What is a God?: Studies in the Nature of Greek Divinity 9781910589519, 1910589519

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What is a God? Studies in the Nature of Greek Divinity Edited by

alan B. Lloyd

WHAT IS A GOD? Studies in the nature of Greek divinity

Editor

Alan B. Lloyd

Contributors Walter Burkert, Michael Clarke, John K. Davies, Susan Deacy, Bernard Dietrich, Thomas Harrison, Anne-France Morand, Catherine Osborne, Seth L. Schein, Richard Seaford, Alexandra Villing

The Classical Press of Wales

First published in hardback in 1997 Paperback edition 2009

The Classical Press of Wales 15 Rosehill Terrace, Swansea SA1 6JN Tel: +44 (0)1792 458397 Fax: +44 (0)1792 464067 www.classicalpressofwales.co.uk Distributor in the United States of America ISD, LLC 70 Enterprise Dr., Suite 2, Bristol, CT 06010 Tel: +1 (860) 584–6546 www.isdistribution.com

© 2009 The contributors All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. ISBN 978-1-910589-51-9 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

CONTENTS Introductory note

vii

1. From Knossos to Homer Bernard Dietrich (University of Wales Aberystwyth)

1

2. From epiphany to cult statue Walter Burkert (University of Zurich)

15

3. Heraclitus and the rites of established religion Catherine Osborne (University of Wales Swansea)

35

4. The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo J.K. Davies (University of Liverpool)

43

5. Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry Michael Clarke (University of Manchester)

65

6. Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth A.C. Villing (University of Oxford)

81

7. Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution Thomas Harrison (University of St Andrews)

101

8. Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy Seth L. Schein (University of California, Davis)

123

9. Thunder, lightning and earthquake in the Bacchae and the Acts of the Apostles Richard Seaford (University of Exeter)

139

10. Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth Susan Deacy (University of Keele)

153

11. Orphic gods and other gods Anne-France Morand (University of Geneva)

169

Index

183

v

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

This volume stems from a colloquium with the same title, held in July 1994 at Gregynog by the University of Wales Institute of Classics and Ancient History – as its inaugural conference. The conference was conceived and convened by Professor Alan Lloyd, and it was he who secured the participation of selected conference members in the present volume. In the production of the volume, Anton Powell acted as reader and sub-editor, and also made the index. Editor and subeditor wish to record their continuing debt to the meticulous and scholarly work of the Institute’s typesetter, Ernest Buckley. The material in the volume has been arranged in chronological order, as far as possible. In their respective papers, Dietrich and Burkert treat the earliest evidence, Minoan, Mycenaean and Homeric. Osborne reinterprets passages of Heraclitus and suggests a position less hostile to traditional religion than has often been thought. Davies, in examining Apollo, finds that the directing of human morality is very far from the main element of the god’s persona; Schein argues that Sophocles shows gods as guiding human decisions less often than do other tragedians. Harrison finds in Herodotus a persistent, if not wholly consistent, belief in divine retribution for human action. Clarke shows that a scrupulous reading of Greek passages on mountains-asdivinities reveals a literalism unfamiliar to modern thought but paralleled in neighbouring non-Greek culture; Seaford examines correspondences between classical and New Testament portrayal of numinous events on earth. Morand shares with Seaford an interest in Dionysus, but in Dionysus as part of the Orphic religion of Roman Asia Minor. Villing and Deacy study Athena, each with a special concern for aspects beyond Athens: Villing examines cults in the Peloponnese, Deacy studies the connection with the Amazons. A.P.

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FROM KNOSSOS TO HOMER Bernard Dietrich Soon after the decipherment of Linear B, similarities became apparent between some metric phrases of the non-literary texts and Homeric epic.1 It was argued that these represented remnants of Mycenaean epic; but the theory found little favour at the time.2 Over forty years later the subject has been revisited in the light of new evidence and work. A plausible modern theory suggests that after the destruction of the Bronze Age palaces, Aeolic poets of Boeotia and Thessaly preserved the memory of such epic traditions, which travelled to the Ionic colonies in the East before their return and diffusion throughout the Greek world.3 More recently Homeric language, characters and themes have been traced back to Mycenaean via Aeolic and Ionic epic.4 It is an historically possible route, although the linguistic arguments are not without difficulty.5 If such epic existed, as seems likely now, it should be looked for in the oral poetic tradition. Over the centuries this absorbed foreign influences, notably from the East, but nevertheless accurately remembered the Aegean past. For example, a good many names of Homeric heroes can be read on the tablets. As it is extremely unlikely that the epic poet borrowed his characters from these palace inventories or the scribes invented them, both must have drawn from an older Minoan and Mycenaean source which was already familiar with the figures and their myths.6 Other features that hark back to the Bronze Age include Homeric perceptions of time, nature, narrative themes, all of which offer interesting technical points of comparison between oral and graphic composition. Much work has been done recently in comparing epic formulaic techniques with Minoan pictorial forms in wall painting and glyptic art.7 Repetitive phrases and epithets in oral poetry recall fixed compositional types of Minoan iconography in wall painting and especially on Middle and Late Bronze Age rings with a limited range of designs, figural attitudes and iconographical symbols.8 Both Aegean 1 Return to Table of Contents

Bernard Dietrich artist and epic poet worked with common themes: teichoscopy, lion hunts, combinations of fighting and pastoral settings, landscapes and the like. Placed side by side, such formulaic elements created continuous narrative scenes, as in the miniature frescoes from the West House on Thera.9 With the new palaces Minoans effectively introduced representational painting. In contrast with Egyptian convention, artists showed nature as she appears to the eye.10 Narrative scenes in wall painting and glyptic art could extend over several days of a religious festival, as on the panels of the Hagia Triada sarcophagus.11 Occasionally one design embraced generic aspects of life, such as the recurring cycle of death and regeneration.12 Others again compressed a series of events into one frame like the Toreador frescoes which show all stages of bullleaping in the same picture. Similarly single scenes may suggest both divine arrival and departure,13 or a god’s approach from afar could be frozen in perspective, whether or not he is seen by the human worshippers. Many cultic scenes incorporate a symbolic sign or icon which indicates the type of ritual portrayed. Given the close affinity of Minoan religion to fundamental aspects of nature cult, most will involve the celebration of fertility and rebirth. And the most efficacious of these rituals was the act of blood sacrifice which had as its primary aim the release of the powers of renewal through the victim’s death.14 The double axe served both as instrument of sacrifice and symbol of renewal through the act of slaughter. Another distinctive recurring sign is that of the so-called impaled triangle which may be the dagger used in sacrifice, unless it stands for a more obvious sign of female fertility.15 But its message of renewal is similar to that of the axe, and both icons may in fact be shown between the horns of a bull’s head.16 On a ring from Vapheio on the mainland the axe appears in an elaborate design resembling a cultic knot and the Egyptian symbol of life, the ankh sign.17 The double axe preserved some of its symbolic value in historical Greek tradition and evidently remained close to the heart of the modern Cretan.18 Such symbols occur regularly on Minoan and Mycenaean rings on their own or in combination with other signs. They indicate the general nature of the cultic scene rather than a specific festival, location or even necessarily a particular god. In function they resemble Homeric epithets of individuals and formulaic phrases describing attributes of cities or geographical locations. Homeric usage presents a mix of specific and purely ornamental or generic epithets,19 some of which 2 Return to Table of Contents

From Knossos to Homer may have changed from their first occurrence in Mycenaean.20 Furthermore, specific epithets can of course be inappropriate to a particular occasion in which a hero becomes involved. Swift-footed Achilles may be sitting in his tent playing the lyre while receiving guests.21 If the comparison is sound, icons may have operated within an equally wide range of usage, so that they can only loosely be used as guides to particular scenes. Other curious parallelisms between Homer and Minoan Crete may offer more precise insights. One is the almost total silence regarding temples in both worlds. Certainly neither poet nor Minoan/Mycenaean art provides convincing evidence of separate temples in the city as distinct from the palace along the oriental model. At present only a few exceptions to the rule are known in Crete or the Cycladic islands.22 Nor is the concept of the temple as the naov" or home of a deity documented before the Pylian calkivnao" in Linear B.23 Minoan and Mycenaean sanctuaries tended to operate in larger connected complexes usually in association with an open space. This is the characteristic lay-out of the palace sanctuaries, or of the cult centre at Mycenae and the structures on the lower acropolis of Tiryns on the mainland.24 In contrast with the contemporary picture in archaic Greece and the growing number of new foundations from the eighth century BC , temples in Homer are also few and far between, apart from two each for Apollo and Athena as city deities.25 Equally rare in Homer is the word naov" (Ion. nhov"), perhaps because his gods lived together on Olympus and not in the houses of the city.26 A most interesting coincidence between Homer and the Minoan world is the absence of cult statues. Votive gifts, including the sacrificial victim, are ajgavlmata intended to delight the gods and not represent or incorporate them.27 A signal exception appears to be a passage in Book 6 of the Iliad. There Athena’s priestess Theano offered a pevplo" to the goddess in her temple on the acropolis of Troy with the prayer that she might break Diomede’s spear and take pity on the Trojan wives.28 The goddess nodded her refusal to the request. The idea of a moving statue seemed ridiculous and redundant to Aristarchus who promptly athetised the line.29 A few believe that there was a statue which came to life pygmalion-like and momentarily transformed itself into the goddess herself.30 But it is open to doubt, I think, whether the verb ajnevneue was meant literally. More likely the poet vividly described Athena’s refusal which, as so often in Homer, did not require an actual divine physical presence. As a general rule Homer’s gods preferred to communicate indirectly 3 Return to Table of Contents

Bernard Dietrich from afar.31 Their presence more often than not went unnoticed.32 They attended their sacrifice unseen.33 Exceptions to the rule occur as a ‘utopian feature’ of the fairy tale. The Phaeacians and far-distant Ethiopians were on familiar terms with the gods,34 unlike ordinary mortals to whom they did not appear ejnargei'".35 The venerable Nestor might be excused for boasting that he saw Athena at the feast which he had prepared for Poseidon.36 But her actual appearance (fanei'sa) in the shape of a large, beautiful woman to Odysseus alone and to his dogs is unusual, indeed quite unlike her encounter with Achilles in Il. 1.194 f. 37 Yet such confrontations are imagined as possible in Homer and cause little surprise to the human actors when they do happen. This epic idea of feasible but unlikely divine epiphany continued in Greek literature and beyond. Its tenacious hold over popular imagination may be judged from the ludicrous incident at Lystra, which is told in the New Testament. The people there mistook St Paul and his companion Barnabas for epiphanies of Olympian Zeus and Hermes.38 Homeric values prescribed the standard for Greek vase painters in the black-figure style of the sixth century and in the following redfigure technique from the end of that century. The gods clearly preferred their own company.39 Precisely the same kind of remote, primarily invisible, engagement in human affairs obtained in archaic and classical Greek temple sculpture. Gods acted out their myths among themselves on their own level. When shown together with men, they intervene or rather control human affairs unseen. Both Apollo and Zeus on the pediments of Zeus’ temple at Olympia illustrate Homeric concepts of divine functioning. The commanding central figure of Apollo with right arm outstretched in the west pediment frontally addresses the outside observer but remains invisible to the fighting Lapiths and Centaurs in the scene. The sculpture lies between archaic and classical, but the content is expressed in Homeric terms except of course that the poet’s audience hears rather than sees what is going on. Divine parousiva is ubiquitous in the poems and intervention continuous, but it normally occurs in the form of mental rather than direct visual interaction. That explains the ‘remarkable paradox that nearly every important event in the Iliad is the doing of a god, and that one can give a clear account of the poem’s entire action with no reference to the gods at all.’ 40 The gods are strong, beautiful, fast like thought,41 and they cast about them the radiance of light.42 But they are measured by human standards, albeit on an exaggerated scale.43 Ajax surmises a divine 4 Return to Table of Contents

From Knossos to Homer presence by the size of the shins and footprints that he can see.44 These different views of divine functioning combine to confuse the poet’s vision of epiphany. The gods’ anthropomorphism conflicts with the perception of their supernatural powers. Athena is pictured as a swallow up in the rafters of Odysseus’ hall,45 yet some fifty lines on she brandishes her dread aegis (1.297). Apollo’s image at the beginning of the Iliad varies between the anthropomorphic god and a malignant divine power. At one moment he is striding down Mount Olympus with his quiver and arrows ringing on his shoulders, and the next he is an evil plague descending like night on the Achaean army. Thetis, too, changes from swirling sea mist into a human figure when she appears before her son Achilles later in the same Book.46 What then are we to make of the talking Scamander, both deep-eddying river (baqudivnh") and speaking to Achilles in a human voice? 47 Such episodes have fostered an extreme view of Homer’s gods as creations of epic convention and outside religion.48 That judgement fails to take into account the long history and nature of epic religion and its enormous contribution to polis cult.49 The functioning of Homer’s gods followed traditions from the pre-archaic past, creating a chronologically unreal element in Homeric theology. In Homer the gods interact directly with his heroes; divine and human motivations overlap or coincide.50 The two can be difficult to separate in an illusory epic world hovering between real and seeming. Apollo sends a false image, an ei[dwlon which looks like Aeneas, weapons and all, for the Achaeans to fight over.51 Once he substitutes himself for the Trojan Agenor whom he saves from Achilles’ fury.52 He resembles the hero (ejoikwv" ) and therefore seems the same as Aeneas’ ei[dwlon in Book 5. 53 Metaphor and simile merge in this and in other divine interventions. Socrates disapproved of Homeric thinking and commented critically on divine metamorphosis into human and animal shape in Homer and the poets. Perfect beings, he said, could only change into something less; and he therefore blamed these gods for changing their forms, or at least making us believe that they do.54 Friedrich Matz argued that in the Theano episode of Iliad 6 the statue becomes the goddess.55 That cannot be right; but he touches on the essence of Homeric fluidity between mentally comprehended (or narrated) and actually seen intervention, that is, between divine action and epiphany. It is difficult to judge how important the distinction would have appeared to Homer’s contemporaries who may have felt less perturbed by the vague boundaries between man, animal, plants and even lifeless objects. The proximity of all parts of nature emerges 5 Return to Table of Contents

Bernard Dietrich from the use of Homeric similes in which heroes all but become the plants or animals to which they are compared.56 Two parallel scenes on the legs of a Geometric tripod cauldron from Olympia reproduce this kind of affinity pictorially. A human duel mirrors a pair of fighting lions in attitude and form.57 Homer operates in a linguistic and religious limbo. Regular cults and festivals are suppressed. Only the instruments of cult match contemporary archaic practice, such as the rituals of prayer and sacrifice. The latter drew from the oriental custom of viewing the sacrificial victim as food for the gods. They flock like flies to the savour of burnt meat.58 However, suspended within this Sammelbecken of foreign accretions epic preserved Minoan/Mycenaean traditions regarding form and manner of divine functioning, as well as the astonishingly close relationship of man with nature. Minoan iconography suggests a similar direct communication of man with his gods. As in Homer, man’s experience of the divine is portrayed both in scenes of cultic ritual and of myth.59 Minoan deities are notoriously difficult to identify from the extant pictures. There are as yet few if any reliable criteria beyond the size of figures, their compositional prominence or frontal position, gesture and attribute. Opinion is divided whether gods are shown in anthropomorphic, theriomorphic, or in aniconic shape. Familiar theophoric names on the Linear B tablets cannot easily be matched to pictorial representations.60 These problems await resolution. They may in fact turn out to be of our own making, if divine power manifested itself in all three and indeed in hybrid forms.61 The apparent ambiguity recalls epic views of epiphany which in turn reflect Homeric affinity to all aspects of nature. This applies particularly to the easy relationship, not to say interchangeability, between human and animal form. Homeric bird epiphanies may be a special case; but they do illustrate the difficulty in distinguishing between belief, myth or poetic device. Are they gods, or do they merely have divine qualities? 62 Similar doubt attaches to Minoan scenes of divinities accompanied by birds.63 Are they intended as messengers, signs of divine presence, or are they gods themselves? 64 Most probably the artist cared as little for a precise definition as the poet in epic epiphanies like that of Athena in Odyssey 22.65 By their nature aniconic epiphanies are virtually impossible to detect in painting and glyptic art. Objects that are frequently associated with ritual scenes like tree, pillar, baetyl or stalagmite in some form incorporated divine power.66 None, however, received cult in its own 6 Return to Table of Contents

From Knossos to Homer right.67 Trees and pillars were unlikely media of divine epiphanies in Minoan belief 68 but signposts or markers of a divine presence in human form.69 Such scenes are depicted on neopalatial gold rings of the Late Bronze Age. The relatively few with anthropomorphic figures can be classified in separate types of ritual involving divine and human interaction.70 Gods are invoked by gesture, offering, libation or sacrifice.71 On a gold ring from Knossos a god – staff in hand – appears to a worshipper from above. His progress through the air is indicated by his hair flying in the wind and by his downward pointed toes.72 A much discussed ring from Isopata shows the arrival of a deity in the presence of a group of priestesses or worshippers who are engaged in a ritual dance. The performance was intended to invite the god who nevertheless probably remained unseen.73 Here and elsewhere in comparable scenes, the arrival of a deity is invoked by dance, music and sacrifice74 but remains invisible to the worshippers as a rule. On a reconstructed seal impression also from Knossos with the so-called Mother of the Mountains, the goddess has already arrived. She stands on a mountain peak holding out a staff with the same imperious gesture before a worshipper in the attitude of adoration. Goddess and mountain are heraldically flanked by two lions in a characteristically Minoan and Mycenaean composition.75 On the Isopata ring the epiphany has a distinctly epic flavour: it is viewed from within. The observer does not look on from outside as a bystander but becomes part of the scene in true Homeric fashion. One might compare the technique with Homer’s description of a hunt on Odysseus’ golden brooch, which converts a work of plastic art into the real world of narrative and simile.76 In Minoan religion direct confrontation is possible between man or his priestly representative and god. It happens next to a sanctuary, tree or column and generally in the open.77 A familiar type is that of a goddess who is seated on a platform or throne before her mortal subjects with their offerings.78 As in Homer, encounters of this kind seem relatively uncommon, however, and, what is more important, they appear confined to the realm of myth. The scenario tends to be imaginary: the goddess is accompanied by the fabulous griffin,79 while receiving worship from men as well as animals like goat and monkey.80 On a famous gold ring from Tiryns the goddess welcomes a processional group of mythical daemonic creatures carrying rhyta presumably with libations in her honour.81 Occasionally both humans and animals pay their respects together in the same ritual.82 A splendid fresco from Xeste 3 at Akrotiri on Thera shows the goddess sitting on a 7 Return to Table of Contents

Bernard Dietrich tripartite platform attended by a griffin and accepting gifts of saffron from a girl and from a monkey.83 Some quite elaborate compositions show a goddess arriving at her shrine by boat,84 riding on a griffin,85 or side-saddle like Europa on the back of a bull. Her arms are upraised in the characteristic Segnungsgestus of deities.86 The settings for these scenes are inspired by myth; the artist draws a ritual performance in which the goddess is imagined or known to be there but not seen. Divine parousiva was as universal and natural in the Minoan/ Mycenaean world as in that of Homeric epic and evidently defined by similar basic parameters. Like epic poets, and indeed archaic Greek vase painters and sculptors, Minoan artists showed gods visiting their festivals. The ambience of both calls to mind Thales’ enthusiastic belief in a world that is filled with gods. Communication with divinity occurred through no iconic or aniconic divine image within a temple or particular sanctuary. It was direct and most frequently happened as an individual experience. The encounter was intensely personal, psychological almost, as in the case of Athena and Achilles in Iliad 1. Divine presence was in the mind, so to speak; it was visionary rather than visual. Only the artist actually visualised it in his composition.87 There is no doubt that Minoan and Mycenaean deities were conceived of as imminent powers that could be directly invoked as Mistress, Lady, Queen, Potnia, Wanassa etc. Such titles, not names, are known from Linear B and retain something of their function in Homer.88 However, the epic kind of personal experience did not fully exhaust the Minoan repertoire of divine manifestations. That inference suggests itself from the crowd scenes in the Grove and Grandstand frescoes of Knossos, where an epiphany seems to have been expected as part of the religious celebrations. Some shrines appear to have been designed to accommodate a strong revelatory element in the cultic performance. The Throne Room at Knossos involved an expected, imagined or perhaps even staged divine presence.89 Parallel rituals about an empty throne survived in historical times. The best known is that of Zeus which was periodically placed in the Idaean Cave in expectation of his coming.90 The so-called Balustrade Shrine in the Royal Villa at Knossos or the House of the Chancel Screen seem almost purpose-built for revealing a vision of the divine, or at least an enacted event of this nature before a congregation. Its plan of two or more rising levels with strategically placed barriers and entrance through a poluvquron certainly points to the same kind of ritualised divine revelation.91 8 Return to Table of Contents

From Knossos to Homer Pictorially invocations are shown as lively occasions involving enthusiastic dance, excited gestures and movement. The impression is unHomeric and has an ecstatic Dionysiac quality about it.92 Evidently divine presence is deliberately invoked rather than spontaneous. The scene more closely compares with the setting of Homeric Hymns, that is with a particular ritual moment and not with epic narrative. In both the impact of divine arrival is artistically imagined, however. In the great Hymn to Apollo the manner of the god’s visit to his temple in Delphi is no less ambiguously described than other visualised epiphanies in Homer.93 Still, mysteries remain. It seems unreasonable to expect that Minoan gods functioned any more uniformly than Homer’s Götterapparat. The common bond between the two lies in a basically similar perception of divine operation. That similarity is no chance coincidence but arose from an extended historic tradition. There are indications that the Minoans possessed a more or less complex divine mythology which artists skilfully integrated in their portrayals of cultic scenes like their Greek descendants. A Minoan goddess occurs more frequently and prominently than a god. Yet both existed, nor was the latter an obviously second-class citizen in the divine hierarchy or imprisoned in the role of an ejniautov" daivmwn.94 Their relationship with men was close, not to say immediate, in a kind of intensified Homeric atmosphere. The Minoan gods were present in all parts of nature. They did not need to become manifest within an image or in living anthropomorphic shape.

Notes l e.g. toicodovmoi demevonte" (PY An 14), ejrevtai Pleurwvnad∆ i[onte" (PY An 12), or favsgana ajrarui'a (KN RA 1540), which recalls the Homeric favsganon ajrgurovhlon. On Homeric usage see G.S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, Cambridge 1985, I, 118, note on Il. 2.45. 2 T.B.L. Webster, ‘Homer and the Mycenaean tablets’, Antiquity 29 (1955) 10–14; From Mycenae to Homer, London 1958, 200–7. The view is criticised by G.S. Kirk, The Songs of Homer, Cambridge 1962, 105–25, 263–5. On the origins of epic diction see now R. Janko, The Iliad: A Commentary, Cambridge 1992, IV, 8–19. 3 C.J. Ruijgh, ‘Le Mycénien et Homère’, in A. Morpurgo-Davies and Y. Duhoux (eds.) Linear B: a 1984 Survey, Cabay and Louvain-la-Neuve 1984, 143–90. 4 M.L. West, ‘The rise of the Greek epic’, JHS 108 (1988) 151–72. 5 W.F. Wyatt Jr., ‘Homer’s linguistic forbears’, JHS 112 (1992) 167–73. 6 E. Vermeule, ‘Mythology in Mycenaean art’, CJ 54 (1958) 97–108; ‘Baby

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Bernard Dietrich Aigisthos and the Bronze Age’, PCPhS 213 (1987) 122–52; J. Driessen, ‘Homère et les tablettes’, AC (1992) 36. 7 T. Blavatakaja, ‘De 1’épopée crétoise de XVIIe au XVe s.av. notre ère’, ZAnt 25 (1975) 355–61; G.C. Horrocks, ‘The antiquity of the Greek epic tradition and innovation: some new evidence’, PCPhS 206 (1980) 1–11; G. Walberg, Tradition and Innovation: Essays in Minoan Art (1986); C. Borain, ‘Recherches sur l’iconographie créto-mycénienne du lion iliadique’, Stemmata (Mélanges J. Labarbe), Liège and Louvaine-la-Neuve 1987, 337–67; J. Crowley, ‘Subject matter in Aegean art: the crucial changes’, Aegaeum 3 (1989) 211; S.P. Morris, ‘A tale of two cities: the miniature frescoes from Thera and the origins of Greek poetry’, AJA 93 (1989) 511–35; S. Hiller, ‘The miniature frieze in the West House. Evidence for Minoan poetry?’, in D.A. Hardy, C.G. Doumas, J.A. Sakellarakis, P. Warren (eds.) Thera and the Aegean World III, 1, London 1990, (TAW) 229–34; C.G. Thomas, ‘Aegean Bronze Age iconography: poetic art?’, Aegaeum 8 (1992) 213–20; Driessen op. cit. (n. 6) 32. 8 Thomas op. cit. (n. 7) 214. 9 C.A. Televantou, ‘New light on the West House wall-painting’ (TAW) 323; Hiller (TAW) 232 f. Reservations, expressed by N. Marinatos (TAW) 235, are modified on p. 325. 10 S.A. Immerwahr, Aegean Painting in the Bronze Age, Pennsylvania 1990, 22. 11 W. Pötscher, Aspekte und Probleme der minoischen Religion. Ein versuch, Hildesheim, Zurich and New York 1990, 171–91. 12 N. Marinatos, Minoan Religion: Ritual, Image and Symbol, Univ. South Carolina 1993, 31–6, with full references to the many modern interpretations of the decorations beginning with M.P. Nilsson, The Minoan–Mycenaean Religion and its Survival in Greek Religion, 2nd edn, Lund 1950, (MMR) 426–23. 13 Pötscher, op. cit. (n. 11) 134–5. 14 Modern opinion is divided on the meaning of blood sacrifice. For a discussion see B.C. Dietrich, ‘A Minoan symbol of renewal’, Journal of Prehistoric Religion 2 (1988) 12–24; ‘The instrument of sacrifice’, Early Greek Cult Practice, Procs. 5th Intern. Symposium, Swedish Institute in Athens, Stockholm 1988, 35–40. 15 Iconographic symbols of sacrifice are discussed by N. Marinatos, Minoan Sacrificial Ritual, Stockholm 1986, Part II; L.R. Palmer, ‘The impaled triangle in Aegean iconography’ (Prof. Palmer kindly showed me a draft of his [unpublished] article, March 1983). 16 Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 15) figs. 52, 53. 17 F. Matz, H. Biesantz and I. Pini (eds.) Corpus der minoischen und mykenischen Siegel, Berlin 1964–, (CMS) I, 219. 18 See n. 14 above. 19 D. Page, History and the Homeric Iliad, Berkeley 1963, ch. IV; Kirk, op. cit. (n. 1) 173–7; P. Vivante, The Epithet in Homer: a Study in Poetic Values, New Haven 1982; J. Pinsent, in L. Foxhall and J.K. Davies (eds.) The Trojan War: its Historicity and Context, Bristol 1984, 141–62; H.B. Hainsworth, The Iliad: A Commentary, Cambridge 1993, III, 21–3; 95 etc. 20 Hainsworth, op. cit. (n. 19) 28–31. 21 Il. 9.196.

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From Knossos to Homer 22

e.g. Ayia Irini on Keos. B.C. Dietrich, Tradition in Greek Religion, Berlin 1986, chs. 1 and 2. 23 PY Jn 829; L.R. Palmer, The Interpretation of Mycenaean Greek Texts, Oxford 1963, 284; Mycenaeans and Minoans, 2nd edn, London 1965, 110; M. Ventris, J. Chadwick, Documents in Mycenaean Greek, 2nd edn, Cambridge 1973, 513; Dietrich, op. cit. (n. 22) 54 f. and n. 80, with further references. 24 E. French, ‘Cult places at Mycenae’, Sanctuaries and Cults in the Aegean Bronze Age, Procs. 1st Intern. Symposium, Swedish Institute in Athens, Stockholm 1981, (SAC) 41–8; K. Kilian, ‘Zeugnisse mykenischer Kultausubung in Tiryns’ (SAC) 48–58. 25 Il. 1.39; 5.446; 7.83 (Apollo); 2.549; 6.88, 297 (Athena). 26 E. Vermeule, Götterkult (Archaeologia Homerica), Göttingen 1974, 106. 27 Od. 3.274, 438; 8.509; 12.347; cf. Dietrich, op. cit. (n. 22) 102. 28 Il. 6.305–11. 29 Schol. A, ad loc. 30 F. Matz, Göttererscheinung und Kultbild im minoischen Kreta, Wiesbaden 1958, 437; Vermeule, op. cit. (n. 26) 121. 31 B.C. Dietrich, ‘Divine epiphanies in Homer’, Numen 30 (1983) 62, for examples. 32 Od. 13.299–302, 318. 33 Od. 3.435. 34 Od. 7.201, with H.B. Hainsworth’s note ad loc. in A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, Oxford repr. 1991, 334; Il. 1.423. 35 Od. 16.161. 36 Od. 3.420. 37 Od. 16.160–2. Cf. A. Hoekstra, A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, Oxford repr. 1992, II, 272. 38 Acts 14, 11–12. 39 J. Boardman, Athenian Black Figure Vases, London 1975, 224. 40 Janko, op. cit. (n. 2) 4. 41 Il. 15.80. 42 Od. 19.37–40, 43. 43 Cf. W. Burkert, Greek Religion, tr. from German by J. Raffan, Oxford 1985, 182–9. 44 Il. 13.71 f. 45 Od. 22.240. 46 Il. 1.44–9; 359–62; Numen (1983) 54 f. 47 Il. 21.212–21. 48 M.P. Nilsson, Geschichte der griechischen Religion, 3rd edn, I, Munich 1967, (GGR) 219, 368 f.; H. Lloyd-Jones, The Justice of Zeus, 2nd edn, Berkeley 1983, 9 f. 49 Dietrich, op. cit. (n. 22) 180–2. 50 A. Lesky, ‘Göttliche und menschliche Motivation im homerischen Epos’ SHAW (1961) 4; Janko, op. cit. (n. 2) 4, with further references. 51 Il. 5.449 f. 52 Il. 21.600. B.C. Fenik, Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliad, Wiesbaden 1968, 12, 48; cf. N. Richardson, The Iliad: A Commentary, Cambridge 1993, VI, 103 f.

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Bernard Dietrich 53

i[kelon. Cf. G.S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary, Cambridge 1990, II, 107 f. Plato, R. II.381 b–d. 55 Matz, op. cit. (n. 30) 437. 56 e.g. P. Vivante, Homer, Yale 1985; M.W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary, Cambridge 1991, V, 24–41, for a discussion of this large topic with up-todate bibliography. 57 Eighth century BC, Olympia Archaeological Museum B 1730; A. Mallwitz, H.-V. Herrmann, Die Funde aus Olympia, Athens 1980, 44 no. 16. 58 J.B. Pritchard (ed.) Ancient Near Eastern Texts relating to the Old Testament, 3rd edn, Princeton 1969, 95 (Gilgamesh); cf. the Egyptian ritual, id. 325; sacrifices of the gods of Uruk, id. 342–5, etc.; Ed. Dhorme, Les Religions de Babylonie et d’Assyrie, Paris 1949, 221, 222; Kirk op. cit. (n. 53) 12–13. 59 Still a contentious subject, W. Burkert, Structure and History in Greek Mythology and Ritual, Berkeley 1979, 187 n. 25, with references. 60 S. Hiller, ‘Mykenische archäologie’, SMEA (1979) 193; Dietrich, op. cit. (n. 22) 117. 61 A review of the bibliography on the topic can be found in R. Hägg, ‘Die göttliche Epiphanie im minoischen Ritual’, MDAI(A) 101 (1986) 41–62. More recent discussions include W.D. Niemeier, ‘Zur Deutung des Thronraumes im Palast von Knossos’, MDAI(A) 101 (1986) 63–95; ‘Das Stuckrelief des “Prinzen mit der Federkrone” aus Knossos und minoische Göttervorstellungen’, MDAI(A) 102 (1987) 65–98; ‘Fragen und Probleme der bronzezeitlichen ägäischen Glyptik’, CMS (1989) 163–86; Pötscher, op. cit. (n. 11); Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) chs. 7 and 8. 62 Numen 3 (1983) 57–9. 63 Niemeier, MDAI(A) (1987) 86; CMS (1989) 174. 64 Nilsson, MMR 330–40; GGR I, 290–2; Matz, op. cit. (n. 30) 402–3, sees the bird as a divine presence, or the sign of a divine presence. For A. Furumark, ‘Gods of Ancient Crete’, OAth 6 (1965) 92, the bird is a divine determinative. See also Niemeier, CMS (1989) 163–86; Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) 133, 156. According to Pötscher, op. cit. (n. 11) 106 f., the bird, like the snake, was a ‘theriomorphe Erscheinungsform der Göttin’. 65 Above n. 45. 66 e.g. Arthur Evans, The Palace of Minos at Knossos, London 1921–35, (PM) 1, 221; Dietrich, Origins of Greek Religion, Berlin 1974, 84–7. 67 For the popular belief in the existence of Minoan tree and pillar cult see the pioneering study by A. Evans, ‘The Mycenaean tree and pillar cult’, JHS 21 (1901) 99–204; cf. PM 1, 161; Nilsson, MMR ch. viii, 262–88 (tree-cult); ch. vii, 236–61, on pillars and columns as structural elements only; B. Rutkowski, The Cult Places of the Aegean, Yale 1986, 143 f., argues in favour of pillar cult. 68 For a contrary view see Pötscher, op. cit. (n. 11) 97, who includes columns in his category of divine epiphany in object form: dingliche. 69 ‘Kultmale’, Matz, op. cit. (n. 30) 420–3; Niemeier, MDAI(A) 101 (1986) 85 f.; CMS (1989) 172; Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) 179–81. 70 Hägg, MDAI(A) 101 (1986) 56–8; Niemeier, CMS (1989) 163–86. 71 Niemeier, CMS (1989) 167–9, fig. 1; Matz, op. cit. (n. 30) 388–90, 407; Hägg, MDAI(A) 101 (1986) 56, 58. 54

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From Knossos to Homer 72

Niemeier, CMS (1989) 169, fig. 2, 1; Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) 172–3, fig. 171. 73 CMS II, 3 No. 51. Discussed with references by Niemeier, CMS (1989) 165; Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) 176–7. 74 Hägg, MDAI(A) (1986) 61. 75 PM III, 463; MMR 352 f.; Niemeier, CMS (1989) 169, fig. 2, 4. 76 Cf. Matz, op. cit. (n. 30) 437. For a discussion of Matz’s view see Walberg, op. cit. (n. 7) 125 f. 77 Niemeier’s Group III, CMS (1989) 170–2: either man/deity, or priest as deity, or between two deities. 78 Niemeier, CMS (1989) 173, fig. 4, 1–15. 79 e.g. seal from Rhodes CMS V, 2 No. 654; cf. CMS I, 128. 80 Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) 160, fig. 144. 81 PM IV, 460 f., fig. 385; MMR 147, fig. 55; Niemeier, CMS (1989) 173, fig. 4, 13. 82 Monkey beside human figure, CMS II, 3 No. 103. 83 Restored: N. Marinatos, Art and Religion in Thera, Athens 1984, figs. 40, 44; op. cit. (n. 12) figs. 122, 213. 84 e.g. ring from Mochlos: goddess arrives at her shrine in a boat, CMS II, 3 No. 252; MMR 269 f.; Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) 163 fig. 150. 85 On a seal from Mycenae, CMS I No. 167. 86 Glass plaque from Dendra/Midea, GGR I, pl. 26, 7. On similar scenes, with discussion of relevant mythology, see MMR 34–40; Dietrich, op. cit. (n. 66) 310–14. 87 Cf. Marinatos, op. cit. (n. 12) 243. 88 B. Hemberg, Anax, Anassa und Anakes, Uppsala 1955; Dietrich, op. cit. (n. 66) 180–4. 89 Hägg, MDAI(A) 101 (1986) 47; Niemeier, MDAI(A) 101 (1986) 63–95, with references to recent discussions. 90 Dietrich, op. cit. (n. 22) 99. 91 Hägg, MDAI(A) (1986) 47–55. 92 Matz, op. cit. (n. 30) 447. 93 Dietrich, Numen 30 (1983) 70–1. 94 Cf. Niemeier, CMS (1989) 183.

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2

FROM EPIPHANY TO CULT STATUE: EARLY GREEK THEOS Walter Burkert It is a surprise for beginners who start learning Latin and Greek, and even for some more advanced humanists well read in the classical tradition, to be told by linguists that the words for ‘god’, deus in Latin and theos in Greek, which sound so similar, are not related to each other by etymology. Possibly the Romans themselves would have been astonished, since theos/deus clearly had became interchangeable in the cultural amalgam of the Hellenistic epoch. But the laws of phonetics, established with great precision for the development from Indoeuropean to Greek and to Latin, leave no doubt. In fact deus ‘god’ is a word of common Indoeuropean stock, whereas theos is not; its etymology has remained unclear. Deus has its relatives in Vedic and Avesta, and, as we all know, is further related to Latin dies ‘day’ and above all to the famous name of the Skygod, Father Sky, Diespiter/Juppiter in Latin, Zeus pater in Greek – a name still dominating, in Germanic transformation, our ‘Tuesday’, or ‘Zieschtig’, as the Swiss pronounce it. This root dieu /deiw– also survived in Greek in words such as eujdiva ‘fine weather’, e[ndio" ‘in the light of day’, and in the adjective di`o" ‘brilliant’, besides the well-known Zeus.1 The Greek vocabulary, parallel to Latin deus–dies, thus conveys a special message of the Indoeuropean concept of ‘god’: ‘God’ belongs to the sky and the flash of daylight. Note that another one of the well-attested divinities of Indoeuropean stock is the goddess of Dawn, *Ausos, Auos or Eos in Greek, Aurora in Latin. But her role qua goddess has become minimal in Greek, however ‘natural’ we may find the association of god and sky, of height and light. There are different ways of experiencing the divine. Since 1953 we can read documents written in Greek from the Bronze Age, some 500 years before Homer; and behold, they exhibit the typically Greek vocabulary as distinct from Indoeuropean: the Linear B tablets attest Zeus – dative Di-we(i) – as a major god, with his 15 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert sanctuary the Di-wi-jo(n), with a priest Di-wi-je-u(s), and they also have Dionysus (Di-wo-nu-so) next to him, and a goddess Di-wi-ja in addition. But the general word for ‘god’ is theos; this is particularly clear in dedications ‘to all gods’, pa-si te-o-i (pansi theoihi, pa`si qeoi`si). 2 There are also ‘slaves’ both male and female ‘of the god’, te-o-jo do-e-ro or do-era, which shows the authority and economic power linked to religion at the place. Theodora and Amphithea appear as proper names.3 Within the tradition of language and culture which led from Indoeuropean to Mycenaean Greek – covering one millennium at least – the word theos must be a new intruder. Other branches of Indoeuropean too have adopted other words for ‘god’, such as the Germanic languages which introduced ‘god’, or Iranian and Slavic languages which introduced baga/bog in turn. But at the same time there is unquestionable continuity from Indoeuropean to Greek even in some terms of religious language, in other words, from Indo– european to Greek religion, one notable example being the group of a{zomai ‘to venerate’, with aJgnov" and a{gio" ‘venerable, sacred’. Yet side by side with this root, Greek once more has introduced a newcomer that rises to dominate the sphere of the sacred, namely iJerov", well attested by the Mycenaean age, with both ‘priest’ and ‘priestess’, i-e-re-u (iJereuv") and i-e-re-i-a (iJevreia).4 Both innovations of Mycenaean Greek, qeov" and iJerov" mark a break as to the Indoeuropean language tradition and by this constitute an important link of continuity from Mycenaean to later Greek. What may have been the motive for Mycenaeans to coin a new word for ‘god’? It seems as if they did not, or did not any longer, experience the divine as a ‘flash of light’ at the ‘break of day’.5 What else then, which kind of experience did they mark out in their language by theos? Can we get any idea of a Mycenaean concept of ‘god’? This may seem a hopeless question. The documentation for the Mycenaean language still remains desperately scarce and jejune. We do not have literary texts, but only lists and accounts preserved by chance, if the respective magazines or houses were set on fire. We hardly get full sentences in these texts, let alone continuous speech. There remain indications of details, such as certain offerings to gods, to their sanctuaries and priests. This implies some gods’ names, the names of a few festivals, some glances at sacred organization. But there is no great prospect of catching a ‘concept of god’ from such meagre debris. Our full documentation of Greek, as we all know, starts with Homer. Hence, to a large extent, Greek religion means Homeric religion to us, in the wake of Herodotus’ famous aperçu that it was Hesiod and 16 Return to Table of Contents

From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos Homer who designed the gods for the Greeks.6 Still, in searching for a concept of theos we need not confine ourselves to the Homeric texts. If we try to understand ancient Greek religion through the medium of language, we must be aware of the mainstream of language within the cultural tradition which, through some reason or other, did not necessarily enter the Homeric texts preserved in each case. There are elements and constructs of Greek language which are significant and may reach far back into the past, even if we find them only in later strata and modernized contexts. And if there are traces and allusions in Homeric language which only become understandable through such later contexts, we may be confident of hearing voices from a distant past. If we analyze the word theos, it is clear that, with its hiatus, it must be understood as *thehos, or originally, pre-Mycenaean, *thes-os. The root is thus thes-, and this root in fact occurs, without the o-formative, in various other well-known Greek words; these should be pointers to the basic meaning of theos. Let us still start with Homer: one current Homeric word is qevsfato" ‘spoken by god’, hence ‘oracle’; obviously close in meaning but adopting the other root for ‘to say’, spe-, are qespevsio" and qevspi". This links qes- to acts of speaking, expressed by either fa- or spe-. Qevsfata, in Homer, are oracles, pronounced by a seer and kept in family tradition, palaivfata qevsfata. Qevspi" on the other hand goes mainly together with ‘song’ and the epic ‘singer’ – qevspin ajoidhvn and qevspin ajoidovn; this often occurs in the Odyssey.7 The word qevspi" also recurs in the context of oracles and seers, even much later: a qespiwidov" is still functioning at the oracle of Klaros in imperial times. I am inclined to understand this qespiwidov" as the inspired medium, in contrast to profhvth" the interpreter; but this is controversial.8 Qevspi" ajoidov" clearly is related to the formula qei`o" ajoidov", used in the Odyssey and recurring in the Homeric Margites. This is a secondary formula, with two-syllabic qei`o" as against the original three-syllabic qevio" which dominates the genitive qevioio – ∆Odussh`o" qeivoio as against di`o" ∆Odusseuv". This word is applied to various heroes, but it may be no coincidence that it is most often attached, even in the Iliad, to the name of Odysseus, Odysseus the traveller, the shaman, magician, and founder of cults. Qei`o" ajoidov", by contrast, mirrors the self-consciousness of the poet of the Odyssey and his like. The word qespevsio" too occurs with ajoidhv once in the Iliad (Il. 2.599 f.), and the Sirens of the Odyssey are qespevsiai. But normally it has adopted a more general meaning, ‘astounding’, ‘miraculous’; we find ajcluv" or nevfo" ajcluvo", calkov", plou`to", cavri", ojdmhv (Od. 9.210 f.), 17 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert lai`lay, a[ntron, a[wto" (Od. 9.434). Qespevsio" ‘astounding’ seems to meet with a[speto", ‘what cannot be said’; ajqevsfato" ‘what cannot be said (even by a god)’ comes as a hybrid. ‘Astounding’ seems also to be the meaning of qevskelo", the second part of which is obscure. There is also the fixed junction qespidae;" pu`r, ‘burning in an astounding way’. Just once qespevsio" is directly related to the gods: Hephaistos is thrown by Zeus from ‘the godly threshold’ of Olympus, ajpo; bhlou` qespesivoio (Il. 1.591). There is a frequent connection of qespevsio" with flight, qespesivh fuvza, qespevsio" fovbo": panicking is ‘divine’, since it is so irrational. No less often qespevsio" keeps to words for ‘noise’, hjchv, ijachv, ojrumagdov", ajlalhtov", bohv. ‘Noise’ in these contexts belongs to battle; this is a situation of utmost and uncontrollable excitement, with unforeseeable episodes and outcome, hence qei`on as well as qespevsion. There is also the formula qei`on (duvsasqai) ajgw`na, ‘to dive into the godly fray’. Remember that the word ares originally seems to have been not a god’s name, but a noun referring to war and battle; being qespevsion and qei`on, it was deified: Ares the god.9 Within this group of thes-, the clearest and least metaphorical use is qevsfata: ‘sayings divine’ are the oracles which are so important in all the decisions of real life. That this reference of thes- to divination was commonly understood is confirmed by other combinations: Kalchas, the best of birdwatchers, is a son of Thestor, we learn in the Iliad, Kavlca" Qestorivdh", oijwnopovlwn o[c∆ a[risto" (Il. 1.69). The father’s name evidently is meant to characterize the son, just as a ‘constructive carpenter’ is Tevktwn ÔArmonivdh", and Phemios the ‘delightful’ singer is Terpiades. Kalchas is a qei`o" ajnhvr , telling the qevsfata, hence Qestorivdh".10 Greeks kept associating qevs-fato", qei`a and qeov" . Qevsfata and qeopropivai are nearly synonymous. Another seer, introduced in the Odyssey, is Theoklymenos, ‘notable by his relation to theos’. Much later Thucydides (8.1; 7.50) uses the verb qeiavzein for the seers’ activities, which may also be called qeiasmov". Democritus speaks of the fuvsi" qeiavzousa of Homer, the archetype of poets,11 and thus comes back to the link between poets and seers, qei`o" ajoidov" and Qestorivdh". I would venture to add the name of a tribe in Epirus, the Thesprotoi. They play a prominent role in the Odyssey and a still greater in a lost epic, Qesprwtiv" , which told of the adventures of Odysseus there. The Thesprotoi are close to oracles even in later testimonies, to the Oracle of the Dead in Epirus and to Dodona. The Oracle of the Dead at Ephyra has been excavated in its later, fourth-century state.12 The enigmatic journey Odysseus has to undergo at the command of Teiresias, to people who do not know the sea, probably is the foundation legend of 18 Return to Table of Contents

From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos such an oracle. The word peprwmevnon ‘ordained by fate’ is well established by the Iliad; the idea that a god will select the priests to guard his oracle recurs in the Homeric hymn to Apollo, when the god himself forces Cretans to Delphi. Thus Qes-prwtoiv are perfectly understandable as those ordained to care for the Oracle, a tribe claiming a special status by the name at the fringe of early archaic Greece. Another more daring suggestion: the word for sulphur in Greek is qeveion. Sulphur is mentioned in Homer in connection with cleansing, both profane – Achilles cleaning his cup (Il. 16.228) – and ritual – Odysseus purifying his megaron after the suitors’ corpses have been carried off (Od. 22.482); qeveion is also noticed in the effect of a stroke of lightning (Od. 12.417; 14.307) – for chemists, this would be a mistake, smelling O3 instead of SO 2. Formally, qeveion signifies, within the Greek suffix system, ‘means for thes-effect’, just as a healing drug can be called an ajkei`on. Salt, another means for purification in both ritual and practical use, is called qei`o" once in the Iliad (9.214). So much is clear: for Greeks, ever since Homer, the root thesremains in connection with theos; and it points to an experience of the extraordinary, especially to smells, noises, and voices encountered in the range of seers and singers. Herodotus (2.52) learnt at Dodona that people ‘originally’ used to invoke just qeoiv in worship, without any individual name: this is a fitting tradition to come from an oracle site. This must bring in e[nqeo", a word which was to have a special career in the form of ‘enthusiasm’ and ‘enthusiastic’, words still used in all European languages. This use of e[nqeo" is largely influenced by Plato who made ejnqousiavzein radiate through poetry and philosophy, but still refers to its origin in divination: Socrates, in Plato’s Apology, holds that poets are not wise by themselves but experience enthusiasm just as ‘divine seers’ and oracle-singers, ejnqousiavzonte" w{sper oiJ qeomavntei" kai; oiJ crhsmwidoiv (22c). In the literature preserved, e[nqeo" first occurs in Aeschylus; it denotes Bacchic ecstasy,13 but also the aggressive frenzy of warriors (Sept. 497), and twice it is used to characterize seers, Kassandra as well as the Pythia (Ag. 1209; Eum. 17); theirs is an e[nqeo" tevcnh. No wonder the ‘craft’ of enthusiasm is rooted in the sphere of the seers, while ‘enthusiastic’ battle recalls Homer’s qespevsio" ajlalhtov". The context of divination is stressed by Herodotus: a seer gives his oracle in a state of ‘enthusiasm’, ejnqeavzwn cra`i (1.63.1). The word e[nqeo" should be quite old. It belongs to an Indoeuropean type of word formation and clearly means ‘there is a god in’ this person, ejn - qeov". The word e[nqeo" is probably prior to the parallel expression e[myuco" which seems to come 19 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert up with Pythagoras in the sixth century: e[myuco" is verbalizing the discovery that ‘there is a soul in’ a living being, in all the ‘animals’, and even in a battered dog.14 What it means if ‘a god is in a person’ is graphically described, though without the term e[nqeo", in the Hippocratic writing ‘On the Sacred Disease’. Epilepsy is taken to be ‘sacred’, iJerovn, and ‘divine’, qei`on. This refers to a situation which would seem quite uncanny and ‘unholy’ in our view, disconcerting and frightening – a person getting convulsions and collapsing with foam on the lips, with incomprehensible sounds. Seers diagnose this to be ‘sacred’, and take clues to indicate the presence of a ‘god’, Poseidon if there are whinnying sounds, or Hecate, if there is defecation... This is to be approached by ritual and to be eliminated by ‘purification’. The ambivalence of reactions is put to ridicule by the Hippocratic author – why and how to eliminate a god by purification? – but it reflects the strangeness of the phenomenon. By the word ‘epilepsy’ the same phenomenon is described through another image, as if a god were ‘catching’ his victim from outside. The same wording is used for Bacchic frenzy, as in Herodotus: ‘the god is catching us’ (4.79.4), whereas Aeschylus spoke of ‘the god within’. ‘Possession’ has remained a current expression in our language too. Yet another Greek designation is qeoforei`tai, of a person ‘carried by the god’; this occurs especially in the cult of the Great Mother, and was parodied in a scene of alleged possession in Menander’s Theophoroumene, when a girl is abducted from a brothel through fake ecstasy.15 The ecstatic phenomena variously described by such expressions in Greek do not have much to do with epilepsy in the clinical sense. Ethnographers will provide plenty of examples for similar behaviour and similar interpretations in religious contexts even within contemporary societies. We have to consider finally what has been called the ‘predicative use of qeov"’. A certain situation, a sudden experience of surprise and reversal may be verbalized by the expression ‘This is a god’. There are well-known examples in Aeschylus, Euripides, and Menander: ‘good luck’ is a god, ‘power’ is a god, but even ‘to recognize friends’ is a god.16 Through indirect testimonies we guess at cultic contexts in which qeov" was proclaimed in duplication to mark an extraordinary moment of epiphany.17 Virgil, with his special sensorium for religious moods, comes back to this with the Sibyl’s ‘enthusiasm’ in the cave at Cumae: deus ecce deus. We are back to ‘enthusiasm’, and close to qevsfata. The result of this survey is in a way contradicting some current interpretations of ‘Greek religion’, especially of ‘Homeric religion’, or at least some favorite bons mots about Homeric gods: a Homeric ‘god’ 20 Return to Table of Contents

