τί δ’ ἥσθην ἄξιον χαιρηδόνος; ἐγᾦδ᾿ ἐφ᾿ ᾧ γε τὸ κέαρ εὐφράνθην ἰδών, τοῖς πέντε ταλάντοις οἷς Κλέων ἐξήμεσεν … ἀλλ᾿ ὠδυνήθην ἕτερον αὖ τραγῳδικόν, ὅτε δὴ ‘κεχήνη προσδοκῶν τὸν Αἰσχύλον,

5

10

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  277 ὁ δ’ ἀνεῖπεν· “εἴσαγ᾿, ὦ Θέογνι, τὸν χορόν”. … ἀλλ᾿ οὐδεπώποτ᾿ ἐξ ὅτου ᾿γὼ ῥύπτομαι οὕτως ἐδήχθην ὑπὸ κονίας τὰς ὀφρῦς ὡς νῦν, ὁπότ᾿ οὔσης κυρίας ἑωθινῆς ἔρημος ἡ πνὺξ αὑτηί,

20

How often I’ve been bitten to my very heart! My delights? Scant, quite scant—just four! My pains? Heaps by the umpteen million loads! Let’s see, what delight have I had worthy of delectation? I know—it’s something my heart rejoiced to see: those five talents Cleon had to disgorge. … But then I had another pain, quite tragic: when I was waiting openmouthed for Aeschylus, the announcer cried, “Theognis, bring your chorus on!” … But never since my first bath have my brows been as soap stung as they are now, when the Assembly’s scheduled for a regular dawn meeting, and here’s an empty Pnyx. (trans. Henderson)9 There is as much here to disorient an audience as there is to fix its sense of where the play begins. The effect of these opening lines will have depended so much on how the actor playing Dicaeopolis appeared and moved within the performance space.10 If the actor entered from the audience as I have speculated, that disorientation will have been even greater. His lament over his sorrows and joys could proceed from anywhere, but the memory he evokes in line 5 fixes him at that instant in a past moment of spectatorship, and the reference to Cleon has generally though not universally been seen as a memory of a previous comic performance, Aristophanes’ own Babylonians.11 Thus the “here and now” performance becomes a slippery moment of “here and then.” Moments later he evokes a memory of expecting Aeschylus—and getting the execrable Theognis. Ancient testimony tells us that Aeschylus’ plays were granted the unique privilege of reperformance after his death, although just where and when these re-performances were available to audiences remain controversial.12 The lines nonetheless keep us in a performance space but also in the past. And then “then” becomes now at line 19 (ὡς νῦν), the sovereign assembly is invoked in a genitive absolute, and with the final deictic αὑτηί to close line 20, the theater space with its assembled citizen audience (certainly used for some assembly meetings) becomes the primary democratic space of the Pnyx. We cannot trace all the transformations of space within this remarkable play, but a few more moments of transition will illustrate the time and distance-traveling capacities of the performance space in the hands of Dicaeopolis and Aristophanes. The various fraudsters addressing the assembly must appear on the stage, wherever Dicaeopolis himself is positioned. Amphitheos comes, goes, and comes again with his peace treaties from Sparta, telegraphing to the audience the imminent hot pursuit of the chorus

278  Niall W. Slater of Acharnians. With just two lines and his exit, Dicaeopolis transforms the space once again: ἐγὼ δὲ πολέμου καὶ κακῶν ἀπαλλαγεὶς ἄξω τὰ κατ᾿ ἀγροὺς εἰσιὼν Διονύσια. (Acharnians 201–2) And as for me, free now of war and hardships, I’m going home to celebrate the Rural Dionysia! As the participle εἰσιὼν shows, the actor here enters the skenê through the door, paradoxically transforming the visible space he has just left into the scene outside his home in the country (a location underscored by his reference to the celebration of the Rural Dionysia, τὰ κατ᾿ ἀγροὺς … Διονύσια, yet to come).13 Though it is a small point, here it is perhaps worth emphasizing that Old Comedy can assert the existence of offstage spaces invisible to the audience but never asks its audience to imagine detailed action or events within those invisible offstage spaces.14 Dicaeopolis’ exit is far less important for creating the invisible space within his house than defining the performance space visible outside it, the orchestra into which the chorus now enters. The point is underscored by Dicaeopolis’s visit to Euripides to obtain the pitiable costume of Telephus. Though the use of the ekkyklema to support the tragic parody in the Euripides scene seems almost certain here,15 the precise mechanism of bringing interior space out into the open is for our purposes less important than the reinforcement of the fact that, however flexibly space is metamorphosed, in Old Comedy the performance must always be visible to the audience. Dicaeopolis wins over the chorus, dismisses the challenge of Lamachus, and then intriguingly emerges from the skenê once more to mark out physically the boundaries of his new free trade zone, made possible by his personal peace treaty: ὅροι μὲν ἀγορᾶς εἰσιν οἵδε τῆς ἐμῆς. ἐνταῦθ᾿ ἀγοράζειν πᾶσι Πελοποννησίοις ἔξεστι καὶ Μεγαρεῦσι καὶ Βοιωτίοις, ἐφ᾿ ᾧτε πωλεῖν πρὸς ἐμέ, Λαμάχῳ δὲ μή. … ἐγὼ δὲ τὴν στήλην καθ᾿ ἣν ἐσπεισάμην μέτειμ᾿, ἵνα στήσω φανερὰν ἐν τἀγορᾷ. (Acharnians 719–22, 727–8)

720

727

These are the boundaries of my market. Here all Peloponnesians, Megarians and Boeotians are free to trade, provided they sell to me and not to Lamachus. … I’ll go fetch the pillar with my treaty inscribed, and set it up in the market for all to see.

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  279 The boundary markers with their deictic adjective (ὅροι … οἵδε) must be visible props on the stage. Whether the promised inscribed stelê ever appears is an unanswerable question, but the visible ὅροι demarcate and energize the space in which Dicaeopolis will confront the alazones trying to take advantage of his new market. The chorus at first approves heartily of Dicaeopolis’s scheme and good fortune (εὐδαιμονεῖ γ᾿ ἅνθρωπος, 836; “The man is truly blessed”). Later however the chorus seem to become conscious that they are outside the boundaries of Dicaeopolis’ market, able to perceive but not share in the luxury eels he is roasting: ἀποκτενεῖς λιμῷ ᾿μὲ καὶ τοὺς γείτονας κνίσῃ τε καὶ φωνῇ τοιαῦτα λάσκων. (Acharnians 1044–6) You’ll starve us to death, me and my neighbors, with the smell and with your voice too, shouting such orders. The audience met general Lamachus before, arriving on stage at line 572 from the side, likely with some extras playing his foot soldiers, and exited that way again.16 Now we discover there must be at least one more door on the stage, since a messenger arrives and summons Lamachus out of his house to deal with a war emergency (1071–72).17 The stage now in effect becomes a split screen, as another messenger arrives to invite Dicaeopolis to feast with the priest of Dionysus,18 and he and Lamachus perform a kind of mirror scene, the one preparing for the party, the other for war.19 They exit via opposite ends of the stage (perhaps suggesting that a convention of one exit leading to the city and the other to the country already existed in the spatial imagination of the fifth-century audience), leaving the chorus to fill in the interval. The parallel spaces continue with the return first of the wounded Lamachus, carried by his soldiers: ἀτταταῖ ἀτταταῖ, στυγερὰ τάδε γε κρυερὰ πάθεα· τάλας ἐγώ. (Acharnians 1190–3) Oh oh! Ah ah! Hateful as hell these icy pains; wretched am I! followed by the return of Dicaeopolis, supported by two dancing girls whose assets he admires: Ἀτταταῖ ἀτταταῖ, τῶν τιτθίων, ὡς σκληρὰ καὶ κυδώνια. (Acharnians 1198–9)

280  Niall W. Slater Oh oh! Ah ah! What tits! How firm, like quinces! The space remains split until Lamachus is carried off to the physician Pittalus (1222), while Dicaeopolis remains to be crowned winner of the drinking competition. The chorus exits singing in his honor (τήνελλα καλλίνικον, 1233, “Hail the Champion”) and in celebration of their own performance, proleptically winner of the comic competition at the Dionysia. As Martin Revermann remarks, fluidity is almost everyone’s favorite metaphor for the functioning of space in Old Comedy.20 Yet the comic space is in fact neither formless nor infinitely flexible. With the introduction of plot the fictions of space increasingly serve those of character and narrative. At the same time the relationship is by no means linear. One paradox that might be worth pursuing, though beyond the scope of this paper, is the sense that the boundaries of the space of performance may be hardened just where the forward movement of the plot stalls: for example, the series of alazones who challenge or try to take advantage of the comic hero’s great idea, whether that is Dicaeopolis’ private peace or Peisetairus’ new city in the Birds, can seem as though they could go on forever, and often have no particular order, yet each successive intruder helps to sharpen the dividing line between the space of the great idea and the world of those who do not share it. The world of New Comedy brings a great change in the concept of space. Not only does the observable space become almost wholly fictionalized, but the fiction now extends to unseen spaces also. The comic poet not only creates offstage spaces in the minds of the audience but also uses those spaces for the furtherance of the plot. The techniques may initially seem to be borrowed from tragedy, especially in employing the messenger speech, although in fact such messenger speeches in their usual tragic form are rare, and in the hands of Menander achieve new effects. The following analysis draws significantly on exciting new work done by Mitchell Brown in his recent dissertation “Menander Offstage.”21 For this study of the evolution of fictions of space, it will be useful to attend to some ways in which Menander’s complex development of offstage spaces and even characters who may exist only in those spaces not only greatly enrich the comic plot but rely on activating the audience’s imagination of unseen spaces, demanding much more mental effort than we have evidence for before this. It is of course impossible to say, and on the whole unlikely, that Menander individually invented a new level in spatial imagination.22 His fragments are simply the first fully enough preserved to observe these demands on the audience in detail. Nonetheless Menander’s plays expect a precision of spatial imagination from his audience unparalleled in fifth-century comedy. A few examples may suffice to illustrate this new level of imagination: first, a brief look at the technique Brown has dubbed the “speak-back,” and then a somewhat more detailed study of the transformations of the messenger speech and the soliloquy, as apparently borrowed from tragedy.

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  281 The “speak-back” is Brown’s term for when a character emerges from an interior space while simultaneously speaking back to an unseen character within.23 This technique is sufficiently familiar in New Comedy that its innovation and flexibility may not be immediately apparent. It not only advances plot and character development in quite sophisticated ways, as Brown demonstrates, but it operates through the creation of a more detailed unseen space than we know of from earlier tragedy, let alone comedy. Let one brief example from the Dyskolos serve in the place of many. After Gorgias rescues old Cnemon from the well, the old man agrees to his daughter’s wedding but initially refuses to attend. The old serving woman Simiche emerges from Cnemon’s house on her way to the wedding but, as she does so, also speaks back to her old master in the unseen interior of the house: ΣΙΜΙΧΗ ἄπειμι, νὴ τὴν Ἄρτεμιν, κἀγώ. μόνος ἐνταῦθα κατακείσει· τάλας σὺ τοῦ τρόπου. πρὸς τὸν θεόν σε βουλομένων [τούτων ἄγειν ἀντεῖπας. ἔσται μέγα κακὸν πάλιν [τί σοι, νὴ τὼ θεώ, καὶ μεῖζον ἢ νῦν· εὖ πέ[σοι. (874–8) Simiche Yes, by Artemis, I shall go, too! You’ll lie there, all alone. I’m sorry you’re like that! [They] wished to [take] you to Pan’s shrine, and you refused. [You]’ll come to more Harm, by the Ladies —even worse than now. May all [Go] well! (trans. Arnott)24 While this is important foreshadowing for the coming mockery of the old man, as he is dragged from his house to the wedding,25 note how this very brief speech builds the interior space in which Cnemon has already collapsed into his bed and is refusing to leave it. The “speak-back” does not just report offstage events but creates both offstage space and action as the audience observes the onstage half of the interaction. Tragic messengers of course not only report information necessary to advance the plot on stage but regularly revel in evoking the audience’s emotional response to reported events, from the failure of Xerxes’ expedition in the Persians down to the death and dismemberment of Pentheus in Bacchae. It is hard to think of precedents, however, for details of action and movement in the imagined offstage space being essential to understanding the report as given on stage and its implications for the plot. Such however is the case for the tragic-looking and -sounding soliloquy and messenger speech that opens Menander’s Aspis. As that play opens, Daos, the former tutor and more recently armor bearer of his young mercenary master Cleostratus, arrives onstage at the

282  Niall W. Slater head of a procession bringing back booty from that foreign war along with Cleostratus’ battered shield. This artfully crafted soliloquy, addressed to the absent “deceased,” is a most unexpected opening for a comedy, as the overhearing old Smicrines remarks: ΔΑΟΣ ] ἡμέραν ἄγω, ὦ τρόφιμε, τὴν [νῦν, ] οὐδὲ διαλογίζομ[αι παραπλήσι᾿ ὡς τό[τ᾿ ἤλ]πισ᾿ ἐξορμώμεν[ος. ᾦμην γὰρ εὐδο[ξο]ῦντα καὶ σωθέντα σ[ε ἀπὸ στρατείας ἐν βίῳ τ᾿ εὐσχήμονι, ἤδη τὸ λοιπὸν καταβιώσεσθαί τινι, στρατηγὸν ἢ σ[ύμ]β[ο]υλον ὠνομασμένον, καὶ τὴν ἀδελφήν, ἧσπερ ἐξώρμας τότε ἕνεκα, σεαυτοῦ νυμφίῳ καταξίῳ συνοικιεῖν ποθεινὸν ἥκοντ᾿ οἴκαδε, ἐμοί τ᾿ ἔσεσθαι τῶν μακρῶν πόνων τινὰ ἀνάπαυσιν εἰς τὸ γῆρας εὐνοίας χάριν. νῦν δὲ σὺ μὲν οἴχει παραλόγως τ᾿ ἀνήρπασαι, ἐγὼ δ᾿ ὁ παιδαγωγός, ὦ Κλεόστρατε, τὴν οὐχὶ σώσασάν σε τήνδ᾿ ἐλήλυθα ἀσπίδα κομίζων ὑπὸ δὲ σοῦ σεσωσμένην πολλάκις· ἀνὴρ γὰρ ἦσθα τὴν ψυχὴν μέγας, εἰ καί τις ἄλλος.

5

10

15

ΣΜΙΚΡΙΝΗΣ ὦ Δᾶε.

τῆς ἀνελπίστου τύχης, (Aspis 1–18)

Daos Today’s [as sad a] day [as] I have spent, Master, and all the thoughts that cloud my brain Aren’t what I hoped they’d be when we set off. I thought you’d come back safe and rich in honour From your campaign, and afterwards you’d live Your future years in style. You’d have the title Of General or Counsellor of State, And see your sister, for whose sake you went Campaigning, married to a man you felt Was right, upon your glad arrival home. And for me too, as I grew old, I hoped

5

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  283 There’d be a rest from these long labours, after all I’d done for you. But now you’re dead, snatched off Against all reason, and, Kleostratos, It’s I who’ve come—your tutor, bringing back This shield which didn’t protect you, though you often Protected it. You always showed fine spirit, Second to none.

15

Smikrines (coming forward) Oh Daos, what a tragedy! So unexpected! It looks like Tyche has indeed staged a tragedy instead of the comedy that the audience came expecting. Smicrines demands to know what happened to his nephew, and Daos responds with his eyewitness account of the nighttime attack on their camp, detailing how he became separated from his young master and only three days later found his shield and the corpse beside it: ΔΑΟΣ

αὐτὸν μὲν σαφῶς οὐκ ἦν ἐπιγνῶναι· τετάρτην ἡμέραν ἐρριμμένοι γὰρ ἦσαν ἐξῳδηκότες τὰ πρόσωπα.

70

ΣΜΙΚΡΙΝΗΣ ΔΑΟΣ

πῶς οὖν οἶσθ᾿;

ἔχων τὴν ἀσπίδα ἔκειτο· συντετριμμένην δέ μοι δοκεῖ οὐκ ἔλαβεν αὐτὴν οὐδὲ εἷς τῶν βαρβάρων. (Aspis 69–74) Daos His body I couldn’t identify for sure. They’d been out in the sun three days, their faces were Bloated. Smikrines Then how could you be certain? Daos There He lay, with his shield. Buckled and bent—that’s why None of the natives took it, I suppose.

70

284  Niall W. Slater Only careful listeners in the audience, perhaps those themselves versed in the fog of war, will realize that Daos may not know as much as he thinks he knows—precisely because of the spatial details. The attack on the camp separated Daos from his master, and he only found shield and body three days later when danger was past. Only moments later everyone in the audience will learn the real truth, whether they were able to imagine this corner of a foreign field or not, when the goddess Tyche arrives to deliver the delayed prologue and assure them that Cleostratus is indeed alive and on his way home. At the same time those with both spatial and emotional imagination will also realize that the scene they have just witnessed in front of the house is about to be replayed for Cleostratus’ sister and other household members inside the house when Daos carries that battered shield in through the door, as he himself announces: ΔΑΟΣ παράγωμεν εἴσω τὸν ταλαίπωρον λόγον ἀπαγγελοῦντες τοῦτον οἷς ἥκιστ᾿ ἐχρῆν. (Aspis 91–2) Daos but let’s go inside to tell This sorry tale to those who’d least deserved such news. One of the most elaborate fictionalizations of unseen space occurs in the Samia when Demeas in a soliloquy creates an entire offstage eavesdropping scene that he experienced, as a result of which he falsely believes his concubine Chrysis, the Samian woman of the title, and his son Moschion have not only engaged in an illicit affair but produced a child. Clearly the audience is meant to grasp not only the spatial dynamics of how Demeas came to this conclusion: he is accidentally concealed around a corner when Moschion’s nurse begins talking to the baby and reveals that Moschion is its father. The audience is also expected to apply its superior knowledge of the fact that Chrysis is caring for the baby, though not in fact its mother, to understand the irony of Demeas’ rage that drives the plot from this point onward:   τοῦ δὲ Μοσχίωνος ἦν τίτθη τις αὕτη, πρεσβυτέρα, γεγονυῖ᾿ ἐμὴ θεράπαιν᾿, ἐλευθέρα δὲ νῦν. ἰδοῦσα δὲ τὸ παιδίον κεκραγὸς ἠμελημένον, ἐμέ τ᾿ οὐδὲν εἰδυῖ᾿ ἔνδον ὄντ᾿, ἐν ἀσφαλεῖ εἶναι νομίσασα τοῦ λαλεῖν, προσέρχεται καὶ ταῦτα δὴ τὰ κοινὰ “φίλτατον τέκνον” εἰποῦσα καὶ “μεγ᾿ ἀγαθόν· ἡ μάμμη δὲ ποῦ;”

240

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  285 ἐφίλησε, περιήνεγκεν. ὡς δ᾿ ἐπαύσατο κλᾶον, πρὸς αὑτήν φησ[ι]ν “ὦ τάλαιν᾿ ἐγώ, πρώην τοιοῦτον ὄντα Μοσχίων᾿ ἐγὼ αὐτὸν ἐτιθηνούμην ἀγαπῶσα, νῦν δ᾿ [ἐπεὶ παιδίον ἐκείνου γέγον[ε]ν, [ἤ]δη καὶ τόδ[ε ]α καὶ γεγο]νέναι.” … . . ]. [… . ] … καὶ θεραπαινιδίῳ τινὶ ἔξωθεν εἰστρέχοντι, “λούσατ᾿, ὦ τάλαν, τὸ παιδίον”, φησίν, “τί τοῦτ᾿; ἐν τοῖς γάμοις τοῖς τοῦ πατρὸς τὸν μικρὸν οὐ θεραπεύετε;” εὐθὺς δ᾿ ἐκείνη “δύσμορ᾿, ἡλίκον λαλεῖς”, φήσ᾿, “ἔνδον ἐστὶν αὐτός.” “οὐ δήπου γε· ποῦ;” “ἐν τῷ ταμιείῳ”, καὶ παρεξήλλαξέ τι, “αὐτὴ καλεῖ, τίτθη, σε” καὶ “βάδιζε καὶ σπεῦδ᾿· οὐκ ἀκήκο᾿ οὐδέν· εὐτυχέστατα.” (Samia 236–59) This woman was our Moschion’s Old nurse, quite old. She then became My maid, but now she’s free. She saw the child Ignored and screaming, unaware that I Was in the house. Thinking it safe to speak Out loud, she went right up to it and said The usual things, “My darling baby” and “Great treasure—where’s your mummy?” Then she kissed And danced it round. When it stopped crying, she Said to herself “Dear me, it’s not so long Ago that I nursed Moschion himself, And loved him just like you, and now that his Own baby’s born, already it as well [That’s roughly what she said (?)], and then she told a maid Who ran in from outside “You bath the baby! Dear me, what’s going on? Can’t you look after The little mite on daddy’s wedding day?” The maid at once retorted “You’re pathetic! Not So loud—our master’s home!” “No, surely not? Where is he?” “In the pantry,” and then lowering Her voice a bit “Nurse, mistress wants you. Go, And hurry! He’s heard nothing. Luckily.”

245

250

255

240

245

251

255

This entire offstage scene, replayed for the audience through Demeas’ report, is utterly essential for the development of the plot, yet it can only be understood by an audience that can re-create in its mind the spatial dynamics that allowed Demeas to hear so much without being seen.26 The fictional

286  Niall W. Slater space has been crafted, not simply to be contemplated from one point of view, that of Demeas in his hiding place, but like a virtual reality seen and walked through by the other characters as well.27 The fictionalization of space does not quite reach its limit in Menander—that comes in Roman comedy, where we might perhaps call it the metafictionalization of space. Plautus and Terence use offstage space to advance the plot as fully as does Menander, though perhaps less frequently. What is new, however, is the explicit negotiation with the audience for the creation of the performance space for the play’s and the space’s fictional identity. The prologue speaker to Plautus’ Truculentus demands28: perparvam partem postulat Plautus loci de vostris magnis atque amoenis moenibus, Athenas quo sine architectis conferat. quid nunc? daturin estis an non? adnuont. (Truculentus 1–4) A perfectly petty place Plautus prays you will give him Within your great and pleasant city walls Wherein he may build Athens without architectural assistance. What say you? Will you grant it or not? They’re agreeing.29 More compressed but just as explicitly metatheatrical is the statement by the prologue to the Menaechmi: haec urbs Epidamnus est, dum haec agitur fabula: quando alia agetur, aliud fiet oppidum; (72–3) This city’s Epidamnus, while this play’s performed; When another’s played, it will become another city Any tour of comic space must necessarily be selective, but our travels from Greek West to East and back to Rome demonstrate some significant developments. Greek comedy develops fictions of space as soon as it needs them, probably soon after one character continues from one part of the komos to another. Sustained interactions between characters become plot (a development that occurs more than once and probably in multiple locales) in the evolution toward a state-sponsored form of comedy. Old Comedy can play with as many spaces as it wants or needs, but its fictions are made in sight of the audience. Only when New Comedy anchors the time to “now” and the space to the recognizably mortal world do the poets extend the fictional spaces offstage, in increasingly complex service of the plot. Finally, whether a Greek or Roman poet was first to do so, comedy explicitly appeals to the audience to contribute, as it has always silently done, its own part in the making of fictions of space.