From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos appears to our imagination, nay to our eyes, as a tangible personality, as it were, an epiphany of human shape and humane intellect; conversely, every hero is pronounced to be ‘godlike’, qeoeidhv". Yet thes/ theos by themselves do not suggest this idea, they seem not primarily to refer to a person in human shape, ‘bigger and more beautiful’ than normal humans but quite similar in view and behaviour. Theos rather refers to certain extraordinary and disquieting experiences, such as a singer astounding by his art, a seer giving striking interpretations of strange phenomena, a Dionysiac ecstatic, or even an epileptic collapsing in convulsions: qeov" qeov". This is not establishing an absolute contrast to ‘Homer’. Remember the strange scene in the Odyssey when Odysseus and Telemachus are removing the weapons from the megaron in view of the prospective fight: Athena herself, with her golden lamp – which she seems to have taken right from her temple at Athens – is pouring light on the scenery; Telemachus is amazed at the strange shine – ‘Why, there is a god in the room’, h\ mavla ti" qeo;" e[ndon, he says (19.40); and his father answers, ‘Shut up, hold back your intelligence, do not ask; this is the behaviour of gods who hold Olympus’, au{th ga;r divkh ejsti; qew`n. Gods may be present in an unpredictable way, not to be looked at, not to be questioned, not to be commented upon. One knows that gods may even be dangerous and are difficult to behold, calepoi; de; qeoi; faivnesqai ejnargei`" (Il. 20.131). Theoi often show their presence through audition rather than through vision. We may remember the strange Homeric formula of a deinh; qeo;" aujdhvessa, used preferentially for Kirke and for Kalypso in the Odyssey, a ‘formidable deity, gifted with voice’.18 Even Hippolytus the hunter, in the Euripidean drama (86), says he is hearing the voice of Artemis in the woods, without ever seeing her. We may add that even for the Romans the sphere of the seers was a privileged region of the ‘divine’, as the very terms divinare, divinatio, divination, clearly indicates. A negative statement obtrudes itself: this experience of ‘god’ has not much to do with the image of Greek gods we tend to entertain ever since Winckelmann and even before him. Theos, in this sense, does not suggest the Apollo from the Belvedere or his much earlier avatar the golden statue of Apollo in the temple at Delos, nor the chryselephantine images of Athena and Zeus in either the Parthenon or the great temple at Olympia. We have to imagine rather the god of Delphi who breathes inspiration from a chasm, who did not have an image in his temple but was present in the voicings of his priestess the Pythia – ejnqeavzousa cra`i. This is not to deny that there is the alternative 21 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert tradition of outspoken anthropomorphism which resounds through Greek poetry ever since Homer and which led to the masterpieces of Greek idealizing art.19 This prompts us to see what we consider standard Greek religion in a historical perspective: if the Greeks themselves were prone to judge that religious art had reached its peak with the Pheidian statues, at Athens and especially at Olympia, they also remained conscious of the fact that these statues were man-made, and there was a tradition repeatedly commented upon by philosophy that ‘originally’ there had been no statues or temples.20 For all we know this was correct: if at the classical epoch, nay since the emergence of the polis in the archaic epoch, a Greek god seems to be defined by her or his temple and her or his cult statue, we do not know of any example of this complex of temple and statue anywhere in Greece before the eighth century BC. ‘Cult statue’ is an ambiguous concept in itself; but we find the concept and designation of a e{do", equivalent to a[galma iJdruqevn, i.e. a conspicuous image, ritually set up at a sacred place to remain there as a centre for communal worship, taken to be essential for the sake of common well-being, a mark of stability and identity within the Greek cultural world. This is characteristic of polis religion with its elaborate system of city temples and extra-urban sanctuaries.21 Citizens used to refer to their goddess or god with this very term: hJ qeov", oJ qeov". The recognized forms of ‘speaking about the gods’, theo-logia, is entrusted to the poets in the wake of the Homeric model. This is not to forget the seers swarming about religious practice everywhere: there is another dimension of religion beyond poetic craft, a more elusive concept of theos, as it emerges from Greek language, in proximity to what resounds from the root thes-. Religion is full of tensions and allows for different coexisting tendencies. If polis religion is found to get its shape by the eighth century, the alternative tradition may well go together with older forms of religion which may have been in existence before the installation of temples and cult statues. This hypothesis leads right into the so-called dark centuries and farther back into the Mycenaean epoch. Trying to get farther in this direction, we must be aware of the tremendous problems and pitfalls of such an investigation. The problem of continuity through the so-called dark centuries is still hotly debated, even if these centuries have become less dark in recent times.22 No doubt there were both continuities and discontinuities from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age; but the demarcation line 22 Return to Table of Contents

From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos between the one and the other is anything but clear. Continuity of religious cult and concepts is clearly advocated by the testimony of language, especially by those two basic words for ‘sacred’ and for ‘god’, iJerov" and qeov", together with gods’ names such as Zeus, Dionysus, Hera, Poseidon, Artemis, Hermes. Discontinuity on the other hand is stressed by the fact that certain Mycenaean gods have ‘got lost’ in later times, such as ‘Drimios the son of Zeus’ attested at Pylos, but also by the archaeological findings at many sites that show a break between Mycenaean and later occupation. The cult centre of Mycenae was given up already in the twelfth century, whereas there are important new installations of cults without recognizable antecedents, including Olympia and Delphi. On the other hand, cases of cultic continuity at least from late Mycenaean to the historical period have begun to increase through more recent excavations: there are not only the special and marginal cases of Cyprus, with Paphos, and of Crete, with Kato Symi and Kommos, but right in central Greece the sanctuary of Artemis at Kalapodi-Hyampolis.23 But even if we are getting less sceptical as to continuities, if the dark ages seem to clear up to some extent, there remain at least three most serious difficulties: 1. Before Mycenaean there lies Minoan civilization, the glory that was Crete, which evidently came to dominate the Greek mainland culturally, be it Mycenae, Pylos, or Thebes. Specialists now clearly recognize important differences between Minoan and Mycenaean religions, so that these should not be treated indistinctly together, as had been done ever since Nilsson’s epoch-making study The Minoan–Mycenaean Religion.24 But the differences are partly masked by the persistent influence of Minoan style and Minoan iconography even on the continent, and also by the export and preservation of durable objects such as seals and rings; serious divergences may escape us, as does the language difference. 2. This is the second, and basic, problem – and perhaps a great yet utopian hope for scholarship: the language of Minoan civilization, written in Linear A, has remained elusive so far. Attempts at decipherment have failed to yield incontrovertible results. As a result, Minoan religion must still be reconstructed from architecture, votive objects, and iconography, a complex which is as rich as it is dazzling. But even for the Mycenaean stage it has proved quite difficult to relate the material relics to the testimony of the texts. For Minoan we cannot even try. 3. There is remarkable change within Mycenaean and even Cretan– 23 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert Minoan religion in its last period, the thirteenth/twelfth centuries. Certain striking phenomena do not appear until the last phase; the critical point seems to be close to about 1200 BC – IIIB to IIIC, for specialists. It is only then that we get ‘sanctuaries’ of a recognizable type, at Mycenae as in the ruins of Knossos, at Tiryns and Phylakopi;25 on Cyprus, even large-scale religious architecture emerges at Enkomi, Kition, and Paphos. We also get divine images by that epoch, idols of growing dimensions in various types and techniques. To start from the Mycenaean evidence: the linguistic evidence for Mycenaean temples is unclear,26 while some kind of man-wrought images, daidala, may be indicated by the enigmatic daidaleion of Knossos.27 There seems to be one further important link between language and iconography that has struck interpreters: the word theophoria is attested in the Knossos tablets, which presupposes a term theophoros, and the normal meaning of this word, as in plenty of other phoros- composita, should be ‘carrying a theos’. And behold, there are a few representations – a fresco from Mycenae, a sarcophagus from Thebes – in which evidently a small statue is carried by a person, actually in procession.28 There is additional evidence from Mycenae which is especially intriguing: in the ‘cult centre’ of Mycenae there are several rooms, ‘houses’ evidently reserved for religious purposes – should we speak of ‘temples’? – but most surprising was the discovery of statuettes of impressive dimensions, stored up in a marginal ‘sacristy’. They evidently represent some kind of gods or demons, both female and male, though of strange and ugly appearance, with painted faces, as it seems, threatening and repulsive rather than inviting pious veneration. They were to be set on poles and to be carried around, as it appears.29 This gives us some idea what a ceremony of theophoria could have been like. This is to conclude that these strange images (daidala?) were to represent theoi. It is interesting that, emerging from the dark centuries, we still find gods being ‘carried around’: the temple of Hera at Samos is one of the earliest ‘normal’ temples to be found within the Greek world, but this goddess was wont to move around, disappearing, being found, and brought back again, as a well-known and much-discussed Hellenistic text describes it. Hera’s statue was a kind of ‘plank’ which was carried off and brought back to the temple in the sequence of a festival. The goddess threatens to get lost and thus has repeated ‘advents’ to be celebrated in the festival – a variant of ‘epiphany’.30 There is a unique vase painting from Knossos, from the ninth century, 24 Return to Table of Contents

From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos which evidently depicts a nature goddess twice in a different setting, arriving and departing in the rhythm of vegetation which is either sprouting or waning, characterized by trees and birds. The goddess has wings but is riding on a chariot. This must refer to a variant of theophoria, implying the use of a chariot in the ritual.31 Whatever the Knossians ‘carried’ is left to imagination; some kind of plank as on Samos, some daidalon? At any rate, ‘carrying the god’ contrasts with the continuous presence of a e{do" in the temple, in the custody of the polis. There is departure and advent. The Palladion at Athens too, a comparatively small statuette in all probability – not to be confused with Athena Polias – was driven to the sea once a year on a chariot and brought back again, while the legend told how the image had been originally taken from Troy and transported to Athens or Argos.32 So far a first expectation has been thwarted: we started from the observation that theos does not primarily refer to visible statues, we assumed that cult statues were a new feature of eighth century polis religion – and meet with statues carried around, theophoria, right in the Mycenaean epoch. Probably we have not yet reached the ‘origin’ of the word or concept of theos. Those statuettes from Mycenae evidently were a new development just then, around the critical period towards 1200 BC. These statues do not show expert technique, they have no predecessors of the kind. Some special situation must have prompted people at that time to try something new. The somewhat later statuettes from ‘sanctuaries’ in the ‘Unterstadt’ of Tiryns, from the twelfth century, seem to be somewhat more routine. Comparable idols also come from the sanctuary of Phylakopi at Melos, one of which has been termed the ‘Lady of Phylakopi’. There must have been a general tendency at that time towards new forms of worship, linked to statuettes which had not been used or needed before. The fabrication of small idols goes back somewhat farther in Mycenaean civilization, but reaches its climax at the same ‘late’ period; it had not been the main characteristic of ‘Mycenaean religion’ before.33 Other activities of cult, with processions, prayers, sacrifices, must have gone on practically without idols for centuries before. In consequence, if ‘carrying a god’, theophoria, meant carrying idols, this was an innovation of the Late Mycenaean epoch; it hardly was operative when the word theos was coined. If we are thus invited to look still farther back, we meet with Minoan religion – another wide and complicated field. Only a few items and characteristics can be considered here. What has struck observers of Minoan religion for a long time is the absence of temples, in stark contrast to all the other civilizations of the Middle Bronze Age we 25 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert know, from Egypt through Palestine and Syria to Anatolia and Iraq; this should go together with the absence of ‘cult images’, even if the evidence for ‘cult images’ in those other civilizations is much more lacunose and complicated than sometimes assumed. It has been stated that there were the palaces to take the functions of temples, within the manifold ceremonies of Minoan ‘threskeiocracy’.34 But the question of divine images remains complicated. As to Knossos, the big statue of a goddess as reconstructed by Evans from the findings of bronze hair locks has to go; Robin Hägg has shown that the locks in all probability belong to much smaller figures, possibly male, probably of votive character.35 Thus the statement holds true that there are neither Minoan temples nor cult statues of the later Greek type, Olympian Zeus or Athena in the Parthenon. It is true there are statuettes in Minoan art, divine statuettes in all probability. Relics of a relatively big, apparently male, statuette were recently found at Palekastro.36 Most impressive remain the famous ‘snake goddesses’ from Knossos. Yet what surprised the excavators was that the ‘snake goddesses’ were not found in any sanctuary, but deposited in a stone cist in the basement of the palace.37 We may imagine them waiting for some festival when they would be fetched, to be displayed and probably worshipped for a while and then taken back to the storage room. Such a use of statuettes is reported, e.g., from festivals at Bali. This is just a possibility; but the negative statement is clear: these statuettes were not set up permanently as ‘cult statues’; they would appear at intervals and disappear again. The peculiarity of Minoan religion in contrast to Greek has been elaborated especially by Friedrich Matz in a well-known study, Göttererscheinung und Kultbild im minoischen Kreta, 1958.38 Matz states that the absence of temples and statues was not due to the lack of success in excavations and findings, not to sheer coincidence, but rooted in the way that the Minoans experienced their own world. It is Minoan art which may give us an idea of this experience, that fascinating flux of organic shapes and lines suggesting some ‘oceanic’ feeling, in stark contrast to the fixed geometric stability of what was to be ‘Greek’ style so much later. In consequence, there can be no fixed statue, ‘founded’ to stay, in the sense of a e{do" iJdrumevnon. Gods manifest themselves in free imaginative ‘appearances’, ‘Erscheinung’, epiphany. Even if certain modifications of Matz’s findings are due on account of the differentiation of Minoan and Mycenaean and of the diachronic evolution that took place in Late Minoan/Mycenaean III, his approach has remained a basic insight. 26 Return to Table of Contents

From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos In this sense, as specialists agree, Minoan religious experience was dominated by forms of ‘epiphany’, epiphany that does not need temples and is not dependent on images, even if it may produce and make use of them secondarily. Minoan iconography presents a unique type of scenes unanimously interpreted as divine epiphanies: there are small images apparently arriving through the air, from above, whirling from afar towards worhippers who react with reverential greetings, or with dance, as the ring from Isopata, often reproduced, impressively shows – a chorus of dancing women, met by a divinity flying down.39 Would Greeks exclaim qeov" qeov" in such a situation? Did Minoans perform a similar acclamation? Dancing and singing may reach the level of ecstasy. This is not marching towards a statue set up in a temple to establish contacts, but partaking in a communal change of consciousness. Epiphany occurs in imagination; it is not hinging on a great and beautiful work of art. The tripartite building at Anemospila near Archanes excavated by Sakellarakis, famous for the alleged and controversial traces of ‘human sacrifice’, has been claimed to constitute a Middle Minoan temple. It clearly had cultic functions. In the central room a pair of clay feet, of nearly natural size, was found. The excavators interpret these as indicating a wooden cult statue.40 But just technically these feet could never be used to fix and to hold in balance any heavy upright structure. In other words, they were nothing but isolated feet all the time. There is comparable evidence, such as a pair of feet from a cult room at Mallia, apart from other single and puzzling feet in the Aegean Bronze Age. These feet, especially those from the cult room of Archanes, must have been ‘symbolical’, indicating what is not directly present, the passing advent of a goddess or god who cannot be held back permanently. Much later, within Greek civilization of the imperial epoch, an inscription from the temple of Zeus at Stratonikeia, Karia, mentions ‘four golden feet of the god, according to the effective power shown by the god’, kata; th;n tou` qeou` ejnevrgeian.41 The god had shown his presence, possibly he had worked some miracle, and in testimony of this the god’s feet remain set up in the sanctuary. This is not to claim any direct connection from Crete to Karia, but it may still give some idea of what is possible. The feet testify to an imaginary presence of the divine, a precarious, punctual, but possibly repeated presence at the place of worship. In other words, they are the very counter-proof as against the ‘Parthenon model’. There was no job for Pheidias at Archanes. Experts have come to consider yet another form of ‘epiphany’ in 27 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert Minoan religion: the ‘goddess impersonation’, a priestess acting as a goddess. Even those statuettes from Knossos can be interpreted as priestesses playing the goddess. What is clearer, and more important: the central seat in the ‘throne room’ of the Knossian palace, guarded by a griffon on either side, had been called ‘the throne of Minos’ from the start, assuming without question that it had been occupied by the Minoan king. But it has been shown convincingly that it must have been a female who took her seat there: Minoan iconography has griffons connected with females only – be they goddesses, or priestesses representing goddesses. Hence we have to imagine a priestess, most probably impersonating a goddesss, sitting there.42 She may have been acclaimed as if divine, receiving worshippers and their gifts, granting her blessings. This would have been an act within some important religious ceremony, stabilizing the ‘threskeiocracy’ of Minoan Crete. Close to the Knossian throne room there is one of the so-called ‘lustral basins’, rooms characterized by a sunken floor and by special control of access and visibility. They must have had some cultic function, probably in the context of a rite de passage. Nanno Marinatos prefers to call them adyta.43 If one tries to find anything similar in later Greek sacred architecture, one is led to the adyton of the Delphic temple, where, watched by the delegates admitted, the Pythia would ‘go down’ to take her seat on the tripod and to speak out the god’s message.44 This finally would bring us back to the sphere expressed by the Greek roots thes- and theos: ejnqeavzousa cra`i. ‘Divination’ or ‘possession’ can hardly be expressed through iconography. It may still be noted that ecstatic prophecy is well attested at Bronze Age Mari,45 which is about contemporary with the Cretan palaces. And as regards the throne, we may recall that in the mantic ritual of Trophonios at Lebadeia the initiand, after a strange ‘trip’ of paranormal experience, was seated on a throne and questioned by the priests about what he had seen and heard in his visions.46 This could invite us to view the ‘lustral basin’ or adyton and the throne as stages in a ritual procedure at the peak of which the divine would manifest its presence, visually represented by the priestess’s ‘epiphany’ but possibly also in some form of audition; remember the strange Homeric formula of a deinh; qeo;" aujdhvessa. This goes beyond the realm of proof. It is still allowed, nay necessary, to think about Bronze Age religion not just in terms of ceremonial power-plays within representative architecture or of uncommitting imaginary vagaries between flowering nature and elegant art, but 28 Return to Table of Contents

From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos as experiences of ‘otherness’, strange and disconcerting, sought for also in caves and at mountain peaks, in dances and in fires, in epiphanies between impersonation and experience, between make-belief and true belief. The newly introduced Mycenaean word theos, with its connotations of occult yet amazing power which stick to the word so much later, may still bear the far-away echo of such proceedings. Moving on – or coming back – to later Greek religion, we have already dwelt on the growing importance of images towards the end of the Bronze Age. At the Subminoan sanctuaries of Gazi and Karphi in Crete the goddesses have grown to impressive size.47 What tells against the ‘Parthenon model’ even at that stage is that we still find multiple statues, especially at Gazi. The less attractive small, movable statuettes of late Mycenaean time, Phi- and Psi-type, which abound from other sites, usually come in numbers too. Looking back from the other side, from the level of Homeric epic, we find a remarkable echo of small, movable statuettes in the Aineias legend; the idea that the head of a family should ‘carry’ his own gods with himself into exile has a touch of Dark Age reality.48 Small idols as heirlooms of single families must have been in existence throughout the ‘dark ages’, be it Mycenaean idols made of clay, be it little bronze figurines of the ‘smiting god’ of Eastern provenience which have been found repeatedly both in late Mycenaean and in dark age contexts.49 One of the earliest examples of a ‘cult statue’ found in situ is one of the strangest: at the temple at Aghia Irini at Keos, which seems to have been in use since the Middle Bronze Age, the head of a Middle Minoan clay statue was set up at the floor in the eighth century, evidently to represent a theos; by then, if not from its origins, this was most probably a temple of Dionysus, as a later inscription indicates. Apparently the head was meant to represent this god as if emerging from below, Dionysus arriving from the Netherworld.50 Dionysus more than other theoi is a god of epiphany, not to be held back and kept in confinement, a god taking possession, a god who makes himself felt in the stage of entheos. Emerging Greek civilization has recourse to Minoan relics to give expression to the event of epiphany. The oldest, perhaps unique, example of a temple with cult statues actually found seems to be the temple of Dreros, excavated by Spyridon Marinatos in the Thirties.51 The famous sphyrelata no doubt represent Apollo between Leto and Artemis; note that the Iliad too presents Apollo together with Leto and Artemis in a temple at Troy. The statues are dated to the eighth century. Yet this striking early example of what was to be normal Greek cult afterwards has a most 29 Return to Table of Contents

Walter Burkert abnormal and complicated pedigree: the bronzework was made by oriental craftsmen or their immediate Greek pupils, the iconography is Egyptian – Horos between the two goddesses, Isis and Nephthys; but the plan of the building with its dais on which the statues were standing is still distinctly Minoan. And yet there is no doubt that Dreros had become a Dorian polis by that date. We shall not investigate here the cultural influence from the East for the constitution of Greek temples and cult statues. Oriental archaeology is much less advanced than classical archaeology, while the orient has suffered even more violent destructions than the occident; so a detailed typology of Hittite, Hurrite, Urartian or Western Semitic temples and cult statues in the crucial period of, say, 1000 to 800 BC is still missing. Hardly any cult statues seem to survive, even from Egypt.52 The question of any ‘influences’ at the time of Homer or even on Homer will be left open. Suffice it to recall the fundamental role of Homer and Hesiod, marked already by Xenophanes and Herodotus, in giving shape and distinction to the Greek gods and thus providing their fictive personalities, both through the system of theogony and through the vivid scenes of Homeric poetry. This seems to have met with the emerging Greek polis, deciding what was to be ‘Greek gods’ afterwards. But besides the newly developing arts of statue-making and the special skill of Homeric mythology, there remained those other forms of divine experience, dominating the associations of qesand qeov". Thus what we can ascertain finally is not so much the straight evolution from one ‘origin’ to one ‘classical form’, but rather coexisting yet diverging forms of how to deal with qei`on from one epoch to another. A last glance at Homer: the main picture of the Poliad goddess within the city occurs in the famous sixth song of the Iliad, with the procession of the Trojan women to Athena. They are offering a peplos to the goddess and praying for help in the immediate danger of the battle. This scene evidently presupposes a cult statue, a seated statue, as most agree.53 At any rate I hold that this Homeric scene depicts the developed polis cult as it had arisen during the eighth century. The poet makes us view the situation from the heart of the polis, as it were – and he does not hesitate to show the very failure of polis cult: ajnevneue de; Palla;" ∆Aqhvnh, Athena said ‘no’ to the entreaties of queen, priestess, and retinue. Gods remain disconcerting.

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From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos Notes 1 See P. Chantraine, Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque, Paris 1968– 80, 285 f., 346, 383 f., 429 f. 2 ‘All the gods’ is a current term in Sumerian, Akkadian, Hittite and Persian too. 3 See M. Gérard-Rousseau, Les mentions religieuses dans les tablettes mycéniennes, Rome 1968; F.A. Jorro, Diccionario Micénico I/II, Madrid 1985–1993, Diccionario grieco–espanol, Anejo I/II; S. Hiller, ‘Mykenische Heiligtümer: Das Zeugnis der Linear B-Texte’, in R. Hägg, N. Marinatos (eds.) Sanctuaries and Cults in The Aegean Bronze Age, Stockholm 1981, 95-125. Note especially the tablet from Khania which has Zeus and Dionysus in the same sanctuary, E. Hollager, M. Vlasakis, B.P. Hollager, ‘New Linear B Tablets from Khania’, Kadmos 30 (1992) 75–81. 4 Jorro op. cit.; Chantraine op. cit. 25 f., 457 f.; J.L. García-Ramón, ‘Griechisch iJerov" und seine Varianten, vedisch iß≥irá-*’, in R. Beekes et al. (eds.) Rekonstruktion und relative Chronologie, Innsbruck 1992, 183–205. 5 Hesiod in a way comes back to the old imagination as he makes Qeivh the mother of Sun, Moon, and Dawn, Theog. 371–4. 6 Hdt. 2.53.2; cf. W. Burkert, ‘Herodot über die Namen der Götter: Polytheismus als historisches Problem’, MH 42 (1985) 121–32. 7 Documentation and discussion in Lexikon des Frühgriechischen Epos II, Göttingen 1982, s.v. 8 W. Dittenberger (ed.) Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae, Leipzig 1905, nr. 530; W. Burkert, Greek Religion, Archaic and Classical, Oxford and Cambridge Mass. 1985, 115; the inscriptions from Klaros are not yet fully edited. Kassandra as qespiwidov": Aesch. Ag. 1161; Eur. Hec. 677. 9 Burkert, Greek Rel. 169 f. 10 Thestor can be derived from the root guhedh-: qevssasqai - povqo", cf. Lexikon des frühgr. Epos s.v.; this root could be confused with thes- in later Greek, though not in Mycenaean. 11 H. Diels, W. Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 6th edn, Berlin 1952, 68 B 21. 12 Burkert, Greek Rel. 114 f. 13 Aesch. Fr. 58 Radt, cf. Soph. Ant. 963, Eur. El. 1032. The idea that a god is ‘inside’ a possessed person has repeatedly been contested, see J. Holzhausen, ‘Von Gott besessen?’, RhM 137 (1994) 53–65; but see Eur. Bacch. 300: ‘If the god comes plentiful into the body...’, and already Aesch. Ag. 1084: to; qei`on...ejn freniv; in addition, the word-formation is clear. See also Aeschylus’ Semele, p. 335 Radt = Schol. Ap. Rh. 1.636a: Semele, pregnant with Dionysus, is ‘enthusiastic’. 14 Xenophanes in Diels-Kranz 21 B 7 on Pythagoras, without using the word; it occurs in Eur. Alc. 139 and is presupposed, in an ‘Orphic’ context, by a[yuco" Eur. Hipp. 952. Simonides Fr. 106 Bergk = XLVII in D.L. Page, Further Greek Epigrams, Cambridge 1981, 272 = Anth.Pal. 7.443, is of more than doubtful authenticity. 15 The scene is attested by the mosaic from Mytilene, which also gave the clue to the famous mosaic of Dioskurides at Naples: S. Charitonidis, L. Kahil,

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Walter Burkert Les mosaïques de la maison de Ménandre, (Antike Kunst, Beiheft 46), Bern 1970, pl. 6, 1–2; qeofovrhto" occurs already in Aesch. Ag. 1140, 1150. 16 U. v. Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Der Glaube der Hellenen I, Berlin 1931, 17; Aesch. Cho. 60; Men. Fr. 223; Eur. Hel. 560. 17 Bacchyl. 3.21: Eur. Herc. 772 f.; Verg. Aen. 6.46. 18 Cf. also Od. 2.297 ejpei; qeou' e[kluen aujdhvn. One may compare Virgil’s description of the yet unknown god of the Capitolium before the foundation of Rome: quis deus incertum est – habitat deus, Aen. 8.352. 19 Cf. W. Burkert, ‘Homer’s anthropomorphism: narrative and ritual’, in D. Buitron-Oliver (ed.) New Perspectives in Early Greek Art, Washington 1991, 81–91; B.C. Dietrich, ‘Theology and theophany in Homer and Minoan Crete’, Kernos 7 (1994) 59–74. 20 See Funke RAC XI, Stuttgart 1981, 659–828 s.v. ‘Götterbild’, esp. 668–70. 21 See F. de Polignac, La naissance de la cité grecque, Paris 1984; A.A. Donohue, Xoana and the Origins of Greek Sculpture, Atlanta 1988. 22 Burkert, Greek Rel. 47–53; ‘The formation of Greek religion at the close of the Dark Ages’, SIFC III 10 (1992) 533–51; B.C. Dietrich, Tradition in Greek Religion, Berlin 1986. 23 Kato Symi: A. Lebesi, To iJero; tou' ÔErmou' kai; th'" ∆Afrodivth" sth; Suvmh Biavnno I, Athens 1985; Kommos: J.W. and M.C. Shaw, Kommos I 1, Princeton 1995; Hyampolis: R.C.S. Felsch et al., ‘Kalapodi’, AA 1987, 1–99, 681–7. 24 M.P. Nilsson, The Minoan-Mycenaean Religion and its Survivals in Greek Religion, 2nd edn, Lund 1950; for contrast, see R. Hägg, ‘Minoan religion: the Helladic and the Minoan components’, in A. Morpurgo-Davies, Y. Duhoux (eds.) Linear B: A 1984 Survey, Louvain-la-Neuve 1985, 203–25; N. Marinatos, Minoan Religion, Columbia 1993. 25 G.E. Mylonas, To qrhskeutikovn kevntron twn Mukhnwvn, Pragmateivai th" Akadhmiva" Aqhnwvn 33, Athens 1972; C. Renfrew, The Archaeology of Cult: The Sanctuary at Phylakopi, London 1985; B. Rutkowski, Frühgriechische Kultdarstellungen, MDAI (Athen) 8. Beiheft, Berlin 1981, pl. 12/13 (Mycenae), 14/ 15 (Phylakopi), 16 (Tiryns). 26 One Linear B tablet from Thebes mentions Potnias woikos (cf. Jorro op. cit.) ‘house – i.e. temple – of the Lady’? But woikos may well designate ‘lodgings’, ‘quarters’, ‘district’, of a ‘Lady’ who protects her craftsmen there. 27 See Gérard-Rousseau and Jorro op. cit.; S.P. Morris, Daidalos and the Origins of Greek Art, Princeton 1992, 75–7. For the Boeotian festival Daidala see Burkert, Greek Rel., 63. 28 Gérard-Rousseau op. cit., Jorro op. cit. II 331 s.v. te-o-po-ri-ja; S. Hiller, ‘ TE-O-PO-RI-JA’, in Aux Origines de l’Hellénisme. Hommage à H. van Effenterre, Paris 1984, 139–50; Mylonas op. cit. pl. 14; Rutkowski, Frühgr. Kultdarst. 115. Note that the meaning of theos on this hypothesis is quite different from the context of theophoroumene in later Greek. 29 Mylonas op. cit. 30 Burkert, Greek Rel. 134 f. 31 W. Burkert, ‘Katagogia-Anagogia and the goddess of Knossos’, in R. Hägg, N. Marinatos, G. Nordquist (eds.) Early Greek Cult Practice, Stockholm 1988, 81–8.

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From epiphany to cult statue: early Greek theos 32

W. Burkert, ‘Buzyge und Palladion’, in Wilder Ursprung, Berlin 1990, 77–85. See E. French, ‘Mycenaean figures and figurines, their typology and function’, in R. Hägg, N. Marinatos (eds.) Sanctuaries and Cults in the Aegean Bronze Age, Stockholm 1981, 173–7; Rutkowski, Kultdarst. pl. 12/13 (Mycenae), 14/15 (Phylakopi), 16 (Tiryns); cf. n. 25. 34 Marinatos op. cit. 38–75. N. Marinatos, R. Hägg, ‘Anthropomorphic cult images in Minoan Crete?’, in O. Krzyszkowska and L. Nixon (eds.) Minoan Society. Proceedings of the Cambridge Colloquium 1981, Bristol 1983, 185–201. 35 R. Hägg, ‘The bronze hair-locks from Knossos. A new interpretation’, AA 1983, 543–9. 36 Arch.Rep. 1990/91, 75. 37 Marinatos op. cit. 148, 157–9. 38 F. Matz, ‘Göttererscheinung und Kultbild im minoischen Kreta’, Abh. Mainz 1958, 7. 39 R. Hägg, ‘Die göttliche Epiphanie im minoischen Ritual’, MDAI (Athen) 101 (1986) 41–62; Marinatos op. cit. 175–81. 40 I. and E. Sakellarakis, ‘Anaskafhv Arcavnwn’, Praktika (1979) 331–92, pl. 180 b; Marinatos and Hägg (above, n. 34), 190–2. 41 Ç. Sahin, Die Inschriften von Stratonikeia, Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 21, Bonn 1981, nr. 248. 42 H. Reusch, ‘Zum Wandschmuck des Thronsaales in Knossos’, in E. Grumach (ed.) Minoica. Festschrift J. Sundwall, Berlin 1958, 33–58, esp. 356–8; S. Mirié, Das Thronraumareal des Palastes von Knossos, Bonn 1979; W.-D. Niemeier, ‘Zur Deutung des Thronraumes im Palast von Knossos’, MDAI (Athen) 101 (1986) 63–95; Hägg, ‘Epiphanie’ 47 f. 43 Marinatos op. cit. 77–87. 44 I follow G. Roux, Delphi. Orakel und Kultstätten, München 1971, 112–34. 45 F. Ellermeier, Prophetie in Mari und Israel, 2nd edn, Nörten-Hardenberg 1977. 46 Paus. 9.39.13; cf. the epiphany on a tribunal of the new initiate of Isis as Osiris-Helios, Apul. Met. 11.24.2-4. 47 Marinatos op. cit. 226. 48 Burkert, above n. 19. 49 W. Burkert, ‘Res¨ep-Figuren, Apollon von Amyklai und die ‘Erfindung’ des Opfers auf Cypern’, Graz.Beiträge 4 (1975) 51–79; H. Seeden, The Standing Armed Figurines in the Levant, München 1980; M. Byrne, The Greek Geometric Warrior Figurine, Louvain 1991. 50 M.E. Caskey, ‘Ayia Irini, Kea: the terracotta statues and the cult in the temple’, in R. Hägg and N. Marinatos (eds.) Sanctuaries and Cults in the Aegaean Bronze Age, Stockholm 1981, 127–35, esp. 129 f., cf. Greek Cult Practice (1988) 275: ‘head of Dionysus as a cult image’. 51 S. Marinatos, ‘Le temple geométrique de Dréros’, BCH 60 (1936) 214–85; J. Boardman, The Cretan Collection in Oxford, Oxford 1961, 137 f.; P. Blome, Die figürliche Bildwelt Kretas in der geometrischen und früharchaischen Periode, Mainz 1982, 13–15, 79 f.; Morris op. cit. 163 f.; S. Hiller, ‘Mycenaean tradition in early Greek cult images’, in R. Hägg, N. Marinatos (eds.) The Greek Renaissance of the Eighth Century B.C., Stockholm 1983, 91–8. 33

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Walter Burkert 52

One possible example, 25th dynasty: Stiftung Koradi/Berger, Kilchberg 1989, 6 f. 53 Erich Bethe made this his main argument for a comparatively late date of this part of the Iliad, well down in the seventh century. A somewhat earlier date is not excluded. See Burkert, above n. 19.

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3

HERACLITUS AND THE RITES OF ESTABLISHED RELIGION Catherine Osborne Although Heraclitus’ views on religion do not tend to figure prominently in general works on his philosophy, there are certain fragments that are of considerable importance for scholars of ancient religion. Several of Heraclitus’ sayings have been routinely taken as critical of established religious rites, and of conventional ideas of what gods are. But while Heraclitus clearly has some point to make about the rites and beliefs that he mentions, I doubt whether the significance of his observations has been accurately captured. In this paper I shall suggest that by careful attention to what he is saying, in the wider context of his philosophical position, we can see that the sayings that are usually taken to ridicule religion are better read as observations about the significance of the religious context. Although these sayings argue against simple-minded misunderstanding of conventional piety, they do not condemn such piety in itself; instead they offer a more sophisticated theological picture, one that belongs with Heraclitus’ famous commitment to the unity of opposites. I shall be looking at two groups of fragments: firstly a set concerned with conventional rituals, and secondly some that indicate the proper place in our lives of the divine way of doing things. Perhaps the comments on the conventional rituals are the most familiar. In fragment B5 people (‘they’) who are polluted with blood are said to purify themselves with blood.1 Heraclitus compares the procedure with using mud to wash off mud and observes (quite correctly) that in ordinary life such a procedure would be thought insane: Tainted with blood they purify themselves in a different way,2 as if someone who stepped into mud were cleansed with mud. But a human who claimed that one was doing that would be considered insane. (B5)3

This is the first part of an unusually long piece of Heraclitus’ prose. On the standard interpretation4 it is taken as a mocking reductio: what 35 Return to Table of Contents

Catherine Osborne good is a purification of that sort? It can’t work any more than a mud bath! Heraclitus, like a modern logical positivist, stands for no nonsense: look at the ritual in the cold light of reason, he says, and it cannot possibly produce the results that it claims to produce. But is this right? Heraclitus says that in the ritual purification they ‘purify themselves in a different way’. The word ajllw'" is ambiguous: its basic meaning is ‘differently’ (the participants in the religious ritual are ‘differently purified’) but it can also mean ‘pointlessly’, and that is how it is usually taken when the saying is read as a reductio of religious practice. The ambiguity, as generally in Heraclitus, is surely not accidental. The comparison with washing in mud demonstrates not the absurdity of the rite but the different logic that applies in the sacred context. Ritual purification is a different kind of washing, a kind that would be nonsensical or ‘pointless’ in the secular context where it would be like bathing in mud, and the claim to have been cleansed by a human agent in that way would be insane. Hence we shall read ajllw'" as ‘differently’ if we see it from the religious point of view (the purification works in a different way), and as ‘pointlessly’ if we see it from the human point of view (the purification is no use at all).5 The word itself changes its significance depending on the context or viewpoint of the reader, just as the rite of purification changes its significance when viewed as a sacred rite, or as a secular attempt at hygiene. Heraclitus implies that it is not insane for god to claim to cleanse us of the taint of blood that way, though the same claim from a human would be mad. The second part of fragment 5 is about prayer. The worshippers, we are told, pray to the statues in a manner that is somehow analogous to talking to houses: And they pray to these statues, like as if someone, who knew nothing of what gods or heroes are like, were to converse with the houses. (B5)6

Once again the analogy has been taken as a reductio of religious practice. Praying to statues, Heraclitus would be saying, is about as effective as talking to houses. But again it can be read another way. Notice that it is the one who does not understand the nature of gods and heroes who talks to the houses. This implies that if we understand what a god is we shall understand how the ritual of praying to statues works and why it is not a matter of talking to some old stones, whether sacred or secular. Heraclitus observes that what we do when we pray is absurd if considered from a non-religious viewpoint; someone who had no understanding of religion might try to achieve the same effect by talking to

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Heraclitus and the rites of established religion houses, and that would be to miss the point. Talking to stones makes sense if you understand about the gods, and not if you do not. Both parts of fragment 5 can thus be taken to suggest that the meaning of religious rites is given by their religious context and cannot be judged on the logic of everyday secular practices. The same actions are either sense or nonsense depending on whether they are sacred or secular. This kind of observation about the contextual dependence of significance is familiar in many other Heraclitean sayings: sea water is pure for fish and impure for humans;7 the road up and the road down is one and the same;8 the actions of cutting, burning and inflicting pain are good when performed in a case of surgery, and bad in a case of torture.9 In fragment 5 the one who does not understand what gods and heroes are will try to converse with stones. Conversation is, of course, part of the human way of life, and we know exactly what will be involved in making a successful job of it. One prerequisite will be that the conversation takes place with another living human person, and not a stone wall or an empty dwelling. Similarly washing is part of the human way of life, and it is essential that we wash away the dirt with something other than the very dirt we are removing. The parallels drawn in fragment 5 presuppose that the divine way of life is the same as the human way of life, and they point out that it does not make any sense when treated like that. So the theological error of one who takes the religious rite as a confused attempt to perform a simple human task is that of transferring human expectations into the divine context in which a different kind of behaviour makes sense. It is a kind of anthropomorphism. The ordinary people take the human way of life as a standard by which to judge activities that belong to religion. That may be what Heraclitus is saying when he cryptically comments (B119) h\qo" ajnqrwvpw/ daivmwn, ‘the way of life for humanity is humanity’s god’.10 In other words, ordinary people fail to see that religious rituals operate in a different way from secular (human) habits and tasks, and that religious activities belong to another ethos in which those activities make sense. Failure to understand ‘what the gods and heroes are’ makes them see the religious activity as another human activity, only that it emerges as nonsense in the context of the human ethos that has become their god. There are, then, two ways of life, that of religion in which we wash off blood with blood, and that of the human in which we do not converse with stones. In fragment B78 Heraclitus observes that the human way of looking at it has no sense: 37 Return to Table of Contents

Catherine Osborne The human way of life (h\qo") has no sense (gnwvma") but the divine way does.11

We might take this as a comment directly attached to fragment 5, in which case it concludes that washing off blood with blood does makes sense so long as we recognise the divine way of life that gives it its sense; but there is no sense in the practice if it is viewed within the ethos of human activities. This leaves open the possibility that Heraclitus means that each kind of activity makes equally good sense, provided that it is seen in its context, and that the rationale of that ethos is respected. That position accords with Heraclitus’ idea that a unified rationale (the lovgo") can be seen to underlie all our shared life and language, and to be in agreement with itself even where it appears to be different. Less satisfactory is an alternative interpretation which would give fragment 78 general significance, as an observation that in every circumstance the practices that depend upon the human or secular way of doing things are senseless, and that sense lies only in the divine way of doing things. The divine way of doing things is the religious or sacred rationale of ritual and sacrifice, in which we wash off blood with blood. Then Heraclitus would be saying that whereas ordinary people judge on the basis of the human ethos and find the sacred rituals to be nonsense, in fact the sacred is where sense is primarily located: those rites are not pointless but significant. On that account any sense that human practices have must be parasitic or derivative from the sacred practices that belong to the divine custom or lovgo" and are expressed in shared human customs; yet it becomes unclear then why the secular practices should develop a different way of doing things, since, as Heraclitus says in B114, all human customs are nourished by the one divine way of doing things. It therefore seems more appropriate to read fragment 78 with fragment 5, as saying that neither the sacred nor the secular is a privileged context: both are equally good reflections of the one underlying rationale that makes sense of all things, but an action only makes sense within its own context. What we must not do is forget the difference, and judge an action in the terms of the wrong ethos. Fragment B15 is an observation about the rites held in honour of Dionysus: If it were not Dionysus for whom they held the procession and sang the hymn to the shameful parts, they would be performing the most shameless deeds... 12

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Heraclitus and the rites of established religion The festivals of Dionysus included a number of rituals that might be considered shocking. Heraclitus mentions particularly the procession of the phallus and the associated hymn, though the rest of the fragment also mentions the Dionysiac frenzy. But here it is not that such action would be shocking in a secular context but that the propriety of the actions is restricted, even within the religious sphere, to the honour of a particular deity: what is appropriate for Dionysus would not be done for Hades, god of the dead. Hence the context in which the same action is shameful or shameless is given not by whether we do it in a religious context but whether it is the right religious context. In fact, however, Heraclitus goes on to say that Hades and Dionysus are one and the same: But Hades is the same as the Dionysus for whom they rave and celebrate Lenaia.13

Now we cannot infer that one kind of rite suits one god and another another. The two gods in this case are one and the same. So is Heraclitus objecting to the variety of rituals? I think not, for elsewhere Heraclitus tells us that two things are ‘one and the same’: not only the road up and the road down,14 but also day and night15 and the beginning and the end of a circle.16 In none of these cases do we have to suppose that because two things are ‘one and the same’ they must demand the same response. We approach the uphill struggle differently from the same road taken as a downhill stroll, and what we do at night differs from what we do in the day, however much it simply depends on whether the sun is in our part of the sky whether the same hours are night or day.17 Heraclitus’ point is rather that, as he claims in B51, things can differ while agreeing with themselves: something that is fundamentally the same is viewed under different aspects (as day and night, as up or down) and consequently merits and receives different responses appropriate to each. So what are we to learn? The procession they perform for Dionysus is appropriate to Dionysus and would be inappropriate18 in the funerary contexts we associate with Hades. You cannot do for Hades what you do for Dionysus. But that need not mean that Hades and Dionysus are two different deities. One and the same god, viewed under two different aspects, may merit two wholly different kinds of rite and response and Heraclitus may be denying that the deities thus worshipped are themselves different entities, (or he may be simply observing that we can and do regard them as a unity without difficulty).19

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Catherine Osborne Thus Heraclitus does not ridicule the religious practices that belong within religion and to particular deities within religion; he argues that they make sense only within their context, and that the judgement of what is or is not right depends on understanding that context. Nevertheless the tone of his sayings is mocking, particularly in its use of the third person plural: ‘they purify themselves’, ‘they pray to statues’, ‘they perform the procession’. Heraclitus does not say ‘we’ do these things. Evidently Heraclitus, as elsewhere, is claiming that the ordinary people are confused over the most obvious things, even when the evidence is before their very eyes.20 If it is ‘they’ who do these things, then Heraclitus plainly thinks that ‘they’ are in a muddle. However we need not suppose that the muddle is in the religious practices themselves. The muddle is apparently in people’s understanding of the significance of the ritual: they do not see that the rationale of the ritual is distinct and peculiar to the sacred. Someone who fails to understand what gods and heroes are fails to see that the same action is a different action, with a different kind of point, in a sacred ritual, or in the rites of one particular god. Ordinary religion may be confused, not in its recognition of the sacred as a distinctive context, for that is quite proper, but because it fails to appreciate that it is the distinction of context itself which accounts for the distinctive significance of religious rites. The failure in religion would then be the failure of its adherents to appreciate what they were actually doing;21 and that fits with Heraclitus’ view that ordinary mortals generally fail to see what they are doing in the common way they live their lives, use their language and perceive what is obvious and familiar.22 They go through life as though they were asleep.23 They engage in the religious rituals, but they fail to grasp what gives them significance.24

Notes 1

On the rituals for homicide involving purification with blood see Robert Parker, Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion, Oxford 1983, appendix 6, 370–4. 2 Reading ajllw'" with the manuscript and Charles H. Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus, Cambridge 1979; T.M. Robinson, Heraclitus, Phoenix Pre-Socratics vol. 2, Toronto 1987; Miroslav Marcovich, Heraclitus, editio major, Merida 1967; rather than ajllw/' (with further blood) which was an emendation suggested by Fränkel and adopted by Kranz in Diels-Kranz (5th edition and later). 3 The text is preserved entire in the Theosophia, an anonymous Christian collection of pagan material from c. 500 AD; it is also paraphrased in some other texts, assembled by Marcovich Heraclitus, editio major, 455–8. The second

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Heraclitus and the rites of established religion part (quoted below) is also recorded by Celsus (apud Origen). 4 Kahn, 266; Robinson, 78; W. Burkert, Greek Religion, Oxford 1986, 309; Parker, 371–2, for example. 5 Heraclitus seems to use the word ‘human’ to contrast with god, whose method of purifying is the sacred one. In what follows I shall sometimes use ‘religious’ or ‘sacred’ and ‘secular’ which is our normal terminology for the distinction he is making, sometimes ‘divine’ and ‘human’ which is Heraclitus’ terminology, e.g. in B78 and 119. 6 This second part of B5 is quoted not only in the Theosophia (see above n. 3) but also by Celsus (preserved in Origen’s Contra Celsum) and is discussed at some length by Origen. Celsus takes the fragment to be a comment on the correct use of religious images and its dependence on the believer’s proper understanding of the gods. Origen responds by hijacking the fragment for his own ends. 7 B61. The text is preserved by Hippolytus of Rome, a Christian bishop of the early third century AD, in the Refutation of All Heresies 9.10. This section of the Refutation tries to demonstrate that the heretic Noetus, like Heraclitus, confuses things of opposed significance. 8 B60. The text is preserved by Hippolytus Refutation 9.10. 9 B58. The text is preserved by Hippolytus Refutation 9.10. 10 Preserved by Stobaeus Anthology 4.40.23, Plutarch Quaest. Plat. 999, and Alexander of Aphrodisias de fato 6. The fragment is peculiarly difficult to interpret; the interpretation offered by Alexander appears to cohere with that offered here. The alternative readings with a genitive (ajnqrwvpou or ajnqrwvpwn), given by Plutarch and Alexander respectively (the former adopted by Jean Bollack, Heinz Wismann, Héraclite ou la séparation, Paris 1972), retain the same sense. 11 From a summary of the quotations given by Celsus from Heraclitus on the subject of the difference between divine and human wisdom, included by Origen, Contra Celsum 6.12. 12 Both parts of B15 (see further below) are quoted in close connection by Clement of Alexandria Protrepticus 2.34.5. 13 This quotation is listed as the second part of B15. The Lenaia was a particular festival of Dionysus associated with ritual madness on the part of women. See Richard Seaford, Reciprocity and Ritual, Oxford 1994, 239 and 322. Heraclitus uses a rare verb (‘to Lenaia-ize’) to speak of the performance of these ritual activities. 14 B60; see above n. 8. 15 B57, ‘Hesiod is the teacher of a great many; they understand that he knew a great many things, though he did not recognise day and night. For they are one.’ The text is preserved by Hippolytus Refutation 9.10. 16 B103. The text is preserved by Porphyry Quaest. Hom. ad Il. 24.200. 17 Heraclitus probably thought the earth was flat, though the evidence is unclear (Diogenes Laertius 9.11) but he may have been aware that the length of day varies from north to south, and he recognised that the hours of day and night are not absolute but determined by the presence or absence of the sun (B99 and cf. B57).

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Catherine Osborne 18

anaidestata, ‘un-Hades-like’ as well as ‘shameless’ if we adopt the widespread view that there is significant word-play here (Kahn 336 n. 390 with further references). 19 The identification of Hades and Dionysus does not seem to be a peculiar doctrine of Heraclitus, nor does it commit him to monotheism. The evidence for a cult connection between the two is quite extensive, particularly in South Italy, and the dionysiac mysteries are associated with death rituals. See Seaford 319–26; C. Sourvinou Inwood, ‘Persephone and Aphrodite at Locri: a model for personality definitions in Greek Religion’, JHS 98 (1978) 101–21, 109, reprinted in Sourvinou Inwood, ‘Reading’ Greek Culture, Oxford 1991; Erwin Rohde, Psyche: The Cult of Souls and Belief in Immortality among the Greeks, London 1925, 159, 184 n. 7; Marcovich p. 254; J.C. Carter, ‘Sanctuaries in the Chora of Metaponto’, in S.E. Alcock and R.G. Osborne (eds.) Placing the Gods, Oxford 1994, 161–98. 20 B56, B57. 21 Something similar to this conclusion was suggested by W.K.C. Guthrie, A History of Greek Philosophy, vol. 1, Cambridge 1962, 476 on the basis of fragment B68. 22 B71–73. 23 B89. 24 This paper is a revised version of a paper delivered to the University of Wales Institute of Classics and Ancient History for the conference ‘What is a God’, where it benefited from a lively and challenging discussion. A related version appears as a section in my chapter on Heraclitus in the History of Philosophy, vol. 1 (Routledge, forthcoming). I am grateful for comments from Malcolm Schofield and C.C.W. Taylor.

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4

THE MORAL DIMENSION OF PYTHIAN APOLLO J.K. Davies All gods are human creations. I am sorry if I offend believers, of whatever variety, by starting this paper thus, but it is so. They are collective representations, the crystallizations over centuries, if not millennia, of imaginative human attempts to identify, to describe, to come to terms with, and to try to control the innumerable aspects of what it is to be human. Humans have bodily needs and passions; they are vulnerable to weather and climate and to the vagaries of animal or vegetable fertility; and they have a strong sense of their powerlessness as individuals. ‘Gods’ are ways of identifying and labelling the main sorts of such internal or external needs, powers, and constraints. Typically, this has been done via the hypostasis of one or more (usually anthropomorphic) entities, each with a portfolio of powers, and placed out there in such a way as to be accessible, albeit with some effort of human movement or of ritualized action; the disposition to evolve such a formula of relationship is so widely cross-cultural as to count as a human universal. ‘Power’, indeed, is fundamental, for a powerless god is a contradiction in terms. But ‘power’ does not entail monotheism; on the contrary, the convenience of being able to interpret conflicts between personal desires, or between collective duties, or between components of the environment, as conflicts between such hypostatised entities is a very strong argument for polytheism as a more flexible and user-friendly model of reality than monotheism. Still less, of course, does the imputation of ‘power’ to such entities require either that their exercise of it should be in human terms benevolent or moral, or that they should be omnipotent. That is, I acknowledge, a humanist’s approach to the theme of this volume. Yet it is not a sectarian one. Indeed, now that (I hope) the temptation to interpret the history of religion as a praeparatio evangelica is one which even historians of a religious persuasion have learned to resist, it is the only possible approach if we are not to be seduced by the 43 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies tidiness and convenience of such names as ‘Zeus’ or ‘Britomartis’ or ‘Siva’ or ‘Yahweh’ into accepting (perhaps unconsciously) the implied hypostasis ourselves. Such names are indeed a shorthand for portfolios or packages of attributed imagined powers, but they, and especially the overwhelmingly anthropomorphic way in which the Greeks visualized their gods, can all too easily tempt us to speak and think of them as ‘persons’ in ways which, if adopted incautiously, send ontologically misleading messages.1 We have therefore to reach round the name to the portfolio, and to the men and women in whose minds that portfolio had a meaning, if we are to be able to trace the ways in which the ‘profile’, or ‘person’, or imputed personality, of this or that god, or set of gods, changes in the course of generations. My business here is with Apollo as a case study of one such ‘portfolio’ or collective representation. The choice of ‘him’ has in part to do with my own continuing work on Delphi, but is justified on other grounds too. He is well documented enough to be accessible, he is central to the Greek theological system, and he exemplifies in palmary form the flexibility, but also the conflicts and contradictions, which such hypostaseis can embody. He does so not least because, unlike onedimensional entities such as the Roman Robigo or the countless minor Greek heroes of local cult, the imaginary construct which Greeks and we call ‘Apollo’ was seen as sufficiently multi-functional to provide a refuge and a reference-point for many human conditions and situations. In that way, just as each of us, given a particular cultural environment or a particular personal disposition, and with or without guidance from priests and texts, constructs the God whom we need at a particular time from among the inherited conglomerate of ideas of ‘God’, so too Greeks could clearly each construct their own ‘Apollo’ from available cults, myths, and iconography. Indeed, the richness of that material was such that he clearly caught the imagination of Greeks of the archaic period in a way that no other god did, so that the ‘portraits’ which we have of him go well beyond the narrative or the superficial. This is not the occasion, nor have I the knowledge, to survey all the components of such portraits. In particular I shall leave on one side the visual representations, in statuary and vase-paintings, since though they show which components were being selected in a particular environment in a particular period, the ‘meaning’ which we attribute to them at any one time is dependent on a prior knowledge of attributes and narratives which can best (or only) be gained from the literary evidence. Furthermore, I shall be concerned mainly with those literary representations which appear to present Apollo not merely as 44 Return to Table of Contents

The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo the wielder of power within the visible world but also, especially qua God the Son of his Father Zeus and especially in his oracular capacity as Pythian Apollo, as some sort of moral authority. The question is how far his multi-functionality and the inherited body of myth and cult centred on him allowed, encouraged, or impeded his evolution in the latter direction. I shall juxtapose three genres of evidence – his profile in poetry, his profile in public or communal life, and his profile in stories and parables – in order to present material for a judgement. The poetic portraits provide a rough chronological framework for such a discourse. First, that presented in the Iliad, where Apollo is central to the action throughout. He is not here, of course, Pythian Apollo, or even Delian Apollo, but the local god of the Troad ‘of the silver bow, you who go protectively round Chryse and holy Killa and rule over Tenedos with strength, Smintheus’ (i.37–9 and 451–2). As such his partisanship on behalf of the Trojans (explicit at vii.21 and xvi.94) is almost unremitting. True, it was Apollo who had bestowed upon the Greek seer Chalkas his gift of mantosuvnh (i.72) and was willing to take pleasure in the propitiatory paian sung to him by Odysseus’ delegation to Chryses (i.473–4), but that is all. Otherwise, he is wholly pro-Trojan, whether by providing general encouragement and leadership (iv.507 ff., xv.307 ff. and 355 ff., xxi.538), by rescuing or stimulating particular heroes such as Agenor (xxi.545 and 595 ff.), Aineias (v.344, 432–3, and 512 f., xvii.319 ff., xx.79 ff. and 295), Glaukos (xvi.513 ff.), Hippokoon (x.518), Pandaros (v.104–5), Sarpedon (posthumously, at least, xvi.676 ff.), and especially Hektor (vii.37 ff. and 272, viii.311, xv.59 and 220–70, xvi.720 ff , xvii.71 ff. and 582 ff., xx.375), by manipulating his fellow gods (v.454 ff. and 506 ff. (Ares), vii.20 ff. (Athene) ), and by hampering the Achaeans individually (Achilleus, xxi.600 ff., Diomedes, xxiii.383, and Patroklos, xvi.700 ff. and 788 ff.) or collectively (xvi.728f).2 A minimalist view of this activity would hardly see in it much more than a patron’s protection of his clients, in much the same way that Athene protects Odysseus throughout the Odyssey. However, the bold, indeed grandiose claim has been made that, when in Book xxiv it is he alone who is represented as having the courage to face down the corresponding proAchaian partisanship of Here and Poseidon and give voice to the gods’ own pity for Hektor and their anger at Achilleus’ treatment of his corpse, his protest (xxiv.25–6 and 55–63) is more than pure partisanship and represents ‘(die) älteste Urkunde der hellenischen Ethik’.3 Yet the effect on the reader of this profoundly ‘humane’ speech is 45 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies balanced, even cancelled out, by Achilleus’ sketch at xxiv.602–17 of the pitiless slaughter of Niobe’s children by Apollo and Artemis. To add that final sombre brush-stroke to the portrait of the god, at so critical a moment of the penultimate scene of the whole Iliad, sums up all too bleakly the Gestalt presented in the poem as a whole. Granted, the words kavllion and a[meinon which Apollo is made to use in his speech at xxiv.52 foreshadow the two components of the later ideal of the kalo;" kajgaqov", as Dirlmeier pointed out, but their comparative form, odd and barely appropriate in the context, suggests rather that Apollo is being made to use the sort of oracular language which later crystallized as lw'/on kai; a[meinon. It would be unwise to read too much Ethik even into this passage, still less into Apollo’s profile in the Iliad as a whole. However, two hymns of the later archaic period offer a different nuance. The first, written by Alkaios c. 600 BC , is lost, save for a few fragments, but its general sense is preserved in a paraphrase inserted by Himerios into one of his speeches.4 A literal translation5 might run: When Apollo was born, Zeus decked him out with a golden mitra and a lyre and gave him besides these a chariot to drive – swans pulled the chariot. He sent him to Delphi and the streams of Kastalia, to speak thence as a prophet of justice and due order to the Greeks. Apollo mounted the chariot, but set the swans to fly to the Hyperboreans. When the Delphians heard of this, they composed a paian and a song, instituted dances of youths around the tripod, and summoned the god to come from the Hyperboreans. Having delivered the law for a whole year among the men there, when he deemed it the right moment for the Delphian tripods to resound too, he ordered the swans to fly back from the Hyperboreans. Now it was summer, and indeed the very middle of the summer, when Alkaios brought Apollo from the Hyperboreans. So, because summer was aglow and Apollo was in the land, the lyre flaunts a sort of summer dress in honour of the god. The nightingales sing him the sort of song you expect the birds to sing in Alkaios, and swallows and cicadas sing too, not telling the tale of their own fate among humankind but uttering all their songs in relation to the god. Kastalia in the poem flows with streams of silver, and great Kephissos rises up, heaving with its waves, imitating the Enipeus of Homer: for Alkaios, just like Homer, forces even the water to be able to perceive the presence of the gods.

Reluctantly I leave aside any exploration of other facets of this magical but neglected poem, in order to focus wholly on the phrase ‘to speak thence as a prophet of justice and due order to the Greeks’ (profhteuvonta divkhn kai; qevmin toi'" ”Ellhsi). Though Page warns against any attempt to reconstruct Alkaios’ Wortlaut from the paraphrase, it is unlikely that either so striking a ‘mission statement’ or the specific words divkh and qevmi" would have figured in Themistios’ 46 Return to Table of Contents

The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo paraphrase had they not been recognizably there in the original. If that assumption is correct, the text gives us a profile of the god which stands in clear contrast to that presented in the Iliad: Apollo has taken shape in the collective imagination of at least some Greeks as the patron, or direct author, of laws and of a moral order. The other hymnic portrait is that presented in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo. I am not here concerned with its date(s), or with the debate whether the two halves, Delian and Pythian, do or do not form an artistic unity,6 so much as with the way in which the poet(s) portray the god. Though he is initially presented as a ‘delight to mortals’ (25), the predominant motif is inevitably his power: his rule over all men (29, 68–9), his presumptuousness (ajtavsqalon, 68, astonishing in its application to a god7), his strength (267) and anger (377 ff.), his pitiless killing of Typhaon (363–9) and his condescendingly imperious (531 ff.) power over the Cretan sailors (474 ff.) and their ship (399 ff.), provoking fear (447) by his epiphany. However, two other traits are portrayed as well: his pleasures – in Delos (146), in women (hardly surprisingly) (208 ff.), and in the lyre and curved bow (131) – and his oracular role, first sketched in the second half of his initial ‘mission statement’ as ‘and I shall vouchsafe to mankind the unfailing will of Zeus’ (131–2). That statement is repeated twice, at 252–3 and 287–93, in a rephrased form which embodies the word qemisteuvoimi (253 and 293). That word is itself picked up by the proleptic use of qevmista" (394) to describe the utterances which the Cretans will make as his priests: we are meant to be left in no doubt of its importance. Yet the word qevmista" also recalls the Homeric phrase ‘the qevmiste" of Zeus’,8 which must be deliberate: while such terminology echoes Alkaios’ and brings out Apollo’s potential value to humans, it also emphasizes that his oracular role is intermediary rather than autonomous. Yet, if we follow the poets into the fifth century BC, his imputed role as ‘prophet of right’ virtually evaporates. The change is visible, for example, in the portrait of him inserted towards the end of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes in the Late Archaic period.9 It is presented as part of the process of exchange, mutual recognition of attributes and spheres of influence, and creation of a modus vivendi between Hermes and Apollo which necessarily follows upon the emergence of Hermes on to the Olympian scene. Occupying a good 30 lines (533–65) and thereby seriously out of scale in a final coda which itself shows clear signs of discontinuity and patchwork,10 Apollo’s speech about prophecy is defensive, protectionist and frankly callous: But, bravest heaven-born, as for the gift of prophecy which you seek,

47 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies It is not god-ordained either for you to know it or for any other Of the immortals: the mind of Zeus knows it: while I myself Having given a pledge have assented and sworn a strong oath That apart from myself, of the immortal gods no Other will know the close-minded will of Zeus. So, brother of the golden wand, you are not to bid me To make known the god-ordained things which wide-seeing Zeus intends. As for mankind, I shall hurt one man, I shall help another, Herding the many tribes of miserable men around. Any man will get profit from my prophetic voice who comes (Guided) by the voice or flights of full-grown birds: That man will profit from my voice, nor shall I deceive him. But whosoever, having trusted false-speaking birds, May wish to seek out, beyond understanding, the gift of prophecy Which is ours, and to understand more than the ever-being gods, I state that he goes a fruitless road: but I would still take his gifts.

535

540

545

He then offers Hermes instead the services of the three virgins who ...inhabit abodes underneath a glen of Parnassos Apart, as teachers of the art of prophecy which I, while Still a boy following herds, practised: and my father took no heed.

555

The absence of any notion of divkh or qevmi", or indeed of Delphi as his own particular abode, from this heavily revisionist version of Apollo’s charter to prophesy is as conspicuous as is the emphasis on his monopoly of the role; we are already a long way from the tone of the Hymn to Apollo. Again, Apollo’s role in Pindar is visible enough, indeed, but has a rather different set of focuses. If we leave aside the allusions to his proTrojan role11 or those passages where his name simply represents Delphi and the Pythian Games,12 the focus is rather on his highhanded amours,13 on his links with the Hyperboreans,14 on his brutal punishments,15 on his cult titles and temples,16 and on his oracular utterances, in general and in particular.17 There are hints that Pindar followed the Hymns in giving a narrative of Apollo’s journey from Delos to Delphi,18 but his only extant synoptic portrait is at P. v.63–9: He grants to men and women Healing from grievous sicknesses: His is the harp. He gives to whom he will The Muse, and brings into the heart Law, that thinks not of battle: In the Cave of Prophecy he is to be found. (tr. Bowra.)

65

Yet even this portrait is less than it seems. Elsewhere for Pindar his 48 Return to Table of Contents

The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo healing powers have passed to his son Asklepios,19 and though the words ajpovlemon....eujnomivan in 65–6 clearly charter a political role for Apollo’s utterances, Pindar noticeably fails to link with him the various personified abstractions which are Pindar’s nearest approach to a systematic moral theology.20 One notes especially Themis – whether on her own or as Themis the Saviour (O. viii.21–2) or as ‘ancient wife of Saviour Zeus’ (F 30) or as mother of the sisters Dika, Eunomia and Eirena (O. xiii.6–8) – and Hesychia daughter of Dike (P. viii.1–2): the links, if any, are with Zeus. Only in the phrase ‘Delfoi; qemivstwn mavntie" ∆Apollwnivdai’, preserved without context as F 192 and echoed in the first stanza of Paian viii (F 52i), is there any echo of the profile in the Hymns. Even that trace is absent from Bakchylides’ ‘Apollo’, who is little more than purely conventional 21 and is oddly elusive. Poem 15(16), for example, starts as an ‘Alkaian’ portrait, with the River Hebros,22 swans, and Delphian choruses as components, before darting off towards Deianeira and the death of Herakles, while the Paian for Pythian Apollo, though written for performance at his temple at Asine, has Apollo as (oracular) ‘instructor’ (line 47(3) ) but largely focusses on Herakles’ resettlement of the Dryopes at Asine.23 Indeed, it is only with Poem 3 that Bakchylides’ thematic modulations move towards Apollo rather than away from him: Hieron’s Olympian victory of 468 at Olympia is made to cue (3.20–2) not a mythos of Zeus but an idiosyncratic narrative of Apollo transplanting Kroisos from the pyre to the Hyperboreans (3.29 and 58–62), followed by a sketch of his epiphany to Admetos (3.76–84).24 What is again conspicuously missing from the extant corpus25 is the attribution of any identifiable moral dimension to Apollo, for the sententia ‘Rejoice your heart with reverent deeds | for they bring the highest gain’ with which Apollo ends his brief speech to Admetos (3.83–4) would scarcely set the Hebros on fire. More surprisingly, much the same is true of his less than admirable profile in extant tragedy. True, his role as the god of ritual purification and of self-knowledge has been seen to underlie Sophokles’ image of him and to inform the ‘classic formulation of Delphic proportion– ethics’ given to the chorus as O.T. 1211–14.26 True, too, he is not just the god of Delphi, for he is also seen as Lycian,27 Delian,28 archer,29 apotropaic,30 the god of music, 31 healer and father of healers,32 avenger,33 womanizer,34 helper of the Trojans, 35 banished from heaven36 and giver of the gift of prophecy to others.36a However, as has been observed, it is largely in ritual contexts that these other aspects are brought out, while ‘virtually all the stories about Apollo mentioned in tragedy cast him in his prophetic role, and he is oracular (in some 49 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies sense) in all the extant plays in which he has a significant role’.37 That is true even for the portrayal which is closest to that of the Hymns, the choral ode at E. I.T. 1234–83, where however, so far from vindicating divkh or qevmi", he is shown as driving out Themis daughter of Earth from her tenure of Delphi, as ‘wishing to have much-golded reverences’ (l. 1275) and as being reinstated by Zeus at Delphi over Earth’s protests: the shift away from the peaceable succession sketched in A. Eum. 1–8, and the coarsening of ‘Apollo’s’ motives, are palpable. Indeed, as a character in tragedy, on or behind the scenes, he can be seen with much justification not just as ambivalent, or ambiguous, but as ‘immoderate, one-sided, irritable, rough, and rude’:38 a disconcerting uglification of Alkaios’ and Pindar’s shimmering vision. If we move from the poets to cult, to festivals, and to the roles attributed to ‘Apollo’ in Archaic or Classical Greek communal life more generally, the image is very different. The focus here is not so much on his character(s) in narrative(s) located within divine space as on his aspects and function(s) in areas of human activity; not therefore so much on attempting to crystallize his ‘essence’ in a single Gestalt, as in the much-quoted formulation of Otto39 or the post-Burkert nearorthodoxy which sees Apollo’s main function as being the god of ephebes and initiation,40 as on gleaning messages about his ‘moral’ role (if any). There are two main ways of proceeding: via the names, or epithets, given to him, and via the functions which his festivals performed. It is natural therefore to begin with his cult epithets, long the object of study alike via good41 or outdated42 methodologies. However, they provide surprisingly little help to the argument of this paper. That stems in part from a vacuum in scholarship, for such systematic collections of his cult epithets as exist43 are desperately out of date and lack the sort of diachronic approach which is needed in order to trace the ways in which perceptions of ‘Apollo’ changed with time. Partly, too, it is because such epithets show a spectrum of attributes or linkages so wide and heterogeneous as to illustrate by themselves the permeability of the boundaries between individual ‘gods’ and thereby the difficulty of creating a logical articulation for any one deity within a polytheistic system. Mainly, though, it is because there need be no connexion between the ‘meaning’ of a cult epithet and the role imputed to the god in that aspect. On a confessedly rapid survey of such of his cult titles as are well attested in the archaic or classical periods, if we leave aside the many titles of uncertain origin such as Ismenios or Kisseus or 50 Return to Table of Contents

The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo Kunneios, those which predominate seem to be titles taken from localities (e.g. Alasiotas, Amyklaios, Pythios/Pythaieus, Delios, Derenos, Didymeus, Klarios, Kynthios, Leukatas, Napaios, Ptoios, Triopios, Zosterios), from animals (possibly Delphinios,44 Lykeios, Smintheus), and from amalgamation with other deities (Karneios, Maleatas, Paian, Tyrimna(io)s, Hyakinthios). It is only a handful – those which reflect ritual actions (Daphnephoros, perhaps Nomios), those which provide his profile as ‘the god from afar’ (Hekebolos, Hek(at)ebeletes, Hekaergos, Hekat(ebol)os 45), those which more or less transparently reflect his imputed role as healer and averter of evil (Alexikakos, Apotropaios, Ietros,46 Oulios), and a few which reflect community roles (Archegetes,47 Patroios, Prostaterios/Prostates) – which suggest any genuine semantic link between epithet and imputed role. Nor indeed are even the last-named epithets as helpful as they appear at first sight. The limited evidence for ‘Prostaterios/Prostates’, seemingly Apollo in a Janus-like role protecting exits and entrances, is mostly Athenian, in Sophoklean poetry, in a fourth-century oracle, and in Assembly proceedings from the 270s BC onwards.48 Likewise, ‘Patroios’ seems to have been largely an Athenian invention, developed in the sixth century in order to buttress Athens’ claim to be the ‘eldest land of Ionia’ (Solon, F 4a West) and itself supported by the mythic filiation which survives in its fullest form in Euripides’ Ion.49 Of the three, it is only with ‘Archegetes’, honoured at Sicilian Naxos with his well-known sea-shore altar (Thuc. vi.3.1), at Kyrene (P.P. v.50) and elsewhere in colonial areas,50 that distribution, title, and function can be seen to match. With other titles, the match is partial at best. ‘Nomios’, for example, though one of the better-attested titles, is hardly widespread enough to reflect adequately the role which all scholars acknowledge he came to fulfil, viz. as the patron god of Nomos as ‘Measure’, i.e. of all those human activities which require rhythm – dancing, singing, music, etc.51 Again, though Graf has argued persuasively52 that the role which Apollo came to have as patron of public and political life was a development of an older function as patron of young male initiation and of the Männerbunden to which such initiation was an entry, that role was ascribed not to an Apollo Polieus, or even to an Apollo Koureios, but to the etymologically opaque Apollo Delphinios. Most conspicuously of all, and closest to the theme of this paper, his oracular role as the validator of order in general, and of public/political systems, is nowhere ascribed to Apollo Nomios, still less to a non-existent Apollo Thesmios or Thesmophoros, but to an Apollo Pythios (and even then as agent of Zeus rather than as prime mover). 51 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies On the evidence of his epithets, then, whatever ‘moral’ role was attributed to the imagined entity ‘Apollo’ by his devotees was at best marginal. Much the same can be said of the roles attributed to him in his major festivals. This is not the occasion for a full systematic review of them53 but rather for attempting to establish whether any common concerns or values are discernible which can be linked to the profile of one particular deity. To put it mildly, that is no simple matter. His festivals, like all mature festivals, showed a mélange of components stemming from different chronological, psychological, social or agricultural horizons. They were rarely focussed on honouring one deity exclusively, for other deities who might have a stake in the activities involved were not to be slighted. Moreover, ‘reading’ a festival is not just a matter of assembling and juxtaposing the evidence for Burkert’s three components (‘what is done’, the heroes and gods honoured, and the aitiological or other tales relating to the festival), but far more of grasping what functions the festival performed within communal life; such functions could change (or erode) with time, and were not necessarily the same for individuals as they were for the community. And, in any case, just as no one god within a polytheistic system can be sensibly interpreted on his own, so too any one festival has to be ‘read’ not on its own but as a component of a system of festivals and rituals which met social and personal needs more or less appropriately. That much said, some repeated features of Apollo’s profile can be dimly seen to run through the festivals in which he was the, or a, primary honorand. Competition in music, dance, and song is one obvious theme, alike at the Delphian Pythia, Delian Delia, Athenian Thargelia or Spartan Karneia. Purification ritual has to be another, as the farmakoiv of the Thargelia in Athens or Ephesos or Leukas, or the Delphian Stepteria make clear,54 even if we must heed Dyer’s warning that (contrary to much orthodoxy) ‘It is proper...to look to Delphi for the authority for a purification system. Delphi did not offer an example.’ 55 The offerings of first-fruits (ajparcaiv) at the Delia or the Thargelia,56 together with other suggestions of a non-oracular role as a god of fertility,57 are perhaps a third, and may lie behind both the common motif of resort to an oracle in case of childlessness and the theme, found in various late-attested foundation-stories but not necessarily baseless, of the dedication of a conquered people, in whole or part, to Apollo.58 Fourth, but probably primordial in importance, are festivals, or features of his cult, which reinforce or validate a social order. I touch briefly on three such, one where that function is elusive but diagnostic, one where it is implicit, and one where it is explicit. 52 Return to Table of Contents

The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo The first example, still not fully laid bare in spite of much useful clearance of ground, is Apollo Patroios in Athens.59 Linked in cult and cult-spot to Apollo Pythios and Apollo Alexikakos, and only gradually differentiated from Apollo Pythios, by the mid-fourth century if not before he had become a central enough deity in civic life to be, with Zeus Herkeios, a necessary patron for all candidate archons (Ath. Pol. lv.3). Yet the epigraphic evidence for Patroios on his own is late and meagre,60 he had at best a marginal existence in cult, and father of Ion though he might have become, he had no place in the main phratryfestival, the Apatouria, while Zeus Phratrios and Athene Phratria were and remained the patron gods of phratry proceedings. It is hard not to suspect that Apollo Patroios was a late-comer within the Athenian social-cultic framework, proved useful as a way for Athenians to symbolize their Ionian roots, provided a vague overarching framework for symbolizing shared citizenship in descent terms whenever we think that social need became important, but proved unmanageably awkward to accommodate within pre-existing systems and institutions. We are on (slightly) firmer ground with the Pythia at Delphi,61 at least as far as ta; drwvmena are concerned or in respect of identifying the ‘market’ for which they were developed (Wade-Gery’s ‘international aristocracy’): less so, however, when it comes to testing the truth-value of their validating logos as presented in the scholia to Pindar’s Pythians.62 Notoriously, that logos has the festival emerge from the First Sacred War, the agon (sic, not the temple or the sanctuary) having been ‘re-possessed’ from the Kirrhaians and then (re)-founded in its canonical form in 582/1 after a false start in 591/0. I am not concerned with the reality, if any,63 of the War or with the reliability of those dates, but with the underlying idea that the festival was seen as symbolising the (re)-creation of order after a period of disorder and violence. That, of course, is a common pattern in the interpretation of festivals, and cannot be seen as specifically ‘Apolline’: what makes it so is that the logos charters the role of the Amphiktyones as superintendents of the Pythian Games and indirectly thereby their role in Central Greece as reflected in the Amphiktyonic Law of 380 (CID I.10). The ‘order’ which is being chartered is not therefore a cosmic or a psychological order, but a political one rooted in practicalities and in a specific area of Greek space. Last and clearest are the Karneia at Sparta, Argos, and elsewhere.64 Here too the festival has many layers, and was clearly not simply the much-quoted ‘imitation of army discipline’ which Demetrios of Skepsis saw, for songs and ring-dances, the pursuit of a wool-bedecked runner 53 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies whose capture brings good to the city, and rituals of fertility are all attested components. As with the Pythia, it is helpful to look to the associated core logos, which focusses on the mythical seer Karnos of Akarnania who (in one version) led the (Dorian) army but was killed by Hippotas son of Phylax (‘Horseman son of Guard’): the festival atones for his death and propitiates his patron Apollo.65 Speculation that Karnos was a pre-Dorian ram-god, later assimilated to Apollo on the pattern of Hyakinthos, may well be reasonable, but the epithet ‘Hegetor’, applied both to him and to his priest at Argos,66 brings us back to military formation and to the notion of the creation and divine validation of a socio-political order, in this case a specifically ‘Dorian’ one based on invasion and conquest. In these tentative ways a set of common profiles of ‘Apollo’ can be discerned. That they reflect a portfolio of attributed powers and interests which is weighted towards the public domain and towards the institution, or re-institution, of social and political order is unmistakable. In turn they help to explain why it was to Apollo and his oracles that Greeks tended to turn when they need guidance on, or an authority for, new social and political arrangements. The colonization oracles are obvious instances, but the circle of argument is most neatly closed by invoking the Great Rhetra of seventh-century Sparta. Presented in all our sources as an oracle from Pythian Apollo at Delphi,67 it stipulates a socio-political order in unusual detail, refers to the kings by the very word – ajrcagevtai – which is at once an Apolline epithet and an echo of the Karneia, and is woven by Tyrtaios into a story of migration, chartered by Zeus, from Sterea Hellas to Peloponnese. Anne Jeffery’s idea68 that via the word ajrcagevtai the document is being located in mythical time, at the end of that migration, as the founding document of the Spartan state, deserves a more receptive response than it has had: it not only helps to account for the difficulties which ancient and modern historians of Sparta have in locating the document in historic time but also allows it to be seen as a first creation of order. Tyrtaios called it, and his poem, Eunomia: the subtext again is Apolline. Order, even eunomia, is not necessarily moral order. In the light of what has been said so far, especially of Apollo’s deeply ambivalent profile in tragedy, it might be thought over-optimistic to see him ‘comme l’expression la plus haute du génie grec dans le domaine religieux et moral’.69 Nonetheless, that has been a widely-held view,70 focussing especially on Delphi and on his aspect as Pythios which is our present concern, and there is a case to put. The ‘religious’ aspect is of 54 Return to Table of Contents

The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo course plain enough, starting from the authority which Delphi came to have in problems of cult, such as the foundation of new cults, sanction for changes in cult practice or for the transfer of a cult, or advice on heroization, and moving thence to the authority which Apollo/Delphi acquired in matters of purification after violent death, whether directly, as in the Orestes myth or the death of Pausanias,71 or indirectly via chartered agents such as the exegetai Pythochrestoi in Athens.72 The case for a ‘moral’ aspect is more marginal. Best set out by Nilsson, it rests above all on two pillars: first the Maxims which were set up on or by the Alkmaionid temple; and secondly a set of more or less explicitly ‘moralizing’ parables reported by Herodotos or transmitted through Porphyrios from various fourth-century authors. The problem is to decide how much this case amounts to. The Maxims present an acute case of inflation, for their number grew so exponentially by conflation with popular proverbs and with the tradition about the Seven Wise Men that it is hard to isolate what is genuinely early, let alone what could be, as it were, copyrighted as Delphian.73 Safest and most circumstantial is the sketch which Plato gives to Kritias in Charmides 164d–165a: I would personally say that this ‘Know oneself’ is almost exactly the same thing as moderation,74 and I agree with the person who set up that kind of inscription in Delphi. For I reckon that inscription has been set up as the god’s salutation to those who enter, instead of ‘Be hale!’, as if the greeting ‘Be hale!’ is not correct, and that people should not bid each other to ‘be hale’ but to ‘be moderate’. In this way the god greets those who enter the shrine differently from the way men do, and I think that was the intention of the dedicator who put up the inscription: he is saying that the god says to every entrant nothing if not ‘Be moderate!’. But, qua prophet, he says it in a rather enigmatic fashion, for ‘Know thyself’ and ‘Be moderate’ are the same thing, as the inscription and I maintain, but one might think they are different. Those who put up the inscriptions later on, the ‘Nothing too much’ and the ‘Go bail, and destruction is at hand’, seem to me to have made that mistake. They supposed that ‘Know thyself’ was a piece of advice, rather than the salutation from the god for those who were entering, and therefore wrote these words and set them up so that they too might be setting up equally useful pieces of advice.

If we can trust Plato to be letting Kritias tell a plain tale, we can infer (a) that ‘Know thyself’ was set up first, (b) that ‘Nothing too much’ and ‘Go bail etc.’ were later additions, and (c) that ‘Be moderate’ (Swfrovnei) was not in fact a separate inscription.75 That leaves us with precious little to go on, especially when ‘Know thyself’ may be no more than an intimation of mortality and when the Maxims do not amount 55 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies even to the equivalent of our ‘Do as you would be done by’, let alone to a Decalogue. Nor do the parables take us that much further. The three retailed by Porphyrios76 all convey a similar message, that the oracle valued due measure in offerings, proportional to one’s means and emanating from true piety, much more than ostentatious extravagance. On a par with them are various moralizing stories, ranging from the peremptory dismissal of Archilochos’s murderer77 to the forgiveness extended to an involuntary slayer.78 Clearest of all, least linked to motifs of purification, and cited with remorseless inevitability in all discussions, is the story of Glaukos of Sparta.79 Since it is so emblematic, it needs summary rather than mere allusion. As told by Herodotos, Glaukos, known throughout Greece for his ‘justice’, was entrusted with a (presumably substantial) deposit by a Milesian stranger. Time passed, the Milesian’s sons presented the token of receipt and requested its return, whereupon Glaukos temporised in order to get the Delphian oracle’s view whether he should make prize of the deposit by swearing an oath. Met in the story by a stinging rebuke, Glaukos sought pardon, but ‘the Pythia said that to have made trial of the god and to have done the deed amounted to the same thing’. Though Glaukos then returned the deposit, ‘no descendant of his is now known: he has been uprooted from Sparta’. Moralizing tale par excellence though this anecdote is, its illustrative value for Pythian Apollo is limited – partly because it is distanced by its content (was Glaukos real?), by its context (a speech attributed to King Leotychidas at Athens shortly before 490), and by its ineffectiveness (no dire consequences follow when the Athenians fail to act as the parable requires), partly because the main oracular response sees the issue as the specific one of keeping one’s oath, not as one of general integrity. We are not therefore so far removed from the general social code of archaic Greece, with its emphasis on oath-taking as evidence of truth, as might at first appear. The larger claims for the imagined entity called Pythian Apollo as a moral authority should therefore be received sceptically,80 for all the promise held out in his portrayals by Alkaios and Pindar. All the same, they cannot be wholly obliterated by a reductionist, Euripidean version of the god. For one thing, they form part of an intellectual framework which did link human behaviour with divine sanctions,81 however loose and fragile the joins might be and however limited the range of retributable acts. For another, though such stories and such oracles form only a small minority of those generated by the oracle or attributed to the god, they did exist, were influential, and did 56 Return to Table of Contents

The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo contribute to his profile. We do not have to imagine a Vatican-style priesthood at Delphi propagandising its ideas; we do have to enter the minds of a highly imaginative population, each generation of which took over a complex inherited Gestalt, moulded it according to needs, and passed it on to the next as a set of rituals, beliefs, and potentials. Even in an allegedly secular age we are all willy-nilly permeated by Jewish, Christian, or Muslim ideas of gods as unified, all-powerful, allbeneficent entities. The religious historian of Greece looks back on Apollo as a god who appears in contrast neither all-powerful nor necessarily beneficent, but rather as an untidy bundle of epithets, locations, and functions, with difficulty given a veneer of unity by iconography and myth. If we are attracted (as we should be methodologically) by the simplest hypothesis, viz. that of slow linear change in notions of godhead, we are tempted to ask why, given the lead we seem to detect in Alkaios and Pindar and in some of the Delphic material, the Gestalt of Apollo did not develop in the Greeks’ imaginations further than it did towards that of a moral authority. Various more or less plausible answers suggest themselves. One, that Pythian Apollo’s failure via his oracle to be wholly enthusiastic about resisting the Persians in the 490s and 480s entailed that ‘thereafter Delphi ceased to be an active power in Greek politics. …their god had failed them’,82 may well have been true in the short term but will have dwindled in importance as the fifth century unfolded to be merely one among many shifts of Zeitgeist. A second, that even before the Persian crisis Delphi had behaved in ways which could later (if not at the time) be interpreted as being susceptible to direct or indirect bribery,83 is again valid, but only for one aspect of Apollo at one location. A third, that the cumulative effect of pro-Phokian Athenian interference in central Greece in the 450s and of the oracle’s perceptibly pro-Spartan stance thereafter was to give Athenians, and therefore our largely Athens-based sources, a jaundiced view of Apollo, again probably contains some truth but carries its own health warning, that we should not be seduced into identifying Athens with the rest of Hellas.84 Such explanations are too specific, and too political. We ought rather to be considering ‘Apollo’ as the whole portfolio of attributes and powers, spread throughout the Greek-speaking world and beyond, not ‘owned’ by Delphians or Delians or Athenians but accessible to anyone, man or woman, slave or free, who had faith in his powers and some gift, however small, to offer on his altar. In that portfolio the ‘moral dimension’ was one component indeed, but one among many, and not necessarily the most important. Power – in this or that arena of life and 57 Return to Table of Contents

J.K. Davies its awfulnesses – mattered much more. One thinks of the power of Damia and Auxesia, with their xoana created in mythical time from Athenian olive wood by the Epidaurians on advice from Delphi, which restored Epidaurian land to fertility; and conversely of the Aiakidai, borrowed by the Thebans from Aigina on one interpretation of Delphian advice, but returned to Aigina with a tart note when their presence was useless in battle against the Athenians.85 In such an atmosphere the mainstream concept of Apollo was not that portrayed by Alkaios but that purveyed, e.g., by the harsh, amoral, conscienceless avenger of the Niobe myth. Greek gods are powers first, persons second, and moral agents a long way third.

Notes Primitive early versions of this paper were inflicted on my Delphi class in Liverpool over the years; my thanks to the students involved for their enthusiasm and forbearance. A better, though still skeleton, version was given in early 1994 at the Scuola Normale di Pisa as part of my course there on Delphi; my thanks to the participants, especially to Prof. G. Nenci and Prof. U. Fantasia, for their helpful comments. The present version forms part of my long-term programme of work on Delphi, for the support of which I owe warmest thanks to the Leverhulme Trust. l For the distinction, and the Burkert-Vernant dialogue (gods as powers or gods as persons), cf. now Jan N. Bremmer, Greek Religion, (Greece & Rome, New Surveys in the Classics 24), Oxford 1994, 22–3. 2 But oddly it is Zeus, not the archer-god, who breaks Teukros’ bowstring for him at xv.461 ff. 3 Franz Dirlmeier, ‘Apollon, Gott und Erzieher des hellenischen Adels’, ARW 36 (1939) 277–99 at 284; cited with approval by Wolfgang Schadewaldt, Der Gott von Delphi und die Humanitätsidee, Hellenike Anthropistike Etaireia, Seira I, 26, Athens 1965, 12 (reprinted in id., Hellas und Hesperien I (1970) 669–85). Cf. also, however, Ruth Scodel, ‘Apollo’s perfidy: Iliad W 59–63’, HSCP 81 (1977) 55–7. 4 Alkaios F 142 West (F 307 Lobel-Page, 1(c) Diehl, 2–4 Bergk) ap. Himerios, Or. xlviii.10–11 Colonna. 5 Which owes much to that of Sir D.L. Page, Sappho and Alcaeus, Oxford 1955, 244–5, but is intended to be more literal. 6 This is not the place to debate the matter at length. Salient bibliography up to 1979, with an argument for a later sixth-century date (522), in W. Burkert, ‘Kynaithos, Polykrates, and the Homeric Hymn to Apollo’, in Glen W. Bowersock, Walter Burkert, and Michael C.J. Putnam (eds.), Arktouros: Hellenic Studies presented to Bernard M.W. Knox, Berlin and New York 1979, 53–62 at 53 n. 1; add W. George Forrest, ‘The First Sacred War’, BCH 80 (1956) 33–52 at 34 ff. (first half of sixth century); K. Förstel, Untersuchungen

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The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo zum homerischen Apollonhymnus, Bochum 1979, 200–2 (before the First Sacred War); Richard Janko, Homer, Hesiod, and the Hymns: Diachronic Development in Epic Diction, Cambridge 1982, 120 and 132 (580s); Cora Angier Sowa, Traditional Themes and the Homeric Hymns, Chicago 1984, 4 (504); Andrew M. Miller, From Delos to Delphi: a Literary Study of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, Leiden 1986, 109 (no clear date indicated); Jenny Strauss Clay, The politics of Olympus: Form and Meaning in the Major Homeric Hymns, Princeton 1989, 17–94 (no clear date indicated). 7 Cf. Strauss Clay (n. 6) 36 ff., summarized by her in ‘Tendenz and Olympian propaganda in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo’, in Jon Solomon (ed.) Apollo: Origins and Influences, Tucson and London 1994, 23–36 at 26 f. 8 e.g. Il. i.238–9; ii.206; ix.99. 9 For the communis opinio of a late sixth-century or early fifth-century date, cf. Janko (n. 6) 140–3, with references. 10 Cf. the lacunae after lines 527 and 568, and the debate begun by Radermacher in 1933 about whether everything after the fresh start at line 513 is a set of later additions. Partial doxography and discussion in Angier Sowa (n. 6) 194 ff. with 363 note 197, but add G. Gräfe, ‘Der homerische Hymnus auf Hermes’, Gymnasium 70 (1963) 515–26; F. Cassola, Inni omerici, Milano 1975, 171; Janko (n. 6) 133 ff. 11 Ol. viii.31; Pai. vi (F52 f) passim. Fragments of Pindar are cited from H. Maehler’s 1989 Teubner edition. 12 e.g. P. iv.66, I. ii.18. 13 Evadna (Ol. vi.35 ff.), Koronis (P. iii.8 ff.), Kyrene (P. ix.5 ff. and 26 ff.), Melia (P. xi.4 ff., Pai. vii (F 52g) and ix (F 52k) ), Penelope (F 100) and Zeuxippe (F 51c). 14 P. x.30, Ol. iii.16 ff., and Pai. viii.63 (F 52i). 15 Of Koronis via Artemis (P. iii passim) and of Typhos and the King of the Giants (P. viii.16–17). 16 At Abdera as Derenos (Pai. ii.5 (F 52b) ), Aigina (N. iii.70), Delos (P. i.39, Pai. v (F 52e) ), Delphi (Pythians, passim; Pai. vi (F 52f) ), Kyrene as Karneios (P. v.77 ff.), as Lykios (P. i.39), at the Ptoion as Ptoios (F 51a–d), and at Sikyon, possibly as Pythaieus (N. ix.1 and 9 ff.). This is not the place to attempt to unravel the evidence for the last-named cult: see Schol. P. N. ix inscr., III 149 Drachmann, and Thuc. v.53 with HCT ad loc. [summarising W.S. Barrett, ‘Bacchylides, Asine, and Apollo Pythaieus’, Hermes 82 (1954) 421–42] and Klaus Tausend, Amphiktyonie und Symmachie (Historia, Einzelschrift 73) Stuttgart 1992, 9–12, with further references. The absence of the title Delphinios from this list is striking. 17 Especially those which chartered the colonization of Kyrene (P. iv and v passim) and the Heraklid occupation of Peloponnese (P. v.68–72). 18 Cf. Pai. ii.96–102 (F 52b), with its clear echoes of Alkaios, and F 286. 19 P. iii passim, especially 6–7,45–6, and 66–7. 20 Scattered sketches of all in C. Maurice Bowra, Pindar, Oxford 1964, via Index II s.v. Abstractions. 21 As pro-Trojan and Lord of the Lykians (13.148), as bestower of the art of healing (1.148) and as patron god of Pythian victories (4.2; 11.15–17) and of

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J.K. Davies contests at Delos (17(16).130–2). I cite Bakchylides from the Snell-Maehler Teubner edition (1968 and reprints). 22 Probably named explicitly in Alkaios’ hymn if the reference in schol. Theokr. vii.110 (= Alkaios F 45 L–P, 133 Page, 77 D) is correct (thus Sir R.C. Jebb, Bacchylides, Cambridge 1905, 369 on 15(16).5). 23 For the Apollo temple and cult at Asine see Barrett (n. 16) 426 ff., and Tausend (n. 16) 9 ff. 24 Discussion and citation of earlier bibliography in Herwig Maehler, Die Lieder des Bakchylides, I Teil: Die Siegeslieder: II Kommentar, Leiden 1982, 32 ff., and in Anne Pippin Burnett, The Art of Bacchylides, Cambridge Mass. and London 1985, 61–76, especially 68 ff. for the ‘curious swerve in divine emphasis’. 25 Though the lost apopemptic Hymn to Apollo (F 1A) might have altered the picture. 26 Winfried Elliger, ‘Sophokles und Apollon’, in Hellmut Flashar and K. Gaiser (eds.) Synusia. Festgabe für Wolfgang Schadewaldt zum 15 Mars 1965, Pfullingen 1965, 79–109 at 103 (‘Maßethik’ in original). Likewise, the Theseus of O.C. is seen to represent ‘beide Forderungen Apolls, im kultisch-sakralen Bereich die Reinheit, im ethische das Maß, eins ohne das andere nicht denkbar’ (104). 27 A. Sept. 145; Ag. 1257; S. El. 655; O.T. 203 and 919. 28 S. Aias 704; E. H.F. 687 ff.; I.T. 1235 – a remarkably thin haul for the principal god of the Aegean. The Athenian attempt to propagate Athene within the fifth-century Aegean (cf. J.P. Barron, ‘Religious propaganda of the Delian League’, JHS 84 (1964) 35–48, and ‘The fifth-century horoi of Aigina’, 103 (1983) 1–12) might have had something to do with it, but note the alternative interpretation of the documents sketched by R. Parker, Athenian Religion: a History, Oxford 1996, 144–5. 29 S. Trach. 208; E. I.T. 1238. 30 A. Persai 203–6. 31 E. I.T. 1129 and 1138; H.F. 348 ff. 32 A. Hik. 262–3; Ag. 146, 512–3 and 1248; E. Alk. 3 and 124. 33 E. Tro. passim; A. Ag. 1072 ff. (Kassandra). 34 E. Ion 10 ff.; Tro. 41 ff. 35 E. Tro. 4 ff. 36 A. Hik. 214; E. Alk. 5 ff. 36a E. Tro. 41 ff., 253, and 450; Bakch. 328. 37 Thus Deborah H. Roberts, Apollo and his Oracle in the Oresteia, Hypomnemata 78, Göttingen 1984, 81 f., quotation from p. 81. Cf. also Karelisa V. Hartigan, Ambiguity and Self-deception: the Apollo and Artemis plays of Euripides, Studien zur klassischen Philologie 50, Frankfurt am Main 1991, passim. 38 Thus Anton Bierl, ‘Apollo in Greek Tragedy: Orestes and the god of initiation’, in Solomon (n. 7) 81–96, at 83. 39 ‘Gelöstheit, sternklare Enthobenheit’, ‘…der vornehme Verkünder der Einsicht, der Selbsterkenntnis, des Maßes und der sinnvollen Ordnung’, ‘der griechischste aller Götter’, Walter F. Otto, Die Götter Griechenlands, 3rd edn, Frankfurt am Main 1947, 62–81, quotations from pp. 64, 67, and 78.