Fictions of space from Old to New Comedy  287

Notes 1 See recently Egert Poehlmann, “Epicharmus and Aeschylus on Stage in Syracuse in the 5th Century,” Greek and Roman Musical Studies 3 (2015), esp. 145–8; S. Douglas Olson, Broken Laughter: Select Fragments of Greek Comedy (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 6–11; cf. very briefly Niall W. Slater, “Up from Tragicomedy: The Growth of Hope in Greek Comedy,” in Hope in Ancient Literature, History, and Art (Trends in Classics-Ancient Emotions), eds. George Kazantzidis and Dimos Spatharas (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018), 85–86. 2 Texts and translations of Athenaeus from Athenaeus, The Learned Banqueters, trans. and ed. S. Douglas Olson. Loeb Classical Library 204, 208, 224, 235, 274, 327, 345, 519 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007–2012). 3 For the later history of staging such symposium spaces in comedy see Ioannis Konstantakos, “The Drinking Theatre: Staged Symposia in Greek Comedy,” Mnemosyne 58.2 (2005): 183–217. Olson, Broken Laughter, 9 and 58–59 ad Epicharmus fr. 147 (Olson’s A14) discusses the use of props in symposium-like scenes. 4 Plutarch gives a more condensed version, but it is obviously the same play of Epicharmus. Plutarch, On Delayed Vengeance from the Gods (De ser.) 559b: μᾶλλον δὲ ὅλως ταῦτά γε τοῖς Ἐπιχαρμείοις ἔοικεν ἐξ ὧν ὁ αὐξόμενος ἀνέφυ τοῖς σοφισταῖς λόγος· ὁ γὰρ λαβὼν πάλαι τὸ χρέος νῦν οὐκ ὀφείλει, γεγονὼς ἕτερος, ὅ τε κληθεὶς ἐπὶ δεῖπνον ἐχθὲς ἄκλητος ἥκει τήμερον·ἄλλος γάρ ἐστι. Or rather this procedure altogether resembles the passage of Epicharmus that gave rise to the sophists’ fallacy of the “grower”: the man who received the loan in the past is no debtor now, having become a different person, and he who was yesterday invited to dinner comes an unbidden guest to-day, since he is now another man (trans. de Lacy, Loeb Classical Library 1959). 5 Texts and translations of Old Comic fragments and related texts quoted from Fragments of Old Comedy, trans. and ed. Ian C. Storey (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011), unless otherwise noted. Full text of Anonymous On Comedy (Koster V) at Storey, Fragments of Old Comedy, 1: 22–25, although there with the name of “Sannyrion,” universally corrected to “Susarion” (and cf. Storey, Fragments of Old Comedy, 3: 274–5). 6 Storey, Fragments of Old Comedy, 3: 272–3. 7 Although a scholiast on Dionysius Thrax (Susarion t10 b, Koster XVIIIb 3.12–14) thought it equally plausible to classify Susarion as a writer of iambic: καὶ εὑρέθη ἡ μὲν τραγῳδία ὑπὸ Θέσπιδός τινος Ἀθηναίου, ἡ δὲ κωμῳδία ὑπὸ Ἐπιχάρμου ἐν Σικελίᾳ, καὶ ὁ ἴαμβος ὑπὸ Σουσαρίωνος (“Tragedy was invented by a certain Thespis of Athens, comedy by Epicharmus in Sicily and iambic by Susarion”): Storey, Fragments of Old Comedy, 3: 280–1. 8 Nick Lowe, “Aristophanic Spacecraft,” in Playing around Aristophanes: Essays in Honour of Alan Sommerstein, eds. L. Kozak, J. Rich (Oxford: Aris & Phillips, 2006), 48–64 is a very important study of space in the surviving plays of Aristophanes, whose general thesis is that space in Old Comedy is more like that of contemporary tragedy than is generally acknowledged. Lowe’s argument about the role of the door (or doors, of which he acknowledges the possibility) in creating space has much in its favor, although I will argue this applies primarily to the visible space outside the door, while what is behind the door is not imagined spatially. The structure of his argument, however, works backward from features of later plays to the Acharnians, which he then characterizes as “what might seem the least spatially coherent of all the extant plays” (60). I think there is a potential danger in imagining that space in Old Comedy had characteristics that Aristophanes later grasped and worked by, but he had somehow not yet quite mastered these in his earliest surviving play. This early play might well be

288  Niall W. Slater

9 10 11

12

13

14

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more representative of the generic possibilities of spatial fictions in Old Comedy, later plays more idiosyncratic to Aristophanes himself. Texts and translations of Aristophanes quoted from Aristophanes, Aristophanes, trans. and ed. Jeffrey Henderson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998–2007), unless otherwise noted. Previous discussion in Niall W. Slater, Spectator Politics: Metatheatre and Performance in Aristophanes (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 42–49. See most recently Richard L. Hunter, “Comedy and Reperformance,” in Imagining Reperformance in Ancient Culture: Studies in the Traditions of Drama and Lyric, eds. R. L. Hunter and Anna Uhlig. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 210 n. 1; more fully, S. Douglas Olson, Acharnians, (Oxford,: Oxford University Press, 2002) ad 6–8. Aeschylus, T1.12 Radt. Cf. Hand-Joachim Newiger, “Elektra in Aristophanes’ Wolken,” Hermes 89.4 (1961): 427–9; and Anna A. Lamari “Aeschylus and the Beginning of Tragic Reperformances,” Trends in Classics 7.2 (2015): 189–206. Of particular interest is the suggestion of C.W. Marshall, Aeschylus: Libation Bearers (London: Bloomsbury, 2017), 46–52 that there might have been more than one reperformance of the Oresteia, including a dilogy version at the Lenaia including only Libation Bearers and Eumenides. Indeed, is it relevant that Acharnians was a Lenaean play? One must note that Marshall posits a Lenaean reperformance in the 410s, but perhaps the Lenaea was more open to the possibility of reperformances. Much more skeptical is Zachary P. Biles’ “Aeschylus’ Afterlife: Reperformance by Decree in 5th Century Athens?,” Illinois Classical Studies 31.32: 206–42 though he admits to a more general “culture of reperformance.” Hunter, “Comedy and Reperformance,” 222–3 discusses the possibility of “modified” reperformance of Aeschylus. Cf. also Martin Revermann, Comic Business: Theatricality, Dramatic Technique, and Performance Contexts of Aristophanic Comedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 66–87. Lowe, “Aristophanic Spacecraft,” 52 suggests that comic “prologues can be, and usually are, essentially atopic” (emphasis original), where the space is often not fixed (and not fictionalized?) until the action arrives at a door. Lowe’s argument about the role of the door (or doors, of which he acknowledges the possibility) in creating space has much in its favor, and examining the plays for the spatial and thematic power of doors as boundaries is very productive, but this may overplay their significance for all fictions of space in the plays. In particular, I argue their power applies primarily to the visible space outside the door, while what is behind the door is not imagined spatially. A.M. Bowie, “Aristophanes,” in Space in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative, ed. Irene J.F. De Jong, (Leiden, Boston, MA: Brill, 2012), 369–73 offers some possible exceptions while noting (372): “it is noticeable that Aristophanes gives very little description of the physical aspects of the spaces involved.” I would argue that items such as mentioning an altar for the temple of Asclepius at Wealth 660 or railings around the bouletae at Knights 675 do not call for spatial imagination on the part of the spectators. Given the explicit verbs at 408–409: {ΔΙ.} Ἀλλ’ ἐκκυκλήθητ’ … / {ΕΥ.} Ἀλλ’ ἐκκυκλήσομαι (Dic.: “Then have yourself wheeled out ...” Eur: “All right, I’ll have myself wheeled out.”); see Alan H. Sommerstein, Aristophanes: Acharnians. Comedies of Aristophanes, vol. 1 (Warminster, Wilts., Aris & Phillips, 1980), 174 ad loc. and S. Douglas Olson, Acharnians. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 180 ad loc. More broadly on tragic versus comic space, see the very useful points of Suzanne Saïd, “L’espace d’Athènes dans les comédies d’Aristophane,” in Aristophane: la langue, la scène, la cite, Actes du Colloque de Toulouse (17-19 Mars 1994), eds. Pascal Thiercy and Michel Menu (Bari: Levante Editori, 1997), 350–2.

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290  Niall W. Slater the slave’s conception of the poet Agathon as craftsman in Thesmophoriazusae 49–57, Aristophanes could imagine the construction of the fiction and its space from the outside, but this is something new. 28 On the spatial imagination here see briefly Erich Segal, Roman Laughter: The Comedy of Plautus (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1968), 40, 55; on Plautine prologues in general Karlhans Abel, Die Plautusprologe, (Mulheim-Rühr: C. Fabri KG, 1955), and to the Truculentus prologue in particular 25–29 (28: “Der Tru-Prolog ist also vom Dichter nicht zur Information der Zuschauer … bestimmt …. Er will vielmehr im Zuschauer psychologische Bedingungen schaffen, die einer beifälligen Aufnahme des Stückes besonders günstig sind.”). Robert Germany, “Civic Reassignment of Space in the Truculentus,” in Roman Drama and Its Contexts, eds. S. J. Harrison and G. Manuwald (Berlin, Boston, MA: De Gruyter, 2016), 263–74 offers a fascinating look at the relation between the creation of the imagined Greek space in the Truculentus prologue and the civic space of Rome. 29 Texts of Plautus after Wallace Martin Lindsay, ed. T. Macci Plauti Comoediae, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1936), translations by author.

B. Drama – intertext

18 The sphinx A Greco-Phoenician hybrid Carolina López-Ruiz

Sphinxes of the Orientalizing period adorned vases, ivory plaques, and metal bowls sat atop columns, and were surely represented in materials that are now lost, such as textiles, wall paintings, and woodcarvings. Although these hybrid creatures ultimately derived from Egyptian prototypes, it was through Phoenician networks that they spread westwards in the eighth to seventh centuries BCE. The image of the sphinx was favored by elites across the Iron Age Mediterranean because of its association with royalty (both human and divine) in the Near East. In this essay, I argue that this link is reflected in Greek mythology and language too. Most famously, the sphinx is tied to the story of Oedipus and his accession to the throne of Thebes. In the Theban saga, which is linked to Phoenicia through the city’s foundation by Kadmos, the sphinx functions as a guardian of the throne and royal line. Moreover, the Greek word “sphinx” may be a translation of the name of a Phoenician or Aramaic demon called the “strangler”. Despite their presence in art, sphinxes have received no systematic treatment. They are most often mentioned descriptively by scholars in the publication of different types of materials (ivories, metal bowls, etc.), while art-historical studies are not coordinated with literary-mythological sources. The Greek hybrid, I will argue, makes the most sense if seen through Phoenician lenses and through a variety of disciplines (linguistics, art, and mythology). With this interdisciplinary, cross-cultural, and diachronic approach, I honor Margalit Finkelberg’s contribution to our understanding of the literatures and cultures of the eastern Mediterranean.

18.1 The Near Eastern sphinx The genealogy of these lion-bodied, human-headed creatures is not a mystery. They were part of the Egyptian figurative repertoire, associated with royalty and the protection of royal power. The most famous sphinx is the colossus at Giza that guards the funerary complex of the pharaoh K hephren (ca. 2540-2514 BCE). The human head of this sphinx represented the ruler himself, and the site became the focus of a renewed cult during the New Kingdom. As guardians, sphinxes also appeared along the avenues

The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid  293 of temples or funerary complexes.1 Egyptian sphinxes are predominantly masculine, and their faces often those of the Pharaoh. But they could be associated with female divinities, such as the lion-goddess Sekhmet, and also with Hathor and Hauron; the latter was introduced to Egypt from the Syro-Palestinian realm.2 In Mesopotamia, hybrid creatures often guarded the gates of cities and palaces, especially in Neo-Assyrian art. These demons took many forms but the sphinx was not frequent, probably due to Egyptian or Levantine influence. Colossal bulls and lions with human heads were more common, always masculine and bearded (the sphinx was bearded only when it wore the pharaoh’s beard). Other Mesopotamian hybrids with human bodies and animal heads (or vice versa) included bull-men, Centaur-like creatures, scorpion-people, bird-men, and mermen/mermaids. There were also hybrid creatures with no human features (griffins, lion-dragons, snake- dragons, centaur-lions, goat-fish, etc.).3 Turning to the Levant, sphinxes were a staple feature of Canaanite and Phoenician art since the Bronze Age.4 Appearing in a variety of media, they were part of the Egyptianizing repertoire adopted by Levantine cultures. Most frequent among them was the Phoenician sphinx, which is usually winged, human-headed (androcephalic), and feminine5; when not feminine, it could bear the ram-head of Amon (kriocephalic) or the head of an Egyptian youth (harpocratic). The griffin is a variation of the sphinx, derived from the falcon-headed sphinx that originally evoked Horus as the image of Egyptian royalty.6 The Levantine sphinx was a guardian of divine and royal power, so sphinxes were represented flanking divine and human thrones.7 For instance, on the reliefs of the sarcophagus of king Ahiram of Byblos (ca. 1000 BCE), the king is sitting on a throne flanked by sphinxes as he receives visitors bearing offerings. Byblos’ first coins show a sphinx with the Egyptian double crown,8 featuring the thunderbolt of Baal Hadad on the reverse, in a perfect Egyptian-Northwest Semitic tandem of royal and divine imagery. Similarly, on an ivory plaque from Megiddo (thirteenth to twelfth centuries BCE) the ruler is shown seated on a sphinx throne and celebrating a victory as offerings and prisoners are brought to him (Figure 18.1).9 This seems to be a purely Levantine motif (e.g., absent from similar scenes of Mesopotamian kings). Later in the first millennium BCE, the empty sphinx throne of Ashtart is the focus of attention at the ritual complex of Boustan esh-Sheikh outside Sidon (fourth century BCE), and this is only one of many examples, particularly associated with Ashtart and Baal Hammon.10 The empty throne is in itself an allusion to the divine queen (called the “Queen of Heaven”), an aniconic expression characteristic of the Phoenician world.11 The sphinx’s connection with royalty in the Late Bronze Age Levant and Anatolia signals the diffusion of an eastern Mediterranean visual koiné. In the Hittite and Neo-Hittite world, sphinxes resemble Mesopotamian gate-guardians as they flank gates in fortresses (Alaca Hoyuk)

294  Carolina López-Ruiz

Figure 18.1 Drawing of part of an ivory plaque from Megiddo (thirteenth to twelfth centuries BCE). A ruler seated on a sphinx throne receives offerings and prisoners. After Ziffer 2013: 49 (Drawing by Esther Rodríguez González).

and palace or city gates (e.g., Hattusa). The tradition in this region goes back to surprisingly early times: a basalt sphinx and lion already guarded the Neolithic temple at Tell Halaf in North Syria in the sixth millennium. In Cilicia (where Phoenician is used in public inscriptions along with Luwian), we see sphinxes adorning the portal at Karatepe-Arslan Tash, guarding the citadel’s North Gate antechamber of the late eighth century BCE.12 In the Neo-Hittite-Syrian realm, we see the same tradition in the temple of ‘Ain Dara’ (1300-740 BCE), with its numerous basalt lion figures, including one sphinx and two lions in the temple portico flanking the entry steps.13 The ‘Ain Dara’ temple has been compared to the temple of Solomon (1000-900 BCE), and, indeed, besides other Levantine architectural influences, the hybrid guardians of the temple called cherubim in the Hebrew Bible clearly belong to this tradition (Gen. 3:24; Ezq., 21:3–4; 21:10; Ps. 18:11–15).14 In Edom, a royal seal impression (seventh century?) shows a sphinx, and a terracotta sculpture of a goddess and sphinx was found among other offerings at the site of Horvat Qitmit (southern Israel, late seventh to early sixth centuries BCE), in a typically Edomite style.15 Although sphinxes were widespread in the Levant, they were most strongly associated with Phoenician imagery, and were distributed throughout the Orientalizing Mediterranean on movable objects such as ivories and metal bowls, the products of Phoenician craftsmanship.16 This overview briefly shows the sphinx’s popularity as a protector of royalty throughout the Near

The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid  295 East. It was from the Levant and the Phoenician realm in particular that this imagery was diffused to the Aegean and the rest of the Mediterranean, as we shall see next.

18.2 Sphinxes and Orientalizing culture The Greeks called these Near Eastern leonine guardians sphinx/sphinxes, a name that first appears in Boiotian with a shorter form (without initial s and the cluster n/g), as phix (sic, Hesiod, Th. 326). Greek sources distinguish between human-headed lion sphinxes, or androsphinxes, and other types, such as the ram-headed lions (associated with Amon, e.g., the 900 figures at Amon’s temple at Egyptian Thebes), which Herodotos calls kriosphinxes, and the hawk-headed ones (associated with Horus), or hierakosphinxes.17 A main difference between the Greek and Phoenician sphinxes, on the one hand, and the Egyptian “prototypes,” on the other, is that the latter were not winged, a difference that clearly groups Greek and Phoenician sphinxes together. Ancient authors observed that “Every painter and every sculptor … figures the Sphinx as winged.”18 Also, the typical Greek sphinx has the upper body of a woman, including breasts, and sometimes a serpent’s tail.19 These features help us trace the spread of the sphinx from the Levant to the Aegean and other Mediterranean cultures. Sphinxes and griffins already appear in Bronze Age Greece, in both Mycenaean and Minoan contexts, as we might expect given the dense networks connecting Aegean and Near Eastern cultures in that period. In Crete, the wingless, Egyptian-style sphinx was replaced in the Late Bronze Age by the winged sphinx stemming from the Levant. This type became even more popular in Mycenaean art, whose religious character is evident as those sphinxes often flank a tree, altar, or pillar.20 We also find sphinxes painted on Theban clay sarcophagi (larnakes), and represented in different artistic media throughout the Minoan and Mycenaean realms. Most famously, at the palace of Knossos two elegant crouching griffins painted on the wall flank the stone throne in the “throne room” (Second Palace Period, 1700-1450 BCE). In mainland Greece, a fresco from Pylos depicts the palace’s entrance with two crouching sphinxes on top of the monumental pillared gate (the gate itself is lost) (Figure 18.2). The Lion Gate at Mycenae offers a nice preserved point of comparison: there, two lions (with one head?) flanked a column atop the massive gate at the entrance to the citadel.21 Perhaps Homer had sphinxes or lions in mind when he mentioned the gold and silver “dogs” at the entrance of the palace of Alkinoos (Od. 7.91), as the sphinx seems to have been called a “watch-dog” too.22 It is only with the peak of Phoenician commercial and colonial expansion, during the eighth and seventh centuries BCE, that we find sphinxes appearing everywhere from Greece and Etruria to Iberia. They were a staple component of the Orientalizing art that spread wherever emerging elites were open to artistic and technological innovations, which they typically obtained, most proximately, from the Phoenicians.

296  Carolina López-Ruiz

Figure 18.2 The Sphinx Gate at Pylos, painted on a fresco from the north-east wall of the palace’s entrance (Propylon). Drawing after Castleden 2005: Figure 5.8 (Drawing by Esther Rodríguez González).

The divine-human throne flanked by sphinxes appears now in the far west, following the Phoenician routes and the diffusion of the gods Astarte and Baal Hammon. The “Queen of Heaven” (as Astarte was called by Phoenicians) appears guarded by sphinxes, for instance, on a fine alabaster rhyton from Granada, in southeast Spain. Sphinx thrones appear also on Phoenician scarab seals from Ibiza,23 and Phoenician models penetrated indigenous communities, who adopted them as expressions of royalty, divinity, and protection in their minor arts, using them sometimes in funerary contexts.24 Sphinxes also formed part of Etruscan art during the Orientalizing and archaic periods (720–480 BCE). Alongside griffins, they appear on ivories, metal work, painting on pottery and frescoes, and stone sculpture.25 The appearance of sphinxes in funerary contexts along with other mythical creatures (such as sirens, centaurs, satyrs) suggests that these hybrids were adopted to “symbolize the transition from this life to another existence.”26

The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid  297 For instance, a sphinx is painted on the wall by the door leading to the funerary chamber at the Campana Tomb (Monte Michele, Veii, c. 600 BCE);27 and in a cinerary statue from Chinciano (late fifth century BCE) sphinxes flank the throne on which a woman sits (perhaps a goddess?) holding a child in her lap, showing the endurance and adaptability of the sphinx throne motif.28 Greece is no exception to the pattern: sphinxes and other hybrids (chimerae, griffins, centaurs, winged Gorgons, and other experiments) appear in its Orientalizing art, be it vase painting, fine arts (ivories, metalwork), or sculpture. The “artistic sphinx” has generally been associated with votive funerary culture more than with royal or temple protection, but then again the motif has not been studied in a holistic way (including its contexts and significance) but with a focus on typologies and style.29 In my view, Greek sphinxes are difficult to cage into a funerary category, as they maintain an overarching function as guardians of kings or elites. First, the surviving evidence might be misleading: Vases with friezes of sphinxes and other Orientalizing motifs (e.g., on Protocorinthian vases) appear ubiquitously in grave contexts, but this is because these are the archeologically preserved contexts. Decorated vases were chosen for burial because of their value, and their Orientalizing decoration signaled the fashions and elite culture of the time. Thus, burial is where we find them, not necessarily what they meant in life. Sphinxes do appear occasionally in other funerary contexts, for instance, topping archaic and classical funerary stelae (e.g., in the Dipylon cemetery in Athens), and sculpted in classical-style sarcophagi. They also appear atop the palace of Persephone and Hades, as painted on Apulian craters.30 In a suggestive interpretation, Thierry Petit has argued that sphinxes and griffins were imagined as underworld guardians like those that are mentioned in the Orphic-Bacchic gold tablets as questioning initiates before giving them safe passage toward Persephone and Hades.31 These and other representations, however, can also be explained simply as a subset of their original function as protective royal symbols, both in life and in death, just as we saw in the Near East, where their royal function sometimes merged with their later funerary context. If in the Levant the sphinxes’ role as protectors of thrones and palaces is dominant, that association is also taken for granted in Greece, as when Herodotos describes a grand luxurious house in the city of the Borsythenites (on the Black Sea), which was “surrounded by sphinxes and griffins made of white stone” (Hdt 4.79.2). When Pausanias describes the chryselephantine statue of Zeus at Olympia, he notices the sphinxes at the feet of the god’s throne, which is adorned with gold and jewels, ebony, and ivory: “On each of the two front feet lie Theban children snatched away by Sphinxes”32 (the allusion here is to the Oedipus myth, which I discuss below). Like their Near Eastern counterparts, Greek sphinxes also protect temple areas, perched on columns or adorning temple roofs. Most emblematic among these is the dedication by the Naxians at Delphi (c. 560 BCE), which was placed atop a tall Ionic column by the retaining

298  Carolina López-Ruiz wall south of the temple of Apollo; this position and the high column itself made the winged guardian visible to all who approached the prophetic god’s abode. As it turned out, this well-known and often visited monument would become the model for representations of the Oedipus sphinx in vase paintings (Figure 18.3).33 The Greek sphinx is often treated as a merely decorative item, but it would make sense to interpret its significance from within the Orientalizing repertoire that brought it to Greece in the first place. I do not mean to say that every representation of a sphinx in Greek art was intended or perceived as a protective symbol, but this function stemming from its Near eastern origins was clearly well understood and deployed in the adaptations of the sphinx in Greece and other Orientalizing cultures.34 In general, images that evoked the Near Eastern world were especially useful for the articulation and projection of high status in the emerging city-states of the archaic Mediterranean.35 Sphinxes in particular, used in funerary, royal, and sacred contexts, were prolifically adopted precisely because of their role as powerful guardians and demons, connected first with divine and human royalty and perhaps, secondarily, with the perilous transit into the afterlife. I have argued that these aspects can be teased out from a comprehensive reading

Figure 18.3 Illustration of the scene painted in an Attic red figure kylix (fifth century BCE; Vatican Museums). Oedipus sits in front of the Theban sphinx, who is perched on top of an Ionic column (Vector illustrations, from Shutterstock).

The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid  299 of material culture alone. The aim of this essay, however, is to integrate the interpretation of texts and material culture. As we see next, the one mythological narrative surrounding the sphinx corroborates this function and the Phoenician roots of the Greek sphinx.

18.3 Oedipus’ sphinx and Kadmos’ Graeco-Phoenician saga In Greek tradition, there is a famous sphinx, the one confronted by the mythical king Oedipus when he arrived, a stranger, in his native Thebes. In the most famous literary representation of this story, the tragic play Oedipus King, Sophocles depicts the last days of Oedipus’ rule in Thebes, when the mystery of his origins and his unintended parricide and incest are revealed. According to the tradition regarding Oedipus’ accession to the throne, the hybrid monster was terrorizing the citizens of Thebes. The regent of the state, Creon (brother of Laius’ widow Iocasta) offered the empty throne and the queen’s hand to whoever could rid the city of the sphinx.36 Oedipus’ victory over the Sphinx and accession to the Theban throne is recalled only briefly by Sophocles: “You [i.e, Oedipus] came and by your coming saved our city, freed us from the tribute that we paid of old to the Sphinx, cruel singer” (Oed. Tyr. 39–41).37 (Figure 18.3). But what or who was this sphinx? In the Greek mythical imaginarium, she belonged to the category of monsters that threatened civilization and stability, the sorts that populate epic stories: boars, lions, bulls, and fantastic beings such as the Chimaera, Hydra, or Ketos, often inspired by the Near Eastern bestiary. Thus, Hesiod naturally inserts the sphinx in the cosmogonic genealogy of monsters as the offspring of Echidna and Typhon (or perhaps Chimaera) and Orthos (Th. 326–7). But other than that, the Oedipus’ myth constitutes the only known story (Greek or otherwise), where the sphinx is an active character, and for all we know it is the only one that the Greeks had. It is not surprising, then, that the sphinx became inseparable from the Oedipus tale already in antiquity, and that in classical scholarship too we abstract the Theban sphinx from all other sphinxes, which are relegated to the realm of artistic decoration. Still, it is not clear why a sphinx in particular appears in Oedipus’ story, why in Boiotian Thebes, and why a sphinx controls Oedipus’ accession to the throne. As others have long noted, the plot is driven by familiar mythic and folk tropes, such as the oracle and the parricide, and accession to the throne by marriage after some trial or contest.38 The sphinx would best fit into the motif of the monster slain by a hero, but the confrontation by riddle is strange, and the presence and death of the sphinx itself are not selfexplanatory. Some have suggested that we are dealing with a later insertion into an older myth about Oedipus’ accession.39 Moreover, the disconnect between artistic sphinxes and the Oedipus’ sphinx is not addressed but taken for granted,40 with the exception of Petit, mentioned above, who sees sphinxes as underworld guardians related to the Mysteries, and proposes this as her function in the Oedipus case.

300  Carolina López-Ruiz I propose that the Near Eastern iconography and its Greek adaptations provide a simpler explanation for the function of the Theban sphinx. Its seemingly random appearance in the Theban story is not random at all, as the Sphinx is clearly connected here with the protection of the throne, and more specifically with the empty throne of Laius, the murdered king of Thebes. It is only after passing her test that Oedipus, the true heir to the throne, gains access to his father’s throne. The sphinx is the fierce guardian of the throne and royal house of Thebes. Other literary representations, less celebrated than the classical tragedy, reinforce this idea. In these, the Theban sphinx is more purposefully placed in the context of access to the empty throne. In his description of Boiotia, Pausanias transmits lesser-known traditions.41 One of them makes the sphinx the leader of a naval force on a pirate expedition, and Oe dipus the military leader who defeated her with armies.42 More insightful is the next account, which situates the sphinx at the crux of the contest for the throne of Laius among other legitimate and illegitimate children of the king: There is another version of the story which makes her [i.e., the sphinx] the natural daughter of Laius, who, because he was fond of her, told her the oracle delivered to Kadmos from Delphi. Now Laius had sons by concubines, and the oracle delivered from Delphi applied only to Epikaste [i.e., Oedipus’ mother] and her sons. So when any of her brothers came in order to claim the throne from the Sphinx, she resorted to trickery in dealing with them, saying that if they were sons of Laius they should know the oracle that came to Kadmos. When they could not answer, she would punish them with death, on the grounds that they had no valid claim to the kingdom or to the family. But Oedipus came because it appears he had been told the oracle in a dream. (Paus. 9.26.3–4) The Roman mythographer Apollodorus also consolidated various sources and made the Sphinx into a protector of the throne of Thebes that dispensed riddles whose answer would be known only by the true heir, i.e., Oedipus: Laius was buried by Damasistratos, king of Plataia, and then Kreon, son of Menoikeus, succeeded to the kingdom. In his reign, a heavy calamity befell Thebes. For Hera sent the Sphinx, whose mother was Echidna and father was Typhon;43 and she had the face of a woman, the breast and feet and tail of a lion, and the wings of a bird. And having learned a riddle from the Muses, she sat on Mount Phikion,44 and presented it to the Thebans. And the riddle was this: What is that which has one voice and yet becomes four-footed and two-footed and threefooted? (…) When they could not find it [the answer] she would snatch away one of them and gobble him up. When many had perished, (even,

The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid  301 last of all, Kreon’s son Haimon), Kreon proclaimed that to him who should solve the riddle he would give both the kingdom and the wife of Laius. On hearing that, Oedipus found the solution (…). So the Sphinx threw herself from the citadel, and Oedipus both succeeded to the kingdom and unwittingly married his mother …. (Apoll. 3.5.8)45 Other mythographers and poets elaborate on the same core myth with small variations, for instance, giving her more or less agency in the setting of the riddle-contest,46 or dwelling on the description of the landscape or the carnage she inflicted.47 Whether she learned it from the Muses (Apollodorus 3.5.8) or from the oracle at Delphi given to Laius (Paus 9.26.3), the riddle has an oracular quality and is imagined as sung, i.e., issued in verse.48 The sphinx of this unique story was, in any case, imagined as a guardian located in or around Thebes. Leaping from art to narrative, a familiar element in royal, aristocratic, and funerary monuments was transferred to the royal realm of Laius, possibly flanking Laius’ empty throne, or the Kadmeian palace’s entrance, or Laius’ tomb. Any of these scenarios is well represented in both the Greek and Levantine repertoires, in the case of Greece even in Mycenaean times (I mentioned earlier the entrance to the palaces of Pylos and the “Lion Gate” in Mycenae). The motif of the sphinxthrone (divine and royal) was also widespread. Monumental graves, in turn, occupied conspicuous spots, whether as single monuments (e.g., the Grave Circles at Mycenae and tholos tombs outside several cities) or in larger cemeteries along roads leading to the city gates (e.g., Athenian Dipylon). Without excluding a possible function as underworld-guardian elsewhere,49 in the Oedipus story the royal heir is alive and needs to bypass the sphinx in order to sit on Laius’ throne. The next question is, why, in all the Greek mythological repertoire, does this happen in a story situated in Thebes? Thebes may have been one of the leading Mycenaean states, possibly the first one to be destroyed at the end of the Bronze Age, around the late thirteenth century.50 As Margalit Finkelberg has shown, Thebes and Troy became symbols on a mythological level of that period of war and change: Hesiod links the end of the “Race of Heroes” with the wars at Troy and Thebes, where heroes died “for the flocks of Oedipus” (Op. 161–3).51 Despite its limited excavation, an array of objects, including Linear B tables and especially cylinder seals assumed to be used by the Theban royals speak of networks extending not only throughout the Aegean but also to Asia Minor, Syria, Egypt, and Mesopotamia. In turn, Kadmos’ legend reflects the ancient belief in a Phoenician migration or settlement there, associated with the adaptation of the Phoenician letters (called kadmeia grammata).52 Although archeological evidence is (yet) lacking for such large-scale presence, the Theban saga evokes cross-cultural movement and encounters similar to those experienced by figures such as Mopsos.53

302  Carolina López-Ruiz Returning to the sphinx, she is inseparable from the Theban royal house ever since its first literary appearance: Hesiod assumes the myth is known when he calls her “the lethal Sphinx, ruin for the Kadmeians” (Th. 326). Hesiod was moreover, from Boiotia, the realm of Thebes. That she is not mentioned in the Odyssey (11.256–68) when the tragic fate of Oedipus’ mother-wife (called Epikasta there) is remembered does not disprove the antiquity of the myth. The city and its mythical saga are closely connected with the Near East in Greek tradition, most explicitly through its founding figure, Kadmos, and his sister Europa. Kadmos was a Phoenician prince of the lineage of Phoinix, and it was in search of his sister that he came to Thebes, as the result of an oracle.54 While Europa was stranded on Crete, kidnapped by Zeus (in the famous “rape of Europa” episode), Kadmos followed a white cow as instructed by the oracle. The characters Kadmos and Europa are quite explicitly a mythological bridge linking the Phoenician and Greek worlds, even by their names, which are Greek adaptations from West Semitic qedem and ‘erev “east” (or “early, ancient”) and “west.”55 Other details that hint at the Levantine roots of this mythological cluster would deserve further exploration. For instance, according to Pausanias, the cow that Kadmos followed bore on each of her sides “a white mark like the orb of a full moon” (Paus. 9.12.1).56 To the Near Eastern scholar, the mention of a cow with moon crescents immediately triggers associations with Hathor and Ashtart, both of whom were represented or accompanied by sphinxes. Also, the lineage of the sphinx in Hesiod’s Theogony also might point East: he situates the hybrids to which the sphinx is related (Echidna, Chimaera, Orthus, and others) “among the Arimoi,” where Echidna “kept guard” and begot her children with Typhon (Th. 304, 306). While the specific location of these Arimoi is debated, most agree that they are somehow associated with the Aramaeans in north Syria.57 Be that as it may, the Sphinx appears precisely in a mythological cluster that the Greeks themselves explicitly connected with Phoenicia. I turn now to one last detail that may hold a significant clue regarding the connection between Phoenician and Greek sphinxes: their name.

18.4 A Phoenician “strangler” and the Greek sphinx In Greek, sphinx58 referred to the Theban Sphinx in particular or to the hybrid creature in iconography, and there was also a word for “little sphinx” (σφιγγίδιον, attested epigraphically). The word was understood in Greek as connected with the verb sphiggo/sphingo meaning “constrain,” “bind, tighten, grab tightly,” whose other derivations preserve the same basic meaning, including sphixis “constriction,” sphigma, the “jamming of something” (cf. “sphincter”), and sphingion, “bracelet” or “necklace.” Not sure of why the sphinx should be called “a strangler,” some linguists have proposed that the name of the Theban creature is independent of the Greek verb. For instance, they believe it could be a pre-Greek name, or

The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid  303 stemming from the Theban landmark of Mt. Phikos.59 Along these lines, Martín Ruipérez has suggested that the adoption of the word sphinx for the Greek monster (if not its representation, which has a long history in Greece), may not be earlier than the seventh century, when her name emerges due to “the crossing of Phix with sphiggein, ‘to constrict, strangle,’ so that the name was descriptive of the way in which the monster killed its victims.”60 More recently, Aaron Demsky has proposed a more suggestive explanation of the name, namely, that the Greek name is borrowed directly from the Phoenician world. Specifically, “sphinx” would be a semantic calque of a name given to an attested sphinx-like demon in Phoenician.61 Though we do not know the name used generally for all sphinxes in that Semitic language, a winged sphinx represented on a small limestone tablet from Arslan-Tash (northern Syria) is called honeqet, “the strangler” or “breaker of the neck”62 (Figure 18.4). This is one of two Arslan-Tash tablets bearing

Figure 18.4 Arslan-Tash 1 plaque, with sphinx and inscription naming her the “strangler” (line 4, under sphinx) Courtesy of Dennis Pardee (drawing by Caroline Florimont, published in Pardee, “Les documents d’Arslan Tash”).

304  Carolina López-Ruiz oral incantations in Phoenician, with Aramaic inflections. The spells invoke powerful gods against the demons named and depicted, to protect a house’s entrance and courtyard where the tablets were meant to be hung.63 This sphinx-like “strangler” is one of several demons in the plaques; these include one “T goddess,” one of “the Flying Ones,” and the “Big Eye” (or “Round Eye”).64 The protective deities invoked, in turn, are Baal, El SHYY, Ashur, and the wives of Horon. The appearance in Phoenician or North Syrian iconography of a winged feline creature with beardless human head (i.e., what we call a sphinx) is not striking, as discussed previously. But the Arslan-Tash tablets provide a name for it, and a context: the creature and other demons are part of an incantation intended to protect the owner’s household, even if the “strangler” seems to be here a threat to the household, not a guardian. Finally, the incantations were intended as oral poetic pieces, ritually sung or recited with music (like hymns and psalms). Just as the Arslan-Tash incantation is expressive in “song, script, and picture,”65 so is our Theban sphinx, knower of divine oracles and “cruel singer” of mysterious utterances (Oed. Tyr. 39–41). The Arslan-Tash amulets are a fortunate and rare window into an imaginary of demons or monsters, attested with different names on a handful of Phoenician texts. Some examples are the “hateful lion” (echthroleon) named and depicted in a Greek-Phoenician funerary inscription from Athens,66 and the “devourer” possibly mentioned in a funerary amulet from Granada (Spain).67 In other words, it seems that the winged humanoid-lion could serve a double purpose in the Phoenician world: as a royal emblem and protector of the throne or palace and (at least in the magical realm) as a threatening demon.68 In the case of Oedipus, the “strangler” guards the palace and Laius’ throne, while also terrorizing for the community. The two functions seem to have merged. Generalizations along the lines that “The Egyptian sphinx was a protective, positive entity, while the Greek sphinx was a fearsome and dangerous creature”69 are based on a false dichotomy between the Oedipus myth and the Egyptian sphinx as if they were the only representatives of the genre, missing the spectrum of Greek Orientalizing art and its connection with the Levant. As Arslan-Tash exemplifies, in both worlds the creature could have positive or negative turns. If the etymology of the name is correct, the Greeks deliberately translated the Levantine name, pointing to the type of linguistic contact also evident in other areas of Greek culture and consistent with the other Levantine traits of the Theban saga.70 The appropriation of the “strangler” name in this period fits with Ruipérez’s linguistic-literary assessment, mentioned above, in which the Greek name was an archaic innovation. If this correlation of the Phoenician and Greek names as “constrictors” is correct, it would confirm the role of Phoenicians in the transmission of the orientalizing sphinx, already suggested by the art-historical connection of sphinxes with the spread of Phoenician art in the Mediterranean. The sphinx, then, was not a random or misunderstood artistic borrowing. Like Kadmos himself, the “eastern/

The sphinx: a Greco-Phoenician hybrid  305 Levantine” (qdm) prince, she was in fact the product of a perfect understanding of the meaning, name, and function of the borrowed cultural artifact, and a unique testimony of the entanglement of language, art, and myth.

Acknowledgments I thank Aaron Demsky, and the editors of this volume for their helpful suggestions, and Anthony Kaldellis, as always, for challenging me to present my ideas more clearly. Thanks to Dennis Pardee for providing me with the drawing of the Arslan-Tash 1 plaque (Figure 18.4), and to Esther Rodríguez González for the drawings of Figures 18.1 and 18.2.

Notes 1 OEAANE s.v. “Giza.” Other examples include a sphinx with the face of Hatshepsut (Metropolitan Museum), Ramesses II’s granite sphinx at the Penn Museum (from the Ptah temple at Memphis), and the “Alabaster Sphinx” of Memphis (unidentified pharaoh, probably Eighteenth Dynasty, also from the temple of Ptah, now outside the Museum at Memphis). 2 Hauron, a form of Baal, was represented as a sphinx or falcon: Geraldine Pinch, Egyptian Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Goddesses, and Traditions of Ancient Egypt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 206; Ian Shaw, The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 87; Christian Leitz (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, vol. 5 (Leuven-Paris: Peeters, 2002), 108. The Syro-Palestinian god Resheph was also adopted in Egypt. Isis also appears as a lion throughout the Near East (cf. Ishtar in Mesopotamia, Phoenician Ashtart). For Syro-Palestinian goddesses in Egypt, see Keiko Tazawa, Syro-Palestinian Deities in New Kingdom Egypt: The Hermeneutics of Their Existence (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2009). For leonine imagery in the Hebrew Bible and the Near East, see Brent A. Strawn, What Is Stronger than a Lion?: Leonine Image and Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East (Fribourg and Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005). 3 Jeremy Black, Tessa Rickards, and Anthony Green, Gods, Demons and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia: An Illustrated Dictionary (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992), 51, 65. 4 For Phoenician art, see F. Briquel-Chatonnet and Éric Gubel, Les Phéniciens aux Origins du Liban (Paris: Découvertes Gallimard, 1998); Glenn E. Markoe, Phoenicians (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000) esp. 143–69; Irene J. Winter, “Phoenician and North Syrian Ivory Carving in Historical Perspective: Questions of Style and Distribution,” OAANE 1 (2010): 187–224 (ivories); Rebecca S. Martin, The Art of Contact: Comparative Approaches to Greek and Phoenician Art (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017) (Persian to Hellenistic periods); Brian R. Doak, Phoenician Aniconism in Its Mediterranean and Near Eastern Contexts (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015) (aniconism). 5 In Roman times, this type included male and female heads. Edward Lipiński (ed.), Dictionnaire de la Civilisation Phénicienne et Punique (Brepols: Paris, 1992), s.v. “Sphinx.” 6 Following John Pairman Brown, Ancient Israel and Ancient Greece: Religion, Politics, and Culture (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. 2003), 58; Nicolas Wyatt, “Grasping the Griffin: Identifying and Characterizing the Griffin in Egyptian and West Semitic Tradition,” Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 1.1

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7 8

9 10

11 12

13 14

15 16

17 18 19

(2009): 29–39 traces the adaptation of the Egyptian griffin in the Northwest Semitic cherubim, suggesting a correlation between Semitic chrb and Greek gryps (“griffin”) (p. 31). Lipiński, Dictionnaire, s.v. “Sphinx.” John Wilson Betlyon, “Coins,” in Oxford Handbook of the Phoenician and Punic Mediterranean, eds. Carolina López-Ruiz and Brian R. Doak (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 385–400, pl. 8; sphinxes may have supported the throne of Baal Shamem mentioned in the Yehimilk inscription: Betlyon, “Coins”. Irit Ziffer, “Portraits of Ancient Israelite Kings?” Biblical Archaeology Review 39.5 (2013): 49. For the thrones, Edward Lipiński, Dieux et déesses de l´univers phénicien et punique (Leuven: Uitgeverij Peeters & Departement Oosterse Studies, 1995), figs 7 (Ahiram sarcophagus); 50 (throne of Ashtarte at Bustan esh-Sheikh); 159 (seal, male divinity); 160 (scarab from Sidon area, female divinity); 163 (Hadrumentum, Baal Hammon); 313 (unidentified goddess, Soloeis); 339 (Baal Hammon); 341 (unidentified divinity, Tyre); cf. Sphinxes flanking the throne of a statue of Baal Hammon from Thinissut (Tunisia), first century CE (Roman) (Serge Lancel, Carthage: A History (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995 [in French, 1992]), 198). Doak, Phoenician Aniconism, 109–15; Ronald S. Hendel, “The Social Origins of the Aniconic Tradition in Early Israel,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 50 (1988): 378. Asli Özyar, “Phoenicians and Greeks in Cilicia? Coining Elite Identity in Iron Age Anatolia,” in Assyria to Iberia at the Dawn of the Classical Age, eds. Joan Aruz, Sarah B. Graff, and Yelena Rakic (New Haven, CT and London: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2016), 139, 143–4, Figs 3, 5a–b: “Portal lions and sphinxes were positioned to protect every corner, as had been custom since Hittite times” (139). OEAANE. s.v.“Ain Dara.” Winged Cherubim may have flanked the Ark of the Covenant, following Egyptian conventions: Raanan Eichler, “Cherub: A History of Interpretation,” Biblica 96.1 (2015): 26–38. Traces of this royal imagery are perhaps also found in the “emblem of Kronos,” described by Philon of Byblos as a winged hybrid figure (Eusebios, Evangelical Preparation 10.36–37); see Carolina López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born: Greek Cosmogonies and the Near East (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 164, and 153–8. Joel S. Burnett, “Ammon, Moab, and Edom: Gods and Kingdoms East of the Jordan,” Biblical Archaeology Review 42.6 (November/December 2016): esp. 37–40 (photo in p. 38, seal p. 40, with note 19). For example, for the bowls, Glenn E. Markoe, Phoenician Bronze and Silver Bowls from Cyprus and the Mediterranean (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), with plates; on Orientalizing luxury items, see Ann Clyburn Gunter, Greek Art and the Orient (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Marian H. Feldman, Diplomacy by Design: Luxury Arts and an “International Style” in the Ancient Near East, 1400–1200 BCE. (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2005); Marian H. Feldman, Communities of Style: Portable Luxury Arts, Identity, and Collecive Memory in the Iron Age Levant (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2014). Hdt. 2.175; Menandr. Fr. p. 411, ed. Meineke. Aelian, On Animals 12.38. For variations on Greek sphinxes, Nota Kourou, “Following the Sphinx. Tradition and Innovation in Early Iron Age Crete,” in Identità culturale, etnicità, processi di trasformazione a Creta fra Dark Age a arcaismo: per i cento anni dello scavo di Priniàs 1906–2006: convegno di studi, Atene, 9-12 novembre 2006, ed.