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The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo 40

W. Burkert, ‘Apellai und Apollon’, RhM 118 (1975) 1–21; ib., Greek Religion, Oxford 1985, 143–9; H.S. Versnel, ‘Apollo and Mars one hundred years after Roscher’, Visible Religion 4/5 (1985–86) 134–72; Bierl (n. 38) 84 ff. 41 e.g. Fritz Graf, ‘Apollon Delphinios’, MH 36 (1979) 2–22; M.H. Jameson, ‘Apollo Lykeios in Athens’, Archaiognosia 1 (1980) 213–36. SEG XXXV 1817 cites Fritz Graf, Nordionische Kulte, Bibl. Helvetica Romana 21, Roma, 1985, on the analysis of cult-epithets [nondum vidi]. 42 e.g. the various surveys of A.H. Krappe on A. Smintheus (ARW 33 (1936) 40–56 and CP 36 (1941) 133–41), A. Kyknos (CP 37 (1942) 353–70), or A. Onos ( CP 42 (1947) 223–34). 43 Wernicke’s in RE 2 (1895) 41–72 remains the basic starting point, though chronologically undifferentiated and totally outdated; partly replaced, though in exasperating format, by L.R. Farnell, Cults of the Greek States IV, Oxford 1907, 357 ff. M.P.Nilsson’s Index I s.v. Apollo (Geschichte der griechischen Religion, 3rd edn, München 1967, I.872) is also useful. A partial check-list of more recent epigraphic material in H. Roozenbeek, SEG Index XXVI–XXXV, Amsterdam 1990, 254–5. For the record I note the report in SEG XXVII 1280 of Z. Goceva’s study of Apollo epithets in Thrace (Thracia 4 (1977) 207–23 [non vidi] ). An up-to-date analysis of the horizons of appearance, distribution, and meanings of all Apollo titles is badly needed. 44 Pace Graf (n. 41). For A. Delphinios at Athens cf. especially Claude Calame, Thésée et l’imaginaire athénien: légende et culte en Grèce antique, Lausanne 1990, 291–324 (on the Pyanopsia in particular). 45 For this set of titles see G. Miroux, ‘Sur quelques épithètes d’Apollon et d’Artémis’, DHA 7 (1981) 107–25 (summary ap. SEG XXXI 1684). 46 Cf. SEG XXXIX 1851, summarizing N. Ehrhardt, ‘Apollon Ietros: ein verschollener Gott Ioniens?’, MDAI (I) 39 (1989) 115–22. Cf. also Souda O 905 for the ambiguities of the title Oulios. 47 Cf. I. Malkin, ‘Apollo Archegetes and Sicily’, ASNP 16 (1986) 959–72, summarized in SEG XXXVI 1569, but also Farnell (n. 43) IV.161 f. for the cluster of epithets Archegos, Archegetes, Proegetes, Prokathegemon, Hegemon, Ktistes. 48 S. El. 637 with schol.; Trach. 209 (prostatan); (Wernicke, RE 2 (1895) 64 cites O.T. 919, but Apollo is explicitly Lykeios there, and it is Artemis who is ‘Prostateria’ in A. Sept. 449); oracle ap. Dem. xxi.52, with MacDowell ad loc.; IG II2.674, line 6 etc., with S. Dow, Prytaneis, Hesperia Supplement 1, Athens 1937, 8 f. Other references in R.E. Wycherley, The Athenian Agora, III: Literary and epigraphical testimonia, Princeton 1957, 53 f. 49 Details in the Budé edition (Euripides, vol. III, 1923), 155–65. Cf. also Parker (n. 28) 49 note 26, and John Travlos, Pictorial Dictionary of Ancient Athens, London 1971, 96 for the temple. 50 Wernicke, RE 2 (1895) 44; Jessen, RE 2 (1895) 441 ff. 51 Cicero’s learned (or pseudo-learned) note ‘Apollo quem Arcades Nomion (Nomionem codd.) appellant, quod ab eo se leges ferunt accepisse’ (De deorum nat. iii.57, with A.S. Pease’s excellent note ad loc., II.1119) is neatly neutralised by the folk tradition that epilepsy could be inflicted by Apollo Nomios (On the Sacred Disease 4, VI.362 Littré, II.146 Loeb); ‘Apollo Nomios probably

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J.K. Davies represented the same amoral menace of the open air as Pan’ (R. Parker, Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion, Oxford 1983, 244–5). 52 Graf (n. 41). 53 Farnell (n. 43) IV.253 ff. is still the most useful starting-point, though supplemented or replaced by Burkert (n. 40) 143–9 and 216–75 in general terms, and for Athens by L. Deubner, Attische Feste, Berlin 1932 and reprints, 179–204, and H.W. Parke, Festivals of the Athenians, London 1977, passim. 54 farmakoiv and Thargelia: Deubner (n. 53) 179 ff., with especial reference to Harp. s.v. farmakov" and Helladios ap. Phot. Bibl. 534a 3 ff. (VIII.279, p. 182 Budé); Parke (n. 53) 146 ff.; Parker (n. 51) 25–6. Hipponax F 5–10 Masson and West (6–11 Diehl) for Ephesos; Strabo x.2.9, C452 for Leukas. In general Monserrat Camps-Gaset, L’année des Grecs (Annales lit. univ. Besançon), Paris 1994, 54 ff. S(t)epteria: Theopompos, FGrH 115 F 80 ap.Aelian, VH III.1, 4–8 (translation in G.S. Shrimpton, Theopompus the Historian, Montreal and Kingston 1991, 110–11); Plut. Q.Gr 12 (Mor. 293B–C) and De defectu orac. 15 (Mor. 418 A–B); other texts in Farnell (n. 43) IV.425 f. note 264, with M. P. Nilsson, Griechische Feste von religiöser Bedeutung mit Ausschluß der attischen, Berlin 1906, 150–9 and D. Kolk, Der pythaische Apollonhymnus als aitiologische Dichtung, Meisenheim am Glan 1963, 9 ff. 55 R.R. Dyer, ‘The evidence for Apolline purification rituals at Delphi and Athens’, JHS 89 (1969) 38–56 (quotation from p. 43); Parker (n. 5l) 138–43. 56 Paus. i.31.2, with Hdt. iv.33 on the Hyperboreans; Parker (n. 51) 225 for references to recent discussions. For the qavrgelo" see the lexicographical material assembled by Deubner (n. 53) 189 note 1. 57 Cf. Nilsson (n. 43) I.529–35, though concluding (rightly) that ‘Ein agrarischer Gott im eigentlichen Sinn war Apollo nicht’ (p. 535). 58 Survey of the material in H.W. Parke and D.E.W. Wormell, A History of the Delphic Oracle, 2nd edn, Oxford 1956, I.51–5. As they note (p. 55), the notion of the dedication of persons as akrothínia to Apollo is explicit in Euripides (Phoin. 202–7 and 280–2), while Bakchylides vouches for Apollo’s role in the Dryopian migration to Asine (F 4 lines 39 ff., with Barrett (n. 16) 427). 59 See above, p. 51, Wycherley (n. 48) 50–3, and imprimis C.W. Hedrick, Jr, ‘The temple and cult of Apollo Patroos in Athens’, AJA 92 (1988) 185–210; Parker (n. 28) 322. 60 IG II2 4984 is third-century, according to Kirchner, and ought therefore not to be the altar of Apollo in the Agora gilded by Neoptolemos in the 330s or 320s ( [Plut.] Mor. 843F); IG II2 3158, 3274, 3530, 3629–30, 3697, 4726, and 5061 are all of the Roman period. I know of no reference to the priest of Apollo Patroios which pre-dates 140/39 (Agora XV.240, line 11; cf. ibid. 260, lines 4–5 and 15–16 [early C1 BC], and 411, lines 9–10 [186/7 p.] ). Only Agora I.5569 (Wycherley (n. 48) 153, and Hedrick (n. 59) 194), IG II2 2602 (dedication by the Elasidai: undated by Kirchner but fourth–century according to Parker (n. 28) 322), 4557 (by [-----] mondo), and 4973 (by the phratry Therrik[leid]ai) are certainly classical in date. 61 They are nowhere near as well documented, or as intensively studied, as those of Olympia. Cf. however Farnell (n. 43) IV.291–2 with 421 note 256,

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The moral dimension of Pythian Apollo and J. Fontenrose, ‘The cult of Apollo and the Games at Delphi’, in Wendy J. Raschke (ed.) The Archaeology of the Olympics. The Olympics and Other Festivals in Antiquity, Wisconsin Studies in Classics, Madison and London 1988, 121–40. The major books of J. Jüthner, Die athletischen Liebesübungen der Griechen II, 1, Wien 1968, and R. Patrucco, La Sport nella Grecia Antica, Firenze 1972, focus on the individual genres of contest rather than on the festivals and the institutional framework. 62 ÔUpoqevsei" Puqivwn a–d in A.B. Drachmann, Scholia Vetera in Pindari Carmina, II (Teubner edn), 1–5. 63 The basic starting point is now Noel Robertson, ‘The myth of the First Sacred War’, CQ2 28 (1978) 38–73; aggiornamento of the debate by J.K. Davies, ‘The tradition about the First Sacred War’, in Simon Hornblower (ed.), Greek Historiography, Oxford 1994, 193–212. 64 Sam Wide, Lakonische Kulte, Leipzig 1893, 63–87; Nilsson (n. 54) 118– 29; Farnell (n. 43) IV.131–5 and 259–63, with 363 n. 27 and 414 n. 231; Burkert (n. 40) 234–6. 65 ‘mivmhma stratiwtikh'" ajgwgh'"’, Dem. Skeps. F I Gaede ap. Athen. iv.141e–f. Main sources in FarneIl (n. 43) IV.363 n. 27; Karnos’ leadership of the army is a motif found reassuringly early in the heortological tradition (Theopompos, FGrH 115 F 357, a fragment not discussed by Flower or Shrimpton). 66 Theopompos, l.c.; Hesych. s.v. ∆Aghthv". 67 Tyrtaios F 3a/b Diehl = F 4 West; Hdt. i.65.4; Plut. Lyk. vi.1–2. 68 Cf. L.H. Jeffery, ‘The pact of the first settlers at Cyrene’, Historia 10 (1961) 139–47 at 144 ff. 69 Louis Séchan and Pierre Lévêque, Les grandes Divinités de la Grèce, Paris 1966, 213. 70 Farnell (n. 43) IV.211 f. and 296 ff.; Dirlmeier (n. 3); Nilsson (n. 43), 538–47 and 625–53; Jean Defradas, Les Thèmes de la Propagande Delphique2, Paris 1972, 268–83. 71 Thuc. i.134.4, etc. (Parke and Wormell (n. 43) II.51 no. 114.) 72 Summary, with references, of the debate about them in R.S.J. Garland, ‘Religious authority in archaic and classical Athens’, ABSA 79 (1984) 82–3 and 114–16. 73 Summary sketch by Hermann Diels in SIG3 1268, now republished as I.Kyz. II.2. Primary collection of material and discussion by F. Schultz, ‘Die Sprüche der delphischen Säule’, Philologus 24 (1866) 193–226. Later material and discussion in E.G. Wilkins, The Delphic Maxims in Literature, Chicago 1929, chs. 2–4; Defradas (n. 70) 268 n. 1; L. Robert, ‘De Delphes à l’Oxus. Inscriptions grecques nouvelles de la Bactriane’, CRAI 1968, 416–57. I.Kyz. II.2 lists some 56 maxims on its preserved portion. In contrast IG XII 3, 1020 (Thera, late? fourth century) lists four only, the three cited in Plato and one restored conjecturally as Sp[oudai'a meleta' ]. In any case, ‘Nothing too much’ is already proverbial in Theognis (219) and in essence (as mevtra fulavssesqai) already in Hesiod (WD 694). 74 There is notoriously no one satisfactory English equivalent for swfronei'n or swfrosuvnh: ‘temperance’, ‘prudence’, ‘self-control’ are all alternatives. 75 Aliter Nilsson (n. 43) 650 with n. 4; but Plato, Protag. 343A–B, there cited,

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J.K. Davies while attributing the setting up of ‘Know thyself’ and ‘Nothing too much’ to the Seven Wise Men, says nothing of ‘Be moderate’, and I read the reference to the latter in the Charmides passage as a (deliberate mis?)-interpretation of ‘Know thyself’, not as a real epigraphic sighting. 76 De abstinentia II.15 (= Theophrastos F 584A Fortenbaugh et al. [not in Wimmer] ); ib. II.16 (= Theopompos, FGrH 115 F 344; English paraphrases in Shrimpton (n. 54) 134–5, and in Robert Garland, Religion and the Greeks, London 1994, 23); ib. II.17 (no source quoted). Summary of all in Nilsson (n. 43) 648–9. 77 Parke and Wormell (n. 58) II no. 4. Cf. ib. no. 74 for the repetition of the same motif in a response given to Sybarites. 78 ib. nos. 575–6, with others of similar Tendenz (nos. 574 and 577–81). 79 Hdt. vi.86; Parke and Wormell (n. 58) II no. 35. See also Harrison (this volume). 80 Judicious presentations of a ‘weak’ view in Marie Delcourt, L’oracle de Delphes, Paris 1955, 164–83; Garland (n. 76) 23 ff. 81 Imprimis still Kurt Latte, ‘Schuld und Sunde in der griechischen Religion’, ARW 20 (1920/21) 254–98, reprinted in ib., Kleine Schriften, München 1968, 1–35; also ib., RE 18, 1 (1939) 842 ff. (= Kleine Schriften 166 ff.); F. Bömer, ‘Gedanken über die Gestalt des Apollon und die Geschichte der griechischen Frömmigkeit’, Athenaeum 41 (1965) 275–303; E. Des Places, S.J., La religion grecque, Paris 1969, 289 ff.; H. Lloyd Jones, The Justice of Zeus, Berkeley and Los Angeles 1971. 82 W.G. Forrest, ‘Delphi, 750–500 B.C.’, CAH, 2nd edn, III, 3, Cambridge 1984, 305–20 at 319. 83 Direct –Hdt. vi.66.1–3 (King Kleomenes, Kobon of Delphi, and the legitimacy of Demaratos); indirect –Hdt. v.63.1 etc. (Alkmaionidai). For the various versions of the latter W.G. Forrest, ‘The tradition of Hippias’ expulsion from Athens’, GRBS 10 (1969) 277–86. 84 For this view, see e.g. Parke and Wormell (n. 58) I.184–202. As Hedrick (n. 59) 203 n. 136 observes, there is no good up-to-date history of the (often fraught and always complex) relations between Athens and Delphi. Cf. however G. Daux, ‘Athènes et Delphes’, HSCP Suppl. 1 (1940) (Studies....W.S. Ferguson), 37–69, and Simon Hornblower, ‘The religious dimension to the Peloponnesian War, or, What Thucydides does not tell us’, HSCP 94 (1992) 169–197. 85 Respectively Hdt. v.82 and v.80.2—81.1.

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5

GODS AND MOUNTAINS IN GREEK MYTH AND POETRY Michael Clarke I was brought up to assume that God or gods belong by definition on a plane of the world separate from what we can normally see and touch, and I expect most readers of this article would say the same. A reading of Greek myth and cult does not normally challenge that assumption: the ‘folds of Olympus’, and the like, correspond structurally to Heaven, and if Greek gods move among mortals – as on the plain of Troy, or disguised as beggars seeking hospitality – they do so evidently as exceptional visitors. One of the effects of this pattern can be to distort one’s response to the kind of deities that scholars call ‘personifications’, and in this paper I want to show how one group of personified deities makes sense in a way that defies modern preconceptions about what it means to be a god. In my world and yours personification is familiar as a way of giving visual shape to abstract things and intangible relationships. Hello darkness, my old friend; Luck, be a lady tonight; We will fight the mother of all battles; This fell sergeant, death, is strict in his arrest. In each case no straightforward or literal image occurs to us as the true shape of the thing in question, so there is nothing in the mind’s eye with which the personified image could clash.1 Consequently, when reading ancient texts it is not hard to make sense of images like ‘pride begets tyranny’ (Oedipus Tyrannus 873) or ‘wine is the child of the vine’ (Pindar, Nemean 9.52) or ‘flight, the companion of fear’ (Iliad 9.2). To take a strikingly extended example, Euripides produces a vivid but not confusing personification when his chorus rails against Old Age in person: to; de; lugro;n fovniovn te gh'ra" misw': kata; kumavtwn d∆ e[rroi, mhdev pot∆ w[felen qnatw'n dwvmata kai; povlei"

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Michael Clarke ejlqei'n, ajlla; kat∆ aijqevr∆ aijei; pteroi'si foreivsqw. (Heracles 649–54)2 I hate miserable, murderous Old Age: I wish he would run to ruin in the waves; and it would be well if he never came to the homes and cities of mortals, but were tossed about for ever in the high air on his wings.

No-one can see or touch the experience of ageing, and the reader puts it down to poetic licence when it is deified in this way. In the same way the appearance of personified abstractions in art and cult presents no serious challenge to the student’s imagination.3 But we are in alien territory when a Greek gives personal identity to tangible and visible things, things that in our world are inanimate and immobile: as, for example, when Hesiod lists the Mountains among the children born to Gaia (Theogony 126 ff.), or when he spins out a catalogue of the descendants of Atlas the mountain or Inachus the river (Catalogue of Women frr. 169–204, 122–59 M–W).4 It is easy to deal with such texts by saying that the poet is working in a way that is peculiar to didactic exposition, that he is using personification as a system for organising cosmology or genealogy; but this emphasis on genre is dangerous if it is used to imply that the personification is separate from literal or everyday Greek strategies for conceptualising the furniture of the world. That seems to me quite mistaken, and it is dangerous above all because it makes the Greek understanding of landscape seem comfortingly like our own. I will concentrate my argument on a passage towards the end of Euripides’ Phoenissae, where Oedipus spins out his life-story in a long and rambling speech. The speech is easily condemned as an interpolation, since it seems irrelevant in its context and includes several oddities of imagery and language. One of these comes when Oedipus curses the mountain on which he was saved from death as an infant:5 ...Tartavrou ga;r w[felen ejlqei'n Kiqairw;n eij" a[bussa cavsmata, o{" m∆ ouj diwvles∆ ajlla; douleu'saiv †tev moi† daivmwn e[dwke Povlubon ajmfi; despovthn. (Phoen. 1604–7) Would that Cithaeron had gone down to the bottomless gulfs of Tartarus, since he did not kill me, but the divinity gave me to be a slave (?) under Polybus as master.

The problem is not the verbal pattern, since it recalls Homeric expressions where the speaker wishes for himself or another to be swallowed up into the earth, as when Hector rails against Paris: 6

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Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry eij kei'novn ge i[doimi katelqovnt∆ “Ai>do" ei[sw faivhn ke frevn∆ ajtevrpou oji>zuvo" ejklelaqevsqai. (Iliad 6.284–5) If I saw him descending into Hades I would declare my mind were abandoning its wretched grief.

The difficulty is that it is easy to understand such an image for the death of a mortal man, but it seems to make little more than nonsense when it evokes the picture of a whole mountain descending to Tartarus. That is presumably why Eduard Fraenkel, for example, dismissed the passage as ‘pseudo-tragic bombast’ 7 and refused to believe that anyone with Euripides’ talents could have written it. On this view the passage would have been cobbled together by someone who was thinking of the Homeric curses while simultaneously trying to recall the famous passage in the Oedipus Tyrannus where Oedipus turns to address the mountain, ij;w Kiqairwvn, tiv m∆ ejdevcou… tiv m∆ ouj labw;n e[kteina" eujquv", wJ" e[deixa mhvpote ejmauto;n ajnqrwvpoisin e[nqen h\ gegwv"… (O.T. 1391–3) O Cithaeron, why did you welcome me? Why did you not kill me at once after taking me, so that I could have never shown myself to men in the place of my birth?

Sophocles’ image seems refined and poetic, that in the Phoenissae invites the editor’s condemnation: why? The reason, I think, is that Sophocles’ Oedipus personifies Cithaeron without forcing us to imagine it in any shape other than that of a mountain, qua mountain, while the curse in the Phoenissae makes no sense unless we somehow give Cithaeron the attributes of a daivmwn in anthropomorphic shape who could descend to the Underworld like the human dead or the gods and heroes who descend to it in many familiar stories. In other words the problem resides less in what Oedipus actually says than in the ways that modern readers are prepared to picture mountains to themselves. I hope to show that in the early Greek conception of landscape there was a narrow but very deep vein of imagery which made it possible for mountains to be imagined as divinities in anthropomorphic form, and that the author of our lines was drawing on that inheritance in a way that was both authentic and deeply serious. If I am right, the upshot will be that the seeming absurdity is an illusion: it results solely from the fact that the cultural background of modern readers discourages them from thinking about landscape in the intended way. To begin with, there is no lack of evidence that radical personification 67 Return to Table of Contents

Michael Clarke of the landscape was pervasive in early myth-making. A good first example is the Homeric conception of river-gods like Scamander. The Scamander who is Zeus’ son (Il. 21.2), who is served by priests (Il. 5.77–8, 21.130–2), and who attacks Achilles in anger ( Il. 21.136– 382), is one and the same as the physical stuff of the river itself. He attacks Achilles by rushing at him in flood,8 and when he speaks he does so with the sound of many waters (compare 21.113 with 9–10). Only when he stops to deliver a speech does he take on man-like form, ajnevri eijsavmeno" (21.213), and even there the idea of shape-changing is abandoned as soon as it is introduced. Scamander is not a figure like Father Thames with fish in his beard, pouring out the stream from an urn at its source: he is no more and no less than the surging torrent itself. When we bear this in mind, other Homeric talk of rivers presents a strange challenge to the reader’s imagination. Consider the story of Tyro from the Catalogue of Women in the Nekuia: [Turw;]...h} potamou' hjravssat∆ ∆Eniph'o" qeivoio, o}" polu; kavllisto" potamw'n ejpi; gai'an i{hsi, kaiv rJ∆ ejp∆ ∆Eniph'o" pwlevsketo kala; rJeveqra. (Od. 11.238–40) Tyro, who fell in love with a river, divine Enipeus, who goes over the earth and is by far the most beautiful of rivers; and she used to visit Enipeus’ beautiful flowings.

If her courtship (or her ogling) is done by strolling on the river-banks, is her beloved the body of water itself? Homer’s words suggest exactly that, and the outcome of the tale confirms it, because Poseidon makes love to her in secret by lying with her in the guise of water: tw'i d∆ a[ra eijsavmeno" gaihvoco" ejnnosivgaio" ejn procoh'i" potamou' parelevxato dinhvento", porfuvreon d∆ a[ra ku'ma peristavqh, ou[rei> i\son, kurtwqevn, kruvyen de; qeo;n qnhthvn te gunai'ka. lu'se de; parqenivhn zwvnhn, kata; d∆ u{pnon e[ceuen. aujta;r ejpeiv rJ∆ ejtevlesse qeo;" filothvsia e[rga, e[n t∆ a[ra oiJ fu' ceiri; e[po" t∆ e[fat∆ e[k t∆ ojnovmaze... (Od. 11.241–7) Disguised as him (sc. Enipeus), the Earthholder and Earthshaker lay with her in the outpourings of the whirling river; and the dark wave, mountainous, stood round about, circlewise, and hid the god and the mortal woman. He loosened her maiden’s girdle, and poured sleep over her; and when the god had completed the work of lovemaking, he clasped her hand and spoke to her...

All this is very strange and very hard to visualise, and it is a reminder of the gulf between Greek and modern ways of talking and thinking about the visible phenomena of nature. 68 Return to Table of Contents

Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry Since rivers move and make noise, it makes sense that they can be given personality more easily than mountains; nonetheless the feat that is required for us to visualise the personification is equally great in both cases. A closer pointer towards our problem with mountains comes in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo, when Leto wanders among islands and mountains asking each of them in turn to agree to be her son’s birthplace, and finally winning acceptance from Delos. When Delos turns out not only to have emotions but also to be able to make a speech, one’s instinct is perhaps to imagine her as an eponymous goddess, but the text forces us to identify the speaker directly with the island: tw'i rJ∆ aijnw'" deivdoika kata; frevna kai; kata; qumovn, mh; oJpovt∆ a]n to; prw'ton i[dhi favo" hjelivoio nh'son ajtimhvsa", ejpei; h\ kranahvpedov" eijmi, possi; katastrevya" w[shi aJlo;" ejn pelavgessin. e[nq∆ ejme; me;n mevga ku'ma kata; krato;" a{li" aijei; kluvssei, oJ d∆ a[llhn gai'an ajfivxetai h{ ken a{dhi oiJ teuvxasqai nhovn te kai; a[lsea dendrhventa, pouluvpode" d∆ ejn ejmoi; qalavma" fw'kaiv te mevlainai oijkiva poihvsontai ajkhdeva chvtei> law'n... (HApoll. 70–8) So I fear very much along my mind and heart, that when [Apollo] first sees the light of the sun he will dishonour this island because I am of hard rocky soil, and he will trample me down with his feet and thrust me into the depths of the sea, and there always the great surge of the sea will wash over my head, and he will go to another land where he will be pleased to establish a temple and groves of trees; and octopuses will make their bedchambers in me, and dark seals their sordid homes, for want of people.

In the third line nh'son must correspond to the first person singular: neither the grammar nor the image-making fits easily into English, but in the Greek both are clear and self-consistent. Of course it remains possible to say that Delos’ peculiar holiness encourages extravagant or mystical language,9 or that the poet of the Hymn is looking back to a story in which Delos was a nymph before she was turned into an island;10 but such guesses are not required to explain the text. The fact remains that in the language of the Hymn Delos speaks and thinks as an island and not as a being connected with it; and this analogy encourages me to suspect that the poet – whether Euripides or not – who imagined Cithaeron as something like a god or giant may have been thinking in a similar way. In early Greek poetry there is a small but telling group of passages where mountains definitely seem to be imagined with bodies of human 69 Return to Table of Contents

Michael Clarke shape. To begin with, two passages of the Iliad present themselves. The first is a simile describing Hector in his battle-fury: h\ rJa, kai; wJrmhvqh o[rei> nifoventi ejoikwv", keklhgwv", dia; de; Trwvwn pevtet∆ hjd∆ ejpikouvrwn. (Il. 13.754–5) So he spoke, and he rushed forward like a snowy mountain, crying out, and he flew through the Trojans and the allies.

No-one, so far as I know, has succeeded in explaining why a hero should resemble a mountain during the act of rushing along.11 It might be different if Hector were of gigantic size,12 or if he were standing still in silent defiance; but in its context the image seems no less grotesque than Oedipus’ curse in the Phoenissae. Hermann Fränkel held that the light on his armour was gleaming like light reflected from snow, and E.M. Bradley maintained that Hector’s relentless plunging was like that of a torrent of falling snow or an avalanche;13 but these explanations strain the verbal meaning of the Greek, where o[rei>...ejoikwv" must mean simply ‘like a mountain’ and not ‘like (boulders or snow or light on) a mountain’; and they do not make it seem any less bizarre that a running man should be the subject of the comparison. But the simile is both simple and dramatically significant if his fury as he rushes along is being compared to the impetuosity of a mountain-god, a daivmwn who might move and act in anthropomorphic shape in a particular kind of mythical narrative. My second example is a single adjective applied to Troy in a passage describing the women’s lament over the dead Hector: tw'i de; mavlist∆ a[r∆ e[hn ejnalivgkion, wJ" eij a{pasa “Ilio" ojfruovessa puri; smuvcoito kat∆ a[krh". (Il. 22.410–11) It was exactly as if all eyebrowed Troy were smouldering in fire from the summit.

Troy is on a steep eminence, topographically equivalent to a hill or o[ro",14 and evidently it is ‘eyebrowed’ in the same sense as other hills which have ‘eyebrows’, ojfruve" (see Il. 20.151, Hesiod fr. 204.48; cf. Herodotus 5.92–3); but what does that word really mean? It is not comparable to the English ‘brow of a hill’, because the ‘brow’ in question is different: an ojfru'" is literally the hairy thing over the eye, and must not be confused with the lower part of the forehead,15 which is the basis of the English image. In the most recent commentary Nicholas Richardson16 explains Homer’s ojfruovessa as ‘beetling’, and it is worth taking a closer look at this English poeticism.17 The verb ‘to beetle’ as an overhanging cliff seems to be a Shakespearean coinage18 70 Return to Table of Contents

Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry based on the noun ‘beetle-brow’, which was originally used of bushy eyebrows (resembling the antennae of a cockchafer) and re-applied by learned Elizabethans as a metaphor for the rising ridge of a hill. This usage very probably began its life in a rather different sense, as a calque of Latin supercilium applied to hills; but this in turn is no more than a Roman imitation of the use of ojfru'" in passages like those we are here trying to understand. Neither the English nor the Latin word was ever a radical living metaphor in its own language, and we explain nothing if we use them to gloss the Homeric passage. It remains very hard to explain why an early Greek poet could imagine a hill or mountain as having eyebrows19 – unless there was a strand in his tradition that encouraged him to picture it as a god or giant of human form. The suggestion that there was indeed such a strand is neatly corroborated by another group of images. The battlements of the city are several times spoken of as if they were the garment that binds a woman’s head: when Achilles longs to sack Troy he speaks of ‘loosening the head-veils’ of the city, Troivh" iJera; krhvdemna luvwmen (Il. 16.100), and elsewhere Zeus is described as having ‘loosened the heads of cities’, pollavwn polivwn katevluse kavrhna (Il. 2.117 = 9.24). The city stands on its hill and the battlements bind its head in a sense that is not vague or whimsical,20 so it is not unnatural that it can be imagined as having facial features. ojfruovessa can then be explained by reference to the Greek gesture of puckering the eyebrows as a sign of disdain or horror, in this case the personified citadel’s agony at its fall to the enemy. The precision of the image of the hill’s eyebrows calls for a new look at other, superficially less startling vocabulary.21 A mountain’s lower slopes are its knhmoiv, begging to be associated with knhvmai, ‘limbs’;22 higher up is its deirav" , ‘neck’;23 the mountain has a ‘head’, kavra, kavrhnon, and a crest or helmet, lovfo" or korufhv. Is this vague figurative language, or is it an index to a co-ordinated system of mythical imagination? In support of the stronger interpretation, two intriguing fragments from Sparta and Boeotia give a clearer glimpse of the sort of image that could flower when mountains were in the hands of a certain kind of poet. First, Alcman imagines the nocturnal world: eu{dousi d∆ ojrevwn korufaiv te kai; favragge" prwvonev" te kai; caravdrai fu'la t∆ eJrpevt∆ o{sa trevfei mevlaina gai'a qh'rev" t∆ ojreskwvioi kai; gevno" melissa'n kai; knwvdal∆ ejn bevnqessi porfureva" aJlov", eu{dousi d∆ oijwnw'n fu'la tanupteruvgwn. (fr. 89 Page)

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Michael Clarke The peaks and crags of the mountains are asleep, and the headlands and gullies, and the creeping tribes that the black earth rears, and the mountain-roaming beasts and the race of bees, and the beasts in the depths of the dark sea, and the tribes of spread-winged eagles are asleep.

The reductionist can always reply that the attribution of personality to the landscape is a poetic device, a thing of style rather than of worldview; but the idea of the ‘pathetic fallacy’ had not been invented in Alcman’s time, and it would be wilful to adduce it to explain away the strange image that he evokes. In any case no such escape-route is open when we turn to one of the fragments of Corinna,24 where she recounts a singing-contest between Helicon and Cithaeron. The fragment begins in the middle of one of the performances – it is not clear which mountain is speaking – and goes on to describe how the gods voted victory to Cithaeron and a quarrel broke out between the two: plivona" d∆ ei\le Kiqhrwvn, tavca d∆ ÔErma'" ajnevfan[evn ni]n ajouvsa" ejrata;n wJ" e{]le nivkan stef[av]nusin …].(.)atwv. ajnekovsmion mavka]re", tw' de; novo" gegavqi, oJ de lo]uvphsi kav[q]ekto" calep[h'sin Ûeli[k]w;n ej…] littavda [p]evtran …]ken d∆ o[[ro]", ujktrw'" …]wn ouJy[ov ]qen ei[risev nin ej]m mou[ri]avdessi lavu". Cithaeron took more votes, and quickly Hermes calling out revealed him as having won longed-for victory…the Blessed ones bedecked him with garlands and his mind rejoiced; but Helicon, overcome with wretched griefs, …[seized?]a craggy rock, and the mountain…[yielded? cried out? flinched? fought back?]…and from above he dashed it [or him] down pitifully into countless stones. (fr. 654.23–34 Page)25

Many of the verbs are missing from the ragged papyrus, but the gist is clear.26 Helicon becomes enraged and attacks Cithaeron, plucking off a rock; the other mountain responds in some way, and then one of them hurls something down and smashes it. Perhaps one’s modern instinct is to tame or rationalise the story and take it that the protagonists are persons – perhaps giants – who might later have been transformed into the mountains or might simply have given them their names.27 Some such story-patterns are indeed attested in two late mythographic sources which tell of conflict between Helicon and 72 Return to Table of Contents

Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry Cithaeron,28 but since both are brief and garbled and at several stages from any putative original, there is no reason to project them back on Corinna. If we take the poem word by word the characters must be mountains, qua mountains, who can sing, feel joy and grief, and physically attack each other. In the third-last line it is tempting to supply ejnevdw]ken d∆ o[ro", ‘the [other] mountain yielded’, showing beyond doubt that the actor is a mountain, but this cannot be certain.29 The point can be more safely proved if we accept the (almost inevitable) conjecture nin in the last line. The antecedent of nin must either be (i) littavda pevtran, or (ii) one of the fighters, Helicon or Cithaeron as the case may be. If (i) is correct, then Helicon can hurt Cithaeron by plucking off a rock and smashing it on the ground, which implies that the rock must be part of the Cithaeron whom he has assaulted; while if (ii) is correct, then Cithaeron or Helicon himself must be made of rocky stuff, since otherwise when thrown down he would not shatter into ‘countless stones’, as apparently he does.30 Denys Page called the fragment a ‘quaint and comfortable yarn’, and he was content to deprecate its ‘homeliness’, but when read straightforwardly it seems anything but homely. Rather, the direct identification of the mountains with the personal beings is not only vivid and powerful (after its fashion) but also very far removed from the refined restraint that it is easy to associate with all things Greek. Compared with what one expects of literature in the classical mainstream, all this seems temptingly like a survival from a more primitive age of myth-making – or at any rate an age very different from Athens in the late fifth century. If classical Athens was more deliberately intellectual, more culturally self-conscious, it is a fair guess that in such a climate logical or conceptual problems would be more likely to arise with myths in which mountains were personal beings. Perhaps this was what led to the suppression of the more startling versions of our mountain-myths in the Classical period. Atlas is a case in point. In early texts there is a genuine ambiguity as to the relationship between the giant and the mountain – by turns he stands in the sea or the western lands supporting the pillars of earth and sky (e.g. Od. 1.52–4, [Aesch.] PV 348–50), or he stands as a giant and supports the sky himself (e.g. Hesiod, Theogony 517–9, 746–8), while his name can also be directly applied to the great North African mountain, which is itself a kivwn of unguessable height (see Herodotus 4.184).31 Whether or not Atlas was originally a Peloponnesian mountain-god,32 the range of possible articulations shows that in the early period his mythical identity was fluid. Only later do we find the story in which Atlas was 73 Return to Table of Contents

Michael Clarke originally a giant or mortal and was then turned into a mountain – in one version at least, through the agency of Perseus wielding the Gorgon’s head. This seems to have been first told in lyric verse by one Polyidus,33 whence it reached the western canon via Ovid; and it sounds very like an attempt to put fixed form on the shifting shapes of the relationship between mountain and mountain-god. A fascinating sidelight is thrown on that relationship if we look beyond historical Greek horizons. Wilamowitz suggested long ago34 that the names of some of the Peloponnesian mountains were preHellenic, and that the cults associated with them were remnants of similarly ancient beliefs. Historians in later antiquity knew that Cappadocians in their own day regarded mountains as gods. As G.L. Huxley has pointed out in a very useful note,35 this corresponds exactly to beliefs attested much earlier in Hittite documents and artefacts. A closer look at the Hittite material is revealing, as there myth and ritual alike reflect the belief that mountains are alive in the same way as other gods.36 There is a dramatic example in the Song of Ullikummis,37 where the god Kumarbis has sexual intercourse with a rocky crag and begets a diorite giant who terrorises the other gods. The unity between mountain and god is neatly borne out in the rock carvings of Yazilikaya, which include a relief of the Weather God standing on two smaller deities (Fig. 1). An identical depiction is described in a ritual text of different provenance, and it is confirmed there that the lower figures are mountain-gods in man-like shape.38 At

Fig. 1. Weather-god and mountain-gods, with other deities, from reliefs at Yazilikaya (14th century BC), from S. Lloyd, Early Highland Peoples of Anatolia, London 1967, p. 66.

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Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry Yazilikaya the logic of the image is made precise by the conical headgear of the two figures – these are the hats worn by the mountain-gods, and by the same token they are the peaks of the mountains themselves. Smaller figurines of mountain-gods show figures wearing the same cap and also decked out in a flowing dress identifiable with the ridges and crags of the mountain’s lower slopes (Fig. 2).39 Of course none of this can be used as a direct index to Greek ideas of any period, although in early times links between Greek and Hittite ideas were undoubtedly strong. It remains fascinating that korufhv, the usual Homeric word for a mountain-peak, appears from its form to be linked closely to kovru", ‘horn > helmet’,40 making a perfect early Greek equivalent to the Hittite conception of the peak as the headgear of the god. Inevitably, however, it is impossible to be confiFig. 2. Hittite statuette of a mountain-god (14th– dent about the common ground between 13th century BC), from Greek and Anatolian myth; that said, the Haas, Hethitische BergHittite evidence at least shows that it is götter, p. 54. possible for a culture to conceive of mountains in anthropomorphic form without being hindered by the contradictions and absurdities that spring into modern minds when they are asked to think in the same way. Some such conception is by far the simplest way to making good sense of the texts I have quoted from Corinna and Alcman. It is food for thought that these relics of Spartan and Boeotian lyric have survived only by the skin of their teeth: Corinna comes to us in a unique papyrus fragment, and Alcman’s lines are preserved because a lexicographer used them as an example of the word knwvdalon. The implication is that such things may have been much more common in other areas of Greece than they were in the Athenian or Panhellenising culture that accounts for the bulk of surviving texts. It follows that it is very probably against the background of such traditions, ancient and now mostly unfamiliar, that we must read the seemingly baroque and extravagant image with which we began, that of Cithaeron disappearing down to Hades like a man or god or giant; and indeed it could be 75 Return to Table of Contents

Michael Clarke argued that even Sophocles’ leaner personification of Cithaeron, ‘Why did you not kill me at once…?’ (OT 1391–2), takes on its full meaning in the same way. Euripides seems to be thinking on the same lines when he makes a mother attribute personal knowledge to the mountain on which she gave birth to her child, xuvnoid∆ o[ro" Parqevnion, e[nqa mhtevr∆ wjdivnwn ejmw'n e[lusen Eijleivquia (Euripides, Telephus fr. 696.5 Nauck) The Parthenian mountain knows it, where Eileithuia released my mother from the pangs of my birth.

Similarly the Chorus in the Bacchae imagine Cithaeron himself as a participant in their revelry: pa'n de; sunebavkceu∆ o[ro" kai; qh're", oujde;n d∆ h\n ajkivnhton drovmwi. (Bacchae 726–7) All the mountain was making wild revelry, and the beasts, and nothing was without headlong rushing.

In brief glancing allusions like these it is impossible to tell how sharply we should imagine the personality of the mountain. The important point is that to make sense of this kind of image-making we must beware of reading it through the filter of modern preconceptions about poetic imagery, where the attribution of personality to the landscape is a matter of pure whimsy – ‘the hills are alive with the sound of music’. The Greek poet draws out an association of ideas that is far more intense and more deeply-rooted in his tradition, because it belongs not merely in language but in fully-fledged myth and even religious belief. In this light, finally, I suggest that there is no good reason not to believe that Euripides or a poet of similar date and competence was responsible for Oedipus’ image of Cithaeron marching down to Hades. Heard in the shadow of the mythical tradition whose traces we have been following, it would not have sounded bombastic at all: more likely it would have seemed deeply serious, and perhaps also intellectually sophisticated in its learned archaic way. What comes to the modern ear as an isolated piece of verbiage is in fact an allusion to a complex and coherent structure of beliefs about the world, a structure that depends on the mutual dependence of myth and metaphor in a way that cannot be matched when working within our own language and cultural expectations.

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Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry Notes 1

In the case of ‘the mother of all battles’, I think Saddam’s phrase has become famous largely because it very nearly flies in the face of that Western convention and hence sounds wild and exotic. 2 Cited by D.J. Mastronarde in his edition of Euripides’Phoenissae, Cambridge 1994, at 1604–5. 3 See most recently H.A. Shapiro’s comprehensive survey, Personifications in Greek Art: the Representation of Abstract Concepts 600–400 BC, Zürich 1993. 4 For the identification of Inachus with the river of that name see esp. fr. 122. 5 It is doubtful whether the text of the latter part of the play was ever free of interpolations, and whether or not these lines are by Euripides himself there is no reason to doubt that they date from about the time the play was first staged. 6 Compare Hippolytus 1290–3, where a similar curse is made against Theseus (cited by Mastronarde ad loc.). 7 ‘Für mich besteht kein Zweifel daß die ‘groteske Vorstellung’ (Friedrich) in [Phoen 1604–5] dem Versuch verdankt wird die Sophokleische Klage [OT 1391 f.] in pseudotragischen Bombast umzusetzen’ (Zu den Phoenissen, Munich 1963, 90). 8 See esp. Il. 21.234–42, 268–71, 305–7, 324–6. 9 On the cult of Delos personified see P. Bruneau, Recherches sur les cultes de Délos, Paris 1970, 448–9. 10 In much later sources (Hyginus, Fab. 53; Apollodorus, Library 14.1) comes the story that the nymph or goddess Asteria, fleeing from Zeus’ embraces, was turned into a quail (o[rtux) and later into an island which was first called Ortygia and later Delos. There is no telling where these latter versions come from or how old they are; and for our purposes it is enough to note that the story of Asteria’s transformation is unrecognised by the author of the Homeric Hymn. This is clear for two reasons: firstly Ortygia is there separate from Delos (see HApoll. 16), and secondly if Delos were identified with Asteria we would expect to find in Leto’s pleadings some reference to the fact that she is therefore Leto’s sister (see Hesiod, Theogony 406–10). These points are made in a useful discussion of the Asteria problem by T. Gantz, Early Greek Myth, Baltimore 1993, 40. Pindar bears witness to stories that have much in common with the versions of Apollodorus and Hyginus, but the survivals are fragmentary and do not allow firm conclusions (see fr. 33c S–M, from a hymn, and Paean 7b = fr. 52h.42–52 S–M; Paean 5.39–42 = fr. 52e.39–42 S–M). One of these fragments (Paean 7b) seems definitely to describe how Asteria (‘Koios’ daughter’) was pursued by Zeus and turned into a rock called Ortygia; another (Paean 5) refers to the island of Delos itself as ∆Ortugiva" devma". In fr. 33c, Pindar says the island on which Leto’s children – in the plural – were born is called Delos by mortals and known to the gods as ‘the star (ajsthvr) of the blue ocean’, apparently alluding to the name Asteria. It is hard to resist the conclusion that Pindar knows a story where either or both of the islands was a metamorphosed goddess; if so, it may well have been a later attempt to rationalise the

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Michael Clarke direct attribution of personality to the island that we see in the Homeric Hymn. 11 I cannot agree with R. Janko (ad loc. in The Iliad: a Commentary, vol. 4, Cambridge 1992), that ‘the “savage and fearsome” effect is enhanced, not spoilt, by the fact that mountains do not move’. 12 Compare Polyphemus (Od. 9.190–2) and the Laestrygonian princess (10.113), both as big as mountains. 13 E.M. Bradley, ‘Hector and the simile of the snowy mountain’, TAPA 98 (1967) 37–41; H. Fränkel, Die homerischen Gleichnisse, Göttingen 1921, 21. 14 An o[ro" is anything from a small hill to a major peak: see R. Buxton, Imaginary Greece, Cambridge 1994, 81–2. 15 LSJ fail to make this clear in their translation ‘brow, eyebrow’, or in their glosses to passages cited; Chantraine is more precise, perhaps because the French sourcil is precise enough to discourage the ambiguity. It is interesting that in LSJ the problem is made worse by their failure to distinguish between Greek and English custom in facial gestures. When they quote phrases like ejp∆ o[frusi neu'se (Il. 1.528, etc.) and ajna; d∆ ojfruvsi neu'on (Od. 9.468) they do not make it clear that the reference is not to English gestures like nodding or shaking the head but to the ancient (and modern) Greek system of lowering the eyebrows to show assent and raising them to show refusal. 16 Ad loc. in the Cambridge Commentary, vol. 6. 17 See OED s.v. ‘beetle-browed’ and ‘beetle’ v 1. 18 Hamlet I.4.71. For a more extended simile comparing a cliff to the brows and the whole face see Henry V, III.1.9 ff. 19 It is interesting to note that C.M. Bowra wrote of “Ilio" ojfruovessa that it ‘not only conveys a vivid impression of Troy on its ridge overlooking the plain but helps to strengthen by contrast the menace of its approaching doom. It is a general comment on the forbidding aspect which the city presented, especially to any possible attackers’ (‘The Homeric epithets for Troy’, in On Greek Margins, Oxford 1970, 4). Presumably Bowra relied on an intuitive mental translation of ojfruovessa into some English word that suggested those poetic ideas; but there is no telling what the English word might have been. 20 See my discussion of the iJera; krhvdemna of Troy, CQ 45 (1995) 312–14. 21 Some early attestations. knhmov": Il. 2.823, 11.107, 21.450 (the lower slopes, where cattle are pastured). deirav": Il. 1.449, Od. 19.431–3, HApoll. 281. kavra: Il. 20.6; Hesiod, Theogony 42. kavrhnon: Il. 1.44, 2.167, 2.735, 20.58; Od. 3.123, 9.113. lovfo": Od. 11.596, 16.471; HApoll. 520. 22 The suggestion that knhmov" as part of a mountain is equivalent to knhmhv was first made by Eustathius (1498.42) and is accepted by the lexicographers as a possibility if no more (see Chantraine, Frisk, and the Lexikon des frühgriechischen Epos s.v.). It cannot be proven beyond doubt, though the identification of lower slopes (see last note) as the ‘limbs’ of the mountain makes good visual sense and chimes well with the other terms collected in our discussion. No other worthwhile etymology for knhmov" seems to have been proposed by philologists, so it makes good sense to see knhmov" /knhmhv as a pair on the same lines as oi\mo"/oi[mh, pevtro"/pevtra and kw'mo"/kwvmh. 23 Greek poetic practice clearly associates deirav" with devrh /deirhv, ‘neck’. In

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Gods and mountains in Greek myth and poetry semantics the association is visible from two different directions: firstly deirav" is used in the plural to name part of the features of Niobe when metamorphosed into a rocky crag (Sophocles, Antigone 832), and secondly deirhv itself is used by Pindar of a mountain gully (Olympians 3.27, 9.59). However, the fact that a mountain can have several deiravde" (as e.g. poludeiravdo" Oujluvmpoio, Il. 1.499 = 5.754 = 8.3) is a reminder that the anthropomorphic image need not be fully brought into play whenever the word is used. The formation of deirav" from deirhv is unusual but not irregular: see E. Schwyzer, Griechische Grammatik, 2nd edn, Munich 1959, vol. 1, 507 n. 6. 24 This is not the place to discuss the vexed problem of Corinna’s date. Direct evidence is lacking, but Roman anecdotes associating her with Pindar, allied to the apparently archaic character of the myths recounted, have encouraged the standard view that her floruit was in the late sixth or early fifth century. However, since the unique papyrus follows the normalised Boeotian spelling first introduced in the third century BC, it is possible for scholars to claim that she is an archaizing Hellenistic writer who later became wrongly associated with the late Archaic flowering of lyric (see esp. M.L. West, ‘Corinna’, CQ 20 (1970) 284–7). In what follows I am content to assume that even if Corinna is not as early as the ancients believed, she nonetheless bears witness to Boeotian mythical traditions that lie outside the panhellenic mainstream and should be regarded as very ancient. 25 I print Page’s text from Lyrica Graeca Selecta, Oxford 1968, but I have not followed the translation in his Corinna, Oxford 1963, p. 20. 26 See also J.M. Snyder, ‘Korinna’s “glorious songs of heroes” ’, Eranos 82 (1984) 125–34, who takes the combatants to be mountains proper in the same way as I do here. 27 Thus J. Ebert, ‘Zu Korinnas Gedicht vom Wettstreit zwischen Helikon und Kithairon’, ZPE 30 (1978) 5–12. 28 The most substantial is pseudo-Plutarch, de Fluviis 2.2–3. This and the other sources are discussed by Page, Corinna, 21–2. 29 Page quotes this supplement in the apparatus in his Corinna (loc. cit.) but says it is ‘unsatisfactory both in respect of the meaning assigned to ejndivdwmi and of the sense as a whole’. I take it that this means that he feels it identifies the personal character too closely with the mountain. 30 It remains possible that ei[risev nin ejm mouriavdessi lavu" means ‘he flung him down among countless rocks’, though this seems the more difficult interpretation verbally. 31 On these passages see M.L. West’s concise note at Theogony 517. I cannot agree with West’s guess that Herodotus is attempting ‘a rationalistic reconciliation of the divergent myths’ when he identifies Atlas the mountain as the ‘pillar’ of the sky. Because the word kivwn can be used in general to denote a steep mountain as well as what we today would call a column (see e.g. Pindar, Pythian 1.19–20), it seems more likely to me that Hesiod is simply articulating one of several equally traditional identifications of Atlas. 32 Wilamowitz’ edition of Euripides, Heracles, 2.96. See also M.L. West, The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women, Oxford 1985, 161, with further references. 33 D.A. Campbell, Greek Lyric, Harvard 1993, vol. 5, no. 837.

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Michael Clarke 34

Die Glaube der Hellenen, 3rd edn, Basel 1959, 91–2. G.L. Huxley, ‘OROS QEOS’, Liverpool Classical Monthly 3 (1978) 71–2. 36 The fullest discussion known to me is by V. Haas, Hethitische Berggötter und hurritische Steindämonen, Mainz 1982, esp. 47–82. 37 ANET pp. 120–5. 38 See O.R. Gurney, Some Aspects of Hittite Religion, Oxford 1977, 22. 39 Illustrated by Haas, p. 54. 40 A.P. Nussbaum, Head and Horn in Indo-European, Berlin 1986, 9. 35

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6

ASPECTS OF ATHENA IN THE GREEK POLIS: SPARTA AND CORINTH A.C. Villing When we think of Athena, we tend to think of her in the context of Athens. However, she was also worshipped in most other Greek poleis, and often occupied a position of considerable importance in the local pantheon. This study attempts to shed some light on this muchneglected non-Athenian Athena. Evidence will often be scarce and inconclusive, and no definite answers should be expected. Nevertheless, the following investigation into the Archaic and Classical Athena cult in two important Peloponnesian poleis, Sparta and Corinth, will reveal the existence of both significant parallels and significant differences. A considerable contrast will also be observed in the role of Athena in the Spartan and Corinthian as opposed to the Athenian pantheon, most notably in the existence of a ‘rival’ female warlike deity – Aphrodite – in the cult of the Peloponnesian cities. The inquiry presupposes that human needs – both of the individual and of society as a whole – are the essential force in the creation of divine personality, and that social, political and other basic differences can be expected to be reflected also in religion. It is widely recognized today that the personality of a deity was not necessarily the same throughout the Greek world. Deities need to be analysed primarily in the context of each polis’s individual pantheon,1 while keeping in mind the larger panhellenic context, including a common religion. When comparing local beliefs in Greek cities, strong similarities are therefore to be expected; slight variations and shifts of emphasis, rather than gross differences, are likely to betray distinctive local sets of beliefs. With regard to Athena, our main task will thus be to trace her distinguishing features in each polis, place them into the context of the local pantheon, and determine how they relate to the polis’s social and political structure and how they differ from those in other poleis. The material which needs to be considered as evidence consists mainly of literary and epigraphic testimonies concerning cults, 81 Return to Table of Contents

A.C. Villing archaeological evidence from sanctuaries, and local iconography. Sparta Sparta was not just Athens’s quintessential rival, but also a city which embodied a completely different way of life to that of Athens and most other Greek cities – an elite of full-time hoplites permanently residing in the city and trying to keep under control the rural helot population. It is therefore a place where we would also expect religious differences to show up strongly. Of the dozen sanctuaries and statues of Athena attested at Sparta by Pausanias,2 only the most prominent one – that of Athena Chalkioikos – has been located and excavated. Pausanias (3.17.2) informs us that on the acropolis of Sparta, among other sanctuaries, ‘there is built a sanctuary of Athena, called both Poliouchos and Chalkioikos’. Both epithets are also attested independently in fifth-century inscriptions and literary sources.3 ‘Poliouchos’ (‘Protectress of the City’) indicates Athena’s role as patron of the city – as does the location of her sanctuary on the acropolis, paralleled in many other Greek cities – while ‘Chalkioikos’ (‘Of the Bronze House’) is essentially outwardly descriptive of her temple, albeit with a possible underlying notion of warlike strength or association with warlike craftsmanship.4 From Pausanias’s and other accounts we learn that the sanctuary consisted of a temenos with ‘protemisma’ (entrance area), a ‘naos’, a small ‘oikema’ (building) and an altar and table.5 Unfortunately, excavations (Fig. 1) have not brought much to light, as most of the stones

Fig. 1. Plan of the Archaic sanctuary of Athena on the Spartan acropolis (after ABSA 13 (1906–7) 143 fig. 1, and ABSA 28 (1926–7) pl. 5); the drawing includes the wall (outline only) mentioned in ABSA 14 (1907–8) 143).