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20 21

22 23 24

25

26 27 28 29

30 31 32 33 34

35

Giovanni Rizza (Catania: Consiglio nazionale delle ricerche I.B.A.M., Sede di Catania: Università di Catania, Centro di archeologia cretese, 2011), 165–77. Other Greek descriptions include Aelian, On Animals 12.7; Apollod. 3.5.8; Soph. Oed. Tyr. 391; Ath. 6.253E; Palaephat. 7. Artistic sphinxes also appear in Hdt. 4.79.2; Paus. 3.18.8, 5. 11.2; Eurip. Elect. 471. They also appear with bird claws (a cross with the sirens). Kourou, “Following the Sphinx,” 166–7. For Pylos, Rodney Castleden, The Mycenaeans (London: Routledge, 2005), 127 and fig 5.8. For Mycenaean art, William Taylour, The Mycenaeans (London: Thames and Hudson, 1983), 113–34, esp., e.g., figs 97, 110; for the larnakes, see Castleden, Mycenaeans, 102–3. For example, Aeschylus, Sphinx, Fr. 129 (cf. n. 36 below). John Boardman, Classical Phoenician Scarabs: A Catalogue and Study (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2003), 30–36, pl. 4–13. For example, griffins painted on pithoi from Carmona, part of a décor evoking Astarte or a similar fertility goddess: Sebastián Celestino Pérez and Carolina López-Ruiz, Tartessos and the Phoenicians in Iberia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 231, 272 (Figs. 7.4, 8.2). Examples in Sybille Haynes, Etruscan Civilization: A Cultural History (Los Angeles, CA: Getty Publications, 2000), 89 (wall painting, fig. 72); 110 (ivory pyxis); 151–3 (archaic sculpture); 162, 163–4 (paintings on amphorae); 218 (wall paintings at Cerveteri); 296–8 (throne urn). Haynes, Etruscan Civilization, 164. Haynes, Etruscan Civilization, 89, fig. 72. Haynes, Etruscan Civilization, 296 (fig. 239), 298. For example, Kourou, “Following the Sphinx,” 165. On mixed human-animal entities (mixanthropoi) in the Greek world, see Emma Aston, Mixanthrôpoi: Animal-human Hybrid Deities in Greek Religion (Liège: Centre International d’étude de la Religion Grecque Antique, 2011), who focuses on divine representations and does not discuss sphinxes (passing mentions in 35, 73 n. 91, 293); she stresses the disconnect between the artistic representations of hybrids and the mythological creature (esp. pp. 21–30, 293). For example, the fourth-century BCE crater now at Karlsruhe: Marina Pensa, Rappresentazioni dell’ Oltretomba nella ceramica apula (Rome: ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider, 1977). Thierry Petit, Oedipe et le Chérubin. Les sphinx levantins, cypriotes et grecs comme symvole d’Immortalité (Fribourg-Göttingen: Academic Press Fribourg, 2011), esp. 204–36. Paus. 5.11.2. Translations of Pausanias are by W. H. S. Jones and H. A. Ormerod (Loeb, 1918) (slightly adjusted). Aston, Mixanthrôpoi, 293. See LIMC, s.v. “Oedipous,” “Sphinx.” Sphinxes also decorated the top of temple entablatures; see, e.g., reconstruction of the Siphnian treasury at Delphi. For the Orientalizing revolution and its impact on Greek religion and mythology, see, e.g., Walter Burkert, The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992); Martin L. West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997); Sarah P. Morris, Daidalos and the Origin of Greek Art (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992); López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born, 23–47. For the Etruscan world, see Maurizio Sannibale, “The Etruscan Orientalizing: The View from the Regolini-Galassi Tomb,” in Joan Aruz, Sarah B. Graff, and Yelena Rakic (eds.), Assyria to Iberia at the Dawn of the Classical Age, 296–315; for the Greek world, Thomas Brisart, Un art citoyen: Recherches sur l’orientalisation

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36

37 38 39

40

41 42 43

44 45

46 47 48 49 50

des artisanats en Grèce proto-archaïque (Bruxelles: Académie Royale de Belgique, 2011); for Iberia, Celestino and López-Ruiz, Tartessos and the Phoenicians; for Sardinia, Iberia, and Etruria, the essays in Corinna Riva and Nicholas C. Vella (eds.), Debating Orientalization: Multidisciplinary Approaches to Change in the Ancient Mediterranean (London and Oakville: Equinox, 2006). Among the older sources, besides the Sophoclean play and Hesiod, the sphinx appears in Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes in the description of Parthenopaios’ shield (Aesch. Sept. 539–44, cf. 773–7). Aeschylus’ lost trilogy Oedipus was accompanied by the satyr play The Sphinx, of which we have a fragment that calls her “the watch-dog that presided over evil days” (Fr. 129 Sphinx, Aristophanes, Frogs 1287). Transl. David Grene (University of Chicago Press, 1942). Cf. Oed. Tyr. 156–60 for another mention of the Sphinx’ ordeal. For example, Oedipus’ fight with other beasts (the Teumesian fox in Eur. Phoen. 26), and as a contestant for the throne among others who fight the sphinx (Paus. 9.26.3–4, quoted below). Lowell Edmunds, “The Sphinx in the Oedipus Legend,” in Oedipus: A Folklore Casebook, ed. Lowell Edmunds (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995), 147–73; Martín Sánchez Ruipérez, El mito de Edipo: Lingüística, psicoanálisis y folklore (Madrid: Alianza, 2006); Immanuel Velikovsky, Oedipus and Akhnaton: Myth and History (New York: Doubleday, 1960) forced a comparison between the Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaton and Oedipus, and struggled with the sphinx’s unjustified presence in the story. For example, Michael Astour, Hellenosemitica: An Ethnic and Cultural Study in West Semitic Impact on Mycenaean Greece (Leiden: Brill, 1967), 127, n. 3 and Martin Bernal, Black Athena: the Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilisation. Vol. I: The Fabrication of Ancient Greece 1785–1985 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1987), 18–19) do not discuss the sphinx when dealing with the Theban saga. Paus. 9.26.2–4. Paus. 9.26.2. Another rationalized version makes Sphinx the human wife of Kadmos (Palaephat. 4), who was abandoned by Kadmos and, with a group of rebels, set ambushes. In Hesiod, she is also the offspring of Echidna (or Chimaera, the text is ambiguous), but with Orthos (Th. 326 ff.), and in other traditions of Typhon and Chimaera (e.g., Eurip. Phoenissae 46). One of Pausanias’ accounts makes her a daughter of Laius (quoted above). After Boiotian Phix (Sphinx) (Hesiod Th. 326, cf. Hes. Scut. Herc. 33; Lycophron, Alexandra 1465 calls her “Phikian monster”). Transl. J. Frazer (Loeb, 1921) modified. The answer was “man.” Scholia to different works follow the tradition, e.g., the Scholiast to Hom. Il. ii.494 agreeing with Apollodorus, and citing the Boeotica of Hellanicus and the third book of Apollodorus (who probably follows Hellanicus). In Pseudo-Hyginus, Fab. 67, she proposes the contest to Creon. As in Statius’ Thebaid 2.500–26., cf. 1.66. Other sources are Corinna fr. 672; Diodorus Siculus 4. 64.4; Ovid, Metamorphoses 7.759–61, Seneca, Oedipus 87–102, cf. 245. Cf. Suda s.v. “Oidipous” and s.v. “Rhapsoidos,” i.e., singer. For the overlap between oracles and riddles in Greek oral tradition, López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born, 73–75. Petit, Oedipe et le Chérubin, esp. 233–6. Joachim Latacz, Troy and Homer: Towards a Solution of an Old Mystery (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004 [in German, 2001]), 238–48, 267, 280–1; Robert Drews, The End of the Bronze Age: Changes in Warfare and the Catastrophe

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51

52 53 54

55 56

57

58 59

60 61 62

63

ca. 1200 BC (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), 22, 215–17; V.  Aravantinos, “New Archaeological and Archival Discoveries at Mycenaean Thebes,” BICS 41 (1996): 135–6 on the Linear B tablets from Thebes. Margalit Finkelberg, Greeks and Pre-Greeks: Aegean Prehistory and Greek Heroic Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 149, for myths associated with Thebes (including Mopsos) and the migrations at the end of the Bronze Age. Cf. Latacz, Troy and Homer, 252, 311 n. 61. The wars for the throne of Oedipus continue in the myths about the Epigonoi (descendants of Oedipus), esp. Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes. Hdt. 2.49; cf. also Hdt. 5.57; 5.58–61; Paus. 9.25, 6; Strabo 9.2,3, cf. 10.1, 8 and others. Thucydides (1.12.3) refers to Kadmeis as an old name for Boiotia. Finkelberg, Greeks and Pre-Greeks, 152. Kadmos is first mentioned as a Tyrian in Hdt. 2.49. Varro (Re Rust. 3.1) says that Thebes in Boiotia was the oldest city in the world, built before the great flood by King Ogyges (another possible Levantine figure, Scott Noegel, “The Aegean Ogygos of Boiotia and the Biblical Og of Bashan: Reflections of the Same Myth,” ZAW 110.3 (1998): 411–26.). On the foundation stories of Thebes, including the heroes Amphion and Zethos, see Ruth B. Edwards, Kadmos the Phoenician: A Study in Greek Legends and the Mycenaean Age (Amsterdam: A. M. Hakkert, 1979); Daniel W. Berman, “The Double Foundation of Boitian Thebes.” TAPA 134.1 (2004): 1–22. On Kadmos and other royal houses, Finkelberg, Greeks and Pre-Greeks, esp. 86–87. DCPP s.v. “Kadmos”; for Europa, West, East Face of Helicon, 289–90. In Hyginus, it had the mark of the moon on its flank (Fab. 178). Ian Rutherford, “Mythology of the Black Land: Greek Myths and Egyptian Origins,” in A Companion to Greek Mythology, eds. Ken Dowden and Niall Livingstone (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2011), 461, suggests that the foundational role of the cow might be of Egyptian influence (cf. Hathor’s role in the “Myth of the Heavenly Cow”). Typhon is also associated with this area. See López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born, 109–13. In a different tradition, Ares sent the sphinx to avenge the dragon slain by Kadmos (Argum. ad Eurip. Phoen.), and for others the Theban-born Dionysos did (Schol. ad Hes. Theog. 326) or Hades (Eurip. Phoen. 810). In Schol. ad Eurip. Phoen. 45, she is one of the women cast into madness with the daughters of Kadmos, later transformed into the monster. LSJ s.v. Σφίγξ, pl. Σφίγγες; Boiotian Φίξ-Φικός. Beekes (s.v. Σφίγξ) posits a pre-Greek origin and a popular link with sphiggo (cf. Chantraine, s.v. σφίγγω). As Demsky notes (A. Demsky, “The First Arslan Tash Incantation and the Sphinx,” in Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of P. Kyle McCarter”, eds. Christopher Rollston, Susanna Garfein, Neal Walls, Ryan Byrne (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. In press), the Egyptian sh-s-p from “image (of the Pharaoh)” is not related to the Greek name. Ruipérez, Mito de Edipo, 99 (my translation); also Beekes (note 61). Demsky, “The First Arslan Tash Incantation and the Sphinx.” I first encountered his argument in an oral presentation at the 2012 SBL conference, which inspired my broader treatment of the Phoenician and the Greek sphinxes. Arslan-Tash I, line 4. The reading is clear from Aramaic and Arabic comparanda, but especially on the basis of the Ugaritic “two strangler goddesses” (RS 1.1001, line 18: Dennis Pardee, “Les documents d’Arslan Tash: authentiques ou faux?” Syria; revue d’art oriental et d’archéologie 75 (1998): 35); Demsky, “The First Arslan Tash Incantation and the Sphinx.”. The tablets are 3.25 × 2 inches, with holes from which to be hung. Despite their lack of archeological context, epigraphical studies have convincingly

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64 65 66

67

68 69 70

supported their authenticity: Pardee, “documents d’Arslan Tash”; José-Ángel Zamora, “Textos mágicos y trasfondo mitológico: Arslan Tash,” in Atti dell’Incontro di studio sul tema: Epigrafia e storia delle religioni: dal documento epigrafico al problema storico-religioso, eds. Paolo Xella and José-Ángel Zamora (Verona: Essedue Edizioni, 2003), 9–23. Written amulets are attested in Israel, e.g., tefillin, mezzuzot, and lamellae (Jeremy D. Smoak, “Amuletic Inscriptions and the Background of YHWH as Guardian and Protector in Psalm 12,” Vetus Testamentum 60.3 (2010): 427–8) and in the Phoenician and Aramaic realms (André Lemaire, “Amulette Phénicienne giblite en argent,” in Shlomo: Studies in Epigraphy, Iconography, History and Archaeology in Honor of Shlomo Moussaieff, ed. Robert Deutch (Tel Aviv and Jaffa: Archaeological Center Publication, 2003), 155–74). The word SSM is read by some as another demon, but it is probably a personal name, perhaps the magician (Pardee, “Les documents d’Arslan Tash”; Demsky, “The First Arslan Tash Incantation and the Sphinx”). Demsky, “The First Arslan Tash Incantation and the Sphinx.” Jennifer M. Stager, “‘Let No One Wonder at This Image’: A Phoenician Funerary Stele in Athens,” Hesperia 74 (2005): 427–49; Olga Tribulato, “Phoenician Lions: The Funerary Stele of the Phoenician Shem/Antipatros,” Hesperia 82.3 (2013): 459–86. L.A. Ruiz Cabrero, “El estuche con banda mágica de Moraleda de Zafayona (Granada). Una nueva inscripción fenicia,” Byrsa 1 (2003): 85–106; Maria G. Amadasi Guzzo, “Une lamelle magique à inscription phénicienn,” Vicino Oriente 13 (2007): 197–206. For more on Phoenician afterlife beliefs, see C. Bonnet and P. Xella, “La religion,” in La Civilisation Phénicienne et Punique: Manuel de Recherche, ed. Véronique Krings (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 330–1, Anthony J. Frendo, A. de Trafford, and Nicholas C. Vella, “Water Journeys of the Dead: A Glimpse into Phoenician and Punic Eschatology,” in Atti del V congresso internazionale di studi fenici e punici, Marsala – Palermo, 2-8 ottobre 2000, vol. 1, ed. Antonella Spanò Giammellaro (Palermo: Università degli studi di Palermo, facoltà di lettere e filosofía, 2005), 427–43, for funerary amulets and their comparanda, Carolina López-Ruiz, “Near Eastern Precedents of the Orphic Gold Tablets: The Phoenician Missing Link,” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 15.1 (2015): 52–91. At Arslan-Tash itself we have ivories showing the regular Phoenician/NorthSyrian sphinx, presumably protective (ivory from Hadatu/Arslan-Tash at the Alepo Musem). For example, website of the University of Pennsylvania Museum https://www. penn.museum/collections/highlights/egyptian/sphinx.php. López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born, 23–47.

19 Inviting Socrates The prologs of Republic and the two Symposia1 Gabriel Danzig

Euphorion and Panaetius relate that the beginning of the Republic was found several times revised and rewritten. (D.L. 3.1.37)

Whether true or not, this anecdote about Plato reflects a belief that the “beginning” of the Republic was written with great care. There has been considerable speculation on the first sentences of Republic.2 But the beginning of Republic is much longer than a few sentences, and Republic is not the only dialog to have a carefully designed beginning. Most scholars now recognize that the literary aspect of Plato is not only important in itself but can also contribute to our understanding of his philosophical ideas. This paper is a contribution to this effort. I will ask, what do the prologs of the Platonic dialogs have to teach us about the character and behavior of Socrates, and about Plato’s philosophical teachings? And do Xenophon’s prologs share this quality? I focus here on the prologs to Republic and the two Symposia. All three contain invitation scenes of one kind or another. There are also scenes in Lysis, Protagoras and Theatetus3 that describe the making of arrangements for people to spend time together, but none of them contains an invitation to a dinner party such as we find in these three compositions. There are more similarities: these compositions portray discussions that were held on festive occasions in the houses of one or another of Socrates’ wealthy acquaintances. Each portrays a chance meeting between Socrates and the host, or another guest, in which an invitation is extended or at least discussed. Comparing these three compositions therefore gives us an opportunity to observe Greek manners in extending invitations, and also to consider the ways in which Plato and Xenophon shape the invitations to suit the particular aims of their different compositions.

19.1 Narrative voice Both of the Platonic dialogs are narrated conversations. Together with Lysis and Charmides (Apology is a different creature), Republic is one of a few dialogs which Plato the author writes as Socrates in the first person, offering

312  Gabriel Danzig an eyewitness account of his earlier conversation. We may imagine either that Plato is imaginatively impersonating Socrates, which would show his complete identification with his character, or that he effaces himself completely, presenting the dialog as if he were a stenographer recording the ipsissima verba spoken to him by Socrates himself.4 In contrast, Symposium offers an elaborate chain of transmission concerning an event that took place many years earlier. It is narrated by Apollodoros, an enthusiastic and ardent follower of Socrates, a vocal latter-day Aristodemos. He addresses some unnamed people who seem to represent the audience at a reading of a Socratic dialog: they are chiefly involved in economic pursuits, but have enough interest in Socrates to have come to ask about the famous evening. By representing the internal audience in such terms, Plato effects a merging of the internal and the external audience, bringing the external audience into the show. The difference between these two modes of narration is not designed to claim greater accuracy for Republic as compared to Symposium: although there is a multi-link chain of transmission in Symposium, Plato is also careful to comment that Socrates has heard the report and authorized it.5 Nor is the personal reporting by Socrates in Republic designed to emphasize the unreliability or bias inherent in a one-sided, self-serving report. Both compositions aim to adulate Socrates; but if anything, the Symposium is more adulatory than is Republic, to judge by the sheer number of lovers of Socrates that are mentioned. If there is any significance to the contrasting modes of presentation it may be that Symposium’s elaborate chain of transmission is designed to show the greater interest people took in speeches about eros than in speeches about politics, even long after the events themselves took place. The great public interest in Apollodoros’ report also seems connected with what one may call the missionary aim of Symposium. Apollodoros’ strictures to his unnamed audience are aimed also at the audience of the composition itself. They add to the impression one gains from the composition as a whole that the aim is not merely to portray the love that Socrates inspired in men, but also to inspire a new generation, living after Socrates is no longer alive, with that very same love. Despite the difference in the identities of the narrators, in both cases the narrator is formally distinct from the author. This complicates the question of allusions to later content: are such allusions directed by the narrator to an audience within the drama, or are they directed by the author, Plato, to the readers? As H. Ausland has observed, there is no suggestion of an internal audience in Republic, so there at least the allusions seem directed to the readers.6 Although some of the allusions in Symposium could in theory be understood as aimed by Aristodemos at Apollodoros, the narration by Apollodoros is aimed equally at the internal and the external audience. Xenophon’s Symposium also raises some complications. The story is told by a narrator who does not explicitly identify himself. He says he was

Inviting Socrates  313 present at the event and implies that he has written about kaloikagathoi in more serious circumstances. The fact that Xenophon does not appear in Symposium as a character seems to preclude his identification as the narrator. But this does not settle the question. There is no suggestion that any of the characters who do appear in the composition is to be conceived as the narrator. Moreover, Xenophon often claims autopsy in cases where it is neither evident nor even possible, and Symposium is one of those cases. Most likely, we are not meant to take the claim literally: it is just a way of claiming that the work offers an authentic representation of the spirit of a Socratic symposium. The fact that Xenophon the author wrote works on the serious behavior of kaloikagathoi, in his other Socratic and historical works (Memorabilia, Oeconomicus, Cyropaedia, Anabasis and Hellenica), suggests that he is to be conceived as the narrator of Symposium. Just as his reference to Hermogenes as the source of his information about Apology (2) implies that readers knew that the author was Xenophon, who was known to have been absent from the trial, so too readers may be expected to understand that Xenophon is the author of Symposium and identify him as the narrator. With the identification of the author and the narrator, the audience of the narration becomes identical with the readership, and no question of a distinct internal audience is raised.

19.2 Prologs The prologs to Greek tragedies and comedies are often pregnant with allusions to themes that are central to the composition as a whole.7 It is no surprise that similar allusions have been found in the dramatic prologs to Socratic dialogs.8 What are the functions of a prolog? In addition to setting things in motion by providing the first action or “beginning” of a story, prologs to Greek tragedies also set the scene and orient the reader to what is to follow by providing background information that reminds the reader of the basic outlines of the well-known mythological or historical story that will follow. Since Platonic dialogs are not based on mythical or historical tales there is not much need or opportunity for this kind of orientation. Some Platonic dialogs, especially those concerned with the trial and execution of Socrates, do include references to historical context, but they report conversations whose outlines are not well-known.9 Another way a prolog can set the scene is by alluding to subjects that will be important in the rest of the composition, somewhat in the manner of a musical overture. Platonic prologs have sometimes been seen as alluding to specific philosophical images presented as novel later in the composition. For example, Ausland argues that Polemarchos, the offspring of Cephalos, represents the sun, which is described as the offspring of the good.10 This kind of allusion would not be easily noticed by a first-time reader who is not already deeply familiar with Plato’s sun-analogy. It is not inconceivable that an author like Plato would play games of this sort with allusions that a

314  Gabriel Danzig first-time audience could never perceive, but this kind of allusion is not the focus of my interest in this paper. I will concentrate here on impressions that any reader can get from reading a prolog. These impressions would not enable a first-time reader to see exactly where the composition is heading, but they set the tone and provide a basic orientation toward issues that are discussed later. Contrasting different prologs helps highlight the ways in which each prolog is organically related to the specific composition for which it was written. It is no coincidence that the prolog to Republic offers a portrait of a reluctant Socrates who is pressured by his powerful hosts to accept an invitation that will lead, ultimately, to a discussion of political issues, while the prolog to Symposium portrays Socrates as an eager and sought-after guest for an evening in which eros will be the central theme. Similarly, it is no coincidence that the prolog to Xenophon’s Symposium offers illustrations of kalokagathia – good behavior or etiquette – which is the central subject of his composition.

19.3 Invitations These prologs all contain invitation-scenes. Invitations provide a potent source of conflict between potential hosts and guests. Potential guests may have other plans; potential hosts may have other interests. The offering of an invitation threatens to destroy the social fabric by exposing the true feelings of the parties toward each other. In this situation of conflict and competition the relative standings of the various parties cannot be hidden. As such, it is an opportunity for rudeness and disappointment, and also for tact and consideration. Although my main focus is on the comparison of the prologs of Plato’s Republic and Xenophon’s Symposium, a few words are needed also about the prolog of Plato’s Symposium. Portraying a love-triangle between Socrates, Aristodemos and Agathon, the prolog of Symposium is well-suited to a composition that focuses on eros. Socrates has dressed and bathed so that he may go “beautiful to the beautiful,” that is, to the current object of his fancy, the beautiful and charming poet, Agathon. Agathon has invited Socrates to join a small group of friends in celebrating his victory in the tragic competition, but he did not invite Socrates’ long-time companion and enthusiastic lover, Aristodemos, at least not to this evening’s celebration, although he says that he tried to.11 But Aristodemos bumps into Socrates, while he is sneaking off to Agathon’s house, and pushes himself into a party to which he was not invited. Because of his desire to spend the evening with Agathon rather than Aristodemos, Socrates tries to tactfully deflect Aristodemos from attending, reminding him that even the great Menelaos was wrong to attend a feast uninvited. When this fails, he contrives to arrive at the door separately from Aristodemos, thus avoiding sending a wrong message to Agathon, and enabling Agathon to seat Aristodemos next to Eryximachos,

Inviting Socrates  315 12

saving the seat next to himself for Socrates. The polite but evasive behavior of Socrates illustrates his tact, even while he is in the thrall of eros; the pushy behavior of Aristodemos illustrates a less impressive way of pursuing the object of desire. More specifically, Aristodemos’ behavior foreshadows that of Penia, who pushes herself into the celebration of the gods, taking sexual advantage of the divine Poros for the purpose of procreation, and giving birth to Eros. Aristodemos too will take advantage of his presence at the sunousia in order to take in the seminal words of the other speakers, and ultimately to produce the speech that is represented in Symposium. In short, the scene not only provides an appropriate introduction to a composition on eros, it also raises specific themes that will play important roles in the later discussions.13

19.4 Republic In Republic, Socrates describes his evening with Glaucon, one of Plato’s brothers, with whom he went down to the Piraeus to attend some newly instituted religious celebrations.14 Socrates is on his way home with Glaucon when, as in Symposium, he is interrupted by a chance encounter with some acquaintances. Unlike the party in Symposium, which Socrates is eager to attend, and for which he has washed and dressed, Socrates is uninterested in attending the dinner party at Cephalos’ house. Why this contrast? Does Plato’s Socrates like dinner-parties or not? It seems to depend to a great extent on who is on the invitation list, how large is the party, and perhaps also on what subjects will ultimately be discussed. Both cases can be explained on a single principle, namely, that Socrates prefers to be alone with a single young man of his choice, or with as few people as possible.15 In Symposium, Socrates avoided the first evening’s event when many people were in attendance, but attends on the second night, which offers a better opportunity to spend time with Agathon with a minimum of interference. In Republic Socrates is already on a date with Glaucon, so he does not wish to join a larger group for dinner. Not only does Plato’s Socrates prefer to spend his time with a single companion in the smallest, most intimate setting possible, he sometimes likes to spend time totally alone.16

19.5 Evasion Just as in Symposium Socrates used every polite means possible to avoid inviting Aristodemos, so too in Republic, while Socrates does not bluntly refuse, he makes use of every polite means to evade Polemarchos’ invitation. When Polemarchos’ servant takes him by the coat and bids him to wait, Socrates responds not by agreeing to wait, but by asking “Where is Polemarchos himself?” (327b). Why does he ask this question? Possibly he is hoping that, if Polemarchos turns out to be at a distance, he will be able to excuse himself and go on home with Glaucon. The servant, however, replies

316  Gabriel Danzig that Polemarchos is close behind him. Even so, Socrates does not actually agree to wait for him: Glaucon pipes up to decide the issue. When Polemarchos arrives, he comments that Socrates and Glaucon appear to be heading back to the city. Socrates whole-heartedly agrees with this assessment. Recognizing that Socrates has indicated his desire to leave, Polemarchos immediately begins to threaten him, in a joking and friendly way. He says that Socrates will have to remain, unless he and Glaucon can prove stronger than his own numerous party. Socrates does not accede to this threat; he responds by proposing an alternative method of resolving their dispute, namely, by means of persuasion. In reply Polemarchos does not attempt to justify the use of force, he merely indicates that persuasion is out of the question because his people refuse to listen to Socrates. That would seem to rule out persuasion quite effectively; but still Socrates does not concede the point. It is Glaucon, not Socrates, who once again pipes up to agree that persuasion is impossible under the circumstances (327c). Clearly, Glaucon is more interested in accepting the invitation than is Socrates. And we are left wondering whether Socrates thinks he does have a way to persuade people who do not listen. I will return to that question briefly below. At this point, Adeimantus offers some inducements to make the compulsory evening more palatable. Thinking that Socrates is fond of spectacles (compare Socrates’ words about spectacles in Xenophon’s Symposium: 7.3–4) he mentions an all-night festival which features a torch-race on horseback.17 Understanding better than Adeimantus where Socrates’ interests lie, Polemarchos adds some additional inducements, including conversation with young men. But even this fails to interest Socrates. Glaucon however takes the bait: for the third time he pipes up saying that they must remain. In response to Glaucon’s decision, Socrates finally makes a comment that almost indicates his assent. He says ἀλλ᾽ εἰ δοκεῖ, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ, οὕτω χρὴ ποιεῖν If that is what seems right, we must do it. Just as his words to Aristodemos in Symposium fell short of an actual invitation, so too his words here, which are hypothetical, fall short of actual assent. Socrates expresses a general principle that is fundamental to Plato’s thought: one must always act in accordance with what seems best to one’s reason (Phaedo 89d–90e; see Crito 54d–e). He does not say that the decision that has been reached in this case is in fact a correct one, but merely that if this is what seems best, they must do it. In effect, he has reasserted the rejected principle of persuasion or obedience to the rule of reason. I have explained Socrates’ reluctance here as reflecting his preference to spend time with a single desired individual if possible, or with as small a group as possible. This is both a biographical point about Plato’s Socrates and his erotic orientation, and a point about the nature of philosophy. For

Inviting Socrates  317 this Socrates, philosophy is a dialectical process carried out between two people, in opposition to rhetoric which offers long speeches before a crowd. Xenophon has no such dislike for public speaking, and often has his Socrates make lengthy speeches to groups of people (Mem. 1.5, 2.5) or brings them along to hear him address someone else (see Mem. 3.11.1–2, 4.2.1).18 There may be another explanation for Socrates’ reluctance. In Symposium Socrates claims that eros is the one topic he understands; in Republic he says that he has only a limited ability to answer Glaucon and Adeimantos’ questions about justice (Rep. 368b). Although he does not know it yet, Socrates will be compelled to discuss political subjects at length at the house of Cephalos.19 Plato may have portrayed Socrates as reluctant, and needing to be compelled, in order to indicate his general lack of interest in political matters, and more specifically in order to illustrate and foreshadow the doctrine of the philosopher who must be compelled to pay attention to politics in the city-in-speech. The scene illustrates a multiplicity of other concepts essential to Platonic political thought as well. For example, Plato highlights the unjust position of the philosopher in Athenian society – the political disorder of the Athenian polity – by having Polemarchos send a slave to stop Socrates. There was no need for Plato to introduce a slave-boy in this scene: Polemarchos could easily have been portrayed as approaching Socrates directly, as does Callias in Xenophon’s Symposium, in what may be a reprimand to Plato (see below). Instead, Polemarchos orders (ekeleuse) a slave-boy to approach Socrates and bid (keleusai) him to wait. The slave-boy stops Socrates by taking hold of his garment from behind and informing Socrates that Polemarchos asks him (keleuei) to wait. While the term keleuo has a different nuance when used in relation to a slave than it has when used in relation to a respected free person, the use of a common term suggests that in some sense Polemarchos is treating Socrates as he treats his slave, or rather that Polemarchos’ slave is treating him as a slave. Despite the fact that he has no expertise in the art of ruling, and cannot give a good definition of justice, Polemarchos is empowered by current arrangements to give orders to Socrates. His authority derives from that of his father Cephalos, who inherited his power with his money from his father and grandfather, and augmented it by his own efforts. In Athens, a rich man of foreign stock could amass enough power by means of wealth to exercise control over a worthy and reputedly wise citizen.20 In response to this, Socrates will expel Cephalos from the family circle for the evening, effectively replacing him as paterfamilias, just as the philosophers replace men of wealth and power permanently in the city-inspeech. He will transform Polemarchos into a brave and loyal follower willing to fight against the tyrannical conception of justice that Cephalos has introduced (335e–336a; see the treatment of courage as being steadfast in one’s opinions: 429b–430c). Later on, in the city-in-speech, both personal wealth and family bonds, the sources of Cephalos’ power, will be entirely eliminated for the guardian class and the philosophers.

318  Gabriel Danzig We also learn something about the reasons for Socrates’ personal dependence on society. As we know from Xenophon’s portrait of Aristippus (Mem. 2.1), there were contemporary thinkers who suggested that a man could avoid the troubles of political life by living independently of society. Not only does Xenophon’s Socrates reject such a solution, so does Plato’s Socrates, proposing instead the radical reform of society to make it friendly to the philosopher. But why does he reject Aristippus’ solution? In the scene we are considering, Socrates is drawn into the political community not because of any desire to participate in political life, but because of his connection to friends such as Glaucon who are themselves attached to the larger community. Despite his proclivity for solitude, Socrates does need a small number of companions provided for him by the city. This seems to be the point of making Glaucon responsible for Socrates’ entrapment, and it foreshadows the analogy of the cave in which the philosopher descends into the cave in order to influence individuals living there, suggesting an erotic motive to that descent. We also find here an implicit critique of democracy. Polemarchos overpowers Socrates and Glaucon not by virtue of his personal strength, but by virtue of the number of his followers. His confrontation with Socrates is therefore a thinly disguised commentary on the democratic system of political decision-making in Athens. Socrates frequently pointed out the folly of allowing major political decisions to be made by means of the votes of citizens lacking expertise in the subject at hand (see Ap. 25a–b, Laches 184d–185b). In his city-in-speech, decisions will be made by experts, on the basis of their wisdom, not on the basis of their numbers. But there is another critique of Athenian democracy buried in this exchange. Plato represents the principle of majority rule not merely as the rule of those who lack wisdom, but as the rule of violence or compulsion. Although he does not develop this critique at length, the idea that democracy is objectionable because it rests on violence or compulsion seems to have been familiar in the Socratic circle. Alcibiades makes this same point in Xenophon’s Memorabilia (1.2.41–46), arguing that democracy involves compulsion no less than any other form of political rule. Socrates proposes persuasion as a preferable method of reaching a decision. Why is persuasion better than compulsion? The concern is not for the violation of individual rights: neither Plato nor Xenophon suggests that individual rights should take precedence over good decision-making. Persuasion has two advantages over compulsion: as opposed to compulsion exercised by the ignorant many, it potentially leads to better decisions. This may seem a strange argument, since Plato’s Socrates does not persuade his interlocutors very often, even if he usually wins the argument. The idea that Socrates was an effective man of persuasion is more prominent in Xenophon’s portrait (Mem. 4.6.15, see Symp. 4.56). But it also appears in Plato, for example, when Socrates claims that if he had had enough time, he would have succeeded in persuading his jurors of his innocence, but Athenian law did not allow this.21

Inviting Socrates  319 This principle alone would not prohibit compulsion used by the wise. A second reason that persuasion is superior to compulsion is that it contributes to greater harmony and cooperation, greater homonoia, than is possible when any other method is used. Xenophon’s Alcibiades accuses all known political regimes, including aristocracy and monarchy, of making use of compulsion (Mem. 1.2.41–46). Even democratic elections involve imposing the beliefs of the majority on the entire community, including those who disagree. Making use of persuasion instead of holding elections would help the leader avoid the factionalism that plagued Greek cities. Although Xenophon’s Cyrus is perfectly capable of reaching the right decisions alone, or with a small group of advisers, he nevertheless strives to reach a decision on the basis of consensus with his soldiers and is careful to avoid votes. Unlike modern polities, in which the members of the community accept the principle that the democratically elected government has full legitimacy, in ancient Greece dissatisfied factions often worked against the reigning constitution with the aim of replacing it. This was obvious to people living in Greek cities, and the point is made clearly enough in the prolog of Cyropaedia, where Xenophon points out that democracies are overthrown by those favoring other systems (Cyr. 1.1). For this reason, in presenting his solution, Xenophon does not present an alternative political constitution: any constitution whatsoever will be opposed by many members of the community. Rather, he presents a leader who ruled by persuasion and achieved consensus, inspiring what Xenophon calls willing obedience (Cyr. 1.6.21; see Oec. 13.9). Plato’s objection to the compulsion inherent in democracy may share something of Xenophon’s concern that elections of any kind negate homonoia. Although Plato does not usually agree with Xenophon about the solutions to political problems, there are reasons to think that in this case there may be agreement: (1) Here the agreement would be about what is wrong with democratic elections, not what the solution may be. Plato does not advocate Xenophon’s solution to this problem, but rather offers a solution based on an alternative form of constitution. (2) Plato makes a huge effort in Republic to solve the problem of factionalism by transforming the city into a single organic unit.22 There will be no votes in the city-in-speech, and there will be no individual family units to detract from the unity of the city. The entire city will function as one family, even as one individual. All decisions will be made by the wise and accepted by the citizens without any opposition. The education of the citizens is designed to preclude the possibility of their not listening to their superiors, and hence solves the problem of those (like Polemarchos) who refuse to listen. One of the chief goals of the Republic is to outline a polity in which there is perfect agreement and harmony between the various parts of the city. This idea of harmony, with the philosopher serving as king, is a solution to the problem Plato has so effectively dramatized in the invitation-scene where he portrayed the domination of Socrates by those who refuse to listen.

320  Gabriel Danzig

19.6 Xenophon’s Symposium Xenophon’s Symposium responds both to Plato’s Symposium and to his Republic. Xenophon’s reading of Plato’s Symposium is reflected not only in the open references to it in Chapter 8, but also in some small details of the prolog. There is a common reference to taking a bath: Socrates, famously, has taken a bath before going to Agathon’s house in Plato’s Symposium (174a), and in Xenophon’s Symposium, the narrator comments that the guests arrived after having worked out, and some having taken a bath (1.7). Although, out of delicacy, he does not say who has not bathed, the reader may infer that Socrates and company, who were invited at the last minute, arrive sweaty and unbathed.23 This lends some pungency to Callias’ offer to provide perfume: Callias may notice the need for perfume more acutely than his unwashed counterparts, and this would have been more obvious to a Greek reader, given their small rooms and lack of air-conditioning, than it is to modern un-athletic academics. Socrates in response argues that men need no perfume to attract other men, and that the smell of olive oil and sweat on men fresh from a workout makes them most attractive to women (2.3–4). Plato and Xenophon, as well as the authors of Greek comedies, agree that on many occasions Socrates was unwashed, but Xenophon does not seem to regard such a state as offensive: he not only advises working up a sweat before dining (Cyr. 2.1.29, 8.1.38; see Oec. 11.18), his Cyrus deliberately arrives sweaty and in plain clothes to the king of India, and claims this as a sign of virtue and an honor (Cyr. 2.4.6; see also 2.2.30, Oec. 21.3, Mem. 2.1.20, 28).24 Plato’s Socrates, however, has not only washed before coming to the dinner, but he also washes again at its conclusion (Symp. 223d). Overall, we find a contrast between Xenophon’s hardiness, learned presumably on his many military campaigns, and Plato’s somewhat effeminate fastidiousness. Another minor feature that appears in the openings of both Symposia is a term with the element auto. In Plato’s Symposium, Socrates quotes a maxim to the effect that good men go of their own accord (automatoi) to the feasts of the good (174b). In Xenophon’s Symposium, Socrates refers to himself and his friends as self-made philosophers (autourgoi: 1.5) and portrays a dinner in honor of the young Auto-lycos.25 These small signs, as well as the open references in Chapter 8, show that Xenophon has read Plato’s Symposium and has it in mind. The commonality suggests intentionality in the divergences between the two prologs. One crucial difference is that while Socrates is eager to attend Agathon’s dinner-party, he is not eager to attend Callias’ party. As I will argue below, this reflects the difference between Plato’s erotic Socrates and Xenophon’s sociable one. On this point and others, the prolog to Xenophon’s Symposium resembles the prolog to Plato’s Republic more than it resembles the prolog to Plato’s Symposium. Both scenes occur in the Piraeus; in both cases, a wealthy man approaches Socrates to invite him to a dinner-party and, despite some

Inviting Socrates  321 resistance, coerces his attendance; in both cases, the dinner party occurs on the occasion of a festival, and one in which a horse-race is featured; in both cases, the rich host (Callias or Cephalos) speaks about his wealth, claiming that it is useful specifically because it enables him to be a just man, and sparking a discussion of justice and its relation to wealth; in both cases Niceratos, a minor figure, is mentioned. So, despite the reflections of Plato’s Symposium found in Xenophon’s Symposium, and despite the common name of the compositions, the prolog to Xenophon’s Symposium is more closely related to the prolog of Republic. I argued earlier that Socrates’ eagerness to attend the dinner at Agathon’s reflects the erotic theme of the composition, and that his reluctance about a dinner where politics will be discussed reflects his lack of interest in political affairs. If Xenophon’s Symposium, like Plato’s Symposium, describes an evening devoted to speech about eros, or one in which Socrates is pursuing a young man, Xenophon’s prolog, with its portrait of a reluctant Socrates, would not fit this pattern. However, Xenophon’s Symposium is not focused on eros (although it is an important secondary theme). And the erotic theme that is present is transferred to Callias. In contrast to Plato’s Symposium, it is Callias, not Socrates, who is pursuing a young man (as the host rather than as the guest). In contrast to Republic, it is Callias, not Socrates, who is on his way home with the young man when the meeting occurs. Callias is the erotic one here, not Socrates. In short, Socrates’ reluctance to join Callias’ party is not due to any erotic interest he is pursuing or any desire to be alone. He seems perfectly content in the company of his four companions. He is a social creature rather than an erotic or anti-social one.26 This is reflected in the sheer number of his companions. Like Polemarchos, Callias is accompanied by some companions and by a servant. But while Plato’s Socrates is overpowered by Polemarchos because Polemarchos has the larger numbers, in Xenophon’s Symposium, Socrates has the same number of companions as Callias, even more if we exclude the servant. This sociability is a reflection of his kalokagathia. Consequently, Xenophon’s Socrates declines the invitation for all the usual reasons that a gentleman might decline: because he was invited at the last minute, because he is enjoying his time with the companions he already has, and because, simply, Callias and company are not especially interesting to him. Although he is the only perfect gentleman in the crowd (see Symp. 9.1), Socrates is not the only gentleman to appear in Symposium. The composition is devoted to the portrait of kaloikagathoi, and even Callias belongs to that category. Callias pursues his erotic affairs in the right way: he does not seek to corner his beloved for a private tryst, but invites the boy together with his father, as is proper (1.2; see 1.10) and seeks other guests of good quality to invite to enliven the evening. Callias’ gentlemanliness is illustrated also in his manner of extending an invitation to Socrates. In a seeming reprimand to Plato, Callias does not rudely send his servant ahead to invite Socrates, as

322  Gabriel Danzig does Polemarchos27; rather he sends someone (presumably a servant) home with his guests, while he approaches Socrates personally with his invitation (1.3).28 His mode of inviting also reflects his relatively good manners. Callias does not rudely threaten his guest even in a joking way, but rather offers a generous compliment as an inducement: εἰς καλόν γε ὑμῖν συντετύχηκα: ἑστιᾶν γὰρ μέλλω Αὐτόλυκον καὶ τὸν πατέρα  αὐτοῦ. οἶμαι οὖν πολὺ ἂν τὴν κατασκευήν μοι λαμπροτέραν φανῆναι εἰ ἀνδράσιν ἐκ κεκαθαρμένοις τὰς ψυχὰς ὥσπερ ὑμῖν ὁ ἀνδρὼν κεκοσμημένος εἴη μᾶλλον ἢ εἰ στρατηγοῖς καὶ ἱππάρχοις καὶ σπουδαρχίαις. (1.4) How good that I ran into you! I am about to give a dinner for Autolycus and his father, and I think that the event would be more brilliant if my dining-room were graced with men of refined spirits, such as you, than it would with generals and cavalry commanders and office-seekers. Despite the polite words, something about Callias’ invitation bothers Socrates. In fact, Socrates takes it as an insult and responds: ἀεὶ σὺ ἐπισκώπτεις ἡμᾶς καταφρονῶν, ὅτι σὺ μὲν Πρωταγόρᾳ τε πολὺ ἀργύριον δέδωκας ἐπὶ σοφίᾳ καὶ Γοργίᾳ καὶ Προδίκῳ καὶ ἄλλοις πολλοῖς, ἡμᾶς δ᾽ ὁρᾷς αὐτουργούς τινας τῆς φιλοσοφίας ὄντας. (1.5) You are always teasing and looking down on us because you have paid a good deal of money for wisdom to Protagoras, Gorgias, Prodicus, and many others, while you see us as home-made philosophers. What was wrong with Callias’ invitation? Perhaps the compliment he used was intended to remind Socrates and his companions of their low place in the social ranking of Athens (recall the scene with the slave of Polemarchos). Perhaps the mere fact that he was giving Socrates a compliment displayed an unmerited pose of condescension. Moreover, although he did approach Socrates personally, his request may not have been humble enough. Socrates may sense that the compliments he offers serve as a mask for the superiority implied by his “generous” invitation. Socrates responds by teasing Callias for having spent money uselessly on teachers who have not made any real difference. In effect, he is saying, why do you need us to enliven the evening if your expensive lessons have had any effect at all? Like Callias, his words take the form of a compliment, but the irony is so patent that it is really a case of mild sarcasm.29

Inviting Socrates  323 Callias responds by offering to display his newly acquired wisdom, but like the spectacles offered by Adeimantos, this does not prove particularly attractive to Socrates and his friends. Here is their response: οἱ οὖν ἀμφὶ τὸν Σωκράτην πρῶτον μέν, ὥσπερ εἰκὸς ἦν, ἐπαινοῦντες τὴν κλῆσιν οὐχ ὑπισχνοῦντο συνδειπνήσειν: ὡς δὲ πάνυ ἀχθόμενος φανερὸς ἦν, εἰ μὴ ἕψοιντο, συνηκολούθησαν. (1.7) Now at first Socrates and his companions thanked him for the invitation, as was proper, but did not agree to attend the dinner. When it became clear, however, that he would be very upset if they did not go, they went with him. Socrates’ people behave as gentlemen, politely declining the last-minute invitation, consistently with their honor and lack of interest, but then agreeing to attend in order to spare Callias’ feelings. They agree only after Callias has acknowledged clearly that this was not a generous offer on his part, but rather a sincere request for assistance. This enables Socrates and his friends to establish a relationship that reflects the proper balance of merit between men of real taste and virtue and a moderately good man of wealth. Unlike Plato who is concerned about the relationship of the singular philosopher to the ignorant many, Xenophon is concerned to show that among kaloi kagathoi, wealth and power do not hold more weight than personal charm and virtue. As we have seen, the prolog of Symposium introduces themes that will dominate the remainder of the composition. The portrait of a non-erotic Socrates foreshadows the non-erotic behavior of Socrates in the composition as a whole. The brief display of kalokagathia (both by Socrates and to a lesser extent by Callias) in the prolog foreshadows the evolving meditation on kalokagathia that is presented in the composition as a whole. The prolog foreshadows the personal rivalry between guest and host in which Socrates gradually take charge of the party to the point that he is giving Callias a lecture on the proper way to pursue Autolycos, and Callias is quite glad to have it (8.42).30 The testy humor of the prolog foreshadows the humor of the composition, and the brief moment of distress foreshadows the unpleasant episodes that occur later. Perhaps one can go further and suggest that Callias’ reference to the unwanted seekers of public office is designed to prefigure the central point of Socrates’ speech on love. We recall that for Xenophon, generals, cavalry commanders and office seekers are among the most admirable people he knows. Callias’ ribbing of Socrates reflects a very widespread critique of the philosopher and one that Xenophon himself can be expected to share, at least to some extent. In his speech to Callias, Xenophon’s Socrates says that the way to win a young man’s heart is by becoming his teacher and partner

324  Gabriel Danzig in the accomplishment of great good deeds for the city (Symp. 8.37–40). By putting this thought in Socrates’ mouth, Xenophon shows that while Socrates was not an office-seeker in the ordinary sense, he most certainly was engaged in inspiring his companions to see the service of the city not only as a means of giving and getting useful things but also a thrilling vocation that sparkles with its own inner beauty. Xenophon’s reaction to Plato’s Republic is characteristic. He blithely ignores the profound political reflections on the disorder of political life raised by the prolog of Plato’s Republic, even though these are issues that concern him elsewhere in his writings. Instead, he transforms the invitation-scene into a contest in kalokagathia, won by Socrates and his companions. As in Republic, Socrates is engaged in a serious negotiation of status, but the point is not to show the disorder of Athenian political life and the need to replace it with other arrangements, but rather to show how a man like Socrates could meet any social challenge and emerge as the generous winner. Plato’s Socrates is no less capable of meeting social challenges, and he does in fact completely dominate the get-together at Cephalos’ house. But he is more interested in his private erotic interests and in contemplating alternative realities. While Plato seeks to alter the conditions that make this effort necessary, by constructing an imaginary city-in-speech, Xenophon’s Socrates is fully at home as the greatest man in the competitive world of democratic Athens.

19.7 Conclusion For Xenophon as for Plato, the dramatic prologs are an integral part of the composition as a whole, foreshadowing and preparing the reader for the central ideas that will be presented more fully later. Plato’s prolog to Republic does this in an indirect manner: he offers a dramatic scene which contains allusions to doctrines that will be presented in rational argument later on. Xenophon’s prolog to Symposium also alludes to themes that will be discussed later. But its main role is to provide the first example of dramatic incidents that will continue to appear in a dramatic form in the rest of the compositions. By comparing the prologs, we not only find a difference in the manner in which they point to later developments, we also find an emphasis on characteristically different themes, and on a different portrait of Socrates. Xenophon’s portrait of Socrates differs from that of Plato by his greater sociability, greater comfort with contemporary life, and by his reduced interest in eroticism and alternative realities. Once we recognize that the prologs provide dramatic illustrations of themes that are subject to discussion later in the dialog, they take on a second role which is of special value for the researcher, insofar as they provide a point of reference that can help us decide between alternate interpretations of controversial doctrines discussed later in the composition. The issues Plato raises – especially the critique of democracy as resting on violence and an unwillingness to listen to reason – provide a justification for some of the

Inviting Socrates  325 measures that he proposes later in the composition, especially the elaborate educational scheme. This suggests that those measures are not proposed ironically, as is sometimes said, but that they provide solutions to what Plato saw as the central challenges of political life. This study also provides some evidence for issues of chronology. The close relationship between the two Platonic prologs suggests that the first book of Republic was composed around the same time as Symposium. The connections between the prolog and the doctrines expostulated later in Republic suggest that the book was written as a single unit – unless we credit the story that Plato re-wrote the beginning and posit that it was a deep re-writing. It is more difficult to speculate on the relative chronology of Xenophon’s Symposium. Although it clearly reacts to both Platonic compositions, it is harder to say how long would have elapsed after the publication of Plato’s writings before Xenophon responds. At first sight one might assume that it was written shortly after the Platonic compositions were published. Why would Xenophon feel a need to respond to Platonic compositions that were written 20 years earlier? What readers would still be interested in hearing a reaction to old news? But scholars have reasons for believing that Xenophon wrote most of his works toward the middle of the fourth century. Xenophon’s Apology shows signs of a late date (see the reference to the death of Anytus: Ap. 31), and yet it responds to what is considered one of Plato’s earliest dialogs. But this hypothetical gap may not be such a great problem. The Greeks of the fourth century commonly refer to the works of Homer, Hesiod, Pindar, Aeschylus and others as if they were still in common circulation. The best works of Greek literature became immortal very quickly. The late date of Xenophon’s responses to Plato’s writings (if they had a late date) may serve simply as a sign that Plato’s works became immortal already in the life of their author.