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Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth were probably taken away and the surface is eroded; however, numerous votive offerings attest worship from the Geometric period onwards.6 Walls belonging to the sanctuary’s boundary wall – or the temple itself? – appear to date from the sixth century,7 which conforms to the information given by Pausanias that the temple and its statue were built by the mid to late sixth-century artist Gitiades. It may have been erected as a statement of Sparta’s power, now that her dominance of the Peloponnese was established, an association befitting a city’s warlike patron deity.

Iconography Only very scarce information is available on the appearance of the cult statue. Pausanias (3.17.2–3) relates that ‘the Spartans made both the temple and the image of Athena of bronze. The builder was Gitiades, a local man… On the bronzes were wrought in relief many of the labours of Herakles…’ It is not clear whether the decorated bronzes belonged to the temple or to the statue, but given the goddess’s epithet ‘Of the Bronze House’, a connection with the temple seems more likely.8 A better idea of the appearance of the statue can possibly be gained from Lakedaimonian coins of the time of Gallienus (Fig. 2) which show a stiff standing figure armed with helmet, shield and spear, with a dress divided in horizontal bands. They may well reflect the cult statue, especially as their depiction of Athena is rather unusual within the coin types of the goddess.9 The basic concept of the cult-statue of Athena Chalkioikos may thus have been one of a palladion-like, standing, armed Athena. A reflection of the cult-statue has also been seen by some scholars in a mid-sixthcentury bronze statuette of a palladion-like Athena from the acropolis (Fig. 3), the earliest of a number of Athena statuettes found there.10 However, the palladion-motif was Fig. 2. Roman imperial bronze coin (Gallienus), common for statuettes at this time and possibly depicting there is no reason to believe that this one in Athena Chalkioikos; particular needs to be based on a cultBritish Museum (BMC statue; if cult statue and figurine happen to Peloponnesus Laconia be of a similar type, this may be due to both 87; photograph by the having been produced at a time when this author). type was popular.11 Furthermore, most 83 Return to Table of Contents

A.C. Villing later bronze figurines from the Spartan acropolis or attributable to Lakonian workshops do not offer a coherent picture of Athena (Figs. 46).12 In these, as in other representations of the goddess – such as in the distinctively Lakonian lead figurines (Fig. 7)13 and in Lakonian vase-painting14 – Athena generally appears as a warlike deity, although her first (and only) appearance in Laconian black-figure vase-painting shows her unarmed and wearing a polos.15 But neither of these guises should be over-emphasised in their significance – both the early ‘peaceful’ Athena and the overall predominantly warlike traits can be paralleled in the art of much of Archaic and Classical Greece,

Fig. 3. Mid-sixthcentury bronze statuette of Athena from the Spartan acropolis; Sparta, Museum 2018 (after ABSA 13 (1906-07) 148 fig. 4).

Fig. 4. Early/midfifth-century bronze statuette of Athena from the Spartan acropolis; Athens, NM 15896 (after JHS 44 (1924) 258 fig. 2).

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Fig. 5. Bronze statuette of Athena from the Spartan acropolis, second quarter fifth century; Sparta, Museum 3240 (after AA 1926, 423 fig. 9).

Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth including Athens, where most of the best parallels for the Spartan representations of the goddess can in fact be found. Votive Offerings What else do we know about Spartan Athena Chalkioikos? In addition to the above-mentioned bronze figurines, many different objects have been found in the area of Athena’s sanctuary, most of which can be considered votive offerings to the goddess. These include pottery – perhaps indicating communal meals in a religious context, a pair of sixth-century marble jumping weights – probably dedicated by

Fig. 6. Lakonian bronze figurine of Athena, second quarter fifth century; Munich, Antikensammlungen inv. Schoen 225 (photograph by the author).

Fig. 7. Lead figurines of Athena from the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia; Sparta, Museum (after: R.M. Dawkins, The Sanctuary of Artemis Orthia at Sparta (= JHS Suppl. 5) (London, 1929) 272–3 figs. 125d and 126c).

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A.C. Villing successful contestants at a (local?) athletic contest, Archaic bronze bulls (perhaps an indication of the type of animals sacrificed to Athena?), a fifth-century bronze mirror dedicated by a woman, and Archaic model armour, quite possibly dedicated by warriors.16 One particularly unusual group of finds is a large number of bells: about eighty of terracotta and forty of bronze (Fig. 8). Five are inscribed with the name of Athena and most probably date to the Classical period.17 It is quite a puzzle why bells were dedicated to Athena in such large numbers, to my knowledge a unique occurrence in the Greek world.18 Bells were used on a variety of occasions in antiquity;19 in Athena’s Spartan sanctuary we could imagine them, for example, as having been worn by sacrificial animals, or employed in some ritual. Alternatively, they may be dedications by guards, who, according to Thucydides (4.135), carried them on their patrols. An explanation which might fit even better into our picture of the warlike Spartans is one provided by two other fifth-century literary sources: Aischylos (Sept. 385– 6, 399) and Euripides (Rhes. 308, 383) both describe how bells, attached to shields and horsetrappings, were an effective means of frightening enemies in battle. One must bear in mind that votive offerings probably reflect the character of the recipient deity in a very limited way and are more determined Fig. 8. Bronze bells from the Spartan by the dedicant and his enviacropolis; Sparta, Museum (after ronment.20 They nevertheless JHS 44 (1924) 259 fig. 3 and ABSA give some idea of the kind of 24 (1919–21) 117–118 no. 66). activities that were associated 86 Return to Table of Contents

Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth with the sanctuary. Spartan Athena thus appears as a protectress of warriors and patroness of athletic games – roles that are also mirrored in evidence from ancient literature and epigraphy concerning festivals in her honour. Festivals At least for the latter part of the third century, an Athena festival is attested by Polybius (4.35.2–5). He reports that ‘at a certain sacrifice of ancient institution the citizens of military age had to form a procession in arms and march to the temple of Athena Chalkioikos, while the ephors remained in the sanctuary to perform the sacrificial rites’. The role played by the most important officials in the Spartan state as priests of Athena Chalkioikos suggests that the festival was of prime state importance. Its military character is indicated by the procession in arms. Possibly this, or another festival connected with Athena, also included athletic competitions. A fifth-century inscription dedicated to Athena ‘Poliachos’ on the acropolis mentions games in nine local sanctuaries, among them a stadium race at a festival called ‘Athanaia’.21 The kings, too, seem to have played a part in rites for Athena. Together with Zeus and perhaps the Dioskouroi, Athena is one of the deities to whom is addressed one of the diabateria, sacrifices performed by the kings which determined whether a military expedition would take place.22 The highest divine authorities at Sparta are thus asked to sanction a political decision. This betrays a distinctively Spartan attitude, recently highlighted by Robert Parker in his analysis of Spartan religion: a strong dependence on divine commands, rooted in the Spartan hierarchical structure of society.23 An early involvement of Athena in the political life of Sparta is also suggested by a number of other points. For example, the position of Athena Chalkioikos as the patron deity of the city on the acropolis may have resulted from a cultic compromise between the claims to prominence of Apollo and Artemis, intended to avoid conflicts at the time of the formation of the polis.24 Similarly, another early Spartan cult, that of Athena Syllania and Zeus Syllanios, was in all likelihood assigned an important role in the formative act of state organization represented by the eighth/seventh-century Great Rhetra, namely, to act as guardian of the order and structure of the polis.25 Further roles of civic importance appear to have been played by Athena as Amboulaia and Agoraia, but these guises are mentioned only by Pausanias (3.11.9, 3.13.6) and we do not know the date of their establishment at Sparta.

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A.C. Villing Athena in the Spartan Pantheon Civic guardianship, involvement in political decision making – including war – as well as military and athletic exercising thus seem to have been Spartan Athena’s prime concerns. These activities are known to have been of great importance to the Spartan state and merited a high degree of involvement from state officials. Other main Spartan gods, Apollo, Artemis and the Dioskouroi, are occupied with similar – or rather, complementary – tasks, in particular the (military) initiation of the Spartan youth.26 But what do we make of the presence of an armed, warlike Aphrodite, who seems to encroach on Athena’s territory? Pausanias mentions cults of Aphrodite Hoplismene (3.15.10; also called Enoplios: Lactant. div.inst. 1.20.29–32) and of Aphrodite Areia (Paus. 3.17.5), armed Aphrodite and warlike Aphrodite (perhaps identical?), situated in the vicinity of the sanctuary of Athena Chalkioikos and of great antiquity.27 How can a warlike Aphrodite – a rare occurrence in Greece28 – be reconciled with Athena’s position in the Spartan pantheon? It appears as though there was space for more than one female warlike goddess at Sparta, although it seems likely that the two did not fulfil exactly the same functions. Athena is more likely to have watched over matters of policy of polis-wide significance, while Aphrodite may have been valued for less rational powers; we could imagine her to have been concerned with (female?) transition rites and possibly also homosexual love between warriors.29 Another unexpected aspect of the Spartan pantheon is the existence of a cult of Athena Ergane, whose sanctuary Pausanias (3.17.4) describes in a prominent position on the acropolis close to Athena Chalkioikos. The cult appears to have left no discernible traces in the archaeological record – quite possibly owing to the bad state of preservation of ancient remains on the site. Judging from what we know about Athena Ergane in the rest of Greece, she would have been worshipped as the patroness of craftsmanship, especially women’s spinning and weaving30 – activities which, according to ancient sources, were shunned by the Spartans.31 This dismissive attitude towards manual work is also generally taken as the reason why we know of no important Lakonian cult of Hephaistos, and why Spartan Demeter seems to lack an agricultural significance. Similarly, the cult of Dionysos was of minor significance, probably because of the Spartan hostility to public drinking and disorder in general.32 So how can the Spartan Athena Ergane be explained? One possibility would be that she was worshipped by a different population group, 88 Return to Table of Contents

Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth such as helots or perioikoi; however, this is hard to imagine for a cult of a major Olympian goddess situated on the Spartan acropolis. Alternatively, the cult may have been established at a later date, when Spartan attitudes had changed – after all, there is no certain indication that the cult existed before the time of Pausanias, even though a (fifthcentury?) inscription from Amyklai possibly refers to the goddess.33 As a third explanation, the Spartan cult of Athena Ergane might date back to the Archaic period; this appears quite feasible given the likelihood of much of the hostile attitude towards manual work being a later (post-Archaic) development, as well as the general conservatism of Greek and especially Spartan religion, which would have prevented the cult from being abandoned even after it lost its significance.34 Perhaps we may even suspect a link with the main Athena cult on the acropolis, that of Athena Chalkioikos, and her possible concern for metalworking. The picture of Athena at Sparta that emerges from this survey is thus one of a predominantly warlike, state-ordering deity. These characteristics are also encountered in the rest of the Greek world, but perhaps appear more strongly in a Spartan context where the need for a guiding divine authority, especially in matters of military discipline, instruction and strength, was perceived more strongly. However, not every aspect of Spartan Athena necessarily fits our image of austere, disciplined and warlike Sparta; the picture is multi-faceted, as in every Greek city. Athena Ergane puts in a puzzling appearance, possibly reflecting a less ‘austere’ past with a higher regard for craftsmanship. In addition, certain warlike functions are assumed by Aphrodite. Corinth At Corinth (Fig. 9), Athena was known under a number of epithets.35 The most important among them, Hippia and Chalinitis – as well as Hellotis (if we believe in a derivation from ‘helein’, to catch, as a reference to the taming of Pegasos) – probably all refer to one and the same deity, namely the Athena associated with horses, and in particular with the bridling of Pegasos. Pindar (Ol. 13.79, with scholia) relates that Athena appeared in Bellerophon’s dream and gave him the bridle for Pegasos. Bellerophon consequently erected an altar for Athena Hippia. Pausanias (2.4.1) calls this same Athena ‘Chalinitis’, that is, ‘Bridler’. Thus, Corinthian Athena was not just a goddess of horses in general, but associated with the art of skilfully taming horses for the use of men.36 From Pindar’s remarks we can conclude that at his time at least an altar to Athena Hippia/Chalinitis existed, but, unfortunately, 89 Return to Table of Contents

A.C. Villing no further information on the character of the cult can be gained from excavations, as the sanctuary of Athena Chalinitis has yet to be identified.37 Another epithet recorded for Corinthian Athena is ‘Phoinike’ (Schol. Lycoph. Alex. 658), for which circumstantial evidence indicates considerable antiquity.38 The etymology of the name is disputed, but one suggestion has been a link with the colour purple, which might indicate a cult of Athena as a kind of ‘Ergane’, in this case the protectress of the purple dye business.39 Athena’s festival (or one of her festivals) at Corinth, held for Athena Hellotis, was called ‘Hellotia’ and apparently included lampadodromoi, torch races, a feature paralleled, for example, in the Athena cult at Athens.40 There the races seem to belong to Athena as a goddess of craftsmen, and the fire might be considered symbolic of the fire used by craftsmen in their work. Perhaps they indicate a similar role for Athena also at Corinth? Unfortunately, the situation is complicated by a number of issues: the etymology of the word ‘Hellotis’ has been disputed from antiquity, Hellotia festivals existed also in other parts of the Greek world where they at least sometimes display a chthonic character, and aitiological myths reported in later sources in association with the festival refer to a girl named Hellotis who burnt to death in Athena’s temple, suggesting that the fire aspect of the festival might be linked with a purifying fire ritual.41 At present it seems impossible to disentangle the web of mystery and speculation surrounding the

Fig. 9. Map of Corinth (drawing by the author).

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Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth Hellotia, and we should seek additional information about Athena’s Corinthian character from other sources. Iconography Almost nothing is known about the cult statue of Athena Chalinitis; she may have been armed and held a bridle but this is not certain.42 A number of other Corinthian representations of Athena have come down to us, notably large-scale terracotta sculpture (Fig. 10) – for which Corinth appears to have been a centre of production in the Late Archaic/Early Classical periods43 – Classical terracotta figurines (Figs. 11–12), and representations in Archaic vase-painting and on Classical mirror-lids. There is no space here to discuss fully the scattered iconographical evidence for Corinthian Athena;44 it suffices to say that some representations, such as in red-figure vase-painting, show strong Athenian influence, while a few display an individual although

Fig. 10. Terracotta head of Athena (?) from metope, first quarter fifth century; Corinth SF-40-1 (formerly MF-8631; stolen in 1990; American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth excavations; photographers I. Ioannidou and L. Bartziotou).

Fig. 11. Terracotta figurine of Athena, first half fourth century; Corinth KT-12-11 (American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth excavations; photographers I. Ioannidou and L. Bartziotou).

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A.C. Villing undecipherable character, such as a drawing on a fifth-century plate of the bust of an aegis(?)-wearing figure holding a strange object (Fig. 13).45 Another Late Corinthian fragment shows two goddesses wearing scaly, aegis-like garments, one of whom is called ‘Hera’ (Fig. 14).46 This might mean that the aegis, in Archaic and Classical Greek art (the majority of extant examples being Attic) generally confined to Athena, could also be worn by other deities at Corinth, thus calling into question the whole principle of transferring the largely Athens-based system of identifying gods by attributes to other Greek areas. However, in this case the solution in all likelihood lies in the wide use of the scale pattern on garments in Corinthian art, without always the intention of designating an aegis.47 Overall, Corinthian representations of Athena largely conform to patterns of an armed goddess used in most of Greece. There are almost no traces of the mistress of horses, helper of Bellerophon and bridler of Pegasos,

Fig. 13. Corinthian fifth-century plate; Corinth C-64-225 (American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth excavations, photographers I. Ioannidou and L. Bartziotou).

Fig. 12. Fragment of fifth-century terracotta figurine of Athena; Corinth MF-2104 (American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth excavations, photographers I. Ioannidou and L. Bartziotou).

Fig. 14. Corinthian sixth-century fragment of pyxis; Corinth C-6538 (American School of Classical Studies at Athens, Corinth excavations, photographers I. Ioannidou and L. Bartziotou)

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Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth or the patron deity of torch-races that appears in Corinthian cult, with one possible exception: coinage. Corinthian staters from about 520 consistently feature what seems to be Athena’s head, wearing a Corinthian helmet – from the second half of the fifth century onwards with an Eastern cap underneath (Fig. 15)48 – while Pegasos occupies the reverse. Most smaller denominations show a female head without helmet which is often identified as belonging to Aphrodite. In fact, over a hundred years ago Lenormant suggested that the helmeted head might also be Aphrodite, who, in the shape of Aphrodite Hoplismene – armed Aphrodite – appears to have been the main city protectress of Corinth.49 The supposition was taken up again more recently by Blomberg,50 but in spite of some valid arguments in its favour it overall remains unlikely, especially as we know of very few artistic renderings of armed Aphrodite throughout Greece, and because in this particuFig. 15. Corinthian lar case parallels for the cap-and-helmet-wearstater, around 390, ing head can be found in Attic representations British Museum clearly identified as Athena; nevertheless it re(BMC Corinth 134; minds us that identifications of armed godphotograph by the desses as Athena should not be automatically author). taken for granted.

Athena and Aphrodite in the Corinthian Pantheon The most conspicuous feature of Ancient Corinth as it appears today is the Archaic temple in the lower town commonly ascribed to Apollo, who was a central god in this city along with Poseidon. However, ancient sources indicate that warlike Aphrodite was the main city protectress, with a sanctuary on the acropolis – Acrocorinth – where, at least at the time of Pausanias, she was worshipped together with Helios and Eros. Aphrodite thus occupied not only the position on the acropolis that in other Greek cities was often reserved for Athena, but – as at Sparta – she also apparently assumed part of Athena’s traditional character in playing the role of a warlike female deity. She may have become ‘the equivalent of Athena Polias at Athens’ 51 – or did she? Her function in the social and political life of Corinth is actually not quite clear. Ancient sources indicate that the goddess – as befits a warlike acropolis dweller – was asked for support in matters of military importance. However, they also indicate that the cult appears to have centred somewhat on female worship, possibly that of prostitutes in 93 Return to Table of Contents

A.C. Villing particular – even though the custom of sacred prostitution is not attested with certainty.52 Another shrine of Aphrodite, situated in the potters’ quarter, may indicate that Aphrodite was also the guardian of the city walls.53 Aphrodite thus appears to have had a function as guardian of the city and its inhabitants, and essentially fulfilled the role of city-goddess. Explanations for this prominent and uncharacteristic role of Aphrodite are usually sought in the adoption of an Oriental Aphrodite who, similar to Ishtar or Anat, combined warlike and erotic traits. This solution, however, probably ascribes too great an influence to the East; it would seem more likely that an ancient warlike deity – perhaps, but not necessarily, with some Eastern traits – held a prime position in the Corinthian pantheon and contained in her character elements which were incompatible with Athena, such as a concern with fertility, procreation or marriage. This goddess was later identified with Aphrodite when the need for assimilation to an Olympian deity arose. Where does this leave Athena, especially as the political life of the city, another aspect that is elsewhere often her domain, also seems to be occupied by other gods, in this case Apollo and Poseidon? 54 The basis of her cult at Corinth appears to have been her association with the taming of horses, suggesting that her cult at Corinth may have been an ancient one, quite possibly originally associated with an aristocratic class of knights. But it also had (or acquired with time and social change) a wider appeal: Athena’s mythical invention of the bridle enabled the skilful taming and ‘civilising’ of the horse for the benefit of mankind, and it made Corinth stand out as a great technological and civilising power.55 This is all the more relevant as we know that Corinth held craftsmen and artists in higher esteem than other Greek poleis. Athena thus missed out on the role of warlike city-protectress, but occupied an important function in the Corinthian polis as a goddess of crafts and invention. Conclusion I think it has been confirmed that the interests and needs of a polis, themselves determined by political, social and economic structures, define the composition of its pantheon and the relative importance of its deities. This also includes the placing of emphasis on particular functions of the gods, which usually were present within the panhellenic character of a deity, but were ignored or raised to particular significance, depending on local circumstances. At Sparta, for example, gods traditionally connected with manual work, with controlled 94 Return to Table of Contents

Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth disorder and public drinking, such as Hephaistos, Demeter and Dionysos, were either stripped of these functions or played an unimportant role. Likewise, Athena’s function actually varies from polis to polis. She gained a significant role in civic and political life at Sparta, where her traditional aspects as warrior-like protectress, rational force, and influential daughter of Zeus, were used to full advantage in a society based on military and religious hierarchy and divine sanctioning. Military aspects appear to have been largely neglected at Corinth. Although her mythical invention of the bridle does hint at an original role as patroness of mounted warriors, overall these aspects have become the domain of warlike Aphrodite, who occupies the position of the acropolis-dwelling city goddess which in many other cities is taken by Athena. Instead, another of Athena’s traditional functions is more prominent in this city of trade and manufacturing: her role as goddess of crafts and technological power. However, we can also observe that there is not always perfect logic in this game of functions. Even in ‘austere’ Sparta we find Athena Ergane being worshipped. Warlike Aphrodite not only appears at Corinth, but also had a sanctuary on the Spartan acropolis – a remarkable coincidence, setting the two cities apart from much of the rest of Greece. Unlike at Corinth, however, Aphrodite does not seem to have ousted Athena from her prominent position as female goddess of war, and the goddesses continue to coexist on the Spartan acropolis.

Acknowledgements My thanks are due to Anton Powell for inviting me to present this paper at the conference ‘What is a God?’, and to the conference participants who contributed to the discussion; I am also grateful to John Boardman, Michael Flower and Robert Parker for discussion, advice and comments on the subject of the paper, to Alan B. Lloyd for his patience as an editor, to Nancy Bookidis, Friedrich W. Hamdorf, Margaret Cogzell and Ute Wartenberg for help with obtaining photographs, and to the audience at the Classical Association AGM 1994 to which an earlier version of the paper was presented. Remaining shortcomings are, of course, my own.

Notes 1

This approach was already advocated a century ago, e.g. by V. Bérard, De l’origine des cultes arcadiens, Paris 1894, 32. More recently, cf. especially C. Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Persephone and Aphrodite at Locri: A model for personality definitions in Greek religion’, JHS 98 (1978) 101–21. For criticism of the unrealistic rigidity of some assumptions, cf. W. Burkert, Greek Religion,

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A.C. Villing Oxford 1985, 217–18. 2 In addition to the sanctuaries of Athena Chalkioikos and Athena Ergane on the acropolis (discussed below), Pausanias saw a sanctuary of Athena Agoraia, probably shared with Zeus Agoraios, near the agora (3.11.9). Altars of Zeus Amboulios and Athena Amboulaia were located near a market (3.13.6). A temple of Zeus Syllanios and Athena Syllania – mentioned also in the Great Rhetra – was supposedly founded by Lykourgos (Plut. Lykourg. 6). Lykourgos is also associated with the establishment of the sanctuary of Athena Optilitis or Ophthalmitis (ibid. 11.4; Paus. 3.18.2). In the area of the racecourse Pausanias observed a sanctuary of Athena Axiopoinos, supposedly established by Herakles, as well as another sanctuary of Athena, founded by Theras before the colonisation of Thera (3.15.6). Near the government chambers of the Bidiaioi was located one of three sancturies of Athena Keleutheia, containing a statue and supposedly set up by Odysseus after his victory over Penelope’s lovers in the race (3.12.4). Zeus Xenios and Athena Xenia were worshipped in the sanctuary of the Fates (3.11.11), while a statue of Athena could be seen in the sanctuary of Poseidon of Tainaron (3.12.5). Possibly outside the city walls, on the way from Sparta to Therapne near a bridge over the Eurotas, was situated the sanctuary of Athena Alea (Xen. Hell. 6.5.27). A statue of Athena Pareia, standing in the open air, was spotted by Pausanias on the road from Sparta towards Arcadia (3.20.8). 3 Thuc. 1.134; Eur. Hel. 228, 245; Ar. Lys. 1300, 1319; I.G. V.1.213 (Sparta, Museum 440: ‘Damonon Inscription’; cf. most recently W.T. Loomis, The Spartan War Fund, Historia Einzelschriften 74, Stuttgart 1992, 60–2; L.H. Jeffery, ‘The development of Lakonian lettering: a reconsideration’, ABSA 83 (1988) 179–81. 4 Cf. S. Constantinidou, ‘The importance of bronze in early Greek religion’, Dodone 21 (1992) 137–64, esp. 153–9; M. Detienne and J.-P. Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society, Hassocks 1978, 180–1. Cf. also a bronze plaque inscribed ‘Chalkeia’, dated to around 500 (BSA 26 (1923–5) 273 no. 6, 270 fig. 5.1). On the cult of Athena Poliouchos at Sparta in general, cf. also U. Brockertz, Zum Problem der Schutzgottheiten griechischer Städte (Ph.D. Berlin, 1976) 64–8. 5 Paus. 3.17.4, 10.5.5; Polyb. 4.35.4. The small ‘oikema’ mentioned by Thucydides (1.134) has been taken by the excavators of Sparta to be the temple. This would conform to Thucydides’ claim that there were no splendid buildings in Sparta (Thuc. 1.10). However, the usage of the word ‘oikema’ in Thucydides’ writings makes it seem more likely that the ‘oikema’ is a subsidiary building, perhaps a treasury, and not the temple itself, which is commonly termed ‘naos’ (Polyb. 4.35.2; Paus. 3.17.2). For the word ‘oikema’, cf. also R. Tölle-Kastenbein, ‘Das Hekatompedon auf der Athener Akropolis’, JdI 108 (1993) 43–75, esp. 62–3. 6 G. Dickins, ‘Excavations at Sparta, 1907. The Hieron of Athena Chalkioikos’, ABSA 13 (1906–7) 137–54; id., ‘Excavations at Sparta, 1908. The Hieron of Athena Chalkioikos’, ABSA 14 (1907–8) 142–6. 7 Dickins, ABSA 13, 144–5; cf. C.M. Stibbe, ‘Beobachtungen zur Topographie des antiken Sparta’, BABesch 64 (1989) 61–99, esp. 94. The remains of

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Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth a smaller building, perhaps a subsidiary shrine (of Athena Ergane? – cf. below) or treasury, and a stoa, both of Archaic date, were found nearby (ABSA 28 (1926–7) 39–43). 8 Cf. esp. Paus. 10.5.5. This is supported by finds of a large number of undecorated bronze-plates – suitable as wall coverings – and nails within the precinct (Dickins, ABSA 13, 139–40; cf. also H. Philipp, ‘CHALKEIOI TOICHOI – Eherne Wände’, AA 1994, 489–98, esp. 490–3). 9 L. Lacroix, Les reproductions de statues sur les monnaies grecques, Liège 1949, 129, 217–20, pl. 18.1. Cf. also B. Alroth, Greek Gods and Figurines. Aspects of Anthropomorphic Dedications, Uppsala 1989, 28–32. 10 Sparta, Museum 2018 (M. Herfort-Koch, Archaische Bronzeplastik Lakoniens, Boreas Beiheft 4, Münster 1986, 25, 90–1 no. K. 40, pl. 6.34). 11 On the relation between votive figurines and cult statues, cf. Alroth, op. cit. 12 Athens, NM 15896 (JHS 44 (1924) 258 fig. 2); Sparta, Museum 3240 (R. Tölle-Kastenbein, Frühklassische Peplosfiguren. Originale, Mainz 1980, 161 no. 27c, 163–4, pls. 112–13); Munich, Antikensammlungen inv. Schoen 225 (K. Neugebauer (ed.) Antiken in deutschem Privatbesitz, Berlin 1938, 23 no. 64, pl. 29.64); Sparta, Museum 2020 (two figurines with the same inventory number: Tölle-Kastenbein, op. cit. 161 no. 27d, 164, pl. 114; ibid. 161 no. 27e, 164–5, pl. 115). Cf. also a seated terracotta figurine perhaps representing Athena: ABSA 29 (1927–8) 82 no. 23, fig. 4. Fragments of a Late Archaic statue possibly to be identified as Athena have recently been discussed by O. Palagia, ‘An Athena Promachos from the Acropolis of Sparta’, in O. Palagia and W. Coulson (eds.) Sculpture from Arcadia and Laconia, Oxford 1993, 167–75. 13 R.M. Dawkins, The Sanctuary of Artemis Orthia at Sparta, JHS Suppl. 5, London 1929, 268–79, figs. 125d, 126c, 129, pls. 196, 199. 14 Cf. M. Pipili, Laconian Iconography of the Sixth Century B.C., Oxford 1987; I. McPhee, ‘Laconian red-figure from the British excavations in Sparta’, ABSA 81 (1986) 153–65. 15 New York, MM 50.11.7; Pipili, op. cit. 12 fig. 16. 16 ABSA 27 (1925–6) 251–3 no. 39 (jumping weights); ABSA 26 (1923–5) 271–2 no. 5, fig. 6 (mirror); ABSA 29 (1927–8) 99–100 no. 56, fig. 9 (terracotta votive shield); ABSA 28 (1926–7) 91–2 no. 22, pl. 8.22 (breastplate); ibid. 89– 90 nos. 13–16, fig. 4. (bulls). Cf. also the dedication to Athena Chalkioikos of a shield from spoils, recorded by Pausanias (4.15.5). For a cautious voice regarding the interpretation of animal votive figurines, cf. F.T. van Straten, Hiera Kala. Images of Animal Sacrifice in Archaic and Classical Greece, Leiden 1995, 54–5. 17 Bronze bells: ABSA 24 (1919–21) 117–18 nos 66–8; ABSA 26 (1923–35) 273–4 no. 7, 270 fig. 5.2; ABSA 30 (1928–30) 252 no. 5 (= JHS 44 (1924) 259 fig. 3). Terracotta bells: ABSA 26 (1923–5) 249. 18 Overall, bells are unusual finds in Athena sanctuaries. Another large find of bronze bells was made at the Heraion at Samos, where about twenty Archaic bells – Caucasian imports as well as Greek specimens – were found (U. Jantzen, Samos VIII. Ägyptische und orientalische Bronzen aus dem Heraion von

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A.C. Villing Samos, Bonn 1972, 81–3, pls. 79–80). 19 On bells in general, cf. C.G. Simon, The Archaic Votive Offerings and Cults of Ionia, UMI 1990, 289–96; A.S. Pease, ‘Notes on some uses of bells among the Greeks and Romans’, HSPh 15 (1904) 29–59; A.B. Cook, ‘The Gong at Dodona’, JHS 22 (1902) 5–28. 20 On the problem of interpreting votive offerings, cf. Simon, op. cit. 21 On the ‘Damonon Inscription’, cf. above. 22 Xenophon, Lak.pol. 13.3–4, 15.2; cf. also W.K. Pritchett, The Greek State at War III. Religion, Berkeley 1979, 67–71. Note, however, that Xenophon’s authorship of Lak.pol. has recently been disputed: M. Lana, ‘Xenophon’s Athenaion Politeia: a study by correspondence analysis’, Literary and Linguistic Computing 7 (1992) 17–26. 23 R. Parker, ‘Spartan Religion’, in A. Powell (ed.) Classical Sparta: Techniques behind her Success, London 1989, 142–72, esp. 161–2. 24 P. Cartledge, ‘Early Lakedaimon: the making of a conquest state’, in J.M. Sanders (ed.) Philolakon. Lakonian Studies in Honour of Hector Catling, Oxford 1992, 49–55, esp. 55. 25 Cf. M. Pettersson, Cults of Apollo at Sparta: the Hyakinthia, the Gymnopaidiai and the Karneia, Stockholm 1992, 111–14; D. Ogden, ‘Crooked speech: the genesis of the Spartan rhetra’, JHS 114 (1994) 85–102, esp. 102. 26 On the Spartan pantheon, cf. Parker, op. cit.; S. Wide, Lakonische Kulte, Leipzig 1893; Pettersson, op. cit. 27 A dedicatory inscription to ‘Areia’ found on the acropolis might also support an early date for the cult (ABSA 30 (1928–30) 252–3 no. 8, fig. 7). On the cult of Aphrodite Areia/Hoplismene, cf also V. Pirenne-Delforge, L’Aphrodite grecque, Kernos Suppl. 4, Athens and Liège 1994, 193–211; J. Flemberg, Venus Armata. Studien zur bewaffneten Aphrodite in der griechischrömischen Kunst, Stockholm 1991, 28–34; F. Graf, ‘Women, war, and warlike divinities’, ZPE 55 (1984) 245–454; Wide, op. cit. 140–6. Stibbe in his recent study of Spartan topography has tentatively identified remains of a building on the Spartan acropolis as the sanctuary of Athena Ergane, but this has to remain speculation; cf. Stibbe, op. cit. 94. 28 Warlike Aphrodite is paralleled only in Corinth (cf. below) and Kythera (Paus. 3.23.1). Note, however, Plutarch’s claim (Mor. 239A) that in Sparta all statues of gods were equipped with armour. 29 Cf. Pirenne-Delforge, op. cit.; Parker, op. cit., 166 n. 22. The existence of a cult of armed Aphrodite also creates problems for identifying representations of armed female figures, and the statuettes from the acropolis could theoretically be (and in fact have been in the past) identified as armed Aphrodite; cf. also below on the possibility of an armed Aphrodite on Corinthian coins. 30 On Athena Ergane, cf. A. Di Vita, ‘Atena Ergane in una terracotta dell Sicilia ed il culto della dea in Atene’, ASAA n.s. 14–16 (1952–4) 141–54. 31 Xen. Lak.pol. 1.3 4; cf. J.T. Hooker, The Ancient Spartans, London 1980, 134–5; Parker, op. cit., 151. 32 Cf. M. Nafissi, La Nascita del Kosmos. Studi sulla Storia e la Società di Sparta, Naples 1991, 230 n. 17; R. Parker, ‘Demeter, Dionysos and the Spartan

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Aspects of Athena in the Greek polis: Sparta and Corinth Pantheon’, in R. Hägg, N. Marinatos and G.C. Nordquist (eds) Early Greek Cult Practice, Stockholm 1988, 99–103. 33 AE 1919, 33 no. 2; cf. T.A. Boring, Literacy in Ancient Sparta, Leiden 1979, 111 no. 158. 34 The notion of Spartan austerity appears to have been promoted through two phenomena: the ‘Spartan mirage’, created by and for non-Spartans, and the ‘invention of tradition’, for and by Spartans. The latter was discussed recently in a paper entitled ‘The invention of tradition in classical and hellenistic Sparta’ presented by M. Flower at a seminar in Liverpool, 3rd May 1994. Cf. also P. Cartledge and A. Spawforth, Hellenistic and Roman Sparta, London and New York 1989, 190–211. 35 Pausanias also records several statues of Athena: ‘Ancient statues of Artemis and Zeus and Athena’ near the grave of Pelasgos (2.22.2); a bronze statue with representations of the Muses on the base in the middle of the agora (Paus. 2.3.1), and an Athena of Pania in the training grounds of Kylarabos (Paus. 2.22.9). We have no further information on the age or appearance of these statues. 36 Cf. Yalouris, ‘Athena als Herrin der Pferde’, MusHelv 7 (1950) 19–101, esp. 19–47. Athena as the inventor of ‘Hippike’, of the art of dealing with horses, is also mentioned in Aelius Aristides’s speech on Athena (37.14), in addition to her contribution to the development of trade and naval warfare, agriculture, wool-working and weaponry. 37 Excavated remains east of the road leading north from the theatre had been tentatively associated with the sanctuary; however, the date and character of the architectural structures and other finds do not seem to allow such an identification (Hesperia 53 (1984) 103–4; cf. AJA 30 (1926) 448–9). 38 A month ‘Phoinikaios’ is attested at Corinth in the first half of the fifth century (Corinth VIII.I 1–2 no. 1); it also appears in the Corinthian colony Kerkyra, founded in the eighth century, which might push the date back even further. Cf. W. Will, Korinthiaka, Paris 1955, 143–5. 39 Ch. P. Kardara, ‘Athena Phoinike’, AAA 3 (1970) 95–7. 40 Schol.Pind. Ol. 13.56b; Et.m. s.v. Hellotis. The suggestion of Herbert that the Hellotia were not dedicated to Athena is mere speculation: S. Herbert, ‘The Torch-Race at Corinth’, in: Corinthiaca. Studies in Honour of Darrell A. Amyx , Columbia 1986, 29–35. On the torch races at Athens and Corinth, cf. also N. Robertson, ‘The origin of the Panathenaia’, RhM n.s. 128 (1985) 231– 95, esp. 241–8. 41 Schol. Pind. Ol. 13.56b; cf. also R. Lisle, The Cults of Corinth (Ph.D. Johns Hopkins University), Baltimore 1955, 103–7; W.D. Furley, Studies in the Use of Fire in Ancient Greek Religion, Salem 1981, 163–72; M.P. Nilsson, Griechische Feste von religiöser Bedeutung mit Ausschluß der attischen, Leipzig 1906, 94–6. 42 Pausanias describes the cult statue of Athena Hippia as a wooden xoanon with hands, feet and face of white stone – in short, acrolithic. This statue is sometimes taken to be reflected in Roman coins that depict Athena holding something that could, with some imagination, be identified as a bridle. This is, however, rather uncertain. Cf. F. Imhoof-Blumer, P. Gardner and A.N. Oikonomides, Ancient Coins Illustrating Lost Masterpieces of Greek Art.

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A.C. Villing A Numismatic Commentary on Pausanias, 3rd edn, Chicago 1964, 24–5 no. 29, pl. F. cxvi. 43 Cf. S.S. Weinberg, ‘Terracotta Sculpture at Corinth’, Hesperia 26 (1957) 289–319, and more recently M.-F. Billot and V. Anagnostopoulos, ‘Statuaire de terre-cuite à Delphes’, REA 95 (1993) (= Hommages à Jean Marcadé) 87–141 esp. 104–5. 44 Much of the relevant material can be found in the excavation reports Corinth VII.VI (compare review by I. McPhee, AJA 82 (1978) 563–4), Corinth XII, Corinth XV.II, as well as in W. Züchner, Griechische Klappspiegel (= JdI Ergänzungsheft 14), Berlin 1942, 102–4, 175–205; D.A. Amyx, Corinthian Vase-Painting of the Archaic Period, Berkeley 1988, 619–20. 45 Corinth C-64-225 (E. Pemberton, Corinth XVIII.I. The Sanctuary of Demeter and Kore. The Greek Pottery, Princeton 1989, 136 no. 297, pl. 32.297). 46 Corinth C-65-38 (ibid. 123–4 no. 261, pl. 27.261). 47 For the use of the scale pattern, cf., e.g., D.G. Mitten and S.F. Doeringer, Master Bronzes from the Classical World, Cambridge Mass. 1967, 80–1 nos. 74–5; K. Wallenstein, Korinthische Plastik des 7. und 6. Jahrhunderts vor Christus, Bonn 1971, 13–14, pl. 1. 48 On the cap, cf. E. Knauer, ‘Mitra und Kerykeion’, AA 1992, 373–99. 49 F. Lenormant, ‘Vénus armée sur les monnaies de Corinthe’, RN 11 (1866) 73–7. 50 P.E. Blomberg, On Corinthian Iconography. The bridled winged horse and the helmeted female head in the sixth century BC, Uppsala 1996, 67–96. 51 C.K. Williams II, ‘Corinth and the cult of Aphrodite’ in Festschrift Amyx (supra, n. 40) 12–24, esp. 16. 52 Paus. 2.5.1; Strab. 8.6.20–1; Athen. 13.573c–574c. Cf. also Williams, op. cit., Brackertz, op. cit., 35–9; H. Conzelmann, ‘Korinth und die Mädchen der Aphrodite. Zur Religionsgeschichte der Stadt Korinth’, NAWG 1967, 247– 61; H. Saffrey, ‘Aphrodite à Corinth. Réflexions sur une idée reçue’, RBi 92 (1985) 359–74. On the problem of Greek sacred prostitution for Aphrodite, cf. also: C. Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘The votum of 477/6 B.C. and the foundation legend of Locri Epizephyrii’, CQ n.s. 24 (1974) 186–98. 53 Williams, op. cit. 21–4. 54 Cf. Brackertz, op. cit. 36–9. 55 The ‘introduction of measures for horses’ is mentioned as a Corinthian achievement already by Pindar (Ol. 13.20).

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7

HERODOTUS AND THE CERTAINTY OF DIVINE RETRIBUTION Thomas Harrison

Pheretime, however, did not end her life well. For, after having taken vengeance on the Barcaeans, as soon as she had returned to Egypt from Libya, she died a terrible death: for she swarmed with worms while she was still alive. So the over-harsh vengeances of men are abominated by the gods. Such and so great was the vengeance of Pheretime, the daughter of Battus, against the Barcaeans.1 (4.205)

The crime of Pheretime against the people of Barca had been to impale its leading men, and then to cut off the breasts of their wives and use them to dress the walls of the city. Her story is a peculiarly garish one. Its moral, however, is little different to that of a number of other passages in Herodotus’ Histories: that if you behave as Pheretime behaves, you will be punished as she was punished. That Herodotus believed in some sense in the possibility of divine retribution seems to me, in the light of passages such as this, to be irrefutable.2 In the following pages I intend to answer two main questions: first, that of the nature of Herodotus’ belief in divine retribution (its significance in the Histories, the actions which receive retribution, the means by which the conclusion of divine retribution is drawn); and second, the question of how Herodotus could have believed such a thing, how such a belief was ‘sustainable’ in the light of experience. Though we may be able to distinguish the main strands or principles of Herodotus’ beliefs, it should be stated at the outset that these cannot ultimately be reduced to any single, coherent plan. This should not, however, be construed as a failure, nor would the attempt to construct any such theology be a worthwhile one; as we shall see, it is precisely the inconsistencies and contradictions in his beliefs which allow them to serve as a flexible means for the explanation of events. Herodotus believes that certain actions will inevitably receive retribution from the gods. (How those actions can be defined is a question to 101 Return to Table of Contents

Thomas Harrison which I will return.) This is a rule, in theory at least, without exceptions. When on one occasion Athenians and Spartans both commit an identical crime – the murder of Persian ambassadors – but only the Spartans are known to have been punished for it, Herodotus is sufficiently puzzled to look for an appropriate punishment. What undesirable thing happened to the Athenians for what they had done to the heralds, I cannot say, except that their country and city were ravaged, but this I think did not happen for this reason.3 (7.133.2)

The Athenians, Herodotus assumes, must have been punished somehow.4 The same assumption that certain actions will inevitably attract retribution can also be seen ascribed, unchallenged, to characters in the Histories. The Ethiopian king of Egypt, Sabacus, sees in his dream a man who tells him to gather together all the priests in Egypt and cut them in half (2.139.1). He remembers, however, a prophecy which stated that he was destined to rule Egypt only for fifty years, and so he recognises the dream as a divine trap: the gods had shown him the dream ‘so that, having committed an act of sacrilege he might suffer some evil from either gods or men’ (i{na ajsebhvsa" peri; ta; iJra; kakovvn ti pro;" qew'n h] pro;" ajnqrwvpwn lavboi, 2.139.2). Punishment would – had Sabacus not been able, as it were, to sidestep fate – have been automatic. Recognising that his time was up, however, Sabacus takes himself back to Ethiopia. The story of Sabacus has been seen as evidence that ‘in Egypt the gods move in mysterious ways indeed’.5 An unequivocally Greek parallel is provided, however, by the case of Aristodicus of Cyme (1.158–9). Aristodicus had been granted permission by the god at Branchidae to expel a suppliant. But this was something for which he should never have asked. Why then had the god said yes? ‘So that, committing an act of impiety, you might more quickly come to your end, and never again come to the oracle to enquire about the expulsion of suppliants’ (i{na ge ajsebhvsante" qa'sson ajpovvlhsqe, wJ" mh; to; loipo;n peri; iJketevwn ejkdovv sio" e[lqhte ejpi; to; crhsthvrion, 1.159.4).6 Complementary to this principle of retribution inevitably following a crime is a second rule: that, if some misfortune occurs, it must be in retribution for an earlier action; the question is then asked what action? This ‘moral’ explanation of human suffering is not the only form of divine explanation adopted by Herodotus – as we shall see, other ‘amoral’ explanations for misfortunes, that they are omens or that the divinity is capricious, are also available. When, however, the selection of this ‘moral explanation’ has been made (for whatever 102 Return to Table of Contents

Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution reasons – to these I will return) it is presented as quite the only option, or at least as the only divine option. So, for example, Cleomenes’ madness and his subsequent death by self-mutilation provoke Herodotus to speculate on what might have been the cause. Although he reports one possible ‘secular’ or non-divine7 explanation (ejk daimonivou ...oujdeno;" manh'nai Kleomevnea, 6.84.1) for Cleomenes’ madness, that of an alcoholism learnt from Scythian ambassadors, in the event Herodotus chooses one of three explanations that, by implication, are divine: was Cleomenes’ madness caused by his act of sacrilege in Argos, as predictably the Argives thought (6.75.3, 84.1), by his act of sacrilege at Eleusis, in the version of the Athenians (6.75.3), or by his bribery of the Pythia to ensure the deposition of Demaratus (6.66, 75.3), the view, Herodotus says, of most Greeks? He opts for the majority view: ‘I think that Cleomenes suffered this retribution on account of Demaratus’ (ejmoi; de; dokevei tivsin tauvthn ovJ Kleomevnh" Dhmarhvtw/ ejktei'sai, 6.84.3).8 Herodotus’ reasoning on this occasion runs in the reverse direction to his thought on the question, referred to above, of the retribution for the Athenians’ killing of the Persian envoys. There, a clear act of impiety or injustice leads him to suppose that they must have received some sort of divine retribution; the question is what form that might have taken. In this case, Cleomenes’ death and madness are presumed to be in retribution for some act of impiety or injustice; the question is what that might have been. That Herodotus offers, even if only to reject, a non-divine explanation for Cleomenes’ end in parallel to the divine causes still has important implications: the conclusion that a vengeful deity lies behind any misfortune is made as a result of a process of deduction that could just as easily have ended in an exclusively human cause; a disaster that is divinely motivated looks no different from one that is not.9 The idea that a misfortune is explicable in terms of an earlier misdemeanour is one again that can be seen ascribed almost incidentally by Herodotus to characters in his Histories. The Sybarites are anxious to prove that the Spartan Dorieus, on his way to found a colony in the territory of Eryx, had helped the Crotoniates to capture Sybaris (5.45.1). The ‘greatest piece of evidence’ (martuvrion mevgiston) presented by the Sybarites in support of their claim was Dorieus’ death: he had been given a mandate by the god to found a colony; he must in some way have overstepped this mandate, or else the colony would have been successful and he would not have died.10 The Sybarites naturally do not consider the possibility that Dorieus might have committed some other transgression: their own suffering was the only 103 Return to Table of Contents

Thomas Harrison possible cause. Herodotus’ choice of the words ‘greatest piece of evidence’, and his failure to rebut their argument, suggest surely that he felt the Sybarites’ case to be at least no less respectable than the argument put forward by the Crotoniates (5.45.2) that, had Dorieus helped them, his family would have been granted property in their territory. He concludes with a statement of neutrality. If a misfortune can be traced back not simply to an action of a type likely to incur retribution but to an action hostile to a particular deity, this may help to identify the deity responsible for the misfortune. The miraculous fact that, of the Persians who died at Plataea, none died within the sanctuary of Demeter, while a great many died around it, can be explained, Herodotus speculates, by the information that the Persians had earlier committed sacrilege at another shrine of Demeter:11 I think, if it is possible to speculate concerning divine affairs, that the goddess did not receive those who had burnt her shrine at Eleusis.12 (9.65.2)

Herodotus’ remarks here have been used by some modern scholars as evidence that he considers the divine to be incapable of proof and therefore unsuitable material for history. So, for example, Donald Lateiner comments that Herodotus ‘prefers not to explain what seemed to him inexplicable’ but ‘under pressure...threw out a merely divine explanation’.13 The most striking feature of this passage, however, is that, despite his protestations of unwillingness to speculate concerning the divine (more plausibly put down to a fear of his incurring retribution as a result of his theological speculations, cf. 2.45.3) he does precisely that, and that the conclusion of divine intervention is reached as a result of a process of rational deduction from evidence.14 Herodotus concludes, moreover, not only that the distribution of the bodies was caused by the divine, but that it was caused by a named divinity, Demeter. Herodotus, it is often said, prefers ‘vague designations of the gods’ such as ‘the divine’ or ‘the god’.15 This is indeed (with the exception of the vengeance wrought on the Spartans for their murder of the Persian ambassadors, attributed to the hero Talthybius, 7.134.1) probably the only instance in which Herodotus unequivocally attributes an instance of divine retribution to a named divinity. The intervention of a named divinity is, however, frequently elsewhere implied. So, for example, Herodotus approves of the Potidaean explanation of a miraculous floodtide at Potidaea (8.29.3), that it was the result of its Persian victims having been the very men responsible for 104 Return to Table of Contents

Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution an act of sacrilege against Poseidon. Neither the Potidaeans nor Herodotus actually assert that Poseidon was responsible for the floodtide. However, can we really expect Herodotus to have made this point explicit? (Can we expect him likewise to have spelled out which god would have taken greatest offence at Cleomenes’ bribery of the Pythia?) Herodotus’ ‘preference’ for vague designations may then indicate not so much a belief that intervention by a named divinity is impossible to prove with certainty, or (in Alan Lloyd’s words) ‘the desire to avoid predicating anything of the divine as far as possible’, as simply the fact that in normal circumstances the evidence for such specific attributions is unavailable. The question of whether Herodotus believed in the possibility of intervention by specific divinities in the ‘here and now’ must, of course, be distinguished clearly from the broader question of his belief in individual divinities in general, or in different contexts, for example in ‘myth’. Herodotus may have been little different from Dover’s portrait of the average Greek who, while ‘he might exhibit a cheerful agnosticism if pressed to discuss the precise character and operation of any one such agent...would not so cheerfully omit the inherited system of festivals, rituals, sacrifices and observances, which in his view had for so long ensured the survival of his family and city.’ 16 What are the actions which provoke retribution? The first thing to say is that Herodotus’ belief in inevitable divine retribution is not something confined to the past, or to others. The moral of divine retribution is a moral of the Histories as a whole. As Deborah Boedeker has shown, it is no accident that the story of Artayctes’ sacrilege against Protesilaus and his subsequent punishment is positioned at the end of the final book.17 This positioning, with the last chapters echoing in various ways the opening of the Histories (by the pair of references, for example, to the Persian belief that all of Asia belonged to them, 1.4.4, 9.116.3), lends an extra weight to the moral of this story. As Artayctes awaits his punishment, the Athenians who are guarding him are frying dried fish (tavricoi). The fish spring to life, and begin to leap up and down on the fire. The guards are amazed; Artayctes alone understands the reason why: Athenian friend, do not fear this marvel. For it did not appear for you, but Protesilaus of Elaeus is giving a sign to me that, even though he is dead and dried (tavrico"), still he has the power from the gods to punish the man who does wrong.18 (9.120.2)

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Thomas Harrison The moral of Artayctes and Protesilaus is precisely that the past is never simply the past.19 Protesilaus points back to an earlier war between Greece and Asia, the Trojan war; at the same time the identity of the Athenian commander responsible for Artayctes’ barbaric20 punishment, his being nailed to a plank while his son is stoned before his eyes (9.120.4), points forward to another empire: Xanthippus, the son of Ariphron and the father of Pericles.21 It has happened before; it will happen again. Even Herodotus’ own activity in writing is itself potentially subject to divine retribution. In conclusion to his argument for the existence of two Heracles, one god and one man, for example, he asks for kindness from gods and heroes: a safety provision apparently in the event that he might be mistaken in his speculation (kai; peri; me;n touvtwn tosau'ta hJmi'n eijpou'si kai; para; tw'n qew'n kai; para; tw'n hJrwvwn eujmevneia ei[h).22 The same motivation provides the best explanation of Herodotus’ reticence in disclosing certain sacred stories associated with Egyptian cult.23 The range of actions which provoke retribution within the Histories is also broader than might at first appear to be the case.24 Certainly, a majority of the actions which provoke retribution (or which are believed to be liable to provoke retribution) are what we might call specifically ‘religious’ crimes: the ravaging or burning of temples, stealing money from, and having sex with women in, temples,25 the neglect of the instructions of an oracle, theological speculation, perjury, the murder of heralds, the request for permission to expel a suppliant, and even, of course (surely the most comically overdrawn act of sacrilege), that recommended to Sabacus, cutting priests in half.26 Alexander-Paris’ action in stealing Helen and money from Menelaus, described repeatedly by Egyptian characters as unholy or impious (2.114.2, 115.4–5), may seem at first sight a relatively ‘secular’ offence, but Alexander’s impiety most likely consists chiefly in its being a ‘breach of guest-friendship’.27 These unequivocally ‘religious’ crimes, however, form only the majority of the actions that attract divine retribution, not the sum.28 Panionius’ crime was to gain his living from the ‘most unholy deeds’ (e[rgwn ajnosiwtavtwn, 8.105.1), the castration and sale of children. Herodotus’ verdict on the Trojan war is that it provides an example of how ‘great injustices’ (megavlwn ajdikhmavtwn, 2.120.5) receive great vengeances. While it is still possible for a pious act also to be unjust (so, for example, stories of the manipulation of oaths to unjust ends),29 there is then at least a good deal of confusion or overlap between the ideas of the unholy and of the unjust.30 The category of actions likely to receive retribution is broader (potentially, 106 Return to Table of Contents

Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution at least) than just the narrow class of acts of sacrilege. As the gods punish injustice, so their retribution is envisaged as being just. The divine response to Alexander’s theft of Helen, the destruction of Troy, is (whatever we might think) envisaged apparently by Herodotus as a proportional response: ‘great injustices’ receive ‘great vengeances’. That is also the implication of Hermotimus’ appropriate vengeance on Panionius, judged by Herodotus to be the ‘greatest act of vengeance’ within his knowledge (tw'/ megivsth tivsi" h[dh ajdikhqevnti ejgevneto pavntwn tw'n hJmei'" i[dmen, 8.105.1), forcing the man who had castrated him to do the same to all four of his sons, before they in turn castrate him (8.106.4); as Hermotimus tells Panionius, the gods led Panionius, who had committed ‘unholy deeds’ (ajnovvsia), into his hands, ‘in accordance with a just law’ (novvmw/ dikaivw/ crewvmenoi, 8.106.3). That divine retribution is just, is the implication also of the vengeance wrought by Talthybius upon the Spartans (7.137.1–2): This appears to me to have been most divine. For that the anger of Talthybius fell upon the ambassadors and that it did not cease until it found its fulfilment, so much was just. But that it should have fallen on the sons of the same men who had gone up to the King on account of [Talthybius’] anger, that is on Nicolaus son of Boulis and on Aneristus son of Sperthias...makes it clear to me that the affair was divine.31

There seems to be a sliding scale in operation here: the more coincidental the retribution, the more just; justice as miraculously appropriate as this must be divine. Clearly the element of delay makes the eventual fulfilment of Talthybius’ wrath more miraculous. Herodotus’ belief in divine retribution appears then to constitute a complete moral system: unjust actions meet without fail with a just, proportional response. There are clear difficulties with this conclusion, however. In the real world, how could anyone believe this? A morality based entirely on the expectation of direct divine retribution would soon, surely, become impractically liberal. The belief in the certainty of divine retribution is sustained, however, by means of a number of ‘let-out clauses’.32 First, divine retribution can operate through human agency.33 So, Sabacus would have taken his punishment for cutting the priests in half ‘either from gods or men’ (2.139.2). So, similarly, Hermotimus (before taking his coolly calculated revenge) tells Panionius not to complain of the punishment he was about to receive, as the gods themselves had led him into his hands (8.106.3); the same idea of divine vengeance being worked out through human actions may be reflected also in Herodotus’ judgement 107 Return to Table of Contents

Thomas Harrison on this episode that ‘vengeance and Hermotimus’ caught up with Panionius (h{ te tivsi" kai; ÔErmovvtimo", 8.106.4). Divine retribution can also serve as a corrective to human vengeance. Oroites’ action in plotting the death of the Samian tyrant Polycrates was ‘unholy’ in so far as he had never suffered any harm from Polycrates (3.120.1). (The idea enshrined, for example, in Solon’s law that ‘anyone who wished’ could prosecute a crime rather than just the victim or his family, or the belief that killing a tyrant was a good in itself, have noticeably made no dent here.34 ) The crime of the Athenians against the Persian ambassadors is surely in part 34a that their aggression was unprovoked. Pheretime dies in quite such a grisly fashion because her acts of vengeance against others had been excessive (IV.205).35 The way in which the belief in divine vengeance depends on a pattern of human vengeance is reflected perhaps in the ethos of revenge as a religious duty disclosed in tragedy.36 There are, however, fixed to the pattern of human vengeance other than just the principle of proportionality. Lampon, in the course of what Herodotus describes as a ‘most unholy speech’ (ajnosiwvtaton... lovvgon, 9.78.1), proposes that Pausanias should put the finishing touches to the great glory he has won at Plataea by submitting the body of Mardonius to the same indignities as those to which Leonidas had been put by Xerxes and Mardonius (9.78).37 Pausanias, however, rebukes him (9.79): Such behaviour is more appropriate for barbarians than for Greeks; we find it a cause of blame, moreover, even in them. May I never find favour with the Aeginetans on this account nor with any who approve of such behaviour. But it is enough for me to please the Spartans by doing and speaking piously.38

The gods act then as a kind of outside regulatory body of human attempts at justice: when they scent an irregularity, either an excessively disproportionate response or one that violates certain fixed rules, they muck in and compensate. This is, of course, to reduce a complex web of religious beliefs to a simple formula. As some corrective to this process of reduction, a more complicated pattern combining human and divine retribution can be seen in the story of Euenius (9.93–4). The Apollonians blind Euenius in punishment for his falling asleep while watching their sacred flocks, so allowing wolves to eat about sixty of them. A blight then strikes their land and cattle. The oracles of Delphi and Dodona tell them that the reason for this is that they have punished Euenius for something for which not he but the gods were responsible, for it was they, the gods, 108 Return to Table of Contents

Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution who had set the wolves upon the sheep; divine retribution will continue, the Apollonians are told, until they have paid Euenius compensation; the gods will in addition give Euenius and his descendants a gift themselves, one which would make many men call him blessed – as it transpired, the gift of prophecy. Euenius himself chooses what form the compensation from the Apollonians should take, but without knowing of the oracles they have been given and in answer to a hypothetical question of what compensation he would choose. The well-worn term ‘dual determination’ is clearly inadequate to describe the complex interrelation of human and divine causation in an episode such as this. Moreover, the story of Euenius confounds any attempt to distil a consistent theology from Herodotus’ Histories in another way: it is one of two examples in the Histories in which the intervention of the divine serves apparently to absolve men of responsibility for their actions; thus it is in plain contradiction to the famous statement of the Pythia that Croesus was responsible for his own end (despite the further contradiction that Croesus’ end was also fated, 1.91.1) through his misinterpretation of the mule prophecy (1.91.4). Such contradictions are ultimately irreducible.39 Another let-out clause for belief in retribution is that retribution, though often it follows immediately upon a crime (e.g. 3.126.1), can also be delayed – even for a number of generations. As Robert Parker has written, the idea of inherited guilt ‘protects the belief in divine justice from crude empirical refutation’ .40 So, as we have seen, Talthybius’ vengeance was wrought upon the sons of the heralds who had volunteered to die in expiation of the hero’s wrath (7.137). Croesus famously paid the price for his ancestor Gyges (1.91.1). There is no statute of limitations for divine retribution: something unfortunate is bound to happen sooner or later. For the sins of the fathers to be visited on the sons may today be seen (and was indeed seen by some in antiquity 41) as fundamentally unjust. One might equally, however, see attractions in the idea of delayed retribution: it is better perhaps for one’s own misfortune to be put down to the actions of a silent ancestor than one’s own misbehaviour.42 The final let-out clause for belief in the certainty of divine retribution is provided by the existence of an alternative explanation of human suffering. As we have seen for example in the story of Cleomenes, certain misfortunes are interpreted as evidence of retribution quite as if it were the only possible explanation. Clearly, however, this is not so; elsewhere Herodotus explains similar events without recourse to the idea of divine retribution. The earthquake at Delos, for 109 Return to Table of Contents

Thomas Harrison example, which occurred just after the departure of the Persian commander Datis from the island, is seen purely as an omen of further misfortunes to come (6.98). Other misfortunes are seen only as illustrations of the mixed and unpredictable nature of human fortune: so, for example, the story of Ameinocles the Magnesian, who first reaped a vast fortune from the wrecks of Persian ships, and then proved less fortunate (ajll∆ ovJ me;n ta\lla oujk eujtucevwn, 7.190) in the death of his son at his own hands. Herodotus does not make the connection of such misfortunes with the divine explicit on every occasion, but that he believes there to be such a connection is strongly suggested by the words of Solon to Croesus (1.32.1): O Croesus, you ask me, who understands that the divine is altogether malevolent and liable to confound us, you ask me about human matters.43

The question, in short, of how to account for instances of patently unfair suffering already has an answer: the divine is not always moral; men do not always get their just deserts. The criteria by which any one explanation, the amoral Solonian explanation or the ‘moral’ explanation of retribution, is given to any misfortune are clearly something of which Herodotus is not entirely conscious. It should be said, moreover, that both of these main explanations can operate simultaneously: the phrase used of Pheretime that she ‘did not end her life well’ (4.205), or of Leotychidas that ‘he did not grow old in Sparta’ (6.72.1), are both markedly redolent of the language of Solon in Book I; yet both their deaths are also instances of retribution. In certain cases where one explanation is clearly predominant, we may, however, make some assessment as to why that should be. The traditions surrounding Cleomenes in the Histories dwell on his acts of sacrilege: his death then is surely part of the package. An omen like that of the Delos earthquake (6.98) might perhaps have been seen as an instance of retribution, had there been any clear victim. The Potidaea floodtide (8.129.3), a comparable natural disaster, does have victims, Persian victims even, and is indeed seen as retribution. We might surely wonder, however, whether the Potidaeans would have been so quick to ascribe the floodtide to Poseidon, had they themselves been the chief (or only) casualties.44 Two disasters befall the Chians, both with very clear victims (6.27), the collapse of a school building killing all but one of one hundred and twenty children, and the death by plague of all but two of one hundred young men sent to Delphi, yet there is no suggestion that these disasters should be construed as instances of retribution: they are seen – surely in part because of the

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Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution unblemished lives of their victims (what could such young men have done to deserve this?) – simply as omens. That Herodotus could have believed in the possibility (and, in some circumstances, in the certainty) of divine retribution is itself eminently believable then. Indeed, as Kenneth Dover has written, with a delightful air of menace, even today ‘action in the absolute certainty of “escaping the notice of gods and men”...is not just an experience which rarely comes our way, but a purely hypothetical experience which we cannot have.’ 45 What now does this picture tell us about Herodotus’ historical enterprise and about Greek society more generally? First, while there are significant elements of conscious ‘theologizing’ in the Histories (seen, for example, in the message implied by the story of Artayctes and Protesilaus that men should be mindful of the gods, seen also in Herodotus’ theological speculations in Book II), it would be wrong to see any simple, over-arching theological design to his work.46 Herodotus’ belief in the divine cause of the instability of human fortune is certainly fundamental to his idea of ‘history’. As he says at the close of his introduction to the Histories, he must ‘survey both the small and the great cities of men’ (1.5.3–4): 47 For of those which were great in the past, the majority have become small, and those which in my time were great were previously small. Understanding then that human prosperity never remains in the same place (th;n ajnqrwphivhn w\n ejpistavmeno" eujdaimonivhn oujdama; ejn twjutw'/ mevnousan), I shall recall both alike.48

Such fatalism, however, is not so much a consciously refined and stated historical lesson, still less some sort of historiographical tool, but rather an engrained habit of understanding the world, an attitude of mind that both shapes and is shaped by the events that Herodotus records; the mixed fortune of Ameinocles the Magnesian, for example, is not the result of a conscious pattern-making, but of a reflex attraction (on the part both, I suspect, of Herodotus and of his source(s) ) to stories that illustrate the mutability of fortune. So in the area of divine retribution also Herodotus’ beliefs are not exclusively conscious. In the story of Sabacus, for example, he appears to take for granted that an act of sacrilege would incur some punishment. The selection of one of a number of divine explanations of a misfortune takes place, as we have seen, almost subliminally. It is very doubtful then whether we can describe Herodotus’ beliefs in divine retribution as a ‘cosmic system of justice’,49 still less assert (with Peter Derow) that he ‘subscribed to what might be called the conflict, or 111 Return to Table of Contents

Thomas Harrison retributive, theory of world order of Anaximander’.50 Certainly there are affinities between Herodotus’ belief in divine retribution and the extant fragment of Anaximander, affinities revealed most clearly by Herodotus’ judgement on the ‘divine foresight’ that ensures a balance of power between different animal species (3.108.2).51 But Herodotus’ religious thought is simply too untidy, too responsive, too live, too far from being a simple creed or set of dogmas (and our knowledge of Anaximander is surely too scanty), for us to be able to describe his beliefs as ‘theories’, or to imagine that they were susceptible to anything more than the most intangible, indirect form of ‘intellectual influence’. To talk of the ‘untidiness’ of Herodotus’ thought is not, I should perhaps add, intended in any way to undermine his achievement; untidiness, inconsistency, contradiction are the glue by which Herodotus’ religious beliefs (and even, we might suspect, more dogmatic creeds) hold together. The second main question that I would like to raise is that of the ‘moral dimension’ of Herodotus’ beliefs in retribution. Herodotus’ emphasis on the certainty of divine retribution has frequently been described as ‘moralising’.52 Herodotus’ stories of divine retribution certainly imply the moral that certain actions have certain consequences, a descriptive moral; they are not so clearly, however, moral in the sense of being prescriptive. The difference can be neatly summed up by looking at the words of the dream which appeared to Hipparchus on the eve of his death (5.56): Endure, lion, suffering the unendurable with an enduring heart. No man who acts unjustly avoids vengeance. Now, when day dawned, Hipparchus openly entrusted these things to the dream-interpreters. But then he renounced the dream and went on to conduct the procession – in which he died.

Is the phrase that ‘no man who acts unjustly avoids vengeance’ a threat, a commandment, or is it simply a statement of fact? This distinction might seem over-pedantic; after all, even if such statements were indeed only descriptive, a belief in the inevitability of retribution for certain actions might still in practice have operated as a deterrent. However, that men cannot act to avert their fate (as Hipparchus cannot) is not an incidental truth but a conscious and repeated message of the Histories. This can be seen, for example, through the misinterpretation of oracles or dreams (or in this case the denial), so common as to itself constitute a pattern integral to belief in divination. The oracle, for example, which validated Gyges’ rule in Lydia also stated that vengeance would be visited on his descendant in the fifth 112 Return to Table of Contents

Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution generation, but ‘of this phrase, the Lydians and their kings took no care – until it was fulfilled’ (1.13.2). This pattern of human misinterpretation clearly implies (in practice again) the moral that one should take proper care of prophecies (it also perhaps allows for the supply post eventum of appropriate prophecies). Such misinterpretations also, however, serve to illustrate the inevitability of the action. Just as in film car-chases when a signpost shows the hazard (a low bridge, a dead-end street) that the hero is rushing blindly towards, so the oracle or prophecy shows both the route on which the character is set and, by implication, the turning which he might (if what?) have taken to avoid it. Sabacus and Themistocles are rare examples of men who interpret oracles or dreams correctly, who appear to sidestep fate – though, of course, it is theoretically possible that even their correct interpretations were themselves fated; Sabacus, after all, only saw through his deceptive dream, and so knew to return to Ethiopia, because he remembered an oracle which told that he was destined to rule Egypt for fifty (and, by implication, no more than fifty) years (wJ" devoi aujto;n Aijguvptou basileu'sai e[tea penthvkonta, 2.139.3). Human moralising has no more effect on behaviour than oracles. The overt moral of the story of Glaucus is that perjury has such serious consequences (the utter extinction of one’s family) that it is not worth even contemplating (6.86). The story of Glaucus is put, however, into the mouth of the Spartan king Leotychidas in the context of an attempt to persuade the Athenians to return some hostages. This context undermines the moral of the Glaucus story in two ways. First, the reader already knows of the end to which Leotychidas would eventually come, caught on campaign red-handed with a glove full of silver, exiled, and his house (echoing the fate of Glaucus?) razed to the ground (6.72). Leotychidas’ sermon is then undermined again by the Athenians’ response, reported by Herodotus in one rather abrupt sentence: ‘Leotychidas, when he had said these things, and when the Athenians did not listen even then, departed’ (Leutucivdh" me;n ei[pa" tau'ta, w{" oiJ oujde; ou{{tw" ejshvkouon oiJ ∆Aqhnai'oi, ajpallavsseto, 6.87). The moral of the story may then be precisely that moralising (in the prescriptive sense) is useless. Why anyway, we might ask, given the certainty of divine retribution, would anyone in his right mind choose to draw it upon himself? The answer is that, in varying degrees, they are not in their right minds. Alexander reckoned that he would not be punished (ejpistavmenon pavntw" ov{ti ouj dwvsei divka", 1.3.1). Cambyses must, in Herodotus’ view, have been mad to mock the sacred rites and customs of the Egyptians (3.38.1). And at some point the same 113 Return to Table of Contents

Thomas Harrison conclusion seems to have been drawn concerning Cleomenes. It would be wrong, of course, to conclude from the evidence of Herodotus’ fatalism that he saw no room for human choice, for free will. For in this as in other areas Herodotus has no clearly worked out religious manifesto. The question of whether x or y character could have averted his fate is ultimately an unanswerable one; in the two most complex such cases in the Histories, those of Croesus and of Xerxes and Artabanus, Herodotus certainly gives us no clear answer. (Would all men’s lives, we may also wonder, would Herodotus’ own life, have been as overburdened by destiny as that of Croesus?) Though many of the choices faced by Herodotus’ characters, for example the choice given to Gyges of whether to kill Candaules and marry his wife or to be killed himself, are scarcely choices at all, Herodotus does consistently employ (as how could he not?) the language of human choice, of greed, fear, decision-making. But just as Herodotus cannot be described as a complete, exclusive, determinist, neither can we maintain that his beliefs in fate do not significantly affect his Histories. What of Greek society at large? Herodotus clearly cannot be assumed to be characteristic either of Greek society as a whole or of any section of it. What he does give us, however, is an impression of the kind of beliefs or assumptions which could be held, and – significantly – which could be held in combination with one another. Herodotus allows us a more complex insight into his religious beliefs than any other Greek writer. Moreover, while I would not want to underestimate the difficulties of reading Herodotus (the difficulties, for example, of measuring his approval or disapproval of a story, of detecting the different tones and registers in which he writes in different contexts) such difficulties are surely on a different scale from those we encounter in understanding the role of religious belief in, for example, Greek tragedy.53 What do Herodotus’ beliefs in retribution tell us about his society? Again, at risk of repeating the obvious, they tell us that such beliefs could be held, and held by an intelligent, cosmopolitan Greek in the second half of the fifth century. It has been recently argued by Richard Seaford that the finale of Aeschylus’ Eumenides reflects a process in Athens of the subordination of reciprocal violence to judicial process:54 In the old order the Furies express the unconditional demand of the victim...for blood in return for blood... As spirits of that private violent revenge that can destroy the community, the Furies must in the polis be publicly appeased, and indeed thereby transformed into guardians of the

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Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution unanimity of a community that has subordinated revenge to the judicial process. It is paradoxical, but for the polis essential, that the ancient agents of private violent revenge become, through public cult, a means of excluding it.

The evidence of Herodotus cannot contradict this idealized Aeschylean picture, but it does qualify it. The stories of retribution in the Histories are the stories of individuals; only rarely, for example in the story of Euenius and the Apollonians, does a community intrude, and as their case shows the justice of a community is no more likely to be authoritative than that of an individual. Most importantly, in Greek society as in the pages of Herodotus, human justice is not an alternative to divine justice, but works alongside it.55 Notes 1 Ouj me;n oujde; hJ Feretivmh eu\ th;n zovhn katevplexe. wJ" ga;r dh; tavcista ejk th'" Libuvh" teisamevnh tou;" Barkaivou" ajpenovsthse ej" th;n Ai[gupton, ajpevqane kakw'": zw'sa ga;r eujlevwn ejxevzese, wJ" a[ra ajnqrwvpoisi aiJ livhn ijscurai; timwrivai pro;" qew'n ejpivfqonoi givnontai. hJ me;n dh; Feretivmh" th'" Bavttou toiauvth te kai; tosauvth timwrivh ejgevneto ej" Barkaivou". For similar deaths by worms, see W. Dawson (with notes by D. Harvey), ‘Herodotus as a medical writer’, BICS 33 (1986) 95 n. 43, T. Africa, ‘Worms and the death of kings: a cautionary note on disease and history’, CSCA 13 (1982) 1–17. 2 A number of modern scholars, however, most notably B. Shimron, Politics and Belief in Herodotus, Stuttgart 1989, and K. Waters, Herodotus on Tyrants and Despots, Wiesbaden 1971, have sought to minimize the degree of Herodotus’ religious beliefs, concentrating on instances of religious scepticism at the expense of passages implying belief, rather than seeing them in relation to one another. I intend to discuss such arguments fully in a forthcoming monograph, Divinity and History: the Religion of Herodotus (provisional title). 3 o{ ti de; toi'si ∆Aqhnaivoisi tau'ta poihvsasi tou;" khvruka" sunhvneike ajneqevlhton genevsqai, oujk e[cw ei\pai, plh;n o{ti sfevwn hJ cwvrh kai; hJ povli" ejdhiwvqh, ajlla; tou'to ouj dia; tauvthn th;n aijtivhn dokevw genevsqai. 4 Cf. R. Parker, Miasma, Oxford 1983, 188; L.M. Wéry, ‘Le meurtre des hérauts de Darius en 491 et l’inviolabilité du héraut’, AC 35 (1966) 482. B. Shimron, however, op. cit. (n. 2) 69, sees ‘bitter humour’ on Herodotus’ part here. 5 This suggestion of S. West, ‘And it came to pass that Pharaoh dreamed: notes on Herodotus 2.139, 141’, CQ 37 (1987) 264, seems to me exaggerated: the parallels with, for example, the deceptive dreams, that appear to Artabanus and Xerxes, 7.12–18, or with the story of Aristodicus, suggest that Sabacus’ dream has become to a significant extent hellenized. West, op. cit. 264–5, does not believe that the dreams of Xerxes and Artabanus are intended to deceive. 6 The story of Aristodicus also, incidentally, provides a neat example of the

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Thomas Harrison way in which prophecies that in retrospect proved unwise could be explained without undermining belief in prophecy in general: see R. Parker, ‘Greek states and Greek oracles’ in P. Cartledge and D. Harvey (eds.) CRUX. Essays presented to G.E.M. de Ste Croix, Exeter 1985, 299. 7 The implications of the word ‘secular’ are not, to my mind, appropriate to Greek society. See here W.R. Connor, ‘ “Sacred” and “Secular”. ÔIera; kai; o{sia and the Classical Athenian concept of the state’, AncSoc 19 (1988) 81; K.J. Dover, Greek Popular Morality in the Time of Plato and Aristotle, Oxford 1974, 252. For an argument, however, that Thucydides ‘had the vocabulary for distinguishing the religious from the non-religious sphere’ (an argument, in my view, going beyond the evidence) see S. Hornblower, ‘The religious dimension to the Peloponnesian war’, HSCP 94 (1992) 173. 8 Contrast, however, the puzzling interpretations of this passage of Jacqueline de Romilly, The Rise and Fall of States according to Greek Authors, Ann Arbor 1977, 45–6, who, while accepting that Herodotus accepts ‘this trend of thought’ insinuates that ‘he is careful to mention...another and more realistic explanation’, or of D. Lateiner, The Historical Method of Herodotus, Toronto 1989, 203–4, that Herodotus ‘positions himself somewhere in between, endorsing the concept that Cleomenes “got what he deserved”...but not endorsing the hypothesis of divine interference’. (De Romilly pursues a similarly Delphic approach to this passage in her earlier article, ‘La vengeance comme explication historique dans Hérodote’, REG 4 (1971) 316: ‘ce flottement et cette incertitude révèlent plus de piété que de théologie, et plus de curiosité que de foi résolue’. Why must Herodotus’ beliefs be inflexible and dogmatic?) For the traditions concerning Cleomenes, see the excellent article of Griffiths, ‘Was Cleomenes mad?’ in A. Powell (ed.) Classical Sparta. Techniques behind her Success, London 1989, 51–78. For the suggestion that ‘perhaps this was not a case of madness, but of delirium tremens’, see W. Dawson, op. cit. (n. 1) 94. 9 See Parker, op. cit. (n. 4) 267 (‘Disaster was constantly traced back to those maleficent but invisible powers, bribery and treachery’). 10 This passage also has important implications for belief in oracles: it suggests not only that the non-fulfilment of an oracle might be explained by the contravention of its terms, but that fulfilment might actually be spoiled through quite irrelevant actions. 11 Boedeker has suggested, ‘Protesilaos and the end of Herodotos’ Histories’, CSCA 7 (1988) 46, that Demeter is particularly associated with vengeance by Herodotus. The evidence is limited, resting mainly (though cf. 6.91, 134–6) on the coincidence that the allegedly simultaneous battles of Plataea and Mycale both took place by shrines of Demeter, 9.101.1. The victory at Plataea is also, however, apparently due to the support of Hera, 9.61.3–62. 12 dokevw dev, ei[ ti peri; tw'n qeivwn prhgmavtwn dokevein dei', hJ qeo;" aujthv sfea" oujk ejdevketo ejmprhvsanta" ªto; iJro;nº to; ejn ∆Eleusi'ni ajnavktoron. 13 op. cit. (n. 8) 67. See also Dover, op. cit. (n. 7) 131. Contrast, however, the splendid remarks of Camille Sourdille, ‘Sur une nouvelle explication de la discrétion d’Hérodote en matière de religion’, REG 38 (1925) 301 n. 1. This passage has to be seen in the light of Herodotus’ statements of reluctance to

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Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution discuss the divine at 2.3.2 and 2.65.2, for which see below, n. 23. 14 For similar instances of the rational deduction of divine intervention, see esp. 8.129.3 (discussed below) and 1.174.3–4, where the unreasonable number of injuries incurred in the digging of the Cnidus canal convinces the Cnidians of a divine cause behind these injuries. 15 See esp. A.B. Lloyd, Herodotus Book II. Commentary, Leiden 1975–88, vol. II, 18–19, ‘Herodotus on Egyptians and Libyans’ in W. Burkert et al., Hérodote et les peuples non-grecs, Fondation Hardt Entretiens 35 (Geneva), 249, I.M. Linforth, ‘Greek gods and foreign gods in Herodotus’, UCPClPh 7/9 (1924) 287, ‘Named and unnamed gods in Herodotus’, UCPClPh 9/7 (1928) 238, Boedeker, op. cit. (n. 11) 46. The use of ‘vague designations’ for the divine, however, and the tendency suddenly to swing from these to referring to individuated deities, are by no means unique to Herodotus: see W.H. Jones, ‘A note on the vague use of qeov"’, CR 27 (1913) 252–5, and at greater length G. Francois, Le polythéisme et l’emploi au singulier des mots QEOS , DAIMWN, Liège 1957. Abstract terms such as ‘the divine’ are clearly more palatable to some modern scholars, as W.G. Forrest makes explicit, ‘Motivation in Herodotos: the case of the Ionian Revolt’, IHR 1 (1979) 312: ‘for me Herodotus’ to theion...is not much more objectionable than a Christian god or inevitability’. Contrast the interesting approach to this question of W. Pötscher, ‘Götter und Gottheit bei Herodot’, WS 71 (1958) 8, for whom, e.g., Herodotus uses qei'on and qeov" on different levels, and who sees (p. 29) to; qei'on as a Herodotean innovation for making history comprehensible in terms of the divine. 16 Dover, Aristophanic Comedy, Berkeley 1972, 31–2. Cf. H. Lloyd-Jones, The Justice of Zeus, Berkeley 1971, 64, for whom Herodotus’ use of abstract terms does not prove him to be a ‘disbeliever in the personal gods of legend’. 17 Boedeker, op. cit. (n. 11). See also esp. H. Immerwahr, ‘Historical action in Herodotus’, TAPhA 85 (1954) 26, Form and Thought in Herodotus, Cleveland 1966, 43, N.R.E. Fisher, Hybris, Warminster 1992, 351–2, J. Mossman, Wild Justice. A Study of Euripides’ Hecuba, Oxford 1995, 175–6. 18 Xei'ne ∆Aqhnai'e, mhde;n fobevo to; tevra" tou'to: ouj ga;r soi; pevfhne, ajll∆ ejmoi; shmaivnei oJ ejn ∆Elaiou'nti Prwtesivlew" o{ti kai; teqnew;" kai; tavrico" ejw;n duvnamin pro;" qew'n e[cei to;n ajdikevonta tivnesqai. 19 In the words of Edith Hall, in her Inventing the Barbarian, Oxford 1989, 37, ‘the mythical time of the “then and there”, the world of heroes, exists parallel to and constantly illuminates the discourse of the “here and now”.’ At the same time, Herodotus also envisages a continuity between ‘mythical’ and ‘historical’ time, e.g. at 2.144.2, 7.20.2 (though see on this passage and generally the eccentric comments of Shimron, ‘prw'to" tw'n hJmei'" i[dmen’, Eranos 71 (1973) 46–7), 9.73.1. For Herodotus’ long historical perspective, see esp. W.M. von Leyden, ‘Spatium historicum’, Durham University Journal 11 (1949– 50) 89–104. 20 Hanging up a human body, either alive or dead (or displaying a human head), appears to be characteristic of barbarians, especially Persians: see 2.121.2, 3.125.4, 4.103.2, 6.30.1, 7.194.1–2, 7.238.1, 9.78.3; the fact that Artayctes was alive when nailed to his plank does not appear to detract from

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Thomas Harrison the barbaric nature of the punishment, 7.33. The killing of one’s enemy’s children is, however, a common Greek trait (see Mossman, op. cit. (n. 17) 188–90), as is stoning (1.167.1, 5.38.1, 9.5.2–3). For the association of barbarians with excessive punishment and the mistreatment of corpses, see Hall, op. cit. (n. 19) 25–7, 103–5, 158–9; for the mutilation of corpses as impious, see also e.g. 3.16.2, H. Il. 22.395–400, Od. 11.71 ff., 22.412, Soph. Ant. 72–4, Aj. 1129 ff., E. Phoen. 1663, Suppl. 18–19, El. 893 ff. Mossman, op. cit. (n. 17) 175–6, argues for Herodotus’ approval of Artayctes’ punishment on the basis of the shape of the narrative. Certainly the moral of the miracle of the fish is that crimes such as his will not go unpunished; however, the fact that his punishment was in some sense divinely sanctioned need not imply that the means of it were similarly sanctioned, or that a certain stigma could not attach to the human agents of this retribution: in this way, the cycle of retribution for excessive acts of vengeance continues. 21 See here C.W. Fornara, Herodotus. An Interpretative Essay, Oxford 1971, ch. 3; for an argument against the suggestion that the story of Artayctes was a ‘tribute’ to the father of Pericles, pp. 55–6. 22 Contrast here E. Vandiver, Heroes in Herodotus, Frankfurt 1991, 139: Herodotus ‘appears to indicate that he recognises a certain heterodoxy in his own reason which could perhaps be offensive to traditional religious sensibilities’, i.e. not his own sensibilities. 23 The reticence, expressed at 2.3.2 and 2.65.2, has been the subject of a great deal of discussion: the most substantial contributions are those of Linforth, ‘Herodotus’ avowal of silence’, UCPClPh 7/9 (1924) 269–92, C. Sourdille, op. cit. (n. 13), A.B. Lloyd, Commentary Book II, Leiden 1975–88, vol. II, 17–19, and J. Gould, ‘Herodotus and religion’ in S. Hornblower (ed.) Greek Historiography, Oxford 1994, 91–106, though see also esp. F. Mora ‘I “Silenzi Erodotei” ’, SSR 5/2 (1981) 209–22, Lateiner, op. cit. (n. 8) 65, and C. Darbo-Peschanski, Le Discours du Particulier, Paris 1987, 35–8. My own view is that there is no reason to doubt the truth of Herodotus’ piety (contrast Lateiner’s verdict that impiety provided ‘an elegant excuse for avoiding an excursus into the irrelevant’). Though in a broader sense something of the same pious fear of outraging the gods can be seen at 9.65.2, the ‘policy of exclusion of the divine’ announced at 2.3.2 and 2.65.2 is strictly limited in scope. Only in his account of Egypt does Herodotus announce that he is omitting to tell sacred stories: 2.46.2, 47.2, 48.3, 2.51.4, 61.1, 62.2, 81.2, 86.2, 132.2, 170.1, 171.2–3. 24 For the similar pattern of the crimes which attract punishment in tragedy, see J.D. Mikalson, Honor Thy Gods. Popular Religion in Greek Tragedy, Chapel Hill 1991, ch. 4. 25 For the taboo against stealing money, see esp. Parker, op. cit. (n. 4) 171 (‘disrespect for sacred money was a mark of extreme social decay, the behaviour of a tyrant or a barbarian’); cf. 1.187 (Nitocris’ tomb), Solon fr. 4.12–13 West, Xen. Hieron 4.11, D.S. 14.63.1, 67.4, 70.4, 76.3–4. For the taboos concerning sex, see Parker, op. cit. (n. 4) 74 ff. (‘sexual activity is in some sense incompatible with the sacred’, p. 74); cf. 1.198 (shameful Babylonian custom of temple prostitution), 2.64 (barbarian justification for temple sex:

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Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution animals do it), 2.111.4–5 (a chaste woman’s urine cures Pherus of blindness). For the Persian defeat as divine retribution for Persian sacrilege, see 8.33, 53.2, 109.3, 143.2. 26 See S. West, op. cit. (n. 5) 265–6, for the evidence that Sabacus’ ‘sacrilege’ represents, in fact, a distorted version of a widespread near-Eastern purification ritual. 27 See here G. Herman, Ritualised Friendship and the Greek City, Cambridge 1987, 125–6. 28 Contrast de Romilly, REG 4 (1971) 316, 332. 29 See, e.g., 4.154.2–3, 201.1–3, 6.62. There is scarcely any conception that oaths should not be used for unjust ends: when Themison is induced by his friend Etearchus to swear an oath to do whatever the other chooses, and is then told to kill Etearchus’ daughter, he finds a cunning way of fulfilling his oath without killing the girl, 4.154.2–3: he cannot simply say that, as the killing of Phronime was unjust, the oath was invalidated. For such rash promises, see D. Braund, ‘Herodotus and the problematics of reciprocity’ in the forthcoming proceedings of the Exeter conference on ‘reciprocity’. Cf. Aesch. Eum. 432: Athena tells the Eumenides not to win an unjust victory through oaths, but there is nothing to stop them doing so, should they choose to. Cf. also the complaint at E. Ion 1312 ff. that criminals do not deserve sanctuary. 30 See here Lloyd, ‘Herodotus on Cambyses. Some thoughts on recent work’, in A. Kuhrt and H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg (eds.) Achaemenid History III, Leiden 1988, 58, envisaging in my view too simple an equation of piety and justice, and Mikalson, op. cit. (n. 24) 178–9: his verdict that every impious act is unjust, but that not every unjust act is impious, is again rather too tidy: the impious is not merely a subset of a larger category of the unjust, nor are they equivalent categories, but there is substantial overlap. Piety and justice seem to be equated or to overlap also at, e.g., 3.16.2–3 (Cambyses’ burning of Amasis’ body both unjust and unholy), IV.146.1 (for the Minyae to claim a share of the Spartan kingship ‘unholy’, oujk o{sia). Cf. Theogn. 145–6, Aesch. Suppl. 395–6, Soph. Ant. 743–5, Cleoboulus DK 10.3 (ajdikivan misei'n, eujsevbeian fulavssein). There is an expectation that gods should behave justly: so, if an unjust man is unfortunate, this is seen as evidence of the existence, the justice of the gods, or that the gods deserve reverence: H. Od. 24.351–2, Aesch. Ag. 1577 ff., E. Suppl. 731–3, Hipp. 1169, Tro. 82–6, Andr. 439; see also Dover, op. cit. (n. 7) 20–1 on Men. Dysk. 639–47. Cf. also Soph. Ant. 288 (gods don’t honour kakous), E. Hec. 798 ff. (gods support justice), and (obscurely) Heraclitus DK 22 B 102 (gods have only good and unjust; men have taken just and unjust). Conversely, if unjust men go unpunished, the gods are said not to exist, not to be just, or not to deserve reverence: Ar. Nub. 398 ff., Soph. El. 245–50, OT 883 ff., E. El. 583–4. For complaints against injustice of gods, however, cf. Theogn. 149–50, 373–82, 743 ff., Soph. Phil. 446 ff.; that villains prosper is the joke of Aristophanes’ Ploutos (e.g. 32 ff.); the Eumenides complain unfairly, Aesch. Eum. 153–4, 162–3, of the injustice of the younger gods. 31 tou'tov moi ejn toi'si qeiovtaton faivnetai genevsqai. o{ti me;n ga;r katevskhye ej"

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Thomas Harrison ajggevlou" hJ Talqubivou mh'ni" oujde; ejpauvsato pri;n h] ejxh'lqe, to; divkaion ou{tw e[fere: to; de; sumpesei'n ej" tou;" pai'da" tw'n ajndrw'n touvtwn tw'n ajnabavntwn pro;" basileva dia; th;n mh'nin, ej" Nikovlan te to;n Bouvlio" kai; ej" ∆Anhvriston to;n Sperqivew… dh'lon w\n moi o{ti qei'on ejgevneto to; prh'gma ªejk th'" mhvnio"º. 32 The idea of the ‘let-out clause’ for religious belief is one I owe in the first instance to Robert Parker, op. cit. (n. 6) e.g. 302. It is an idea also expressed by Evans-Pritchard in his classic Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande, abridged edn, Oxford 1976, e.g. 132, 156 ff., 172. 33 De Romilly, REG 4 (1971) 317, 332–3, seems to see this as a sign of untidy thought. Boedeker, op. cit. (n. 11) 46–7, comments similarly that ‘the capture and execution of Artayktes…is credited to Protesilaos’ power by the victim himself, yet is ostensibly carried out by the Athenians at the insistence of the Elaiousians, with the agreement of Xanthippos.’ Why should this be surprising? For human vengeance in the Histories, see also R. Sealey, ‘Thucydides, Herodotus and the causes of war’, CQ 7 (1957) 1–12, J. Gould, Give and Take in Herodotus. The fifteenth J.L. Myres Memorial Lecture, Oxford 1991, Fisher, op. cit. (n. 17) 343 ff., Mossman, op. cit. (n. 17) 174–6, Darbo-Peschanski, op. cit. (n. 23) 43 ff. 34 Cf. Theogn. 1181–2 (no nemesis for man who kills demos-eating tyrant). 34a It is also a breach of a universal law of mankind (7.136.2). 35 Other excessive acts of vengeance include that of Astyages against Harpagus, 1.118–9 (for which see Mossman, op. cit. (n. 17) 174, C. DarboPeschanski, op. cit. (n. 23) 59), and the Corcyraeans’ killing of Periander’s son Lycophron, 3.53.7, described by Herodotus as a prh'gma ajtavsqalon, 3.49.2. Periander’s response to the killing of Lycophron was to send the sons of the first citizens of Corcyra to Sardis for castration, 3.49.2: if Herodotus thinks this mild in comparison with the Corcyraeans’ killing of Lycophron, it is presumably on the grounds that they had not been provoked. Mossman is going a little too far when she claims, p. 177, that Periander’s was a ‘likeable character’. She makes the interesting suggestion, however (p. 175), that Pheretime by her excessive vengeance had ‘usurped divine authority’ in that ‘lack of discrimination in punishment is usually a characteristic of divine vengeance’. 36 See, e.g., E. El. 976 (dussebh;" not to take vengeance); Soph. OT 106–7 (god tells Thebans to avenge Laius); Aesch. Choeph. 122–3 (chorus reassures Electra that vengeance eujsebh' ). 37 Xerxes, Herodotus adds, must have hated Leonidas more than any man alive in order to have defiled his corpse, for the Persians were in general accustomed to give great honour to those brave in war, 7.238.1; cf. the argument that Cambyses must have been mad to mock the sacred customs of the Egyptians, 3.38.1. 38 ta; prev p ei ma' l lon barbav r oisi poiev e in h[ per ”Ellhsi: kaj k eiv n oisi de; ejpifqonevomen. ejgw; d∆ w\n touvtou ei{neka mhvte Aijginhvth/si a{doimi mhvte toi'si tau'ta ajrevsketai, ajpocra'/ dev moi Spartihvth/si ajreskovmenon o{sia me;n poievein, o{sia de; kai; levgein. 39 As was well demonstrated by H.S. Versnel in a paper ‘Multiple Options’ delivered at the 1996 Bristol Colloquium on Myth. On the story of Euenius,

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Herodotus and the certainty of divine retribution see also Alan Griffiths’ study ‘Euenios, the negligent nightwatchman’, also delivered in Bristol, and to be published in R. Buxton (ed.) Myth and Reason in Ancient Greece (provisional title, Oxford, forthcoming. The other case of the intervention of the divine serving to absolve men of responsibility is that of Timo, who Delphi advised should not be killed for advising Miltiades to enter the sanctuary of Demeter on Paros, as she was not responsible (aijtivhn, 6.135). In this case, Timo may have given the bad advice, however, but it was Miltiades who acted on the advice. Timo’s position is perhaps analogous to the Pythia in the story of Croesus: Miltiades ought to have checked her advice, or simply not have listened to any advice to commit sacrilege (cf. Aristodicus, 1.158–9); Timo was no more than a conduit. Euenius’ responsibility may just possibly have been similarly mitigated by his crime having been one of omission rather than commission. 40 Parker, op. cit. (n. 4) 202. Cf. Theogn. 203 ff. (delay deceives men), H. Il. 158 ff., Hes. Erga 217–8, E. Or. 419. Darbo-Peschanski argues, op. cit (n. 23) 59, that two differences between divine and human vengeance are the extension of culpability to the descendants of the offender and delay. The killing (or ‘destruction’ through castration: 8.106.4) of the children of one’s enemy is, however, a common form of human vengeance: 3.15.1, 3.35.1–4, 9.120.4. The vengeance of Hermotimus against Panionius, 8.105–6, is also delayed, moreover (although the greatness, in Herodotus’ eyes, of Hermotimus’ vengeance may be due in part to its mimicking the vengeance of gods). 41 See Parker, op. cit. (n. 4) 200; cf. Theogn. 731 ff., E. Hipp. 1379–83. See Dover, op. cit. (n. 7) 261 ff., and op. cit. (n. 16) 208–9, for the idea that inherited punishment was displaced by an idea of the afterlife. 42 Cf. Dover, op. cit. (n. 16) 209. 43 «W Kroi'se, ejpistavmenovn me to; qei'on pa'n ejo;n fqonerovn te kai; taracw'de" ejpeirwta'/" ajnqrwphivwn prhgmavtwn pevri. The divine cause of the instability of human fortune is recognised by, e.g., G. de Sanctis, ‘Il “logos” di Creso e il Proemio della Storia Erodotea, RFIC ser. 2. 15 (1936) 7, J. Moles, ‘Truth and untruth in Herodotus and Thucydides’, in C. Gill and T.P. Wiseman (eds.) Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter 1993, 96, but denied by, e.g., Lateiner, op. cit. (n. 8) 215–6 or Fornara, ‘Human history and the constraint of fate in Herodotus’, in J.W. Allison (ed.) Conflict, Antithesis and the Ancient Historian, Ohio 1990, 30, who feels that ‘the secular presentation of history is once again emphasised’. 44 As Parker observes, op. cit. (n. 4) 168 n. 133, ‘one’s own side burns temples by accident only’ while one’s enemy does so intentionally: see esp. 5.102.1. Alyattes is allowed to burn the temple of Athena accidentally, 1.19, but this does not absolve him of the responsibility for repairing it. Cf. D.S. 16.58.6. 45 Dover, op. cit. (n. 7) 223. 46 A point commonly made – especially well by D.M. Pippidi, ‘Sur la philosophie d’histoire d’Hérodote’, Eirene 1 (1960) 75–6. 47 An echo of Homer, Od. 1.3. 48 ta; ga;r to; pavlai megavla h\n, ta; polla; aujtw'n smikra; gevgone, ta; de; ejp∆ ejmeu' h\n megavla, provteron h\n smikrav. th;n ajnqrwphivhn w\n ejpistavmeno" eujdaimonivhn

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Thomas Harrison oujdama; ejn twjutw'/ mevnousan ejpimnhvsomai ajmfotevrwn oJmoivw". 49 Fornara, op. cit. (n. 43) 41. 50 P.S. Derow, ‘Historical explanation: Polybius and his predecessors’, in S. Hornblower (ed.) Greek Historiography, Oxford 1994, 78. See also here, e.g., A. Maddalena, ‘L’umano e il divino in Erodoto’, in V.E. Alfieri and M. Untersteiner (eds.) Studi di Filosofia Greca...in onore di R. Mondolfo, Bari 1950, 77–8, J. Plescia, ‘Herodotus and the case for eris (strife)’, PP 27 (1972) 310–11, on the ‘equilibratory function of the gods’, and A.B. Lloyd, ‘Herodotus on Egyptians and Libyans, in W. Burkert et al., Hérodote et les peuples non-grecs, Fondation Hardt Entretiens 35, Geneva 1990, 233. 51 For the idea of divine foresight, see R. Parker, ‘The origins of pronoia: a mystery’, in Apodosis. Essays presented to Dr W.W. Cruickshank, London 1992. For the biological impossibilities of Herodotus’ theory (‘if lions bred in this way there would be no lions’), see J. Redfield, ‘Herodotus the tourist’, CPh 80 (1985) 104. 52 The existence of moral and amoral strands in Herodotus’ religious causation is recognised by, e.g., De Sanctis, op. cit. (n. 43), de Ste. Croix, ‘Herodotus’, G&R 24 (1977) 140, Pippidi op. cit. (n. 46). The idea of a ‘moralising’ Herodotus is a particular cause of irritation to Waters, op. cit. (n. 2). 53 See the contribution of Robert Parker to C. Pelling (ed.) Greek Tragedy and the Historian, Oxford, forthcoming. 54 R. Seaford, Ritual and Reciprocity, Oxford 1994, 92–105 (quotation: p. 105). 55 The ideas expressed in this paper have been enormously refined by the criticisms of Robert Parker; I should like also to express my thanks to Stephen Halliwell for a number of characteristically acute comments. Neither is in any way responsible for its faults.

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8

DIVINITY AND MORAL AGENCY IN SOPHOCLEAN TRAGEDY Seth L. Schein One of the most distinctive features of Sophoclean tragedy is the way its characters are constantly represented as making moral choices. These choices usually involve decisions to act or not to act, to suffer or not to suffer in a particular way – decisions that define the characters ethically and existentially. Sometimes the moral choice seems selfconscious and explicit, as when Ajax says, ejgw; ga;r ei\m∆ ejkei's∆ o{poi poreutevon, ‘I will go where my way must go,’ Aj. 690, or Oedipus says, ajll∆ o{mw" ajkoustevon, ‘But I must hear it,’ OT 1170. Sometimes it is implied in an action or course of action, such as Creon’s hubristic attempt to kidnap Oedipus in Oedipus at Colonus or the refusal by Ismene or Chrysothemis to join her sister in resisting authority. It is striking that at the moments of decisive choice and action in Sophocles’ plays, the gods are nowhere to be found – at least not the Olympian gods. This is one fundamental difference between the representation of the gods in Sophoclean tragedy and their representation in the tragedies of Aeschylus and Euripides. Though Aeschylus and Euripides by no means represent the gods in exactly the same ways or to the same effect, both repeatedly show them participating in the dramatic action and influencing human beings at moments of moral choice. This is not what one finds in Sophoclean drama. In the extant plays of Aeschylus, the gods are frequently present both as characters and as decisive moral influences on human beings. This is equally true of both Olympian and Chthonic divinities, who function as agents and standards of divkh, ‘justice’, and move mortals to act in accordance with these standards. Zeus, in particular, guarantees both the natural order of things and correct human behavior in light of this order. He is represented as punishing those, like Xerxes, who violate or warp divkh for their own ends. The moral authority of Zeus is behind Apollo’s oracular instructions to Orestes to avenge his father’s 123 Return to Table of Contents

Seth L. Schein murder, and not only Apollo but Hermes and Athena, as children of Zeus, support Orestes after his matricide until his acquittal; Athena, as daughter of Zeus, is the moral authority behind both the new dispensation of Athenian legal justice and the new role of the Furies within the Athenian state and the divine order. Superficially, as characters within the plays, the gods of Euripides may seem to resemble the gods of Aeschylus. In almost all cases, however, they lack moral dignity and authority, because their demands on mortals to behave in particular ways are based mainly on their egoistic desires for recognition and gratification rather than on any natural order that one might call divkh. Of course, the selfish indulgence of power by various gods might itself be thought to constitute the natural order. This would, however, be an ‘order’ and divkh grounded only in power and pleasure, with no relevance to justice and morality. The gods in Euripides have all-too-human appetites for recognition and honor. They must be respected and feared for their ability to destroy or bless human life; unless, however, one equates prerogative and power with justice and the right, they cannot be thought of as moral or as models of morality for humans to imitate. Rather, it is the mortals in Euripides who sometimes have the capacity to stand out as morally admirable, especially through such distinctively human sentiments and institutions as those of filiva. Their mutual sympathy and solidarity can sometimes ‘redeem’ humanity from the ‘general curse’ of ignorance, brutality, and weakness that characterize mortal existence in most of the extant plays. The gods appear even more frequently in the action of Euripides’ plays than in the tragedies of Aeschylus. For the Sophoclean spectator, however, the stage (if I may use that word) is for the most part literally empty of divinity. In the seven extant plays the gods appear as characters only twice: Athena in the Prologue of Ajax and Herakles ex machina at the end of Philoctetes. In neither scene does the god make possible or support significant heroic action or moral choice. Athena invites Odysseus to view Ajax’s novso" (66), to laugh at his enemy (79), and to understand from what he sees the gulf between the ‘strength of the gods’ (118) and the precarious human condition (131– 2). Odysseus does understand, but his expression of human frailty and of solidarity with Ajax, whom he pities ‘because he has been yoked to evil blindness and ruin’ (oJqouvnek∆ a[th/ sugkatevzeuktai kakh'/, 123), commands far more sympathy than Athena’s harsh assertion of divine power. Odysseus’ sympathy is consistent with his later support of Teucer’s efforts to bury Ajax, against the wishes of Agamemnon and 124 Return to Table of Contents

Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy Menelaus; because of the opening scene, Odysseus’ enlightened selfinterest later in the play seems to an audience or reader less unexpected and more understandable than it seems to Teucer (1381–5).1 As in several plays of Euripides, the contrast between apparently inflexible divine power and emotionally flexible human sympathy places the god in an ethically inferior position. The final scene of Philoctetes presents a quite different kind of god. Unlike Athena in Ajax, who is motivated by personal animosity toward Ajax and concern for Odysseus, Herakles comes as an old friend to save Philoctetes by telling him of Zeus’ plans for him (1415); he offers his own life as a paradigm of winning ‘immortal ajrethv’ (1420) through labors. The salvation Herakles makes possible for Philoctetes does not, however, involve the kind of decision to act rightly (or wrongly), that has characterized the hero throughout the play; rather the god leads him to acquiesce in a destiny that is, so to speak, beyond good and evil. Although Athena and Herakles are the only two Olympian gods to appear as speaking characters in extant Sophoclean tragedy, divinity is present in the seven plays in ways that differ from what is found in Aeschylus and Euripides and that present unique problems of interpretation. First of all, in each of the plays, oracles and prophecies are delivered or reported; second, hero cults exist, or will exist, in Ajax, Oedipus at Colonus, Electra, and perhaps Philoctetes.2 Third, divinity is present in such dramatically specific features as the cult statues, to whom Clytemnestra (El. 637–59) and Jocasta (OT 911–21) address prayers that are apparently granted but conspicuously fail; the comment, in the last line of Trachiniae, that ‘there is none of this that is not Zeus’ (koujde;n touvtwn o{ ti mh; Zeuv", 1286); and the apotheosis of Herakles that is so conspicuous by its absence at the end of the same play. There are also the workings of Eros and Dionysos in Antigone and of the Erinyes in Electra and the two Oedipus-plays. None of these manifestations of divinity has anything to do with moral choice and agency, which, as I have said, are distinctively human phenomena in Sophoclean tragedy. Rather, the oracles, hero cults, and other divine manifestations contextually frame the human choices, actions, and sufferings, and invite audiences and readers to interpret the events of the play accordingly. In particular, divinity, when it reveals itself toward the end of a tragedy, re-frames these events. In narratological terms the presence or revelation of divinity re-focalizes what has been said, done, and suffered, forcing characters in the play as well as audiences and readers to adopt a different viewpoint and challenging them to make sense of what has happened 125 Return to Table of Contents

Seth L. Schein from this new angle of vision. In most cases, the effect is to emphasize the incomprehensibility of what has happened. We are reminded, in the words of an unidentified Persian to Thersandros of Orchomenos in Book 9 of Herodotus, ‘that although a man takes thought rationally for many things, he controls nothing’ (pollå; fronevonta mhdeno;" kratevein, 9.16.5). In Sophocles, though, this incomprehensibility and powerlessness differ in tone and feeling from what the Persian makes of it, when he tells Thersandros, ‘It’s impossible for a human being to avert whatever must come to pass from the divine’ (o{ ti dei' genevsqai ejk tou' qeou', ajmhvcanon ajpotrevyai ajnqrwvpw/, 9.16.5). The Persian considers this powerlessness to be ‘the most hateful pain in human life’ (ejcqivsth ojduvnh tw'n ejn ajnqrwvpoisi, 9.16.5). Here the word ojduvnh, with its connotation of birth pangs, suggests that we are born to this painful ajmhcaniva as part of the human condition; the emphasis is on our helplessness before divine necessity. In Sophocles, however, such resignation or pessimism is not the only response to the power and presence of the divine in human life. In Oedipus the King, for example, the revelation that the oracles were true – that there is a divine order framing human existence, within which human actions and sufferings fit and make sense, however incomprehensible they may seem in and of themselves – cannot efface the courage and brilliance of Oedipus in freeing Thebes from the plague by discovering the killer of Laios and, in the process, discovering his own identity and the pattern of his life. Oedipus’ achievements constitute the main action of Sophocles’ play, however subordinate they may be, in other versions of the myth, to an emphasis on the power of the gods or Fate.3 The drama as a whole is uplifting, not oppressive, despite the Chorus’ outburst, ijw; geneai; brotw'n… (1186–8) when they realize what has happened and their w\ deino;n ijdei'n pavqo" (1297) when Oedipus appears before them, after the messenger speech recounting Jocasta’s death and his bloody self-blinding. They may see him only as an example of human weakness, of seeming good fortune which, in a turning of the scale and a transformation of life, is discovered to have been wretched all along (1189–96, 1204–6). But the Chorus are neither all-knowing mouthpieces for the author nor infallible interpreters: there is no reason to take their emotionally charged response to the recognition of what has happened as the interpretative key to the play. To be sure, the choral odes taken together, like the reported oracles, make it necessary to acknowledge the religious dimension of the play, to recognize the existence of a divine order or divkh that includes the human events and experiences represented and alluded 126 Return to Table of Contents

Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy to.4 It is not, however, interpretatively necessary to understand human life in this framework as hopelessly negative. Rather, like the human condition in the Iliad, it is a situation that offers mortals, of whom Oedipus is the paradigm, the possibility of making their lives meaningful and memorable by achievements that spring from, but also transcend, their limited mortal power and understanding. The effect, however, of what I have called the framing or focalization of action and suffering, through oracles, prophecies, and other manifestations of divinity, is not always, on balance, positive, as I have been suggesting is the case in Oedipus the King. In Trachiniae, Antigone, and, in a different way, Electra, such manifestations contribute to an atmosphere that is already oppressive with the sense of human beings caught in the necessities of their own passions. In Trachiniae the entire action of the play is framed by the oracle of Zeus relating to Herakles’ destiny, which Deianeira summarizes at the beginning and which recurs in the final scene when Herakles recognizes its fulfilment in the fulfilment of a different prophetic revelation from Zeus (provfanton, 1159, 1163).5 The oracle and this earlier prophecy connect with the themes of revelation, associated throughout the play with faivnomai and related words, and of completion and fulfilment associated with tevlo"°, televw, and ejktelevw. When Herakles cries out, ijouv, ijou; duvsthno", oi[comai tavla" (‘Look, look, I perish wretchedly, in misery,’ 1143) after he hears that Nessos had persuaded Deianeira to ‘inflame his desire’ with the love charm, he discovers, as ijouv, ijouv suggests, the explanation he has been looking for of what has happened to him. A few lines later he identifies this discovery with his recognition of the true meaning of Zeus’ old revelation and of the later oracles he had shared with Deianeira (162–71). In his version of The Women of Trachis, Ezra Pound perfectly caught Herakles’ recognition of how everything fits together, when he translated tau't∆ ou\n ejpeidh; lampra; sumbaivnei, tevknon (1174) as, ‘Come at it that way, my boy, what | SPLENDOUR, | IT ALL COHERES,’ an exclamation Pound called ‘the key phrase for which the play exists.’6 This expression of coherence, of divine order framing human disorder, follows lines in which Herakles remarks: to; d∆ h\n a[r∆ oujde;n a[llo plh;n qanei'n ejmev: toi'" ga;r qanou'si movcqo" ouj prosgivgnetai. The [meaning of the prophecy that I would have no more toil] was, after all, nothing else than that I die. For toil does not attach itself to the dead. (1172–3)

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Seth L. Schein If an audience or reader were thinking here of the well-known version of Herakles’ end that Sophocles explicitly avoids, his apotheosis on Mt Oeta, these words might seem, ironically, to suggest that end, since ‘toil does not attach itself’ to the gods, either. Thus, by inference, gods and mortals would be identical in their freedom from toil, an identification that would stand in paradoxical contrast to Herakles’ realization, ‘after he has interpreted the oracle,’ that ‘the most a human being can achieve (even the ‘greatest’, the son of Zeus himself) is an acceptance of the great gulf between human and divine knowledge.’ 7 Perhaps one might say that Sophocles’ dramatic emphasis on action and suffering, not on apotheosis, conspicuously avoids the very identification of mortality and divinity that freedom from toil would seem to suggest. In effect, he invites, or at least allows, his audience to think of features of the myth that are not part of the play in order to clarify by contrast what his play is really about, the ‘great gulf’ between humanity and divinity. This ‘great gulf’ is precisely what the oracles and prophecies bring to the fore. The final line of the play, koujde;n touvtwn o{ ti mh; Zeuv" (‘There is none of this that is not Zeus,’ 1286), might seem to imply the opposite – the interconnectedness of the human and the divine. But the only link suggested by the destructive and self-destructive ignorance and error in which Deianeira and Herakles act and suffer, is that between victim and conqueror. As the Chorus sing, ‘Kypris is a great power; she carries off victory, always’ (mevga ti sqevno" aJ Kuvpri": ejkfevretai nivka" ajeiv, 497). From the Chorus’ viewpoint, one might say of the gods in Trachiniae what Seferis wrote of Euripides: ei\de ti;" flevbe" tw'n ajnqrwvpwn sa;n e{na divctu tw'n qew'n, o{pou ma'" piavnoun savn t∆ ajgrivmia. he saw the veins of human beings as a net of the gods, where they trap us like wild beasts. EURIPIDHS, AQHNAIOS, 4–5

This is, perhaps, a fairer account of Herakles’ and Deianeira’s victimization than Herakles’ own accusation that: kaqh'yen w[moi" toi'" ejmoi'" ∆Erinuvwn uJfanto;n ajmfivblhstron, w|/ diovvllumai she fastened on my shoulders a woven net of the Erinyes, by which I’m completely destroyed (1051–2)

– fairer because it does not blame one of the victims. Both explanations, however, in terms of Kupris and in terms of the Furies, are 128 Return to Table of Contents

Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy unsatisfactory, retrospective efforts at re-focalization that obscure Herakles’ and Deianeira’s responsibility for what has happened. Herakles is partly right, though: his death through a combination of Nessos’ blood and the Hydra’s venom, by a kind of bestial return of the repressed, is true Fury justice: compensatory payment for the deaths of these and other monsters he recalls conquering (1091–1100); in the same way, insofar as it is triggered by his own and Deianeira’s sexual desire, his death is the perfect divkh for the disorder and destruction caused by his lust for Iole. Unlike Oedipus the King, with its salutary action of discovery and self-discovery, there is nothing in Trachiniae that one might call heroically or morally uplifting, nothing to counter the manifestations of divinity that clearly reveal the powerlessness of human beings caught ‘like wild beasts’ in their destructive and selfdestructive sexuality.8 Antigone is a play that usually is seen as more positive than Trachiniae, partly because of its hero’s integrity, courage, and piety and partly because the gods are thought to vindicate these heroic qualities in her. Do they, however, actually vindicate Antigone? In the scene in which Teiresias informs Creon of the gods’ revulsion at the King’s refusal to bury the corpse of Polynices and warns him that ‘the Furies of Hades and of the gods are waiting in ambush’ for him, so he will be ‘caught in these same evils’, ...se... locw'sin ”Aidou kai; qew'n ∆Erinuve", ejn toi'sin aujtoi'" toi'sde lhfqh'nai kakoi'" (1075–6),

the seer never mentions Antigone except once, in passing, as ‘the life you made to dwell dishonorably in a tomb’ while ‘keeping here [in the upper world] a corpse belonging to the lower gods, without the proper ritual of burial and grave offerings’: yuchvn g∆ ajtivmw" ejn tavfw/ katoikivsa", e[cei" dev tw'n kavtwqen ejnqavd∆ au\ qew'n a[moiron, ajktevriston, ajnovsion nevkun. (1069–71)

Thus, although Creon is condemned and quickly destroyed by the deaths of his son and wife, Antigone is neither saved nor vindicated. The divine perspective authoritatively introduced by Teiresias in no way addresses itself to her actions or the reasons she offers for them.9 Teiresias’ intervention and prophecy are not the only manifestation of divinity in Antigone. As Winnington-Ingram pointed out, Eros and Dionysos are frequently present in the imagery and diction of the play, especially in the choral odes, and there is a virtual epiphany of these 129 Return to Table of Contents

Seth L. Schein two gods toward the end in the scene in the cave reported by the Messenger to Eurydice and the Chorus (1206–43).10 The Messenger’s account immediately follows, and in effect responds to, the Chorus’ prayer in the fifth stasimon to Dionysos as a divinity native to Thebes ‘to come with cleansing foot’ (molei'n kaqarsivw/ podiv, 1144) to save the city. In the Parodos, the Chorus had sung of the city as endangered by the ‘fire-bearing [enemy] who then with a mad charge blew against Thebes in Bacchic fury with blasts of the winds of utter hatred’: purfovro" o}" tovte mainomevna/ xu;n oJrma'/ bakceuvwn ejpevpnei rJipai'" ejcqivstwn ajnevmwn. (135–7)

Their prayer, less than twenty lines later, for ‘the Bacchic one who shakes Thebes’ to ‘lead the way’ in celebration of the victory over that enemy (oJ Qhvba" d∆ ejlelivcqwn bavkcio" a[rcoi, 154), like their invocation of Dionysos in the fifth stasimon, is ominous because it would internalize within the city the same irrational fury that had threatened it from without.11 In the end, this irrational power, along with that of Eros, is decisive. These divine forces not only frame the conflict between Creon and Antigone, they turn out to be the real topic of the play. Antigone is more about the destructive power of divinely inspired irrationality in human life than about the conflicting loyalties and prerogatives of individuals and the community, the family and the state, women and men, or Antigone and Creon. From this viewpoint, the play is not as positive or uplifting as it has sometimes seemed to those who admire the values of either Antigone or Creon. Although Antigone initially grounds her actions in her obedience to Zeus, to ‘Justice who dwells with the gods below’ (hJ xuvnoiko" tw'n kavtw qew'n Divkh, 451), and to the ‘gods’ unwritten and unfailing customary usages’ (a[grapta kajsfalh' qew'n novmima, 454–5), and Creon bases his behavior on his faithfulness to ‘the gods of the city’ (povleo"…qeoiv, 162), as the play progresses each clearly acts as much or more from irrational motives of self-assertion and from the desire to have her or his own way, as from loyalty to any divinities or abstract principles governing moral choices. Both are dominated by impulses of irrationality that, in the end, circumscribe and undercut much of what superficially seems noble and uplifting. The role of the gods as focalizers occurs in the foreshadowing of hero cults – Attic hero cults – in Ajax and Oedipus at Colonus. In Ajax the prospect of a hero cult emerges quite late in the play, in the penultimate episode, after the departure of Menelaus, when the ‘construction of Ajax’s tomb as a place of commemoration [is] performed verbally by 130 Return to Table of Contents

Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy the…chorus’, and Teucer instructs Eurysakes in the appropriate ritual (1163–85).12 This process increases the importance of Ajax’s burial against the wishes of the Atreidae, making it seem more desirable both in religious terms and in light of the audience’s realization that what is at stake is the birth of the historical Attic cult with which they were familiar. This, in turn, re-focalizes their understanding of Ajax’s attack on the Atreidae and Odysseus and of his suicide, both of which come to seem in some sense positive or providential, precisely because they eventuate in the cult. It is not that Ajax and his actions seem any less raw and monstrous, only that the rawness and monstrosity are recognized as expressions of a more-than-ordinary power that can benefit those who will worship it. Odysseus’ intervention to make possible the burial and his desire to participate in it physically, spring not only from his sense of shared humanity but from his understanding of Ajax’s special greatness and of what is owed morally to ‘the best men’ (toi'" ajrivstoi" ajndravsin, 1380). Teucer politely prohibits this participation, out of his understanding that Ajax’s extraordinarily intense hatred – which really is what is being honored in the cult – would find Odysseus’ physical touch ‘repulsive’ (duscerev", 1395). Nevertheless, Odysseus’ offer stands in striking and humane contrast to Athena’s amorally vindictive attitude in the Prologue and may, perhaps, suggest that the hero Ajax, whose divinity stems from his human greatness manqué, is more truly deserving of worship than the Olympian divinity. In Oedipus at Colonus, Oedipus’ burial and the hero’s power of just revenge that he will wield from the grave are introduced quite early in the play, which almost from the beginning also is characterized by reverence for the Eumenides – divinities whom Oedipus at once realizes he is destined to join as a Chthonic power of justice. Here it is not the earlier events of the play that are re-focalized by the manifestation of divinity, but those of Oedipus’ life, especially his life in Sophocles’ Oedipus the King. Only here in the Sophoclean corpus is the central figure of a play completely in tune with divinity from the beginning to the end of the drama, divinity that is represented throughout as fundamentally beneficent and morally relevant. Because the Eumenides are literally grounded in Attic soil and associated with positive Athenian values such as pious generosity to suppliants and strangers, Oedipus, unlike most Sophoclean protagonists, does not find it necessary to oppose the state or its rulers in order to be himself – especially when he can hate Creon and Thebes and curse Polynices to his heart’s content. He can, so to speak, have his cake and eat it too by helping his 131 Return to Table of Contents

Seth L. Schein adopted friends and harming his native enemies, and he can do so with increasing religious authority and power that culminate in his awful disappearance into the realm of the Chthonic. Finally, I turn to the two ‘problem plays,’ Electra and Philoctetes. In Electra, Olympian divinity is morally irrelevant and merely instrumental. For example, in the Prologue Orestes refers casually to his rather practical questioning of the oracle at Delphi as to how he might best avenge Agamemnon’s murder, and to Apollo’s equally practical response, ‘by deception to steal slaughter with a righteous hand’ (dovloisi klevyai ceiro;" ejndivkou sfagav", 37).13 In addition, he casually instructs the Paedagogus to ‘add a (false) oath’ (o{rkon prostiqeiv", 47) to his story that Orestes is dead. Near the end of the play, Electra invokes the aid of Apollo Lukeios, and the Chorus describe how Hermes, having hidden treachery in darkness, leads Orestes into the house to take his revenge (1395–7). These are the only relevant Olympian divinities, and they are addressed only in connection with the practical requirements of accomplishing vengeance. On the other hand, a variety of Chthonic divinities seem morally significant, especially the hero Agamemnon, whose tomb is the site of Clytemnestra’s intended offerings by the proxy hand of Chrysothemis. The two sisters instead offer him locks of hair and Electra’s ‘girdle’ (zw'ma, 452) and pray for his aid against their enemies and for Orestes’ triumphant return home (448–71). Just after this scene, in the first stasimon after the kommos, the Chorus sing of Agamemnon as mindful of his slaughter and associate him with ‘prophetic Justice who will come bringing righteous power in her hands’ (ei\sin aJ provmanti" | Divka, divkaia feromevna ceroi'n kravth, 475–6); with the ‘strongfooted Fury hiding in terrible ambush, who will come with the strength and speed of many’ (h{xei kai; poluvpou" kai; poluvceir aJ | deinoi'" kruptomevna lovcoi" | calkovpou" ∆Erinuv" , 489–91); and with ‘the portent that will come upon the partners in crime’ (…pela'n tevra" | toi'" drw'si kai; sundrw'sin, 497–8. The emphasis is on righteous punishment, though the absolute justice of Orestes’ vengeance is made problematic near the end of the play by Aegisthus’ question, just before he is led in to be killed: h\ pa's∆ ajnavgkh thvnde th;n stevghn ijdei'n tav t∆ o[nta kai; mevllonta Pelopidw'n kakav… Must this house see both the present and future evils of the Pelopids? (1497–8)

This question implies that there will be further bloodshed in return for his and Clytemnestra’s deaths, evoking in the mind of an audience or 132 Return to Table of Contents

Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy reader familiar with Aeschylus’ Oresteia the pursuit of Orestes by his mother’s Furies.14 Still another remark involving divinity, toward the end of the play, leaves open the possibility that Orestes’ and Electra’s vengeance is morally more complicated that it might at first seem. At 1424, she asks him (after the slaying of Clytemnestra that also evokes the Oresteia by clear verbal echoes): Orestes, how is this going? [and he replies] In the house, well, if Apollo prophesied well. (1424–5) ∆Orevsta, pw'" kurei' tavd∆… Or. ejn dovmoisi me;n kalw'", ∆Apovllwn eij kalw'" ejqevspisen,

The indicative with eij suggests, perhaps, that Orestes has no real doubts, in contrast to Orestes in Libation Bearers, who feels pain at what he has done and thinks his victory is polluted (Cho. 1016–17). Nevertheless, the conditional form of his reply raises the possibility that Apollo did not prophesy well and so prompts a final doubt about the justice of the vengeance – a doubt that neither Orestes’ feeble justification of his action in terms of the utility of punishing whoever transgresses the laws (1505–7) nor the Chorus’ closing anapests hailing the family of Atreus for the freedom it has achieved (1508–10), can quite efface. This kind of doubt is raised far more forcefully by the appearance of Herakles at the end of Philoctetes, in a manifestation of divinity that forces audiences and readers to rethink the events of the play from a different viewpoint, in light of the ‘necessity’ (crewvn, 1439) that Troy once again be sacked by the weapons of Herakles and of the ‘life of heroic glory’ that, ‘because of his labors, it is owed’ to Philoctetes ‘to suffer’: ...tou't∆ ojfeivletai paqei'n, ejk tw'n povnwn tw'nd∆ eujklea' qevsqai bivon. (1421–2)

Herakles’ intervention, the destiny he dispenses, and his apparent vindication of Odysseus (whom he does not mention by name) are disturbing and problematic. He claims to be transmitting ‘the plans of Zeus for [Philoctetes]’ (ta; Diov" te fravswn bouleuvmatav soi, 1415), but Odysseus too had claimed to be acting in Zeus’ name, when he insisted to Philoctetes that he must go to Troy (989–90). At that point, when Philoctetes accuses Odysseus of making the gods false (yeudei'") by hiding behind them as an excuse for what he is doing (qeou;" proteivnwn tou;" qeou;" yeudei'" tivqh", 992), Odysseus replies, quite remarkably,

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Seth L. Schein ‘No, [I make them] true’ (ou[k, ajll∆ ajlhqei'", 993). Odysseus offers no morally compelling reason why Philoctetes must do as he says, such as the will of the gods as expressed in the prophecy of Helenus. In fact, his emphatic ‘I say Yes, [you must go]’ (ejgw; dev fhmi, 994) contradicts the notion that divine necessity or divine will is involved here, rather than simply Odysseus’ own insistence that Philoctetes is to do as he says precisely because he says to do it. Of course, Herakles is not Odysseus. He has a special relationship to Philoctetes, who lit the pyre for him by which he ascended to the gods (670, 726–9), and his weapons and special kind of ajrethv have figured prominently in the play. Nevertheless, in a drama where it is anything but clear that the gods are moral themselves or the sources of morality for humans, any god, especially one who claims to speak for Zeus, is perforce unreliable and suspect. After all, earlier in the play, when Philoctetes and Neoptolemus discuss the gods’ penchant for killing good men in war and their pleasure in preserving those who are wicked (448–50), Philoctetes asks rhetorically: pou' crh; tivqesqai tau'ta, pou' d∆ aijnei'n, o{tan ta; qei'∆ ejpainw'n tou;" qeou;" eu{rw kakouv"… Where must I place these things, and where praise them, when praising divine things I find the gods evil? (451–2)

Still earlier, the Chorus in effect swear falsely by ‘mountainous, allnourishing Earth, | mother of Zeus himself’ (ojrestevra pambw'ti Ga', | ma'ter aujtou' Diov", 391–2), in support of Neoptolemos’ lying story that he was robbed of his father’s arms by Odysseus and the sons of Atreus. The unreliability of the gods throughout the play is perhaps the main reason – in addition to the well-established psychological impossibility of Philoctetes changing his mind and going to Troy – that the appearance of Herakles and conclusion of the play seem so troublesome and unsatisfying. The other major manifestation of divinity in Philoctetes is, of course, the prophecy of Helenus. When Neoptolemus is trying, one last time, to persuade Philoctetes to accompany him to Troy, promising he will be healed by the sons of Asklepios and, with his own help, will sack the city by his bow and arrows, he tells him of: ”Eleno" ajristovmanti", o}" levgei safw'" wJ" dei' genevsqai tau'ta: kai; pro;" toi'sd∆ e[ti, wJ" e[st∆ ajnavgkh tou' parestw'to" qevrou" Troivan aJlw'nai pa'san.

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Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy Helenus, best of seers who says clearly that these things must happen, and further, in addition to them, that it is a necessity within the present summer that Troy be utterly destroyed. (1338–41)

This summary of Helenus’ prophecy is not as convincing as it might seem to be, since there is no way of knowing whether he actually said what Neoptolemus reports. First of all, there is another version of Helenus’ words by the Merchant at 610–13, which raises the question whether Philoctetes himself is needed or just his bow and arrows, as seems to be the case in the Prologue. Second, there is no certain indication that Neoptolemus himself was present when Helenus spoke, since it is impossible to know where his lie to Philoctetes begins or ends; it also is unclear on what he bases his report of the prophecy, if he was not present. One of the most striking features of the play is precisely this impossibility of knowing the truth, or even whether truth can be said to exist in connection with the stories Odysseus, Neoptolemus, and the Merchant tell and the assurances they give.15 Elsewhere in Sophoclean tragedy, oracles and prophecies are truthful, but in this play even the gods and their mouthpieces are subject to suspicion or worse. The unreliability of the gods and the elusive or ambiguous status of the truth, including the truth of Helenus’ prophecy, help make Herakles’ sudden appearance and his instructions to Philoctetes seem unconvincing and morally irrelevant. This is the case despite his emphasis on being pious toward the gods during the sack of Troy, and in particular on the importance Zeus attaches to such piety, which ‘does not perish with mortals: whether they live or die, it does not perish’: tou'to d∆ ejnnoei'q∆, o{tan porqh'te gai'an, eujsebei'n ta; pro;" qeouv": wJ" ta[lla pavnta deuvter∆ hJgei'tai path;r Zeuv". ouj ga;r huJsevbeia sunqnhv/skei brotoi'": ka]n zw'si ka]n qavnwsin, oujk ajpovllutai. (1440–4)

The unmistakable allusion here to the story of Neoptolemus’ impiety during the sack of Troy, when he butchers Priam on Zeus’ altar, and perhaps to his death at Delphi, undercuts Herakles’ (and Zeus’) emphasis on piety, and once again calls into question the moral relevance of the gods and of their interventions in human life. The most convincing moral chooser and agent in the play is Philoctetes himself, and he acts completely on his own, with no help from the gods – sustaining his hatred of Odysseus and the Atreidae and refusing to go to Troy despite the benefits offered him. There may 135 Return to Table of Contents

Seth L. Schein be an allusion, in Herakles’ words about ‘a life of heroic glory resulting from labors,’ to a Lemnian hero cult of Philoctetes.16 If so, this cult, like those of Ajax and Oedipus, is a function both of his extraordinary suffering and of his unrelenting, vindictive hatred of his enemies – suffering and hatred that, like those of Ajax and Oedipus, are the true sources of his power as a hero. In the end, Philoctetes only accepts divine favor (cavrin, 1413) because it comes from the old friend whose voice he has desired to hear and whom he now sees after so long a time (1445–7). The other moral agent in the play is Neoptolemus. His moral choices, to return Philoctetes’ weapons and to take him home, are a function of friendship – his new friendship with Philoctetes – and of pity. Friendship is a distinctively human relationship, and pity a quintessentially human feeling; they, not the gods, are the sources of moral sentiments and action in the play. The gods, though they may seem to save Philoctetes after torturing him for so many years, can, by definition, neither pity nor enter into friendship with him. As a god, even Herakles does not speak of pity or friendship, only of necessity and what is owed, though perhaps Philoctetes includes him among the friends whose ‘thoughtful advice’ (gnwvmh), along with Fate and Zeus, is bringing him back to Troy (1466–8). I have tried, in this brief survey of Sophoclean tragedy, to point out the most important ways in which divinity is morally relevant in each play. Unlike Aeschylus and Euripides, Sophocles rarely represents the Olympian gods as agents. Instead, he invites audiences and readers to rethink dramatic actions involving human agents, framing these actions by means of oracles and prophecies and introducing such Chthonic manifestations of divinity as hero cults and the workings of the Erinyes or Eumenides. No single, simple statement about divinity will adequately embrace all the extant plays. Far more than either Aeschylus or Euripides, Sophocles varies his representation and dramatic exploitation of divinity from play to play, in accordance with the particular themes and distinctive tone and mood of each drama. Thus oracles and prophecies, which in most of the plays are true and authoritative (when finally understood), are curiously irrelevant in Electra and radically problematic in Philoctetes. Perhaps the one safe generalization would be that Sophocles represents divinity primarily to clarify the significance of human action. Certainly, close consideration of the language in which divinity is represented and referred to in any given work constitutes one fruitful path into its central ideas, values, and interpretative problems. 136 Return to Table of Contents

Divinity and moral agency in Sophoclean tragedy This is not a new idea, to us or to the Greeks. It was part of what they meant when they called Sophocles oJmhrikwvtato", and reminds us of what we find in the Iliad and Odyssey, where the main poetic function of the gods is to clarify, by their combination of more-than-human power and knowledge and less-than-human concern with the consequences of their actions, both the limitations of the human condition and the opportunities it offers for ethically meaningful choice and action.17 The poetic worlds of the Iliad and the Odyssey are filled with – or, one might say, naturally constituted by – divinities, but the essential choices are made by mortals: for example, to fight or not to fight for the sake of honor and glory; to pity a suppliant out of a sense of shared humanity or to reject him hatefully; to stay with Calypso and live the life of ease that characterizes divine existence or to return home to Penelope, Ithaca, and the pleasures, struggles, and finitude of human life. In both the Iliad and the Odyssey, the heroes choose to act so as to avoid oblivion and be remembered in poetic song; in other words, they choose to be mortal heroes. They also choose to act in ways that illustrate their ethical superiority to the gods, whose unaging immortality and exemption from the consequences of their actions make them seem morally trivial by contrast. Sophoclean tragedy, however, is deeper than the Homeric poems in large part because the gods do not exist as foils within the story, in contrast to whom the mortals define themselves. When divinity is made a frame for the action, human characters are left literally and metaphorically alone on an empty stage to make moral choices by themselves. These human characters, like Sophocles’ audiences and readers, frequently evaluate and interpret their choices in terms of the focalizing frame. Nevertheless, far more than Aeschylus, Euripides, or even Homer, Sophocles emphasizes the struggles of human beings to work out their own moral destinies, and these struggles are perhaps the most gripping and distinctive feature of his plays.18

Notes 1 On Odysseus’ ‘enlightened self-interest,’ see B. Knox, ‘The Ajax of Sophocles,’ Word and Action: Essays on the Ancient Theater, Baltimore and London 1979, 125–60, esp. 148–9. 2 Cf. S.J. Harrison, ‘Sophocles and the cult of Philoctetes,’ JHS 109 (1989) 173–5. 3 Cf. Bernard Knox, Oedipus at Thebes: Sophocles’ Tragic Hero and His Time, New Haven 1957, corrected reprint 1966, 3–52. 4 Ibid. 159–84; G. Dimock, ‘Oedipus the King: the religious issue,’ The

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Seth L. Schein Hudson Review 23 (1968) 430–56. 5 Cf. P. E. Easterling (ed.) Sophocles: Trachiniae, Cambridge 1982, 3–4, 181 on vv. 849–50, 182 on vv. 860–1. 6 E. Pound, Sophokles, Women of Trachis: A Version by Ezra Pound, New York 1957, reprinted 1985, 50 n. 1, cited also by Easterling, Trachiniae, 220 on v. 1174 7 Easterling, Trachiniae, 10. 8 On the Trachiniae as a tragedy of sex, see R.P. Winnington-Ingram, Sophocles: an Interpretation, Cambridge 1980, 75–90. 9 Cf. B.M.W. Knox, The Heroic Temper: Studies in Sophoclean Tragedy, Berkeley and Los Angeles 1964, 115. 10 Winnington-Ingram, Sophocles, 91–116 11 Ibid. 115–16. 12 Cf. A. Henrichs, ‘The tomb of Aias and the prospect of hero cult in Sophocles’ Ajax,’ CA 12 (1993) 165–80. The words quoted appear on p. 170. Cf. P. Burian, ‘Supplication and hero cult in Sophocles’ Ajax,’ GRBS 13 (1972) 151–6. 13 ∆Endivkou is an emendation by L. Lange, printed by H. Lloyd-Jones and N. Wilson in Sophoclis Fabulae, Oxford 1990, 62. The manuscripts unanimously read ejndivkou", in which case the correct translation would be, ‘righteous slaughter of my hand’. Cf. Lloyd-Jones and Wilson, Sophoclea: Studies on the Text of Sophocles, Oxford 1990, 44 (where the lemma should refer to v. 37, not 38). 14 On the Furies in Electra, see Winnington-Ingram, Sophocles, 231–9. 15 Cf. C. Greengard, Theatre in Crisis: Sophocles’ Reconstruction of Genre and Politics in Philoctetes, Amsterdam 1987, 5–7, 23–6, 102. 16 Cf. Harrison, ‘Sophocles and the cult of Philoctetes.’ 17 Cf. S.L. Schein, The Mortal Hero: An Introduction to Homer’s Iliad, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London 1984, 51–62. 18 This essay, part of a larger work-in-progress on morality and moral choice in Sophoclean tragedy, was presented orally in July, 1993, at the ‘What is a god in the Graeco-Roman world?’ conference in Gregynog, organized by the University of Wales Institute of Classics and Ancient History, and in April, 1994, at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. I am grateful to those present on both occasions for challenging criticism and helpful suggestions.

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9

THUNDER, LIGHTNING AND EARTHQUAKE IN THE BACCHAE AND THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES Richard Seaford In section one I suggest a remarkable set of similarities between three famous passages, one from Athenian tragedy, the others from the New Testament. In section two I will argue that one of the common elements (thunder, lightning, earthquake) was a feature of mystic initiation, and that the similarities derive from the effect of the pattern of this ritual on all three passages. In section three I will explore further the function, in the ritual, of thunder, lightning, and earthquake. The investigation suggests the importance of the rite of passage as a factor in the imagining of divine power. I In the famous ‘earthquake scene’ of Euripides’ Bacchae the god Dionysos is imprisoned in darkness in the house of king Pentheus. The chorus of his followers then sing a hymn, which is interrupted by the voice of the god (576, etc.), and then by an earthquake (causing the collapse of the house: 583, 595, 602–3, 633), thunder and lightning (594–5, cf. 598–9), and fire on the tomb of Semele (596–7, 623–4). The chorus throw themselves to the ground (600–1). Dionysos appears, and tells them to rise up, take courage, and stop trembling. He relates how he escaped from imprisonment, telling of how meanwhile, within the house, Pentheus performed a series of frantic and fruitless actions that culminated in a physical attack on a miraculous light1 (as if it was his prisoner) created by the god. I want to compare this passage to two famous passages of the Acts of the Apostles. The first is the Conversion of Saul (9.3–7).2 Now as he was going along and approaching Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him (perihvstrayen). He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ He asked, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ The reply came, ‘I am Jesus, whom you

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Richard Seaford are persecuting. But get up and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.’ The men who were travelling with him stood speechless because they heard the voice but saw no one.

The same event is narrated (put into the mouth of Paul himself) twice elsewhere in Acts (22.6–11 and 26.12–18), with a few variations, some of which will be mentioned below. The second passage of Acts that I want to compare with our scene of the Bacchae is the miraculous release of Paul and Silas from prison at Philippi (16.25–30). About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them. Suddenly there was an earthquake, so violent that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately all the doors were opened and everyone’s chains were unfastened. When the jailer woke up and saw the prison doors wide open, he drew his sword and was about to kill himself, since he supposed that the prisoners had escaped. But Paul shouted in a loud voice, ‘Do not harm yourself, for we are all here.’ The jailer called for light, and rushing in, he fell down trembling before Paul and Silas. Then he brought them outside and said, ‘Sirs, what must I do to be saved?’

Commentators on these two passages of Acts have compared (a) the Conversion of Saul with another passage of the Bacchae, which in fact resembles it far less than does the earthquake scene, namely 1078–83, in which the voice of Dionysos is heard from above and ‘a light of holy fire towered between heaven and earth’;3 (b) the phrase ‘Why are you persecuting me?’ (spoken to Saul) with the assumption at Bacchae 784– 95 that the god is persecuted if his followers are persecuted; (c) Acts 26.14, ‘It is hard to kick against the pricks (pro;" kevntra laktivzein)’ (spoken to Saul), with Dionysos urging Pentheus not to kick against the pricks (Ba. 795); (d) the miraculous opening of the door and unfastening of chains in Acts 16.26 with the same combination in the earlier brief narration of the liberation of maenads at Ba. 447–8. None of these parallels have been taken to indicate any detailed or significant relation between these passages of Bacchae and Acts. After all, (c) and (d) are topoi that are also found in other texts. The closest I have found to an awareness that there might be a structural similarity involved is in a brief remark in a footnote by Frederick Brenk4 that ‘the “palace miracle” in Bacchae 616–41 has several affinities with Acts 16.25–34.’ It is a symptom of the intellectual division of labour that in his recent detailed Commentary (1994) on the first half of Acts C.K. Barrett adduces various stories, mostly from the Bible, as similar to the Conversion of Saul, but not the most similar of all, the earthquake scene in Bacchae. 140 Return to Table of Contents

Thunder, lightning and earthquake in the Bacchae and the Acts of the Apostles I now list the elements of the Bacchae scene, each one of which is paralleled by an element from one or other, or both, of the Acts narratives. 1. The PERSECUTOR. Pentheus, Saul, the jailer. Pentheus and Saul both represent uncompromising authority, embody animated hostility to the new cult, and threaten to kill its adherents (Ba. 241, 356–7, 796– 7; Acts 9.1 ‘breathing threatening and murder against the disciples of the Lord’). 2. IMPRISONMENT. Dionysos, and Paul and Silas, are imprisoned. 3. DARKNESS. Dionysos is imprisoned in darkness (Ba. 510, 549, 611). The liberation of Paul and Silas takes place at midnight (so that the jailer brings in light – see below). 4. HYMN. The followers of Dionysos are, like Paul and Silas, singing a hymn to their god as the epiphany occurs. 5. SUDDENNESS. At Ba. 576 the voice of Dionysos breaks in unexpectedly on the choral song. In Acts the suddenness of the divine manifestation is in both cases made explicit (9.3 ejxaivfnh", 16.26 a[fnw). 6. INVISIBLE VOICE . The group hears the voice of the god but does not see him, at Ba. 576–95 and Acts 9.7.5 It is the individual (Pentheus, Saul) who sees the god (as light – see 13 below). 7. LIGHTNING. Thunder and lightning appear in the Bacchae (594– 5, cf. 598–9). At Acts 9.3 the light from heaven perihvstrayen, literally ‘lightninged around’ (ajstraphv is lightning). The same (rare) verb is used at 22.6.6 We will return to this theme below. 8. EARTHQUAKE. In the Bacchae and at Acts 16.26 the house is shaken by an earthquake, creating the possibility of escape for the imprisoned. 9. DRAWING THE SWORD . Both Pentheus (628) and the jailer prepare to use a sword. 10. RUSHING INTO THE HOUSE. Both Pentheus and the jailer rush (Ba. 628 …i{etai, Acts 16.28 eijsephvdhsen) into the dark interior, Pentheus to attack the miraculous light (mistaken for the prisoner) with his sword, the jailer having called for light. 11. FALLING TREMBLING TO THE GROUND. The jailer falls down trembling. Pentheus eventually ‘collapses’ (635). The followers of Dionysos fall down trembling (600–7). In two versions of the Conversion it is only Saul who falls to the ground, but in the third (26.14) the group does as well. 12. The COMMAND TO RISE UP is given by Dionysos to his followers (605) and by the Lord to Paul. 13. LIGHT AS GOD. Dionysos is greeted as ‘greatest light’ by his 141 Return to Table of Contents

Richard Seaford followers (608). Similarly Pentheus takes the miraculous light for Dionysos, but attacks it. The jailer calls for light and rushes inside. Each version of the Conversion implies or states that Saul saw the Lord (9.7 the others ‘saw no one’; 22.14 Saul saw ‘the Just One’; 26.16 ‘I have been seen by you’). And so, according to Haenchen, ‘Presumably …Luke imagined the occurrence in such a way that Saul’s companions saw only a formless glare where he himself saw in it the figure of Jesus.’ 14. ACCEPTANCE OF GOD. Both the jailer and Saul are converted by the epiphany. Similarly the followers of Dionysos undergo a complete reversal, being transformed from trembling, isolation, desolation, and despair to joy by the miraculous appearance of their god, their ‘greatest light’ (607–10). In stark contrast, Pentheus violently rejects the light that he takes to be his prisoner, and who is in fact the god Dionysos. 15. ESCAPE UNNECESSARY. Dionysos emerges from the place of his imprisonment, but assures Pentheus that he will not run away (659). So too Paul reassures the jailer that the prisoners have not run away (16.28). As noted above, the miraculous opening of doors and loosening of chains at Philippi is paralleled in the Bacchae in the earlier report of the freeing of the maenads that Pentheus had imprisoned (447–8). II Of these fifteen elements all appear in the Bacchae, eight on the road to Damascus, and twelve at Philippi. The accumulation of similarities is too detailed to be a coincidence. How do we explain it? Scholars are divided7 over whether the author of Acts was influenced by the Bacchae, with the evidence including the occurrence in both texts of ‘to kick against the pricks’ (as noted above) and of the root qeomac(fighting against deity).8 Whatever the truth of that, it seems to me impossible that the detailed structural similarity that I have described can be wholly explained by such influence. What we have is rather a pattern of action whose powerful effect on the imagination was persistent enough to make itself felt in these two texts separated by five centuries. I suggest that the power and persistence of the pattern may derive, at least in part, from its relation with the powerful and persistent ritual of mystic initiation. I have elsewhere9 argued in detail that a large number of the actions and experiences of Pentheus in the Bacchae reflect (or rather refract) mystic initiation. Given the general conservatism of ritual and the 142 Return to Table of Contents

Thunder, lightning and earthquake in the Bacchae and the Acts of the Apostles observable continuity of the mysteries, the argument may, with caution, take some of its evidence for the mysteries from a period much later than the Bacchae. For example, Pentheus’ strangely agitated actions and experiences (as narrated by Dionysos) in the ‘earthquake scene’ correspond in a remarkable way to those described three centuries later by Plutarch as the sufferings that occur in mystic initiation (an account influenced by, but certainly not wholly dependent on, Plato). Whereas Pentheus persists in this anxiety, even attacking the light, the chorus’ reaction to the ‘greatest light’ reflects the mystic transition from despair to joy. And so the ‘earthquake scene’ contains both the mystic transition (the chorus) and its rejection (Pentheus). Rather than repeating the argument here, I want to extend it to the elements common to our three passages. Most of these elements do in fact seem to be reflections (or rather refractions) of mystic ritual: the animosity of the persecutor,10 the hymn,11 trembling, rushing vainly into the dark house,12 liberation from imprisonment, the command to rise from the ground, the light in the darkness, god as light,13 as well as the central element, which is my main concern here: thunder, lightning and earthquake. A fragment (70b Snell) of a dithyramb by Pindar describes a ritual of Dionysos (Bromivon [tele]tavn) on Olympos, in which the ecstatic celebrations include the ‘all-mastering thunderbolt breathing fire’ as well as ‘rJovmboi of drums’. rJovmbo" here seems to mean ‘whirling’, but its basic meaning is the bull-roarer, an instrument whirled round to produce a roar, used in the Dionysiac mysteries.14 In Euripides’ Helen a list of the accoutrements of the Dionysiac thiasos includes ‘the whirling circular earthquake-in-the-air (e[nosi" aijqeriva) of the rJovmbo" (1362–3). A function of this instrument in the mysteries may have been, as it was in native Australian initiations,15 to frighten the initiands16 with a sound of unseen source. The following fragment of Aeschylus’ Edonians, a play similar in plot and in detail to the Bacchae, is probably from the entry-hymn of the Dionysiac chorus. Twanging shrieks out, and bull-voiced mimes bellow in answer from some unseen place, and the image of a drum,17 as of thunder under the earth, is carried along, heavily terrifying.