Notes 1 I have long admired Margalit’s writings, and it has been a pleasure and a privilege also to know her personally, and discover her good judgment, tact and wonderful charm. It was also a pleasure to find a shared interest in Socratic literature, to say nothing of Homer, and an honor to be invited to deliver this paper at a conference in her honor. 2 See Hayden Ausland, “On the Dialogue Proem to Plato’s Republic” (PhD diss., U.C. Berkeley, 1986); Diskin Clay, “Plato’s First Words,” in Yale Classical Studies XXIX, Beginnings in Classical Literature, eds. Francis Dunn and Thomas Cole (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 113–30; Nickolas Pappas, The Routledge Guidebook to Plato’s Republic (London: Routledge, 1995), 18–21. 3 When transliterating Greek names, I try to keep them as close to the Greek as possible. However, I refer to well-known Greek books and individuals by their most familiar name in English, and when kappa appears in a person’s name, I represent it by an English c. 4 In other words, this narrative stance can be interpreted either to indicate that Plato is presenting the dialog as the authentic words of the historical Socrates, or is presenting a transparently fictional Socrates who is only a reflection of himself.

326  Gabriel Danzig

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Index of ancient sources

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. Acusilaus Argeus fr. 28 EGM i. 20, 47n17 Aelian On Animals 12.38, 306n18 On Animals 12.7, 306-7n19 VH 3.42, 47n14 Aeschines Aeschin. 3.192, 164n9 Aeschylus Ag. 121, 270n45 Ag. 139, 270n45 Ag. 149, 235, 245n4 Ag. 159, 270n45 Cho. 889, 248n48 Eu. 248, 248n48 Pers. 241-2, 246n26 Sept. 200–1, 49n43 Sept. 230–3, 49n43 Sept. 239–41, 41–42 Sept. 262–3, 41–42 Sept. 265–6, 49n36 Sept. 270–8, 49n38 Sept. 498, 41 Sept. 539–44, 308n36 Sept. 698–703, 51n68 Sept. 773–7, 308n36 Sept. 875–1004, 41–42 Sept. 966, 50n46 Supp. 11–18, 235 Supp. 15–18, 239 Supp. 21, 248n44 Supp. 45, 239; 240; 247n36 Supp. 48, 239 Supp. 58–67, 243 Supp. 66, 248n44 Supp. 117, 235–6 Supp. 134–5, 245n5 Supp. 143, 242–3 Supp. 150, 242–3

Supp. 153, 242–3 Supp. 156–8, 245n5 Supp. 160, 239 Supp. 191–3, 241 Supp. 224–5, 245n5 Supp. 287–9, 243–4 Supp. 313, 239, 248n43 Supp. 315, 239; 240 Supp. 333–5, 242–3 Supp. 356, 239 Supp. 365–70, 237 Supp. 392–3, 248n43 Supp. 392–5, 242 Supp. 398–401, 237 Supp. 409, 240 Supp. 412, 240 Supp. 414–15, 245n5 Supp. 481–5, 247n29 Supp. 483–9, 237 Supp. 507, 248n43 Supp. 517–18, 237 Supp. 525, 248n49 Supp. 535, 239 Supp. 558–61, 245n5 Supp. 568, 239 Supp. 592, 248n43 Supp. 603–10, 241 Supp. 604, 238; 242; 248n43 Supp. 609, 238 Supp. 609–10, 238 Supp. 611–14, 238 Supp. 615–20, 246n24 Supp. 616–24, 237 Supp. 635–6, 245n5 Supp. 674–80, 248n48 Supp. 676–7, 256n19 Supp. 699, 247n30 Supp. 728, 240 Supp. 755–6, 244

372  Index of ancient sources Supp. 756, 248n53 Supp. 788–9, 239 Supp. 905, 242–3 Supp. 994, 247n27 Supp. 1064–67, 244 Supp. 1066, 248n43 T1.12 Radt, 288n12 Lykourgeia, TrGF III. s.v. Λυκούργος, 50n57 fr. 129 Sphinx, 308n36 fr. 170 TGrF, 256n19 fr. 333 TGrF, 161 Aesclepiades FGrHist. 12F18, 50n57 Alcaeus fr. 70, 16–17 fr. 70.6, 15 fr. 75, 16–17 fr. 75.10, 15 fr. 302b, 16–17 Anaxicrates 307 F 1 FGrH, 19n16 Andocides De Mysteriis, 1.14, 224 Anthologia Graeca 16.127, 50n57 Anthologia Palatina 9.184.3–4, 156 Antiphon Antiph. Fr. 87 B18 DK, 164n9 Antoninus Liberalis Met. 10.3, 47n14 Apollodorus Apollod. 1.9.1–2, 47n10 Apollod. 2.13, 248n50 Apollod. 2.1.5, 245n11 Apollod. 2.2.2, 47n19 Apollod. 3.4.3, 47n10 Apollod. 3.5.1, 50n57; 51n59 Apollod. 3.5.8, 300–1; 306–7n19 Apollodorus mythographus Epit. 3.3, 131n56 Epit. 5.23, 48n24 (Ps.– Apollod.) Epit.3.4, 166n21 Apollonius Rhodius Argon. 1.494–511, 175 Archilochus fr. 120 (West), 167n43 Aristeides Ael. Ar. Ars 56.1.14.1.1, 219 Aristodemus of Alexandria FGrH 383 F 7, 14–15 Aristophanes Ach. 1–6, 276–7 Ach. 9–11, 276–7

Ach. 19, 277 Ach. 20, 277 Ach. 17–20, 276–7 Ach. 60, 287n8 Ach. 201–2, 278 Ach. 408–409, 288n15 Ach. 572, 279 Ach. 719–22, 278 Ach. 727–8, 278–9 Ach. 836, 279 Ach. 1044–6, 279 Ach. 1071–72, 279 Ach. 1190–3, 279 Ach. 1198–9, 279–80 Ach. 1222, 280 Ach. 1233, 280 Eq. 675, 288n14 Lys. 519, 50n51 Lys. 520, 50n43 Lys. 536, 50n51 Lys. 538, 50n43 Ran. 1030–6, 166n33 Ran. 1281–97, 114n37 Ran. 1287, 308n36 Vesp. 144, 97 Vesp. 652–3, 217 Wealth 660, 288n14 Aristotle Acharn. 393–479, 208n51 Ath. Pol. 43.6, 247n29 Poet. 1448b28–30, 167n41 Poet. 1455a22–25, 78 Poet. 1460a5, 166n29 Poet. 1460a5–11, 98n3 Poet. 1460b11–7, 208n47 Poet. 1461a4–9, 200 Rhet. III.19, 225 Top. 149a7, 36n54 Arrian An. 5.1.5–6, 46n8 Asclepiades FGrH 12F18, 50n57 Astydamas the Younger 60T5 TGrF, 251 Athenaeus 181c–d, 109 253e, 307 Bacchylides 11.40–58, 47n18 11.82–112, 47n18 Callimachus HAp. 105–13, 167n38 Carystius of Pergamum On Dramatic Records, fr. 17, FHG iv.359, 273

Index of ancient sources  373 Celsus True Logos, 186 Cicero Ac. 2.89, 174 De. Or. 1.61.261, 114n37 Div. 2.63–64, 208n53 Claudianus De raptu Proserpinae, 2.204, 229n16 De raptu Proserpinae, 2.248, 229n16 De raptu Proserpinae, 2.250, 229n16 De raptu Proserpinae, 2.250–72, 229n16 De raptu Proserpinae, 2.250–72, 229n16 De raptu Proserpinae, 2.251, 229n16 De raptu Proserpinae, 2.253–4, 229n16 De raptu Proserpinae, 2.267, 229n16 Codex Ambrosianus L 120, sup., f. 120r, 182n37 Conon FGrH 26 fr. 46, 14 Corinna fr. 665 PMG, 47n14 fr. 672, 308n47 Cypria Argumentum Procli, p. 39, ll. 18–19, 166n21 Dict. Cret. (Dictys Cretensis) 1.5, 166n21 Dio Chrysostomus Orationes 11.17, 166n29 53.5 = SVF i.274, 153 Diodorus Siculus 1.12.10, 159 1.31.2, 181n34 1.96–7, 159 1.97.4, 160; 168n69 1.97.6, 169n69 3.64.5–6, 47n11 3.65.4–6, 50n57 3.66.3–4, 46n8 4.64.4, 308n47 5.50.2–5, 47n10 5.50.4–5, 50n56 11.48.1, 18 19.59.2, 181n34 Diogenes Laertius 8.1.25, 116n62 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Ant. Rom. 1.47, 13–14 De Comp. 24, 167n38 Dionysius Periegetes 910–2, 181n34; 181n43

Dionysius Thrax Susarion t10 b, Koster XVIIIb 3.12–14, 287n7 Ennius Alcmeo fr. 15.28–30, 174 Andromacha fr. 36, 48n24 Enuma Elish I, 158 Ephorus 70 FGrH F 164, 18 Epicharmus Athen. 6.235e (fr. 31), 273 Athen. 8.362b (fr. 68.2–4), 272 fr. 136 K–A [P. Berlin 9782], 273–4 fr. 147, 287n3 Euclid Euc.Elements I.47, 225–6 Eumelus Europia fr. 11 (=PEG i. 112), 50n57 Euripides Andr. 10, 48n24 Sch. Andr. 10, 14 Ant. P. Oxy. 3317 = fr. 175 TGrF, 256n22 Bacch. 45–46, 51n69 Bacch. 118, 50n50 Bacch. 514, 50n50 Bacch. 556, 46n8 Bacch. 699–702, 50n55 Bacch. 851, 51n63 Bacch. 1236, 50n50 El. 471, 306–7n19 El. 923, 270n51 F 663 K, 270n48 Hec. 603, 268n16 Hec. 886–7, 247n37 HF 48–50, 260–1 HF 55, 262 HF 56, 261 HF 62, 262 HF 148, 264–5 HF 165, 262 HF 166, 262 HF 339–41, 262 HF 346–7, 262 HF 348, 270n45 HF 348–51, 269n31 HF 353–4, 264–5 HF 436–41, 263 HF 574–82, 262 HF 599–600, 261 HF 606–9, 261 HF 636, 262 HF 655–6, 262 HF 657, 263

374  Index of ancient sources HF 667–8, 266 HF 669–70, 262 HF 673–86, 263–4 HF 694–5, 270n45 HF 696, 262; 264 HF 757–60, 270n49 HF 763, 265 HF 772, 265 HF 785–93, 265 HF 801–4, 262 HF 802, 265 HF 805–6, 265 HF 815, 265 HF 818, 265 HF 831–2, 260 HF 841–2, 266 HF 852–3, 261 HF 871, 265 HF 889–90, 265 HF 895, 265 HF 922–31, 261 HF 939–41, 261 HF 970–71, 262 HF 975–6, 260 HF 982–3, 262 HF 988–9, 260 HF 1016–24, 260 HF 1016–27, 265 HF 1042–44, 265 HF 1047–51, 265 HF 1087–88, 262 HF 1129, 259 HF 1135, 259 HF 1139, 259 HF 1146–47, 259 HF 1146–52, 259 HF 1150, 259 HF 1152, 259 HF 1154, 262 HF 1159, 261 HF 1176, 262 HF 1214–1426, 267n4 HF 1216–17, 261 HF 1218, 261 HF 1232, 259; 261 HF 1234, 261 HF 1233, 259 HF 1237, 259 HF 1255, 267n4; 270n49 HF 1255–1310, 267n4 HF 1263–1310, 258 HF 1281–84, 259 HF 1285–90, 259

HF 1295–7, 261 HF 1307–8, 261 HF 1308–11, 266 HF 1308–10, 258 HF 1311–12, 267n5 HF 1313–39, 257 HF 1314, 257; 259 HF 1315, 257; 265 HF 1316, 260; 268n15 HF 1318–9, 259 HF 1320–21, 257–8 HF 1322, 259 HF 1324–25, 261 HF 1340–93, 257 HF 1341, 268n15 HF 1345–46, 261 HF 1392–93, 266 HF 1399, 261 HF 1400, 259; 261 Hipp. 386–7, 269n27 Hipp. 451–8, 259 Hipp. 456–7, 268n12 Hipp. 925–31, 269n27 IA 1212–52, 214–7 IA 1570–71, 256n19 Ion 1555–6, 267–8n11 IT 21, 256n19 Phoen. 26, 308n38 Phoen. 45–49, 253 Phoen. 46, 308n43 Phoen. 88–201, 249; 252 Phoen. 95–8, 252 Phoen. 109–10, 253; 256n19 Phoen. 141–4, 252 Phoen. 142–52, 252 Phoen. 175, 256n19 Phoen. 175–6, 253 Phoen. 179–92, 252 Phoen. 193–4, 49–50n43 Phoen. 193–201, 252 Phoen. 757–60, 253 Phoen. 810, 309n57 Phoen. 1105, 248n41 Phoen. 1120–21, 248n41 Phoen. 1264–83, 249; 253 Phoen. 1465, 253 Phoen. 1476–77, 253 Phoen. 1644–45, 250 Phoen. 1646–71, 250 Phoen. 1657, 250 Phoen. 1672–78, 253 Phoen. 1675, 253 Phoen. 1679–1736, 250 Phoen. 1685–92, 253

Index of ancient sources  375 Phoen. 1705–7, 251 Phoen. 1737–57, 250 Phoen. 1743–46, 253 Phoen. 1747–52, 253–4 Phoen. 1753–57, 254 Schol. Phoen. 45, 309n57 Tro. 725, 48n24 Eusebius H. E. 6.2.1–6.3.12, 187 H. E. 6.2.12, 195 H. E. 6.2.15, 207n41 H. E. 6.16.1, 208n42 H. E. 6.18.3, 196–7 H. E. 6.18.4, 208n42 H. E. 6.19.5, 205n6 H. E. 6.19.7, 197 Ezekiel Exagoge 120–6, 221–2 GEF fr. 1, 244 Gilgamesh Gilg. SBV VI, 158 Heliodorus Aeth. 1.13.4, 224–5 Hellanicus of Lesbos 4 FGrH F. 24B, 13; 18 4 FGrH F. 32, 20n23 3 FGrH F. 167, 183n54 Herodas Herod. 7.42, 16 Herodotus 1.6.2, 167n42 1.12.10, 157 1.23, 167n43 1.96.4–5, 157 1.97.7, 157 1.97.8, 157 1.97.9, 157 2.2.2–4, 167n47 2.2.23, 154–5 2.4.2, 167n48 2.15.2–3, 167n47 2.49, 309n52; 309n54 2.49.2, 161 2.49.2–3, 167n48 2.49.3, 160–1 2.50.1, 160–1 2.50.1–2.52.3, 160–1 2.50.2–3, 155 2.51.1, 167n48 2.53.1, 155 2.53.1–3, 153–4 2.53.3, 155 2.58, 167n48

2.64, 167n48 2.77.1, 156 2.79, 167n48 2.81, 167n48 2.82.1, 160 2.116, 158, 159, 162, 164n6 2.116.1, 162; 169n80 2.116.6, 162 2.116–7, 147–163 2.117, 11 2.120, 152 2.123, 167n48 2.145.3, 156 2.146, 46n8 2.153, 235–6 2.156.6, 161 2.171, 167n48 2.175, 306n17 3.97, 46n8 4.32, 167n37 4.79.2, 297; 306–7,n19 5.20.3, 245n12 5.57, 309n52 5.58–61, 309n52 5.67.1, 167n34 5.91.14, 248n43 5.92.ζ.2, 164n9 7.15–17, 141n12 31 FGrH F. 13, 183n56 Hesiod fr. 192, 116n62 Op. 615, 179n15 Scut. Herc. 33, 308n44 Th. 15–18, 270n44 Th. 32, 264 Th. 38, 264 Th. 55, 264 Th. 63–67, 270n44 Th. 64, 270n40 Th. 94, 269n29 Th. 99–101, 167n39 Th. 100, 264 Th. 100–1, 270n39 Th. 102–3, 264 Th. 304, 302 Th. 306, 302 Th. 326, 295; 302; 308n44 Th. 326ff, 308n43 Th. 326–7, 299 Th. 371, 256n19 Th. 507–20, 175 Sch. Th. 326, 309n57 WD 26, 167n39 WD 724–7, 49n37

376  Index of ancient sources WD 765–828, 160 Catalogus mulierum fr. 43.19, 32 fr. 131, 47 n, 16 fr. 132, 47 n, 16 fr. 133, 38 fr. 180.13, 32 Hittite Texts CTH 341.III.3, 146n73 CTH 380, 142n24 CTH 404.1.I, 141n11 KBo 15.2 r. 14–18, 143n27 KUB 15.2, l. 14–23, 142n23 KUB 30, 140n5 KUB 56.15, 140n7 Homer Il. 1.1, 26 Il. 1.2, 35n49 Il. 1.5, 151 Il. 1.7, 26–27 Il. 1.9, 30 Il. 1.12, 30–31 Il. 1.12–13, 27–28 Il. 1.14, 28; 30 Il. 1.17, 28–29 Il. 1.21, 28 Il. 1.23, 27–28; 29; 36n50 Il. 1.24–32, 53 Il. 1.25, 29 Il. 1.26, 29–30 Il. 1.29–31, 29 Il. 1.32, 221 Il. 1.34, 30 Il. 1.35–6, 30 Il. 1.37, 27–28 Il. 1.37–9, 218–9 Il. 1.39–40, 218 Il. 1.41, 230–1n36 Il. 1.41–2, 221 Il. 1.42, 28 Il. 1.45, 228n8 Il. 1.48–52, 28 Il. 1.49, 35n44 Il. 1.50, 30–31 Il. 1.58, 31 Il. 1.69, 31 Il. 1.75, 28 Il. 1.84, 31 Il. 1.89, 35n48 Il. 1.92, 31–32 Il. 1.93–100, 31 Il. 1.98, 32 Il. 1.105–120, 53 Il. 1.111, 27–28

Il. 1.131–47, 53 Il. 1.147, 28 Il. 1.149–71, 53 Il. 1.174–5, 35n39 Il. 1.333–6, 63n30 Il. 1.352–4, 35n34 Il. 1.370, 28 Il. 1.371, 27–28 Il. 1.372, 27–28 Il. 1.385, 28 Il. 1.417, 31 Il. 1.438, 28 Il. 1.500–30, 236–7 Il. 1.505, 31 Il. 1.590–1, 188–9 Il. 1.591, 39 Il. 1.603–4, 269n29 Il. 2.100–8, 327n20 Il. 2.205, 194–5 Il. 2.308–21, 208n53 Il. 2.484–92, 269n36 Il. 2.486, 167n39 Il. 2.804, 180n19 Il. 3.70–72, 131n56 Il. 3.121, 50n48 Il. 3.298–31, 132 Il. 3.373–82, 84 Il. 4.4, 76n19 Il. 4.29, 267–8n11 Il. 4.89, 28 Il. 4.101, 28 Il. 4.119, 28 Il. 4.251–418, 54 Il. 4.257–64, 62n11 Il. 4.285–91, 62n11 Il. 4.313–16, 62n11 Il. 4.437–8, 180n19 Il. 4.338–48, 62n11 Il. 4.350–5, 62n11 Il. 4.463–9, 99n7 Il. 4.370–400, 62n11 Il. 4.399–400, 62n11 Il. 4.412–18, 62n11 Il. 4.444, 44 Il. 5.22–24, 98n4 Il. 5.124–8, 79 Il. 5.179–238, 11 Il. 5.382–415, 64n38 Il. 5.311–17, 80 Il. 5.343–6, 80–81 Il. 5.345, 82 Il. 5.383–404, 64n38 Il. 5.432–3, 80–1 Il. 5.438, 28

Index of ancient sources  377 Il. 5.445–52, 80–1 Il. 5.467–9, 98n6 Il. 5.512–18, 80–1 Il. 5.459, 28 Il. 5.590–604, 79 Il. 5.590–604, 79–80 Il. 5.884, 28 Il. 6.49, 27–28 Il. 6.52, 27–28 Il. 6.87–97, 41 Il. 6.97, 40, 42 Il. 6.101, 40, 42, 50n53 Il. 6.104, 41 Il. 6.117–18, 41; 43 Il. 6.129, 42 Il. 6.130–1; 44–45 Il. 6.130–40, 37 Il. 6.132, 40; 43; 44 Il. 6.133, 43; 46n8, 47–8n8 Il. 6.133–4, 37 Il. 6.134, 43 Il. 6.135, 43 Il. 6.136, 37–38 Il. 6.137, 37–38; 43 Il. 6.138, 38 Il. 6.139, 44, 51n70 Il. 6.139–40, 38; 44–45 Il. 6.141, 42 Il. 6.143, 45 Il. 6.172–95, 130–1n52 Il. 6.237–41, 42 Il. 6.238–41, 41 Il. 6.256–62, 44 Il. 6.258–62, 41 Il. 6.264–8, 41; 44 Il. 6.268, 28 Il. 6.269–78, 41 Il. 6.278, 40; 42 Il. 6.289–92, 148; 150; 151–2 Il. 6.296–7, 42 Il. 6.305–10, 132 Il. 6.312–17, 41 Il. 6.318–20, 41; 43 Il. 6.321–31, 85–6 Il. 6.326–31, 41 Il. 6.347, 30 Il. 6.365–8, 41 Il. 6.367–8, 45 Il. 6.371, 50n48 Il. 6.371–3, 41 Il. 6.372, 49n33 Il. 6.372–3, 42 Il. 6.373, 39

Il. 6.377, 41; 50n48 Il. 6.385–6, 39–40 Il. 6.386, 39 Il. 6.388–9, 40 Il. 6.389, 39; 40; 43; 44 Il. 6.390–1, 41; 43 Il. 6.394, 41 Il. 6.399, 49n33 Il. 6.400, 28 Il. 6.401–403, 12 Il. 6.407, 41 Il. 6.427, 27–28 Il. 6.431–58, 86–7 Il. 6.431, 39 Il. 6.441–6, 41 Il. 6.444, 41 Il. 6.447–65, 45 Il. 6.448–9, 12 Il. 6.466, 39 Il. 6.467, 39; 44 Il. 6.468, 43 Il. 6.469, 43 Il. 6.469–70, 43 Il. 6.473, 43 Il. 6.476–81, 45 Il. 6.483, 43 Il. 6.490–2, 42 Il. 6.492–3, 41 Il. 6.498, 43 Il. 6.499–502, 41 Il. 7.26–42, 44 Il. 7.52–3, 44 Il. 7.149, 138 Il. 3.362–4, 131n56 Il. 7.427–32, 73 Il. 8.299, 44 Il. 8.349, 44 Il. 8.355, 44 Il. 8.489–541, 44 Il. 9.59, 76n8 Il. 9.119, 54 Il. 9.120, 35n43 Il. 9.128–30, 17 Il. 9. 149–55, 131n61 Il. 9.182, 30 Il. 9.186–8, 16 Il. 9.238, 44 Il. 9.239, 44 Il. 9.259, 76n8 Il. 9.305, 44 Il. 9.367–9, 57 Il. 9.608, 35n39 Il. 9.616–19, 58 Il. 9.624–42, 58

378  Index of ancient sources Il. 9.644–55, 58 Il. 10.380, 27–28 Il. 10.514, 27–28 Il. 11.59, 99n7 Il. 11.134, 27–28 Il. 11.144–50, 143n41 Il. 12.7, 27–28 Il. 12.200–9, 208n53 Il. 12.93, 99n7 Il. 12.387–91, 88 Il. 13.53–4, 44 Il. 13.339, 248n41 Il. 13.459–61, 11; 130n41 Il. 13.490, 99n7 Il. 13.596–600, 98n7 Il. 14.256–9, 48n23 Il. 14.425, 99n7 Il. 14.426, 88 Il. 15.18–24, 189 Il. 15.22–5, 48n23 Il. 15.55, 28 Il. 15.133, 144n44 Il. 15.202, 29 Il. 15.340, 98n7 Il. 15.381, 28 Il. 15.395–400, 144n44 Il. 15.605–6, 44 Il. 15.605–9, 28 Il. 15.609–10, 51n61 Il. 16.2–4, 59 Il. 16.5, 59 Il. 16.7–11, 59 Il. 16.7–19, 59–60 Il. 16.12–18, 59 Il. 16.122–5, 144n44 Il. 16.124–8, 136 Il. 16.342–4, 93 Il. 16.431–58, 91 Il. 16.443, 267–8n11 Il. 16.479–81, 87–8 Il. 16.479–91, 88 Il. 16.490–2, 87–8 Il. 16.492–501, 88 Il. 16.502–3, 88–9 Il. 16.502–7, 87–8 Il. 16.503, 88 Il. 16.503–7, 89 Il. 16.505, 88 Il. 16.508–13, 88 Il. 16.520–1, 88 Il. 16.527–9, 88 Il. 16.530–47, 89 Il. 16.532–47, 89 Il. 16.534–7, 99n7

Il. 16.544–6, 89 Il. 16.551–2, 89 Il. 16.559–60, 89, 90–1 Il. 16.562–6, 89 Il. 16.567–8, 89 Il. 16.588, 89–90 Il. 16.593–4, 89–90 Il. 16.632, 89–91 Il. 16.638–40, 90; 92; 93 Il. 16.656–8, 90 Il. 16.656–62, 90–1 Il. 16. 660, 99n14 Il. 16.661–2, 93 Il. 16.663–5, 91 Il. 16.666–75, 91 Il. 16.666–83, 91–2; 99n13 Il. 16.705, 48n27 Il. 16.786, 48n27 Il. 16.849, 30 Il. 17.126, 87 Il. 17.622, 27–28 Il. 17.652–5, 54 Il. 17.685–93, 54 Il. 17.694–6, 54 Il. 17.697–8, 54 Il. 17.700–1, 54 Il. 18.18–20, 54 Il. 18.23–27, 54 Il. 18.32–34, 54 Il. 18.62, 70 Il. 18.243–313, 44 Il. 18.283, 30 Il. 18.317, 236 Il. 18.398, 38–9 Il. 18.486, 179n15 Il. 18.536–8, 55 Il. 18.540, 57 Il. 18.543–4, 55 Il. 18.544–5, 56–7 Il. 18.543–54, 55 Il. 18.545–6, 56 Il. 18.546–7, 56–7 Il. 18.555–62, 55–6 Il. 18.557–62, 57 Il. 18.558–62, 57 Il. 18.567–72, 109 Il. 18.578, 36n54 Il. 18.590–4, 109 Il. 18.599–606, 109 Il. 18.604–5, 109 Il. 19.56–73, 53 Il. 19.65–66, 64n35 Il. 19.67–68, 64n35

Index of ancient sources  379 Il. 19.85–138, 54 Il. 19.87–144, 53 Il. 19.130, 48n23 Il. 19.138, 35n43 Il. 19.413, 30 Il. 20.179–83, 11 Il. 20.188–94, 11 Il. 20.203–4, 167n39 Il. 20.248–9, 180n19 Il. 20.297–9, 10 Il. 20.298, 19n5 Il. 20.300–308, 9–10; 12 Il. 20.303–309, 10–11 Il. 20.307–8, 11; 131n64 Il. 20.307–309 Il. 20.318–31, 82 Il. 20.321, 82 Il. 20.340–43, 82–3 Il. 20.341, 82 Il. 20.342–50, 98n6 Il. 20.343–4, 85 Il. 20.347–8, 85 Il. 20.403–6, 136 Il. 20.426–7, 45 Il. 20.429, 45 Il. 20.440–54, 83 Il. 20.447 Il. 20.450, 85 Il. 20.474–7, 98n7 Il. 21.5, 44 Il. 21.544–98, 98n7 Il. 21.595–601, 83, 85 Il. 21.597, 82 Il. 22.25–30, 44 Il. 22.166, 76n19 Il. 22.181, 267–8n11 Il. 22.213, 44 Il. 22.226–47, 44 Il. 22.294–9, 44 Il. 22.447, 40 Il. 22.460, 40 Il. 22.460–2, 40 Il. 22.470–72, 17 Il. 22.503, 44 Il. 23.18, 236 Il. 23.30, 36n54 Il. 23.59, 30 Il. 23.175–82, 139 Il. 23.418–24, 62n14 Il. 23.426–8, 62n14 Il. 23.429–30, 62n14 Il. 23.434–7, 62n14 Il. 23.544–54, 63n20 Il. 23.555, 52

Il. 23.556, 57 Il. 23.570–85, 63n27 Il. 23.587–88, 63n27 Il. 23.589–90, 63n27 Il. 23.591–7, 63n27 Il. 23.597–600, 63n27 Il. 23.610, 63n27 Il. 23.618, 35n50 Il. 23.620–3, 63n30 Il. 23.884–94, 63n30 Il. 24.83–86, 72 Il. 24.90–1, 70 Il. 24.137, 64n36; 64n37 Il. 24.160–8, 72 Il. 24.276, 27–28 Il. 24.411, 35n50 Il. 24.476–80, 60 Il. 24.478–9, 236 Il. 24.486, 76n8 Il. 24.502, 27–28 Il. 24.507–18, 60 Il. 24.518–49, 60–1 Il. 24.519–20, 61 Il. 24.525–33, 61 Il. 24.534–41, 61 Il. 24.542, 61 Il. 24.544, 15 Il. 24.544–5, 17 Il. 24.546, 35n50 Il. 24.547–8, 61 Il. 24.560, 35n50 Il. 24.564, 27–28 Il. 24.579, 27–28 Il. 24.605, 35n44 Il. 24.722–39, 13 Il. 24.723, 50n48 Il. 24.725–45, 39 Il. 24.734–5, 39 Il. 24.734–9, 16 Il. 24.758–9, 28 Sch. D. Il. 1.5, 149–50 Sch. A. Il. 1.5–6, 150 Sch. Il. 1.23, 35–6n50 Sch. A. Il. 1.591, 206n25 Sch. A. Il. 2.8, 230n31 Sch. bT. Il. 2.8, 230n31 Sch. Il. 2.494, 308n45 Sch. bT. Il. 6.237, 46n4; 47n9 Sch. bT. Il. 6.377, 50n48 Sch. T. Il. 14.319, 45 Sch. A. Il. 15.18, 206n26 Sch. A. Il. 15.18–31, 206n24 Sch. T Il. 22.62–64, 165n11 Sch. A Il. 24.257b, 165n11

380  Index of ancient sources Sch. Il. 24.734, 14 Sch. A Il. 24.735a, 165n11 Od. 1.29, 31 Od. 1.35, 228n8 Od. 1.81, 228n8 Od. 1.150–5, 109 Od. 1.152, 109 Od. 1.325–7, 109; 167n39; 175 Od. 1.336, 112n13 Od. 2.361, 49n33 Od. 4.17–18, 109 Od. 4.17–19, 109 Od. 4.227ff, 150–1 Od. 4.343–4, 15 Od. 4.563–5, 192 Od. 4.742, 49n33 Od. 4.795–839, 98n6 Od. 5.533–547, 47n10 Od. 7.91, 295 Od. 8.69–70, 106 Od. 8.73–82, 167n39; 175 Od. 8.87–92, 112n13 Od. 8.250–69, 110 Od. 8.266, 110 Od. 8.266–366, 175 Od. 8.367–80, 110 Od. 8.499–520, 175 Od. 8.521–31, 112n13 Od. 11.91, 32 Od. 11.99, 32 Od. 11.100–37, 32 Od. 11.256–68, 302 Od. 11.291, 32 Od. 11.297, 32 Od. 11.368–9, 111n5 Od. 12.99, 31 Od. 12.291, 31 Od. 13.197–203, 144n44 Od. 13.265–8, 137 Od. 13.341–3, 267–8n11 Od. 13.376, 237 Od. 15.161, 36n54 Od. 15.425, 182n44 Od. 17.31, 49n33 Od. 17.62, 36n54 Od. 17.518–21, 111n5 Od. 19.21, 49n33 Od. 20.29, 237 Od. 20.39, 237 Od. 20.145, 36n54 Od. 20.386, 237 Od. 21.59–60, 237 Od. 21.98–99, 237 Od. 21.149–51, 237 Od. 21.267, 28

Od. 21.325, 237 Od. 21.378–9, 237 Od. 21.406–11, 111n5 Od. 22.419, 49n33 Od. 22.485, 49n33 Od. 22.500, 237 Od. 23.25, 49n33 Od. 23.39, 49n33 Od. 23.69, 49n33 Od. 23.87, 237 Od. 23.133–6, 109 Od. 23.143–7, 109 Od. 23.207, 237 Od. 23.289, 49n33 Od. 24.35–64, 76n7 Od. 24.60–62, 270n43 Od. 24.120–90, 13 Od. 24.347, 237 Od. 24.397–8, 237 Od. 24.409–10, 237 Od. 24.473, 228n8 Sch. BPQT. Od. 5.334, 47n10 Homeric Hymns H. Ap. 3–9, 35n45 H. Ap. 12–13, 35n45 H. Ap. 37, 15 H. Ap. 318, 48n23 H. Ap. 514–6, 116n62 H. Aph 113–17, 180n19 H. Aph 196–7, 10–12 H. Aph 223–38, 76n8 H. Bacch. 1.8–9, 46n8 H. Bacch. 26. 3–6, 47n11 H. Dem. 17, 46n8 H. Dem. 19–29, 211–2 H. Dem. 431–2, 212–3 Hyginus Fab. 2, 47n10 Fab. 4, 47n10 Fab. 67, 308n46 Fab. 72, 251 Fab. 132, 50n57; 51n60 Fab. 169, 248n50 Fab. 178, 309n56 Fab. 242, 50n57; 51n60 Poet. astr. II.21, 50n57 Iamblichus VP. 9.48, 247n36 Ilias Parva 21.3–5, 39 PEG F 21=F. 20 D, 13 Iliou Persis PEG F 5= Fr. 3 D, 13 Josephus Ap. 1.17, 206n19

Index of ancient sources  381 Justinian 1.47–48, 202 1.73–76, 202 Libanius Ep. 1098, 208n57 Livy 8.10.12, 146n70 Longinus 9.7, 69–70 Longus Longus 1.praef.1–2, 219–20 Lucian Dial. meret. 6.312, 47n10 Lycophron Alex. 1208, 14–15 Alex. 1465, 308n44 Lycurgus Leoc. 62, 12 Lysias Lys. 3.15, 213–4 Lys. 12.25, 231n39 Lys. 13.30–32, 231n39 Lys. 22.5, 231n39 Lysimachus of Alexandria FGrH 382 F9, 14 Myth. Vat. 1.45, 248n50 Menander Aspis 1–18, 282–3 Aspis 69–74, 283 Aspis 91–2, 282–3 Fr. P. 411 (Meineke), 306n17 Dys. 874–8, 281 Sam. 236–59, 285–6 Nonnus Dion. 20.149–404, 50n57 Dion. 21.1–169, 50n57 Origen CC Praef. 4, 204n4 CC 1.8, 204n4 CC 1.16, 187–8; 206n22 CC 1.21, 188; 206n18 CC 1.31, 208n45 CC 1.32, 205n10 CC 1.41, 206n19; 208n46 CC 1.42, 197–8 CC 1.45, 186 CC 1.66, 185; 208n45 CC 2.38, 206n23 CC 2.61, 208n45 CC 2.73–74, 206n23 CC 3.5, 206n18 CC 3.28, 208n45 CC 3.69, 208n45

CC 4.31–36, 206n18 CC 4.48–50, 191–2 CC 4.50, 191 CC 4.50–51, 187 CC 4.52, 187 CC 4.73, 207n39 CC 4.74, 200 CC 4.78, 200 CC 4.83, 204n4 CC 4.84, 200 CC 4.91, 208n44; 208n53 CC 4.94–95, 201 CC 4.99, 201 CC 6.1–9, 205n13 CC 6.3–7, 187 CC 6.3–10, 206n16 CC 6.8, 205n13 CC 6.42, 188; 206n21 CC 6.47, 190; 204n4 CC 7.6, 208n44; 208n45 CC 7.27, 206n16; 206n19 CC 7.28, 192–3; 206n15 CC 7.29, 193 CC 7.31, 193 CC 7.36, 199–200 CC 7.42, 206n20 CC 7.45, 205n13; 205n14 CC 7.61, 206n16 CC 8.68, 194–5 CC 8.69, 195; 207n39 CC 8.70, 196 Com. Lam. Fr. on Lam. 4.3, 208n43 Prologue to Com. Ps. (Patrologia Graeca 12:1056), 205n9 Ep. Afr. 4, 204n3 Ep. Afr. 7, 205n9; 206n31 Ep. Afr. 11, 205n9 Hom. 1 PS 36, part. 1, 194 Hom. 1 PS 36, part 3, 207n34 and 35 Hom. 1 PS 77, parts 1–2, 206n32 Hom. 1 PS 77, part 3, 207n40 Hom. 2 PS 36, part 4, 207n34 Hom. 2 PS 77, part 4, 205n5 Ovid Fast. 3.722, 50n57; 51n60 Fast. 4.445–8, 214 Met. 4.22–3, 50n57 Met. 4.512–542, 47n10 Met. 5.396ff, 214 Met. 7.759ff, 308n47 Met. 11.165–171, 174 Palaephatus 7, 306–7n19

382  Index of ancient sources Pausanias 2.22.1, 51n72 3.2.1, 16–17 3.18.8, 306–7n19 5.11.2, 306–7n19; 307n32 5.18.1, 94 9.12.1, 302 9.25.6, 309n52 9.26.3–4, 300; 308n38 9.26.2–4, 308n41 Pherecydes 3 FGrH F. 90b (EGM i. 322), 50n56 3 FGrH F. 90bcd, 50n57 5 FGrH F. 11b, 183n55 fr. 114 EGM i. 336–7, 47n18 Philo of Alexandria Agr. 95, 206n29 Agr. 110, 206n29 Cher. 21, 206n29 Cher. 60, 206n29 Conf. 170, 195–6 Cont. 4, 191 Det. 155, 206n29 Det. 178, 206n29 Post. 18, 206n29 Philostratus Her. 24.1, 164n6 Her. 25.2, 166n33 Her. 25.8, 166n33 Her. 25.10, 164n6; 166n29 Her. 43.4, 164n6 Photius Bibl. cod. 190 151a37–b5, 168n52 Pindar fr. 71 (Maehler), 167n43 fr. 115 (Maehler), 167n43 Isth. 8.56–60, 76n7 Nem. 2.1–3, 112n7 Nem. 3.51–2, 36n56 Nem. 5.22–25, 269n29 Nem. 7.40–43, 136 O. 13.18–19, 167n43 Paean 6.117–20, 136 Plato Ap. 25a–b, 318 Ap. 31, 325 Ap. 37a–b, 327n21 Ap. 41a6–7, 166n133 Cri. 54d–e, 316 Hp. 86 B6, 166n33 Gorg. 469d, 245n12 Gre. 499a1–3, 223 Gre. 504d1–4, 223 Ion 535b, 112n7 Ion 535c–e, 112n13

Ion 536d3, 166n29 Ion 536d6, 166n29 Ion 539b–d, 208n53 Ion 541e2, 166n29 Ion 542b4, 166n29 La. 184d–185b, 318 Resp. 327a, 326n14 Resp. 327b, 315–6 Resp. 327c, 316; 327n21; Resp. 328a, 327n17 Resp. 330a–c, 327n20 Resp. 335e–336a, 317 Resp. 354a, 326n14 Resp. 368b, 317 Resp. 377el, 167n36 Resp. 377d4–5, 167n36 Resp. 378d5–7, 169n81 Resp. 383a7, 166n29 Resp. 393e1, 218–9 Resp. 393e8–394a1, 220–1 Resp. 394a4–5, 217–8 Resp. 394a6, 230–1n36 Resp. 394a6–7, 221 Resp. 429b–430c, 317 Resp. 534a, 205n14 Resp. 606e1–5, 166n29 Resp. 620c–d, 327n19 Phd. 89d–90e, 316 Phd. 109a–b, 192 Prt. 309a6, 166n29 Symp. 173b, 326n5; 326n11 Symp. 174a, 320 Symp. 174b, 320 Symp. 174d, 326–7n16 Symp. 174e, 326n11 Symp. 214e, 326n5 Symp. 220c–d, 326n16 Symp. 223d, 320 Ti. 20d, 159 Ti. 20d7–25e2, 158 Ti. 20e4–6, 168n58 Ti. 23a1–b3, 167n49 Ti. 29c, 205n14 Ti. 30A, 206n30 Ti. 31C, 206n30 Plautus Men. 72–3, 286 Truculentus 1–4, 286 Pliny Nat. 5.67, 176 Nat. 5.69, 181n34; 182n41; 182n43 Nat. 5.74, 46n8 Nat. 5.128, 181n34 Nat. 6.213, 181n34 Nat. 7.203, 175

Index of ancient sources  383 Nat. 9.11, 181n34 Plutarch De mus. 1141b, 112n10 De sera 559b, 287n4 On the Malice of Herodotus 857a, 159 Peri Isidos kai Osiridos 364f, 51n75 Quaest. Conv. 717a, 47n20 Quaest. Gr. 38. 299 E–F, 47n15 Quomodo adul. 19e, 169n81 (Ps.-Plut.) de Homero 2, 153 (Ps.-Plut.) de Homero 1.7, 166n21 (Ps.-Plut.) de Homero 92, 169n81 PMG fr. 740, 250–1 Porphyry Contra Christianos, 185–6 Proclus Chrestomathia 99.20–100.6 (West), 166n33 Chrestomathia 103, 9 (Allen), 131n55 Chrestomathia 172 (Severyns), 65–6 Propertius 2.31.15–16, 174 Quintus Smyrnaeus Quint. Smyrn. 13.352, 48n24 Sappho 44, 15–18 58, 17 fr. 17, 16–17 Seneca Oedipus 87ff, 308n47 Oedipus 245ff, 308n47 Servius On Vergilius, Aeneis 3.14, 50n57; 51n60 Silenus Eclogue 6, 11.25–6, 175–6 Eclogue 6, 1.31, 175–6 Eclogue 6, 1.33–4, 183n60 Eclogue 6, 1.34, 175–6; 183n60 Eclogue 6, 1.36, 183n60 Eclogue 6, 1.37, 183n60 Eclogue 6, 11.37–38, 176 Eclogue 6, 1.39, 183n60 Eclogue 6, 11.39–42, 176 Socrates of Argos FGrH 310F2, 51n75 Sophocles Ant. 133–7, 50n45 Ant. 955–65, 44, 50n57 Ant. 959, 51n60 Ant. 960, 51n60 Ant. 1126–31, 46n8 El. 571, 141n15

El. 1280–3, 152 fr. 341.2, 248n41 fr. 535 TGrF, 256n19 Hel. 1–55, 152 OP. 161–3, 301 OT. 39–41, 299; 304 OT. 156–60, 308,n37 OT. 391, 306–7,n19 Statius Theb. 1.66, 308n47 Theb. 2.433, 248n50 Theb. 2.500–66, 308n47 Stephanus Thesaurus Linguae Graecae col. 872a s.v. καλέομαι, 212 Stesichorus Iliou Persis fr. 107 Finglass, 48n24 fr. 192–3 PMGF, 152 fr. 202 PMGF, 13 fr. 276 Finglass, 50n57 Strabo 1.2.3, 208n48 1.2.7–8, 208n49 1.2.30, 208n49 1.2.35, 182n43; 198 1.3.35, 181n34 3.4.4, 169n81 9.2.3, 309n52 10.1.8, 309n52 13.1.18, 17 13.1.29, 15 13.1.40, 14 13.1.52, 14 14.1.6, 17–18 16.2.24, 176 16.2.28, 181n34 Suda 2766, 272 Η 583, 183n53 Susarion Marm. Par. 239 A 39 [t1], 275 Statius Theb. 12.177–804, 251 Terpander fr. 9, 46n8 Theon Progymn. 1.60, 208n50 Thucydides 1.12.3, 309n52 7.57.5, 16–7 Tibullus Tib. 2.5.1–10, 174 Tib. 2.5.8, 174 Valerius Flaccus Argon. 3:439–43, 134

384  Index of ancient sources Varro Rust. 3.1, 309n54 Vergil Aen. 1.12, 178n6 Aen. 1.20, 178n6 Aen. 1.135, 175 Aen. 1.137, 175 Aen. 1.138, 179n15 Aen. 1.141, 175 Aen. 1.302, 178n6 Aen. 1.336, 178n6 Aen. 1.338, 178n6 Aen. 1.340, 178n6 Aen. 1.344, 178n6 Aen. 1.346, 178n6 Aen. 1.388, 178n6 Aen. 1.423, 178n6 Aen. 1.442, 178n6 Aen. 1.446, 178n7 Aen. 1.567, 178n6 Aen. 1.568, 178n6 Aen. 1.574, 178n6 Aen. 1.613, 178n7 Aen. 1.619, 178n6 Aen. 1.661, 171; 178n6 Aen. 1.670, 178n7 Aen. 1.678, 178n6 Aen. 1.696, 178n6 Aen. 1.707, 178n6 Aen. 1.714, 178n7 Aen. 1.732, 178n6 Aen. 1.735, 178n6 Aen. 1.740–747, 171–177 Aen. 1.747, 178n6 Aen. 1.752–55, 219 Aen. 2.423, 180n19 Aen. 4.36, 174 Aen. 4.49, 178n6 Aen. 4.75, 178n6 Aen. 4.104, 178n6 Aen. 4.111, 178n6 Aen. 4.134, 178n6 Aen. 4.137, 178n6 Aen. 4.162, 178n6 Aen. 4.215, 166n22 Aen. 4.224, 178n6 Aen. 4.246–51, 175 Aen. 4.262, 178n6 Aen. 4.296, 174 Aen. 4.321, 178n6 Aen. 4.326, 174 Aen. 4.348, 178n7 Aen. 4.468, 178n6 Aen. 4.480–2, 175

Aen. 4.529, 178n7 Aen. 4.544, 178n6 Aen. 4.545, 178n6 Aen. 4.622, 178n6 Aen. 4.669–71, 166n22 Aen. 4.683, 178n6 Aen. 6.450, 178n7 Aen. 8.134–42, 175 Aen. 9.638, 174 Ecl. 2.57, 181n23 Ecl. 3.76, 181n23 Ecl. 3.79, 181n23 G. 1.138, 179n15 G. 1.478, 176 G. 2.475–84, 176 G. 2.478, 179n14 Xanthus of Lydia 765 F. 14 FGrH, 19n16 Xenomedes of Ceos FGH 442 F 3, 131n52 Xenophanes B12 D–K, 268n15 Xenophon An. 4.7.15, 98 Ap. 19, 327n29 Cyr. 1.1, 319 Cyr. 1.3.2, 327n24 Cyr. 1.6.21, 319 Cyr. 2.1.29, 320 Cyr. 2.2.30, 320 Cyr. 2.4.6, 320 Cyr. 8.1.38, 320 Cyr. 8.1.40–41, 327n24 Cyr. 8.8.20, 327n24 Hell. 2.3.56, 327n29 Hell. 3.1.16, 17–18 Mem. 1.2.41–46, 318–9 Mem. 1.5, 317 Mem. 2.1, 318 Mem. 2.1.20, 320 Mem. 2.5, 317 Mem. 3.11.1–2, 317 Mem. 4.1.2, 327n26 Mem. 4.2.1, 317 Mem. 4.6.15, 318 Oec. 10, 327n24; Oec. 11.18, 320 Oec. 13.9, 319 Oec. 21.3, 320 Symp. 311–327 Symp. 1.2, 321 Symp. 1.3, 321–2 Symp. 1.4, 322

Index of ancient sources  385 Symp. 1.5, 320; 322 Symp. 1.7, 320; 323 Symp. 1.10, 321 Symp. 2.3–4, 320 Symp. 3.6, 169n81 Symp. 4.6, 166n29

Symp. 4.56, 318 Symp. 7.3–4, 316 Symp. 8.2, 327n26 Symp. 8.42, 323 Symp. 8.37–40, 323–4 Symp. 9.1, 321

386  Index of ancient sources

Bible Hebrew Bible Genesis 3:24, 294 Exodus 3:8, 193 4:2ff, 222 2 Samuel 18:1–5, 146n71 18:23–27, 146n71 Ezekiel 21:3–4, 294 21:10, 294 Psalms 18:11–15, 294 36, 193–4 36:9, 194; 207n33 37:9, 207n33 New Testament Matthew 4:1–10, 188 Mark 1:10–11, 208n46 Luke 22:3, 188 23:27, 188 John

16:33, 196 Thessalonians 2:1–12, 192 Rabbinic Literature Mishna m.Meg. 1.8, 208n58 m.San. 10.1, 203 yMeg. 71b, 209n61 yMeg. 71c, 208n58 t.Hul. 2.22–4, 205n10 Jerusalem Talmud jSan 10.1, 209n64 jSot 7.1, 204n3 Midrash Genesis Rabba 36.8, 209n61 46.3. 209n61 Papyri P. Berlin 9782, 273–4 P. Cairo Zen. 14, 181n31 P. Lond. 2086, 181n31 P. Oxy. 3317, 256n22 PSI 4.406, 181n31 Inscriptions SEG 48 748, no. I, IV, 50n52

Index

Note: Page numbers followed by “n” denote endnotes. Achilles: and Ajax 54, 57–9, 94; and Antilochus 52, 54–7, 61, 62n12; and Memnon 65–9, 70–5, 76n6, 76n12, 76n17; and Patroclus 23–4, 54, 59, 64n33, 70, 73, 77n21, 87, 89, 134–9, 144n44, 236–7; and Phoenix 57–8;  and Priam 16–17, 54, 60–1, 72–3, 236–7 Achilles’ smile 52–3, 55–6, 57, 61, 63n22 and 29 Acrobats 109 addressee-oriented expressions 219, 220, 225–6 Aeneas 9–14, 80–3, 85, 90, 93, 98n6, 127, 130n41, 151, 166n22, 172, 173–5, 181n27, 183n51 and 55, 197–8, 219–20 Aeschylus 41–2, 138, 158, 161, 235–6, 238, 237–9, 240, 243–4, 245n6, 246n26, 248n44, 251, 254–5, 271, 277, 308n36, 325 Agamemnon 24–5, 26–8, 29–30, 31, 35n39, 35n43, 35n48, 35–6n50, 36n51, 53–4, 56–7, 57–9, 62n11, 63n30, 64n35, 121–2, 131n61, 133, 199–200, 215–16, 327n20 Agenor 83, 85, 99n7 Agrionia 38, 38–9, 42, 50n54 Aithiopis 65–8, 69–70, 72, 75, 75n4 Alaksandu 118, 119–20, 122, 123–4, 125, 129–30n36, 132 Alexandria: city of Celsus’s activity 187, 190, 191, 201; city of Origen’s upbringing 196–7, 205n5, 204; Homeric scholarship in 104, 114n27, 187, 190, 191, 197, 198, 200; Platonic tradition in 196, 203–4 Amulets 304, 310n63, 310n67

Anatolia 17, 118–19, 119–20, 122–3, 126–7, 128n8, 132–3, 134, 135, 137, 139, 141n16, 143n26, 159, 293–4 ancient Homeric criticism 147, 149, 152, 162–3 Andromache 12–14, 15–16, 17, 18, 28, 37–8, 39–40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 49n33, 50n48 Antilochus: and Achilles 54–7, 61, 63n20, 63n24, 63n27, 63n29 Apollo 9–10, 20n26, 28, 30, 31–2, 36n51, 44, 66, 80–4, 85, 87, 88–9, 91–2, 93, 99n7, 132, 137, 141n16, 141–2n18, 161, 174, 183n51, 216, 228n6, 263, 265, 297–8 Aramaic 209n63, 292, 303–4, 309n62, 309–10n63 argument from isolation 162 Arisbe 13, 15, 18, 20n36 Aristarchus 51n61, 108, 109, 147, 149–50, 154, 156, 157, 164–5n10, 190, 228n8 Aristophanes 97, 150, 199–200, 250, 271, 274, 275–6, 277–8, 287–8n8, 288n14, 289n17, 289–90n27 Aristotle: interpretation of Homer 78, 98n3, 155, 198, 200; Poetics 78, 98n3, 199–200 Arslan-Tash 294, 303–4, 309n62, 310n68 Ascanius 13–14 Astyanax 12–14, 15–16, 39, 40, 43–4, 45–6, 48n24 asylum 237, 238, 239, 241, 244, 246n21, 246n22, 258 Athens, hegemony of 14 audience experience 22–3, 110, 266, 271, 283–4

388 Index bard/aoidos: cognitive load on 103–4, 106, 107, 110 “Books of Homer” 203 boughs 235–6, 239, 241, 242, 244 Celsus: as Alexandrian-Middle Platonist 187, 191–2; criticism of Christians as misinterpreting Homer 188, 191; interpretation of Homer 185–6, 189–90, 191, 192, 194–5, 200; The True Logos 186, 187–8, 197 competition 106, 111, 122, 125, 127, 275, 279–80 contextual meaning 22–3, 24–5, 26–7, 28, 32–3 Contra Celsum: anonymous Jewish document contained in 201–2; circumstances of its composition 185; implied audience of 186, 199 Cratinus 271, 274–6 Cypria 10–11, 11–12, 119, 148–9, 150, 151–2 daggers 236, 239, 241, 244 Danaids 161, 235–6, 237–9, 240–1, 242, 243–4, 246n23, 246n26, 247n38, 248n52 Danaus 235, 236, 237–8, 241, 242, 246n23, 247n29, 247n37 dancers 109, 110, 117n64, 263–4, 265, 271, 272–3 delocutives 226, 229n20 Delphi 136, 137, 272–3, 297–8, 300–1, 307n33 democracy 238, 242, 244, 247n37, 248n43, 318, 319, 324–5 Demodocus 102, 103, 105–6, 109–10, 117n65, 172, 175, 176–7 diēgēsis haplē 222–3, 227n2 Diodorus of Sicily 18, 157–8, 159–60, 162, 168n59, 173, 308n47 Diomedes 11, 54, 62n11, 79–81, 132, 147–9, 199–200 Dionysus 17, 37–40, 43–6, 46–7n8, 47n9, 47n10, 48n22, 50n52, 263–4, 265, 279 doors, in comedy 287n8, 288n13, 289n17 Doric comedy 271–2 duels 70–1 Egypt 126, 147, 148–9, 150–2, 152–3, 154–5, 156, 157, 158, 159–61, 162–3, 194–6, 201, 207n41, 235–6, 239, 244, 247n37, 248n38, 292–3, 295, 301, 304, 305n2, 305–6n6, 306n14

emotion 17, 24, 30, 52, 53–4, 57, 59–61, 61, 63n26, 63n27, 64n33, 64n35, 68, 69–71, 72, 75, 133, 172, 227–8n5, 236, 249, 252–3, 284 emotional intelligence 52–3, 54, 61, 62n8, 63n26, 63n29 Eos 65–7, 68–70, 71–4, 75, 76n13, 77n32, 97 Epic Cycle 14–15, 65, 151–2 Epicharmean argument 273–4 Epicharmus 271–5, 287n4, 287n7, 289n18 Erlkönig 212, 216, 227n3, erotic 239, 256n17, 316–17, 318, 320, 321–2, 323, 324, 327n26 etymology 31, 135, 304–5 Eumelus 48n22, 54–7 Euphronios 92–5, 99n15, 99n17, 99–100n18, 100n24 Euripides (Heracles): Agones in 267n4; Antigone 44, 49–50n43, 249–55, 256n17, 256n22; characterization in 260–1; Muses in 262–6, 269n38, 270n43; poetics of fiction in 153, 257, 265–6, 271; poetics of truth in 257, 262–5, 271; politeness in 258, 260; religious attitudes in 259; Theseus in 257–62, 265–6, 267n4, 267n5, 267n8, 268n12, 268n14, 268n15 extra-clausal utterances 210, 213, 220–5, 226 Falling 47n9 fiction 180n19, 224, 266–7n3, 271, 272, 276, 280, 285–6, 287–8n8, 288n13, 289–90n27 Finkelberg, Margalit 65, 120–1, 125, 126, 145n60, 147, 151–2, 153, 169n83, 210, 216, 227n2, 246n14, 249, 257, 292, 301, 309n51, 327n28 focalization 23, 24–5, 27–9, 30, 32–3, 35–6n50, 70–1, 256n17 formula 21–5, 26, 27–8, 29, 30, 31, 32–3, 34n30, 35n46, 67, 108, 110, 116n51, 116n60, 121, 135, 174, 212, 217–18, 223–4, 225, 228n8, 230n25, 237 formulaic epithets 21–5, 28–9, 31–3, 34n30, 35n46 free indirect discourse 212, 214, 220, 222–5, 228–9n15 funeral games 52–5, 60–1, 63n30, 125, 138–9

Index  389 geometric symperasma 225–6 gestures 60–1, 70–4, 77n28, 136, 144n46, 239–40, 241, 259 Glaucus 37–8, 88–90, 99n7 goddesses 10, 23, 47n10, 67–75, 76n16, 79, 142n24, 189, 197–8, 214, 229n16, 252–3, 260–1, 263–6, 284, 292–3, 294, 297, 306n10, 307n24, 326n14 graves/tombs 45, 76n20, 92, 105, 114n30, 149, 200, 250, 252–3, 296–7, 301 Greek vases 67, 69, 70–3, 76n12, 76n16, 94, 292 griffins 293, 295–7, 305–6n6, 307n24 hand(s), 13, 39, 54, 55, 60, 64n36, 66, 69, 71–2, 73–4, 79, 81, 84–6, 87–8, 92, 94–5, 98n7, 100n21, 125, 144n44, 213, 215–16, 222, 236–7, 238, 239, 240–2, 243–4, 246n16, 248n38, 248n43, 261 Hector 9, 10, 12–13, 14–15, 16, 17, 18, 31, 37, 39–42, 43–6, 49n37, 50n48, 51n62, 58–9, 65, 66, 73, 76n6, 76n20, 79, 83–4, 85–7, 89, 90–1, 99n9, 99n14, 133, 136, 236–7 Helen 9–11, 17, 18, 50n48, 85–6, 120, 122, 126, 129n21, 131n56, 147–9, 151, 152, 153, 157 Hera 17, 23, 38, 39, 42, 47n10, 50n48, 86–7, 91, 157, 188–9, 190, 191–2, 240, 244, 250–1, 258, 260, 261, 266, 300–1 Herodotus 11, 118, 141n12, 147–9, 150–1, 152–4, 155–7, 158, 159, 160–1, 162–3, 164n5, 167n34, 167n43, 168n58 Hesiod 32, 38, 49n37, 153–5, 156, 158, 159–61, 175, 176, 256n19, 264, 265–6, 268n15, 295, 299, 301, 302, 308n43, 325 Hittite 118–20, 121–8, 129n32, 130n37, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140n7, 140–1n9, 141n17, 142n19, 142n21, 142n24, 142n26, 158, 159–60, 293–4 Homer: canonical status of 185; Iliad 9, 10, 11–12, 13, 14, 16, 17, 19n5, 23, 24, 25, 26–9, 30, 31, 32, 35–6n50, 36n51, 37–8, 39, 41, 42–5, 46n3, 52, 53–4, 55–6, 57, 64n34, 64n38, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 72, 73, 76n6, 76n20, 78–9, 83, 87–8, 89–91, 93–4, 98n3, 98–9n6, 99n9, 103, 109, 116n50, 124, 127, 130n41, 131n61, 132, 133, 134, 135–6, 139, 144n44, 148, 149–50, 151, 152, 154, 157–8, 190, 210, 216, 217–20, 221, 236–7, 269n37; literary style of 200;

Odyssey 26, 31, 32, 49n33, 79, 102, 103, 106, 109, 120, 121, 148–9 150, 151, 152, 154, 157, 171, 172, 228n7, 237, 268n14, 302; as part of Greek paideia 201, 202, 203, 204; problems of veracity in 197–9; reception among Christians and Jews 186–209 Homeric gods 30, 35n46, 98n3, 121, 154, 175, 191, 267–8n11 Homeric Hymn to Demeter 46–7n8, 211–12 Homeric Scholarship: critical signs of 158–9, 161–2 Homērou epainetai (admirers of Homer), 153 Homilia 37, 39–41, 42–5, 46n6 hybrid 292, 293, 294, 296, 297, 299, 302, 306n14, 307n29 Hypermestra 241 Hypnos 92, 93, 95, 100n15, 100n18 Hyponoiai (hidden meanings) 162–3, 244 inconsistencies of narrative 162–3 intelligence, emotional: Achilles and 53–4, 61, 62n8, 63n29; Agamemnon and 54, 63n30; Antilochus and 52, 54–5, 57, 61, 62n14, 63n29; specific abilities of 52–3 invocation 211–12, 216, 218, 227–8n5 Iphigeneia 133, 136, 138–9, 141n15, 214–15, 216, 227n3, 229n16 Jerusalem Talmud 185, 186, 202, 203 Jewish patriarch 202–3 Kadmos 292, 300, 301, 302, 304–5, 308n42, 309n54, 309n57 Kalokagathia 314, 321, 323, 324 Lesbos 15–17, 20n37, 60–1, 119–20, 219–20 Libanius 202 Louden, Bruce 11 Lycurgus 37–8, 42–3, 44–5, 47n10, 138 lyre/phorminx: (4-string), 102, 107–8, 110–11, 111n3; (7-string), 107, 115n49, 264; tuning of 106–7, 108, 110, 115n41 maenad 38, 39–40, 42, 45, 48n28, 254, 256n22 Melampous, author of a Theogony 159–60 melody 102–4, 105–8, 109–10, 116n59, 116n60

390 Index Memnon 65–9, 70, 71, 72, 73–5, 76n12, 76n17, 97 memory 113n22, 116n59, 126, 130n42, 130–1n52, 178n6, 263, 264, 277 Menander 271, 280, 281, 286, 289n26 Menelaus 11, 17, 54–5, 62n14, 63n27, 84–5, 86, 99n7, 109, 120, 122, 129n21 Mesopotamia 136, 139, 159, 160–1, 162, 293, 301 Metatheatre 286 meter 15–16, 32–3 monsters 299, 303, 304, 309n57 mothers 65, 66–75, 76n17, 76n18 myth 14, 16, 26, 42, 67, 75, 120–1, 121, 125, 126, 133, 134–5, 138–9, 149–52, 154, 158, 159–60, 163, 175, 190, 191–2, 198, 227n3, 243–4, 249, 250, 251, 259, 273, 297, 299, 302, 304, 305, 309n51 Mythographus Homericus 147, 149–52, 153, 157 Mytilene 14, 15, 16, 17–18, 20n26 narrative and drama 227n2 Near East, influence on early Greek poetry 132–3, 138, 159, 161, 295, 298, 299, 300, 302 neoanalysis 147, 149, 157, 162, 163 New Comedy 271, 274, 280–1, 286, 289n17 New Testament 173, 198, 200, 201–2 nurse (τιθήνη) 37–8, 39–41, 42, 43–5, 46n8, 47n9, 47n10, 49n10, 50n56, 160–1, 259, 268n12, 284–5 obliqua 217, 218–19, 220, 223, 224,  227–8n5, 228n14, 228–9n15, 230–1n36 Ocean, Homer as 154, 155–6 Oedipus 120, 197–8, 252, 253–4, 292, 297–8, 299–302, 304, 308n36, 308n39, 309n51 Old Comedy 271, 274–5, 278, 280, 286, 287–8n8, 289n17, 289n18 oratio 212, 214, 216–17, 218–19, 220, 223–5, 226, 227n2, 227–8n5, 228n14, 228–9n15, 230–1n36 oratio memorata 212, 216–17, 218, 225, 226, 227–8n5 orientalizing approaches to Homer 163

orientalizing art 163, 295, 296, 297, 298, 304 Origen: Alexandrian upbringing 187, 190–1, 196–7; engagement with rabbis and Hellenistic Jews 192, 194, 201; interpretation of Homer 186, 191–3, 194, 195–6, 198–9; newly discovered Homilies on Psalms 191, 193–4, 205n5; Platonic orientation of 185, 187, 191–4, 196, 201–2 Ovid 174, 213, 214, 229n16 palaces 40, 41, 126, 127–8, 130n47, 261, 293–4, 295, 297, 301, 304 para-narrative 37–8, 42–5, 46n6 Paris 11, 17, 18, 19n5, 41, 66, 84–6, 93, 98n4, 99n9, 118, 120, 125–6, 131n56, 149, 151–2, 166n22 Parry, Milman 21–2, 23, 24–5, 26, 27, 31, 33n14, 115n40 Patroclus 51n62, 52, 54, 59–60, 62n12, 64n33, 70, 73, 76n20, 77n21, 87, 88–92, 99n13, 132, 133, 134, 136–9, 144n44, 144–5n50, 236–7 Pelasgus 237, 238, 240, 242, 247n29 performance, of bard: of bards in the Homeric poems 102–4, 106, 107–8, 109–11; of dancers/acrobats 109, 110, 117n64, 264, 265, 271; of Odysseus 62n11, 102–3 Persephone 211–12, 214–15, 216, 227n3, 228n8, 229n16, 297 pharmakos 133 Phemius 102, 109, 172, 175, 176 Philo: Alexandrian background of 187, 191, 201; interpretation of Homer 191, 195–6, 201; Jewish Platonist 187, 188, 191, 192, 196, 201 Phoenicians 148–9, 160, 171, 173, 176–7, 178n6, 178–9n8, 295–6, 304 plainchant 104, 113n22 Plato: interpretation of Homer 112n7, 191–4, 325; Republic 152, 154, 210, 220–1, 217, 218, 311–12, 314, 315–16, 317, 319, 320–1, 324, 325 and n2, 326n10, 327n20; Timaeus 158, 159, 188, 191 Plautus 171, 286, 290n28 political 121, 174, 195–6, 202, 237–8, 242–3, 271, 317–19, 324, 327n20, 327n24 potential meaning 23, 25, 27, 30, 32

Index  391 Priam 9, 10, 12, 16, 17, 48n24, 54, 58, 60–1, 64n36, 65, 72–3, 76n20, 120, 123–4, 125, 130n41, 236–7 progymnasmata 200 prologue 267n7, 288n13 Porphyry 185–6, 197 Pseudo–Plutarch On Homer 153, 155, 157

210, 221, 224, 227–8n5, 235, 275, 282, 289n17, 294, 295, 297 substitute 82, 85, 98n6, 133–7, 138, 139, 141n12, 142n21, 143n33, 144n50, 145n56, 145n58, 145n64, 146n74 symposium 287n3, 312–13, 314–16, 317, 320–1, 323, 324, 325, 326n9, 326n13

reperformance 277, 288n12 response formula 26, 223–25 royal succession 118, 119–20, 121, 122–3 royalty 133, 292–3, 294–5, 296, 298 rush (σεύω), 17, 39–40, 41, 43–4

tag questions 220, 222–3 tarpalli 133–4, 135, 136–7, 138, 142n24 Thanatos 92–3, 95, 100n15 and 18 Thebes 15, 49n38, 138–9, 251, 253, 257, 259, 262–3, 266, 292, 295, 299–302, 308n36, 309n54 therapon 134–5, 136–9, 144n50, 145n54, 145n60, 146n72 Thetis 26, 31, 38–9, 43, 44, 46, 48n22, 65–7, 69–71, 72–5, 76n6, 77n21, 77n32, 150, 197, 236–7 thrones 118, 120, 122, 123–5, 127, 133, 134–5, 141n12, 292, 293, 295–7, 299–301, 304, 306n10, 308n38, 309n51 touching 74, 77n21, 235–6, 239–40, 248n38 tradition 11, 13–16, 18n3, 21–3, 24–5, 26, 30, 31, 32, 39, 45, 65, 68, 99n9, 102–4, 106, 107, 111n3, 114n27, 121, 124, 128, 132, 133–4, 136, 138–9, 151–3, 154–7, 159, 161, 162–3, 173–7, 179n15, 182n38, 182n39, 182n41, 183n56, 184n65 and 66, 186, 187, 188–9, 198, 201, 203, 213, 216, 221, 229n20, 250–1, 294, 299, 300, 302, 308n45, 309n57 traditional referentiality 25, 30, 32–3, 34n27, 269n28 Trojan War 14, 17, 41, 65, 79, 85, 118, 124, 125, 126, 128, 130n42, 132, 134, 150, 152, 156–7, 197–9 Troy 10–12, 13–14, 16, 17, 18, 31, 37, 41, 42, 44, 45, 60–1, 65, 70, 85, 89–90, 92, 118–19, 120, 123, 125–8, 130n42, 134, 145n58, 149–50, 151, 152, 171, 198, 199, 301 truth, poetics of 257, 262–5, 271

sacrifice 38, 41, 47n9, 49n38, 95, 133, 135–7, 138–9, 141n16, 141–2n18, 148–9, 196, 214–15, 216, 217, 223, 254 Sampson, Michael 16 sanctuaries 17, 40 Sarpedon 86–95, 99n12, 100n22, 136, 197–8 Scamandrius 9, 12–15, 18, 19n18 scapegoat 133–4 Scepsis 14, 17 Scholia, Homeric 47n9, 47n10, 50n48, 64n33, 87, 92, 98n7, 149–50, 157–8, 159, 190, 206n24, 230n31, 287n7 semantic force 21–22, 24–7, 30, 31, 32 Socrates 193, 210, 216, 217–19, 228n6, 230–1n36, 311–12, 313–18, 320–4, 325n4, 326n5, 326n6, 326n9, 326n11, 326n14, 327n15, 327n17, 327n18, 327n19, 327n20, 327n21, 327n27, 327n28, 327n29 Solon 158, 162 space: comic 274, 276–7, 280, 286, 288n13; fictions of 271, 276–7, 280, 286, 288n13; offstage 280, 286 spatial imagination 279, 280, 284, 287–8n8, 288n13, 288n14, 290n28 speak–back 280–1, 289n22 sphinx 250, 291–301, 302–5, 305n1, 306n8, 306n10, 306n12, 306–7n19, 307n29, 308n39, 308n42, 310n68 Stesichorus 13, 48n24, 50n57, 152–3, 156 Strabo – interpretation of Homer 14, 15, 17–18, 153, 173, 176, 198 style 15, 21–3, 24–5, 26, 30, 32, 106, 114n36, 175, 179–80n18, 197, 200,

underworld 93, 138–9, 157, 214–16, 252–3, 271, 276, 297, 299, 301 unreportable tokens 210, 218–19, 222–3, 228–9n15, 229n20, 231n38

392 Index verbatim incorporation 103, 188–9, 210, 212, 217–18, 220–1, 223–5, 225–6, 226, 229n16 visualization 78, 93–4 voting 240–1 Wilusa 118–20, 122, 123–5, 130n36, 130n44, 132 wolf 44–5, 51n65 Xenophon 17–18, 98, 162–3, 311, 312–14, 316–17, 318, 319, 320–1, 323–5, 327n18, 327n19, 327n25, 327n27, 327n29, 327n30

Zeno 153 Zenodotus (Alexandrian Homer scholar), 165n10, 190, 206n24 Zeus 10–11, 17, 23–4, 26–7, 28, 29–30, 31, 35n39, 37–9, 40, 43–4, 45–6, 46n8, 48n23, 58, 60–1, 65–7, 70–1, 80, 84–5, 86–8, 89–90, 90–2, 148–50, 157, 175, 188–90, 191, 195, 197–8, 211–12, 214, 228n8, 236–7, 238, 239, 240, 243–4, 246n23, 248n38, 258, 260, 260–2, 264–5, 267–8n11, 297–8, 302 ἀήρ 82, 84, 92 ἀχλύς 79, 80, 82, 83–4, 92–3, 100n15 νεφέλη 81–2, 91–2