Here the ‘thunder under the earth’ suggests the terrifying roar that accompanies an earthquake (and indeed seems to be the converse of the ‘earthquake-in-the-air’ in the Helen passage).18 The combination of thunder and earthquake, the confusion of man and bull, the voice from an unseen source, all these are also to be found in the earthquake scene of the Bacchae. These and various other passages when taken 143 Return to Table of Contents

Richard Seaford together suggest that the Dionysiac thiasos used drums and torches in their ritual to evoke earthquake, thunder, and lightning. In Sophokles’ Antigone Dionysos is as ‘earthshaker’ (ejlelivcqwn) closely associated with dancing at Thebes (152–4). A third century AD graffito from Dura-Europos records an invocation of Dionysos in which it seems that he has the title ‘Earthquake’, apparently so as to shake his followers.19 In the Bacchae Earthquake (“Ennosi") is invoked (probably by Dionysos) to shake the earth (585) on which Dionysos’ followers are standing. Earlier in the play the drums, which the chorus are instructed to beat around the house of Pentheus (60–1), are described in the subsequent dithyrambic entry-hymn as baruvbromo" (156), a word used elsewhere by Euripides of thunder.20 A fragment from Aeschylus’ (Dionysiac) Bassarai (23a) contains the words ‘the pine-wood flash of the lightning’ (i.e. the torch). Why did the Dionysiac thiasos evoke earthquake, thunder and lightning? The birth of their god was effected by Zeus’ thunderbolt, which destroyed the baby’s mother Semele. This violent birth of Dionysos was a central theme of the dithyramb,21 as was also accordingly the thunderbolt.22 Indeed in the Bacchae they are themes (along with his second birth from the thigh of Zeus) both of the dithyrambic entryhymn of the chorus and of their hymn that is interrupted by the earthquake scene, in which the tomb of Semele, which is still smouldering with the fire of the thunderbolt by which she was killed (8), flares up with the flame ‘which once Zeus’s thunderbolt-hurled thunder left’ (597–9). This element of the scene signifies both the death of Semele and the birth of the god. The evocation of the thunderbolt by the Dionysiac group is clearly connected with the myth of the thunderbolt at the god’s birth that was narrated especially in the dithyramb. But the myth is not by itself enough to explain the ritual, of which it may to some extent be the projection. We need also to seek an explanation in the nature and function of the ritual. Choral song and dance seem to have been features of mystic initiation,23 and the dithyramb, which exhibits signs of association with mystic initiation,24 may once have been this kind of song. Among these mystic features of the dithyramb is the theme of the (double) birth of Dionysos. It remains therefore to demonstrate, again by a combination of passages, that there is a connection between the thunderbolt and the process of mystic initiation. The first passage is from the aetiological myth of the Eleusinian mysteries, narrated in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, in which various details of the ritual are prefigured. Demeter gives instructions for the 144 Return to Table of Contents

Thunder, lightning and earthquake in the Bacchae and the Acts of the Apostles building of the Eleusinian temple, says that she will prescribe the rituals (o[rgia) to be performed, and is then transformed from her disguise as an old woman into the beautiful goddess. ‘Light shone far out from the goddess’s immortal skin, and her fair hair flowed over her shoulders, and the well-built house was filled with radiance like lightning’ (278–80), with the result that Metaneira is left amazed and voiceless. Riedweg points out that this radiance goes beyond that normally found in an epiphany, and compares a passage of what he shows to be sustained mystic imagery in Plato’s Phaedrus, which contains the same concentration of words for radiance as do the lines of the hymn just quoted (fevggo", lavmpe, aujgh'" in 250b3–d1) and culminates, as does the hymn passage, in lightning – the ajstravptousan (flashing as lightning, 254b5) sight of the beloved.25 Just before this epiphany Demeter’s attempt to immortalise the infant Demophon by hiding him ‘in much fire’ had been fatally interrupted by his mother Metaneira. This episode has been related to an event in the ritual of the Eleusinian mysteries, the nocturnal announcement, accompanied by much fire (uJpo pollw'/ puriv), of the birth of a child to the goddess.26 Further, because this child was sometimes identified with Dionysos, and because the thunderbolt is in antiquity regularly envisaged as fire, it has been suggested that this fire (expressed presumably as torchlight in the darkness) was associated with the thunderbolt by which Dionysos was born.27 This thunderbolt was meant to immortalise Dionysos (and Semele),28 and the precinct where she was blasted was called ‘the island of the blessed’.29 In a myth that clearly reflects mystic initiation30 the Titans kill the infant Dionysos and are then struck by a thunderbolt. In the inscribed funerary ‘gold leaves’, that almost certainly contain formulae of mystic initiation,31 occurs the claim to be of the race of the gods, but to have been struck down by thunder and lightning. I have argued (1986) that the initiand is in fact claiming to be one of the Titans once consigned by the thunderbolt of Zeus to Tartarus (as described in Hesiod’s Theogony), and that the thunderbolt and earthquake with which Prometheus is consigned to Tartarus at the end of the Prometheus Bound belong to a mystic pattern. Others have taken the thunderbolt on the gold leaves to be the one that punished the Titans for killing the child Dionysos. Finally,32 it is of interest that the word hjcei'on (‘gong’) was used both in the theatre, where it was also called brontei'on (as imitating thunder), 33 and in mystic initiation.34 I infer that in the enactment of mystic initiations the Dionysiac thiasos created (with drums and bull-roarers) the impression of a 145 Return to Table of Contents

Richard Seaford thunderbolt and perhaps also of the roar of an earthquake. In myth the thunderbolt was associated with the birth of Dionysos, and in the ritual may well have served to terrify the initiands. The thunder, lightning and earthquake in Bacchae belong to a series of experiences and actions that reflect a rite of passage, mystic initiation. These experiences and actions are those of, on the one hand, the chorus, whose transition from despair to joy reflects the same transition in the ritual, and, on the other hand, Pentheus, whose anxious, hostile resistance does not give way, as it does in the ritual, to joy at the light that embodies the god, but rather persists as a physical attack on this light. In both passages of Acts, on the other hand, the transition is made to acceptance of the god. Once this is understood, we have an explanation of the similarity between the passages of Acts and of Bacchae: the pattern common to all three of them derives from a rite of passage, mystic initiation. A.D. Nock distinguished between on the one hand adhesion, ‘an acceptance of new worships as useful supplements and not as substitutes’, with no new way of life to replace the old, and on the other hand conversion, which is a reorientation of the soul, ‘a turning which implies a consciousness that a great change is involved, that the old was wrong and the new is right’.35 Despite the emotional claims of much Dionysiac cult, initiation into it is largely a matter of adhesion rather than conversion. Our pattern originates as an expression of adhesion but is nevertheless, given the contradictory emotions of mystic initiation, also able to express conversion. III In this section I will concentrate on the question of why thunder, lightning and earthquake should occur in mystic initiation. Section two contains more about thunderbolt than earthquake, but in fact the two often go together in the Greek imagination. In some cases this combination consists in the notion of subterranean thunder, a notion influenced no doubt by the roar that accompanies earthquakes. In particular, there are four passages of tragedy, apart from the Bacchae, in which it seems to mark a significant transition. One is the ending of the Prometheus Bound, mentioned above. Another is from the ending of the Oedipus at Colonus, where it seems to announce the imminent death of Oedipus (1606). A third heralds the emergence from the sea of the bull that destroys Hippolytus (Eur. Hipp. 1201–2). And so when the chorus of Euripides’ Electra, at the crisis of the action, compare the distant shouting, which means either death or salvation, to ‘the 146 Return to Table of Contents

Thunder, lightning and earthquake in the Bacchae and the Acts of the Apostles subterranean thunder of Zeus’ (748), it is a comparison with awesome associations. Apart from their similarity of sound, earthquake and thunderbolt are perhaps the most dramatic manifestations of the helplessness of humankind before the power of nature or of deity. The thunderbolt, ‘all-mastering’ in the Pindaric dithyramb quoted above, according to Herakleitos ‘steers everything’.36 As for earthquakes, I can testify from my own experience of one, in Kalamata in 1986, to a sense (easily imagined as life-changing) of something uncanny, a unique helplessness, an irresistible impression of there being someone shaking the earth. For Christianity earthquakes have been generally taken to be divine punisment for sin, as for example the great Lisbon earthquake of 1755. At the centre of ancient Greek religion, on the other hand, is ambivalence of various kinds. An earthquake might be thought to be punishment for sacrilege (against Poseidon),37 or divine discouragement for a military expedition, but also divine encouragement for a miltary expedition (Xen. Hell. 4.7.4). Earthquake and thunderbolt, with their dramatic destructiveness, are enacted in the ritual, and so are brought from the realm of uncontrolled nature into the realm of culture, where their terror is manageable: it has a function in the ritual. What was this function? It belongs, primarily, to the negative aspect of the rite of passage. The initial stage of a rite of passage must detach the initiands from their previous identity and prepare them for their new one. Of the painful disorientation characteristic of this stage in various cultures Walter Burkert uses a significant metaphor (but without any thought of the connection we have established between initiation and earthquake): ‘the unsettling experience has the effect of shaking the foundations of personality and making it ready to accept new identities.’38 Detachment from the previous identity may require divine force; and indeed the need for this force, to enable the rites of passage to perform their vital roles, was one source of the Greek conception of the power of deity. For instance, because the Greek girl was imagined to resist the transition to marriage,39 she is in myth imagined as forced from her parental home by deity – e.g. the Proitids by ‘all-mastering’ Hera,40 or Io by Zeus on pain of her whole family being destroyed by his thunderbolt.41 So too, in the Bacchae, Dionysos forces the women of Thebes in frenzy from their homes, to be initiated into his thiasos (32, 36), and Dionysos is imagined to be present42 to ‘compel’ initiation (469–70).43 Thunderbolt and earthquake may have played a role in this process of disorientation and detachment (though 147 Return to Table of Contents

Richard Seaford they did not succeed with Pentheus), thereby contributing to the fear and suffering that we know (from evidence of various kinds from various periods) to have been imposed on the initiand in the initial stages of mystic ritual.44 This is not to say that thunderbolt and earthquake were simply one of various ways of terrifying the initiand. In the earliest mention of the dithyramb Archilochus says that ‘I know how to lead the dithyramb, the fine song of Dionysos, when my mind is thunderbolted with wine’ (oi[nw/ sugkeraunwqei;" frevna", fr. 120 W). The thunderbolt at the birth of Dionysos, was, we have seen, a central theme of the dithyramb. Here the singer envisages his own inebriated inspiration as a kind of participation in the blast. Experience of the thunderbolt turns out to have a positive aspect. The invocation at Dura-Europos seems to ask Dionysos to come as ‘Earthquake’, apparently to shake up the group making the invocation. My experience at Kalamata was of a kind of exhilaration mixed up with the fear. In the Bacchae 45 and in Aeschylus’ Edonians (fr. 58) the shaking of the house of Dionysos’ enemy Pentheus is envisaged in terms of Bacchic frenzy.46 This suggests two further functions for the earthquake. Firstly, it is assimilated to the frenzy of the worshipper: in both cases, earthquake and frenzied dance, the god inspires an irresistible shaking that through disorientation detaches you from your previous identity. Secondly, this power is stronger than the power of other men over you. The potential of cults such as the Dionysiac to attract political repression,47 and the need to ensure continued performance of the cult by telling of initial resistance that caused catastrophe, combine to create myth in which the deity who shakes is able to invade not only the souls of those whom he makes his adherents but also the space enclosed by rulers, space that expresses the exclusivity of their authority as well as their power to enclose by imprisonment the adherents of the god. Even the thunderbolt can be a reminder of the instability of cosmic (and political) structure: ‘Zeus who thunders on high will put the above beneath’ (Ar. Lys. 772–3). Horace, claiming to have been converted to religious belief by thunder from a clear sky, muses ‘god has the power to exchange the lowest with the highest, and diminishes the famous, advancing the obscure’ (Odes 1.34.12–14). Another factor, conceivably, in the ambivalence of the thunderbolt is that despite its violence it might be the herald of fertilising rain. More importantly, lightning can kill, but is also not dissimilar – as a bright, unpredictable, divinely-created light – to the light that brings salvation in the mysteries.48

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Thunder, lightning and earthquake in the Bacchae and the Acts of the Apostles Notes 1

The mss. reading fw'" in 630 is certainly correct. The translations are from the New Revised Standard Version, with the correction ‘light’ for ‘lights’ at 16.29. 3 Nestle; Brenk 421. 4 Brenk 421 n. 23. 5 In the Bacchae the god does subsequently appear to the group. In the version at Acts 22.9 the group sees the light but does not hear the voice. 6 Though not at 22.6, where however the light is called brighter than the sun. Cf. Luke 17.24. 7 Vögeli (427) summarises view up to 1953. Hackett (1956) argues against influence. 8 Acts 5.39; Ba. 45, 325, 1255, cf. 635–6. 9 Seaford (1981), (1987), (1996) 42. 10 The negative emotions of the initiand combine, in their projection on to the mythical figure of Pentheus, with the theme (characteristic of aetiological myth) of resistance to the cult, perhaps also even with a distant historical memory of actual resistance: Seaford (1996) 43, 188 (480 n.), 201 (616–37 n.). 11 See n. 23 below. 12 Plutarch fr. 178 ‘at first wanderings and tiring runnings around and certain frightening journeys through the darkness that lead nowhere, then before the completion itself all the terrible things, terror and trembling and sweat and amazement etc.’ 13 Seaford (1996) 190 (496–7 n.), 200 (606–9 n., 608–9 n.), 202 (628 n.). On impressions of great light (‘photisms’) during recorded accounts of the experience of conversion see James (1902) 251–3. Cf. also the ‘being of light’ seen in near-death experiences (induced perhaps in the mysteries). 14 West (1983) 155, 157, 171; Kannicht (1969) 357. 15 This was first pointed out over a century ago by Andrew Lang (1884) 39, 51. 16 On frightening the mystic initiands see e.g. Schol. Ar. Wasps 1363b. 17 tupavnou d∆ eijkwvn, a generally accepted emendation of the ms. tumpanou' eijkwvn. It is translated ‘semblance’ or ‘echo’, but may, I suggest elsewhere (1997), be related to the practice of using the tympanon as a mirror. 18 With this confusion cf. the confusion of sounds implied by rJovmboi tupavnwn in the Pindar fragment, and the confusion of heaven with earth in Polyphemos’ Dionysiac mystic vision at Eur. Cyc. 578–80 (see Seaford ad loc.). Cf. als Ar. Lys. 772–3 and Horace Odes 1.34 12–4 quoted below. 19 kai; su; movle pa'n to; mevdw[n] kavleson Brovmie [s]w'n propovlwn E'i[nosi… (of the last three letters only the bottom half is preserved). If Ei[nosi goes with propovlwn cf. gh'" e[nosi" at Orph. fr. 285.24. Porter (1948) 29, 35–6 (in fact Ei[nosi" always means earthquake, literally or metaphorically). 20 Phoen. 182; cf. Hipp. 1201–2. Cf. Dionysos’ title Bromios (roaring). 21 Plato Laws 700b; Seaford (1994) 268 n. 148; Mendelsohn (1992) 115–6. 22 Archil. fr. 120; Pi. fr. 70b (quoted above); Mendelsohn (1992). 23 Ar. Frogs 382–7; Lucian Salt. 15; Plut. Fr. 178; Aristeid. Quint. Mus. 3. 25. 24 Seaford (1981) 268. 25 Riedweg (1987) 51, 63. 2

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Richard Seaford 26

Hippol. Ref. Haer. 5. 8 p. 96.16 W; Richardson (1974) 26–7, 233. Mendelsohn (1992) 119. 28 Diod. Sic. 5.52.2. 29 Suda and Photius s.v. Makavrwn nh'so"; Tzetzes ad Lykophr. 1194, 1204. Mavkar is a word associated with the permanent happiness achieved by mystic initiation. ‘Elysion’ seems to derive from ejnhluvsion (‘struck by lightning’): Burkert (1960) 208–31. 30 West (1983) 140–75. 31 Seaford (1996) 41. 32 I omit various other passages that may reflect the association of the thunderbolt with fictive death or rebirth in initiation: Eur. Phoen. 1039–43, fr. 472. 11 (ms. bronta;"); Ar. Clouds 265; Hdt. 4.79.2; Pl. Rep. 621b, Phaedr. 254b; D.L. 1.5; Porph. VP 17. 33 Schol. Ar. Clouds 292; Pollux 4.130. 34 Apollod. FGH 244 F 110. 35 Nock (1933) 7. 36 Fr. 64 (cf. 66): for the place of this in the mystic pattern of his thought see Seaford (1986) 18. 37 Diod. Sic. 15.49; Pausan. 7.24. 38 Burkert (1987) 102. 39 Seaford (1987) 106–7. 40 pagkrath;", like the thunderbolt in the Pindaric dithyramb: Bacchyl. 11.43 ff.; Seaford (1988). 41 Prometheus Bound 667–72. 42 On the presence of deity in the mysteries see Riedweg 24–5, 142–7. 43 Cf. Livy 39.18.8 necessarium of Dionysiac initiation. Somewhat different is the resolution by the goddess Isis (in a vision) of the fears of Lucius about being initiated into her mysteries: Ap. Met. 11.19, 22 (cf. 5, 28, 29). 44 e.g. Burkert (1987) 92–3, 104, 114; Riedweg 63–7. See also notes 12 and 16 above. 45 Seaford (1996) 199 (587 n. and 592 n.). 46 As is also the destruction of the house in Euripides’ Herakles (896–7, 905, 1142, etc.) and Erechtheus (fr. 65.47–54) and Plautus’ Amphitryo (1094–6). 47 The classic case is narrated in Livy bk. 39. 48 Note the emphasis on beholding the fire of the thunderbolt at Ba. 596 (cf. e.g. aujgavzein also in mystic imagery at 2 Cor. 4.3–4). My thanks go to David Catchpole for his comments on this paper. 27

Bibliography Barrett, C.K. 1994 A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, Vol. I, Edinburgh. Brenk, F.J. 1994 ‘Greek Epiphanies and Paul on the Road to Damascus’, in U. Bianchi (ed.) The Notion of ‘Religion’ in Comparative Research, Rome, 415–24.

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Thunder, lightning and earthquake in the Bacchae and the Acts of the Apostles Burkert, W. 1960 ‘Elysion’, Glotta 39, 208–13. 1987 Ancient Mystery Cults, Harvard. Hackett, J. 1956 ‘Echoes of Euripides in the Acts of the Apostles?’, Irish Theolog. Quarterly 23, 218–27 and 350–66. James, W. 1902 The Varieties of Religious Experience, London. Kannicht, R. 1969 Euripides Helena, vol. 2, Heidelberg. Lang, A. 1884 Custom and Myth, London. Mendelsohn, D. 1992 ‘Sugkeraunovw : dithyrambic language and Dionysiac cult’, CJ 87, 105–24. Nock, A.D. 1933 Conversion, Oxford. Porter, H.N. 1948 ‘A Bacchic graffito from the Dolicheneum’, AJP 69, 27–41. Richardson, N.J. 1974 The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, Oxford. Riedweg, C. 1987 Mysterienterminologie bei Platon, Philon und Klemens von Alexandrien, Berlin and New York. Seaford, R.A.S. 1981 ‘Dionysiac drama and the Dionysiac Mysteries’, CQ 31, 252–75. 1986 ‘Immortality, salvation and the elements’, HSCP 90, 1–26. 1987 ‘Pentheus’ vision: Bacchae 918–22’, CQ 37, 76–8. 1988 ‘The eleventh ode of Bacchylides. Hera, Artemis, and the absence of Dionysos’, JHS 108, 118–36. 1994 Reciprocity and Ritual. Homer and Tragedy in the Developing City-State, Oxford. 1996 Euripides Bacchae, Warminster. 1997 ‘In the mirror of Dionysos’, in S. Blundell and M. Williamson (eds.) The Sacred and the Feminine in Ancient Greece, London. Vögeli, A. 1953 ‘Lukas und Euripides’, Theolog. Zeit. 9, 415–38. West, M.L. 1983 The Orphic Poems, Oxford.

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10

ATHENA AND THE AMAZONS: MORTAL AND IMMORTAL FEMININITY IN GREEK MYTH 1 Susan Deacy Introduction In Book 3 of Diodoros of Sicily, a special and natural relationship is expressed between Athena and the Amazons: mavlista d∆ aujtav" fasi parormh'sai pro;" th;n summacivan ∆Aqhna'n dia; to;n o{moion th'" proairevsew" zh'lon, wJ" a]n tw'n ∆Amazovnwn ajntecomevnwn ejpi; polu; th'" ajndreiva" kai; parqeniva". They say that Athena especially urged them on to the alliance2 because of their same zeal for their chosen principle of existence, as indeed, the Amazons clung tenaciously to manliness (andreia) and virginity (parthenia). (3.71.4)

Like Athena, the Amazons are seen to adhere to their chosen course of life, which involves retention of the two qualities andreia and partheneia. The association is underscored in the following description where Diodoros states that as well as inciting the Amazons to battle, Athena leads their army. This close association may appear somewhat surprising on account of typical depictions of Athena and the Amazons with certain obvious distinctions. The Amazons are enemies of Greek civilisation whose society is locationally and organisationally represented as Other and as such, threatening. Situated on the periphery of civilisation, it is a gynaikokracy where normative socio-sexual roles are inverted.3 In contrast, Athena, the city protectress, is located at the heart of civic life and represented as concerned with upholding patriarchal values.4 One way of accounting for the divergence of the material in Diodoros from these demonstrable contrasts between Athena and the Amazons might be through dismissing his testimony as late and unreliable, contending that it has naively been assumed that because both are armed warriors, there should necessarily be affiliation between 153 Return to Table of Contents

Susan Deacy them. However, to write off this evidence risks seriously misunderstanding the place of Athena in mythic discourse.5 Examination of the logic of the myth can show that while her function of defining and strengthening social identity is of crucial importance, she can also be used to challenge and interrogate norms. I aim to demonstrate that through her person, societal norms are destabilised and space provided for contemplating within the polis situations deemed appropriate in Amazonland. I shall demonstrate that the figure of Athena serves to distort and destabilise societal norms to a comparable, and possibly more disturbing, extent than that effected by the Amazons. Of importance to my study is the notion that the subversive natures of Athena and the Amazons may largely be accounted for in their status as parthenoi. Nubile but unmarried, parthenoi could be deemed capable of possessing andreia. Jean-Pierre Vernant has explored associations between the status of parthenos and that of warrior, adducing as examples both Athena and the Amazons. He has demonstrated that prior to marriage, the parthenos might be deemed to be not exclusively and properly feminine, and consequently, capable of assuming warrior attributes and characteristics.6 As we shall see, as parthenoi who reject normal marriage, Athena and the Amazons may be seen as transgressive. They differ from ordinary parthenoi, who were located within civilised, male-dominated society and were accorded only the potential to be transgressive. Athena and the Amazons thereby exhibit female behaviour not regulated by marriage.7 Moreover, through their confusion of gendered norms, they serve to expose tensions within the societal division between the sexes in terms of roles and attributes, and thereby expose a certain fluidity in apparently strictly divided categories.8 As recent studies have shown, Greek deities were defined in relation to mortals but were also deemed capable of transcending mortal restrictions.9 In exploring the relationship between Athena and the Amazons, I will not be proposing straightforward correspondence between them. Indeed, as we shall see, the differences between them are striking and revealing.10 Amazons It is beyond the scope of this paper to examine in any exhaustive way the complex and continually developing Amazon myth:11 rather, I shall focus on a few telling examples, highlighting underlying features where appropriate. The Amazons provide an excellent means of occasioning reflection 154 Return to Table of Contents

Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth upon civilised norms, in that their society is constructed as an inversion of them. In an Amazon ethnos gunaikokratoumenon located in Libya and described in Diodoros, the male role is represented as wholly domestic: the men, he tells us, to;n katoikivdion e[cein bivon, uJphretou'nta" toi'" uJpo; tw'n sunoikousw'n prostattomevnoi", ‘spent their days about the house, carrying out the orders which were given them by their wives’ (Loeb), while the women, practised ta; kata; povlemon, ‘the arts of war’, performed armed service and maintained political control (3.53.1–2). Inversion serves as a means of expressing the Amazons’ difference, but also of reflecting upon the division between the sexes. The men were kept indoors, according to Diodoros, because, e[mellon fronhmatisqevnte" ejpiqhvsesqai tai'" gunaixiv, ‘being presumptuous, they might attack the women’ (3.53.2). Two interpretations suggest themselves. First, it could be that the Greek perception of male superiority is permeating the discourse, so that Amazon men are accorded a domestic role, but, as inherently superior men, are considered to pose a threat to female rule. Alternatively, it is possible that the statement expresses, through inversion, an uneasiness characterising malefemale relationships, whereby the possibility that women might be other than subordinate and weak is proposed. Any such possibility is, however, soon dismissed, for Amazon society, which challenges society’s closely defined precepts, is not permitted continued existence. In the account in Diodoros, its destruction is effected by Herakles, for: …deino;n hJgouvmeno", eij proelovmeno" to; gevno" koinh'/ tw'n ajnqrwvpwn eujergetei'n periovyetaiv tina tw'n ejqnw'n gunaikokratouvmena. he considered it appalling if intending to do good services for the whole race of mankind, he should allow any of the peoples to be ruled by women. (3.55.3)

Like the numerous other prodigies Herakles encounters and defeats, the Amazons are inimical to civilisation. They have an organised society, but a perverted one governed by women.12 Elsewhere, an alternative account of the Amazon defeat is given, namely that it took place following the closely fought battle which occurred when they invaded Attika.13 Lysias describes their invasion and defeat thus: …ejnomivzonto de; dia; th;n eujyucivan ma'llon a[ndre" h] dia; th;n fuvsin gunai'ke": plevon ga;r ejdovkoun tw'n ajndrw'n tai'" yucai'" diafevrein h] tai'" ijdevai" ejlleivpein. a[rcousai de; pollw'n ejqnw'n, kai; e[rgw/ me;n tou;" peri; aujta;" katadedoulwmevnai, lovgw/ de; peri; th'sde th'" cwvra" ajkouvousai klevo" mevga, pollh'" dovxh" kai; megavlh" ejlpivdo" cavrin paralabou'sai ta; macimwvtata tw'n

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Susan Deacy ejqnw'n ejstravteusan ejpi; thvnde th;n povlin. tucou'sai d∆ ajgaqw'n ajndrw'n oJmoiva" ejkthvsanto ta;" yuca;" th'/ fuvsei, kai; ejnantivan th;n dovxan th'" protevra" labou'sai ma'llon ejk tw'n kinduvnwn h] ejk tw'n swmavtwn e[doxan ei\nai gunai'ke". They were considered men through their bravery, rather than women through their nature; for they seemed to surpass men in their spirit rather than to be inferior to them in form. They ruled over many peoples, and in fact enslaved those men dwelling around them. Hearing of the great reputation of this land of ours, they were moved by increase of glory and high ambition, and taking their most warlike of peoples, they marched against this polis. But when they encountered noble men, they acquired spirits like their nature; and gaining a reputation which was the opposite of the former, on account of the dangers rather than their bodies, they appeared to be women. (Funeral Oration 4–5)

Before their defeat, they act in a manly manner, and indeed appear to surpass men. But they are essentially seen to be vulnerable females whose femininity is demonstrated and precipitates their defeat. Gender norms have been played with and perceived norms are now reinstated. While they prospered, they exhibited andreia, but they are inevitably unsuccessful in retaining the quality. In defeat, their weak, feminine nature is paramount.14 Women in myth who exhibit andreia are characteristically accorded exceptional status, until in defeat, their femininity is shown to be their most characteristic attribute. Kainis-Kaineus is the most extreme instance of this precept. Kainis was a girl who had sex with Poseidon. Following the encounter, she asked to be transformed into an invulnerable man, and her request was granted. She goes one stage further than the Amazons who were ‘considered men’ in that she actually became one, Kaineus. However, she became an abnormal man, who did not take part in sexual relationships and inordinately worshipped his spear. With his new-found invulnerability, he could not be wounded, so in order that he might be punished for his hubris, Zeus called upon the centaurs to overcome him. They achieved this through beating him into the ground. In defeat he became female again. Like the Amazons, in defeat, femininity becomes evident.15 Through marriage with Greek men, another means is provided whereby Amazons might be rendered inferior, and deemed to have been assigned in part at least to their proper female place. Such marriage differs from that within the inverted society of the Amazons, where it does not entail their taming so that they remain independent of male domination and control, taking charge of public affairs and designating domestic matters male concerns. In fact, not having experienced what would be considered proper marriage, they remain 156 Return to Table of Contents

Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth parthenoi. As Giulia Sissa’s study has demonstrated, the term parthenos can be applied to females who had experienced sexual intercourse, but beyond the confines of legitimate marriage.16 However, when Amazons participate in marriage with Greek men, they become subject to male dominance. For example, following abduction by Theseus, the Amazon Antiope settled down with her husband and when the Amazons invaded Attika, fought by his side. Despite having become the wife of a Greek male, she retained her Amazonian pugnacity. However, a married woman, she exercised it on behalf of her husband. The clear-cut opposition between male and female elsewhere central to the Amazonomachia is complicated since one of the warrior females aligns herself with the Athenian men against her compatriots. She does not survive the battle in that she is killed by Molpadia, one of her fellow Amazons (Paus. 1.2.1; Diod. 4.28.3–4). One Amazon kills another in what is elsewhere a straightforward battle between Amazons and Athenian men. Athena The Amazon myth was formulated in opposition to norms.17 In aligning herself with Athenian men and fighting on their behalf, Antiope may be seen to undercut the precepts of the myth. Neither a normal wife nor a normal Amazon, she is an aberration. But is not Athena also? Athena too chooses to fight on the side of men, and unlike Antiope perpetually does so, a permanent symbol of a warrior female who aligns herself with male society. Antiope is prevented from continuing to be able to assist her husband for she does not survive the battle. An Amazon who aligns herself with male society, she is allowed to flourish briefly only. But Athena thrives as a constant and undefeated endorser of male society. She differs both from the more usual Amazons by virtue of her place within society, and from the exceptional Antiope on account of her immutability. She upholds norms, but in so doing, may be seen to exceed and destabilise them. This paradoxical tension between the upholding and the destabilising of societal norms operates in three main areas, which I shall now consider. First, I shall consider the place of marriage in the myth of Athena and highlight parallels and differences as compared with marriage among the Amazons. I shall then consider locational similarities between them, and finally, give consideration to the place of Athena within the city of Athens and how, with her, alterity consonant with that of the Amazons is brought to the civilised centre. Unlike the Amazons, the solitary goddess Athena rejects marriage, 157 Return to Table of Contents

Susan Deacy whether inverted marriage of the kind operating in Amazonland or one like Antiope’s, which as we have seen involves her partial restriction. It is through choice, rather than with connotations of compulsion, that Athena aligns herself with male society and values, and because she makes this choice without being forced, the status quo is accorded divine sanction. However, her very act of aligning herself with male values involves rejection of a key feature of these values, as may be exemplified by the following words ascribed to her in Aischylos’ Eumenides. First, her close relationship with ‘the male’ is emphasised: mhvthr ga;r ou[ti" ejsti;n h{ m∆ ejgeivnato, | to; d∆ a[rsen aijnw' pavnta, ‘no mother gave birth to me and I approve of the male in every respect’ However, it is then revealed that she does so with a proviso: plh;n gavmou tucei'n, ‘with the exception of undergoing marriage’ (736– 7). In rejecting marriage, she refuses to participate in a key feature of the male-dominated society she otherwise strives to uphold. A permanently transgressive female therefore inhabits and champions the civilised centre. The passage continues, kavrta d∆ eijmi; tou' patrov", ‘and I am entirely of the father’ (738), thus pointing back to her earlier comment pertaining to her lack of a mother and, moreover, ahead to her vindication of the matricide Orestes.18 Her anti-marital sentiments are therefore situated within a passage which stresses and points ahead to her association with ‘the male’. Yet in the same passage, we see that she fails to adhere wholly to male values. Her sentiments are borne out in a well-attested myth in which a paternally sanctioned attempt is made to marry her. She is betrothed to Hephaistos by Zeus and then pursued by him for sex. She successfully rejects his advances, in one source wounding him in the process.19 In this myth, her antipathy to marriage is not merely stated but demonstrated also, and her opposition to marriage is thereby underscored. She does not conform to the principle that transgressive females should ultimately suffer defeat, and as such, can be seen to be particularly ambivalent. Her defeat is proposed, but not realised. However, she is also connected with the assertion of male control over women through marriage. In a myth recorded in Pausanias, Athena helped bring about the defloration of the Troizenian parthenos Aithra by Poseidon, through appearing to her in a dream and telling her to go to a nearby island to pour a libation. On the island, Poseidon had intercourse with her. After this, Aithra founded a temple to Athena Apatouria and instigated a custom whereby before marriage, parthenoi would dedicate their zwvnai, girdles, to the goddess (Paus. 2.33.1). In doing this, the women perform symbolic dedications of their virginity 158 Return to Table of Contents

Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth prior to their exposure to male sexuality.20 The presentation of girdles also forms part of the Athenian Apatouria festival, over which Athena Apatouria co-presided, and with which Athena Zosteria, ‘of the girdle’ is associated. At the festival, male zwsth''re", as opposed to the female zwvnai in the Aithra myth, were presented to wives who had recently become mothers for the first time. This involves making the wives comparable to Amazons in that the Amazon queen wore a zwsthvr.21 However, in the Apatouria, a festival performed in the civilised centre, the presentation of girdles represents the incorporation into maledominated society of wives who had helped sustain this society through giving birth to legitimate offspring. Parallels may be drawn between the wives and the Amazon queen, who was defeated by Herakles. The androcentric bias of the festival is confirmed by its primary concern with the assertion of male citizen identity.22 Athena’s place in this festival exemplifies her role in upholding the status quo. In the above discussion, Athena’s relationship with civic norms is shown to be variable. The notion of Athena is volatile, fluctuating between deviating from norms, endorsing them and indeed being potentially harnessed to them. As such, her myth may be related to other means whereby norms are called in question and played with consciously or unconsciously by Athenian men. Through the cult of Dionysos, for example, means were provided whereby gendered norms might be distorted by men. Dionysos, a god who confounds normal gender distinctions, is often seen to be a women’s god, but men too might partake of his Otherness. The so-called ‘Anakreontic’ vases belong to the Dionysiac sphere and depict men engaged in ecstatic revelry wearing clothes and carrying attributes which normally characterise women and barbarians, such as long himatia, parasols and earrings. In dressing and behaving thus, the men engage in activities from which they should normally dissociate themselves. According to Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague, the vases present ‘the organised and regulated allowance of disorder’ so that the men ‘manage to move just a little in his [Dionysos’] direction but they never reach him’.23 They argue that only women and barbarians who are truly Other have the capacity for genuine communion with the god. However, their arguments may be pushed further. The vases show men engaged in as ecstatic an activity as any in which women and barbarians participate. For a short time, the men might be permitted to take on attributes normally denied them.24 Because their actions follow socially-prescribed rules, the men are to be contrasted with cross-dressers such as Aristophanes’ Agathon, who 159 Return to Table of Contents

Susan Deacy adopts female clothing when he chooses, and whose transvestism is therefore anti-social.25 Athena, a female who adopts masculine traits, complements such figures in that her transvestism too is chosen. In the Iliad for example, in order to arm herself for battle, she removes from her body the dress which she wove for herself (5.733–42). Ambivalence comparable with that which she is accorded is displayed by male transvestites, and may also be experienced temporarily by others. The Oschophoria festival draws on the Otherness of both Athena and Dionysos in that it involved ritual transvestism by two young men who led a procession from a sanctuary of Dionysos to that of Athena Skiras at Phaleron.26 Athena and Dionysos function as complements, both of whom confuse norms, the former being a female who exhibits masculine characteristics and the latter, a male with feminine traits. Moreover, in addition to displaying within society behaviour which would normally be considered subversive, both figures serve to bring alterity to society from the periphery, which was deemed the proper place for transgressive female, and indeed barbarian, behaviour. In Euripides’ Bakchai, Dionysos is represented as having entered society from the periphery, bringing with him disruptive power, while simultaneously being associated with society on account of his status as a member of the Theban royal family. Athena, too, may be seen to be associated with the periphery and to bring to society Otherness associated with it. A great deal could be made of Athena’s relationship with Dionysos in this respect, but consideration of it is beyond the scope of this study and will therefore be reserved for future discussion. For the present, I shall explore the place of dialogues between centre and periphery as exhibited by Athena and the Amazons. Locational similarities may be identified between Athena and the Amazons in that, like them, she is represented entering the civilised centre from the periphery. As we saw above, one location of Amazonland is in Lake Tritonis in Libya. This region is in fact particularly associated with transgressive femininity. The Gorgons are also located there. According to Diodoros, they were a warrior race, defeated by Perseus on his visit to the west and eventually wiped out by Herakles (Diod. 3.54.3). Also, in his Libyan discourse, Herodotos describes a rite in honour of Athena involving the donning of warrior clothing and fighting, which was performed by parthenoi of the Ausean tribe dwelling on the shores of the river Triton, which ran into lake Tritonis. For the duration of the rite the parthenoi would be permitted to exhibit andreia, and distinctions which were normally strictly defined might 160 Return to Table of Contents

Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth become blurred and traversed. Inversions of the type which constitute the norm in Amazon society and in the person of Athena occur in a temporary ritual context.27 The region which produces these warrior women also spawns Athena. Following his account of the rite performed by the Ausean parthenoi, Herodotos comments: th;n de; ∆Aqhnaivhn fasi; Poseidevwno" ei\nai qugatevra kai; th'" Tritwnivdo" livmnh", kaiv min memfqei'savn ti tw'/ patri; dou'nai eJwuth;n tw'/ Diiv, to;n de; Diva eJwutou' min poihvsasqai qugatevra. They [the Libyans] say that Athena was the daughter of Poseidon and the Tritonian lake, and that, having found fault with her father for something, she gave herself to Zeus, who made her his daughter. (4.180.5)

The very lake in which Amazonland stands therefore gives birth to her (cf. Paus. 9.33.7, Aesch. Eum. 292–5). In myth, Poseidon is said to be dominant in the west (e.g. Pl. Criti. 113) and by virtue of his association with this area, he is an appropriate father of Athena born in this region. Another account of Athena’s parentage is therefore presented. On one level, the Athena-Poseidon relationship within Greece is inverted, for she is his enemy there, and here, his daughter. At Athens, she competes successfully with him for the position of patron deity. Here, however, she is his daughter. But the divergence is resolved by the fact that conflict is said to be central to the relationship, for, following strife, the origin of which is tantalisingly not disclosed, she makes herself daughter of Zeus.28 It would appear that it is in Athenian myth specifically that Athena is associated with Libya. She is thought to have come to Athens from there in order to compete with Poseidon and take up her position as patron deity. Other regions, in contrast, locate her birth within their own region, beside a Triton, but a local one.29 In Athenian myth, however, she is born not only beyond Athens, but beyond Greece also, in the world of the Amazons. She is therefore assigned the initiative of coming to Athens in order to compete for the position of patron deity. Once again, then, she is seen to uphold civic norms through her own choice. Moreover, it is not the case that having become chief deity, she is located exclusively within Athens. Rather, she continues to come to her city on her own initiative, as may be demonstrated through her simultaneous association with civilised centre and periphery exhibited in the Eumenides. Besieged by the Erinyes and clinging to the statue of Athena on the Athenian akropolis, Orestes asks Athena to come to his assistance from wherever she happens to be, whether the site of the

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Susan Deacy Gigantomachia or Trivtwno" ajmfi; ceu'ma geneqlivou povrou, ‘around the waters of the Triton, her natal stream’ (293). The possibility that Athena might come to Orestes from the Triton region on one level evokes her association with the Amazons in that, like them, she is envisaged entering Athens from the periphery. However, Orestes imagines Athena in the region of the Triton to be fivloi" ajrhvgous∆, ‘rescuing there her friends’ (295, tr. Borthwick), demonstrating thereby what Borthwick styles her ‘protective military role’.30 When the Amazons came to Athens, they sought to employ their military skills to the detriment of Athens. Athena’s however are employed for the sake of the civilised good. She comes to her statue on the akropolis in response to Orestes’ invocation and vindicates his matricide. Throughout the Oresteia, a number of agents have been put forward by Zeus to champion Agamemnon, culminating with Athena, who alone is capable of resolving, in favour of the ‘male’, the conflict which has prevailed throughout the trilogy and which reaches its climax in the opposition between on the one hand Apollo, the advocate of Orestes and champion of order and masculinity, and on the other, the female, terrifying Erinyes. In a passage towards the end of the play, her male bias is made explicit. She comments, ‘Zeus Agoraios has triumphed’ (973). Zeus Agoraios, Zeus ‘of the Agora’, is patron of the non-female world.31 Unlike the Amazons, she is associated with both centre and periphery. A masculine female who intercedes on behalf of male values, she is the appropriate patron of the defeat of subversive female elements. Athena’s simultaneous association with the periphery and centre may be substantiated by her characteristic epithet Tritogeneia, a plausible meaning of which is ‘Triton-born’, referring to her birth from the head of Zeus beside the river Triton (see LSJ sv.). The epithet also attests her pugnacity as is borne out by its appearance in Homeric Hymn 28, To Athena, where it is associated with her birth in armour from Zeus: Pallavd∆ ∆Aqhnaivhn, kudrh;n qeovn, a[rcom∆ ajeivdein glaukw'pin, poluvmhtin, ajmeivlicon h\tor e[cousan, parqevnon aijdoivhn, ejrusivptolin, ajlkhvessan, Tritogenh', th;n aujto;" ejgeivnato mhtiveta Zeu;" semnh'" ejk kefalh'", polemhvia teuvce∆ e[cousan, cruvsea, pamfanovwnta: Pallas Athena, glorious goddess, I begin to sing gleaming-eyed, very cunning, possessing an uncompromising heart,

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Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth pure parthenos, saviour of cities, courageous, Tritogeneia, cunning Zeus himself gave birth to her out of his terrible head, arrayed in warlike arms of gold, gleaming; (1–6)

Tritogeneia forms the climax of the list of rousing epithets, and is forcefully placed at the start of a line. As such, it not only concludes the epithets, but also serves as a link between it and the account of the birth of the armed Athena.32 Its position, then, suggests a specific connection with the birth. If so, the epithet refers to Athena’s origins as a warrior female born in the Triton region. Moreover, the epithet also amplifies her suitability as upholder of patriarchal order within the polis, for it is as Tritogeneia that she is patron of the Pyrrhic dance, performed in military training.33 The epithet is therefore intrinsic to her role as patron of civilised, male warfare. The association of Athena Tritogeneia with patriarchal order is also seen in the establishment of order in the universe made possible with her birth. In the subsequent description in the Homeric Hymn, Athena is shown both to exhibit, and to exercise control over, power inimical to the civilised order. On the occasion of her birth out of Zeus’ head, cosmic terror is generated: mevga" d∆ ejlelivzet∆ “Olumpo" deino;n uJpo; brivmh" glaukwvpido": ajmfi; de; gai'a smerdalevon ijavchsen: ejkinhvqh d∆ ajra povnto", kuvmasi porfurevoisi kukwvmeno": e[kcuto d∆ a{lmh ejxapivnh": sth'sen d∆ ÔUperivono" ajglao;" uiJo;" i{ppou" wjkuvpoda" dhro;n crovnon, … Great Olympos began to reel horribly at the might of the glaukopis goddess and earth round about cried horribly, and the sea was moved and tossed with dark waves, while foam burst forth suddenly: the bright Son of Hyperion stopped his swift-footed horses a long while, … 9–14 (Loeb tr. adapted).34

However, she does not employ her alterity in opposition to the civilised order. As the Hymn continues, chaos exists only eijsovte kouvrh ei{let∆ ajp∆ ajqanavtwn w[mwn qeoeivkela teuvch Palla;" ∆Aqhnaivh: ghvqhse de; mhtiveta Zeuv". until the maiden Pallas Athena had stripped the heavenly armour from her immortal shoulders. And wise Zeus rejoiced. 14-16 (Loeb tr. adapted)

Through her actions, the terror is averted. She takes the initiative of 163 Return to Table of Contents

Susan Deacy removing from her body that which created the disorder, and thereby restores order to the kosmos. In associating her power with her father, she affirms his rule. In some sources, her birth occurs when Zeus has only recently attained control of the universe. It functions to resolve the succession problem which has until now brought disorder to the Universe. Zeus came to power through usurping his father Kronos and before that Kronos came to power when he overcame his father, Ouranos. Zeus, warned that his pregnant wife, the wily and dangerous Metis, would give birth to a son who would usurp his position, swallowed her and in time Athena was born out of his head.35 At this point, it is worth adducing another level of signification which, as Athanassakis demonstrates, may be present in the epithet Tritogeneia, namely that it connoted tritos, three and geneia, so that Athena is ‘she who is born for three’. As Athanassakis argues, Athena, the product of the strife, stands for three protagonists in the account and for their previously distinct characteristics, now united in her person. She inherits Metis’ creative ingenuity, Zeus’ ruling characteristics and the warlike properties of the son whose threat has now been neutralised.36 Rather than the threatened and threatening son, she is a daughter with dangerous power which she aligns with that of her father. She thereby augments Zeus’ power and his reign over the civilised order. But although Athena is represented as advocating and endorsing the civilised order, her alliance with ‘the male’ could be called into question. In a version of the Athena-Poseidon confict over Athens (August. De civ. D. 18.9), the name of the city is said to derive from Athena following her victory. At this time, according to the myth, women had a public voice. The women and men therefore took part in a vote to decide from which of the deities the city should take its name. Voting occurred along lines of gender differentiation, in that the men voted for Poseidon and the women for Athena, and because there were more women than men, Athena was victorious. To appease the consequent wrath of Poseidon, the women were punished, losing their right to vote, for children to bear their name and to be called Athenian women. The myth hinges upon tensions between Athena’s status as upholder of male values and destabiliser of them. On one level, the women were mistaken in voting for Athena. They attempted to assert authority in an Athens which is represented as not yet having relegated women to inferior status, but which, even so, is governed by male values in that their perceived champion is Athena. Consequently, the myth may be seen to commemorate male victory over women 164 Return to Table of Contents

Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth endorsed by the goddess who upholds male values.37 Parallels may be identified between this account and the Lysias passage cited and discussed above, where Athenian male glorification is seen to derive from victory over the Amazons. Athena may therefore be seen to be involved in the silencing of two groups of disturbing females.38 But as well as supporting the male, Athena is presented as a women’s goddess for whom no man voted. Without the women’s vote, Athena would not be civic goddess. Her status is derived from female behaviour subsequently prohibited. Through the defeat of the women but her retention of her status as chief deity, she may be seen as the last remnant of female power otherwise suppressed. Moreover, as such she may be seen to represent continued disorder within society. In a fragment of Euripides, the situation deemed appropriate to Amazon society which, as we have seen, is constructed by means of inverting perceived gender norms, is imagined in the city itself: eij kerkivdwn me;n ajndravsin mevloi povno" gunaixi; d∆ o{plwn ejmpevsoien hJdonaiv: ejk th'" ejpisthvmh" ga;r ejkpeptwkovte" kei'noiv t∆ a]n oujde;n ei\en ou[q∆ hJmei'" e[ti. If the work of shuttles were the concern of men and if the pleasure of weapons should fall upon women then those who result from this knowledge would be nothing, nor ourselves any more. (Fr. 522)

In Aristophanes’ Birds, examples are provided of an Athenian man who works with shuttles and of a woman located within society who takes pleasure in weapons.39 The character Peisthetairos asks of the utopia Cloudcuckooland: kai; pw'" a]n e[ti gevnoit∆ a]n eu[takto" povli", o{pou qeo;" gunh; gegonui'a panoplivan e{sthk∆ e[cousa Kleisqevnh" de; kerkivda … And how would that be a well-ordered polis, where a god born a woman stands in full armour and Kleisthenes holds a spindle? (829–31)

Once, again parallels may be identified between Athena and a male transvestite. The joke is at the expense of both the much ridiculed effeminate Kleisthenes and his complement, the masculine female Athena, who, like him, is shown to be out of place in the idealised Athens. Gendered inversion is, with her, brought from the periphery to the centre.

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Susan Deacy Conclusion In the myths of the silencing of women in Athens and of the Amazons, women’s subordination is not simply stated but is endorsed through the narration of alternative situations which are ultimately rejected. Through Athena, who is shown to align herself with and champion male-dominated society, this subjugation of female power is endorsed. In her myth, alternatives are considered, but because she consistently promotes male authority and control, societal norms may be understood to be verified. But she also challenges the very norms she advocates, and remains a transgressive female who is not defeated but celebrated. Notes 1

Versions of this paper were delivered at research seminars at Lampeter (March 1994), Oxford (June 1994) and Keele (March 1996), the ‘What is a God?’ conference at Gregynog (July 1994) and the Classical Association Conference at Nottingham (April 1996). I am grateful to the audiences at these meetings for their advice and criticism. Also, I am thankful to Keith Hopwood, Alison Sharrock and Richard Seaford for their invaluable comments on drafts of the paper. Any errors are, of course, my own. Sue Blundell and Ken Dowden kindly let me read and refer to their unpublished/forthcoming papers. 2 With Dionysos, herself and Ammon against Cronos and the Titans; for the details see Diod. 3.71–2. 3 On Otherness in Amazon society, see J. Blok, The Early Amazons: Modern and Ancient Perspectives on a Persistent Myth, Leiden 1994, vii–viii, 126–36, 279– 80; on Amazons as threatening see Blok op. cit. ix–xi; 173–4; on locations of Amazon society, see Blok op. cit. 4 Thus as Walter Burkert has commented: ‘Athena is everywhere the preeminent citadel and city goddess; often this is…expressed in her epithets, Polias, Poliouchos. Her temple is therefore very frequently the central temple of the city on the fortress hill.’ Greek Religion, Oxford 1985, 140. 5 On the reliability of the account, see J.O. de G. Hanson, ‘The myth of the Libyan Amazons’, Museum Africum 3 (1974) 38–43. 6 J.-P. Vernant, Myth and Society in Ancient Greece, London 1980, 23–4. 7 On male domination and control of women through marriage, see R.A.S. Seaford, ‘The tragic wedding’ JHS 107 (1987) 106–30. 8 On these categories, see R. Just, Women in Athenian Law and Life, London 1989, 153–93. 9 See J.-P. Vernant, Mortals and Immortals: Collected Papers, Princeton 1992, 27–49: 29: ‘Like everybody and anybody, a god sees, hears, and understands. But for all that, a god does not require specialized organs like our eyes and ears. A god is ‘wholly’ seeing, hearing, understanding’. More specifically, as Nicole Loraux has demonstrated in her study of what constitutes goddesses, the femininity of goddesses differs but cannot wholly be separated from that

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Athena and the Amazons: mortal and immortal femininity in Greek myth of mortal females, so that ‘a goddess is not the incarnation of the feminine, yet she often represents a purified, and even more often a displaced, form of femininity.’ ‘What is a Goddess?’ in P. Schmitt Pantel (ed.) A History of Women in the West: Vol I, Cambridge Mass. 1992, 11–44, 481–9:43. 10 I therefore disagree with François Hartog who allows only for superficial, or even coincidental, similarities between Athena and these women. He writes: ‘there are no connections between the Amazons and Athena, despite the fact that the latter is both a virgin and a warrior’, The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, Berkeley 1988, 224 n. 29. His assessment is too extreme: the status of both as virgins and warriors is in fact emblematic of deep similarities between them. As he has rightly pointed out, the Herodotean Amazons are ignorant of naval matters since, after killing the Greeks who had captured them and taken them on board ship, they drifted until reaching the land of the Scythians. As he writes, they thereby ‘show their deficiencies in the field of technical knowledge: they know nothing of the Athena who guides ships or of the Athena of the horse’s bit’, op. cit. 224. On this level, Athena and the Amazons certainly differ in that the Amazons play no part in Athena’s civilising functions such as these. But we should not expect them to. To assume simple one-to-one correspondence between mythic figures risks presuming too much of mythic discourse, and matters are compounded when one figure is a deity and the other mortal. The similarities are played out in other respects. 11 On this see Blok, op. cit. 136–143, and, K. Dowden, ‘The Amazons: development and function’ (forthcoming, Rh.M. 1997). 12 On Herakles’ Amazonomachia, see, further, Blok op. cit. 349–430. 13 Artistic representations of this myth are discussed by Sue Blundell in ‘Marriage and the maiden: narratives on the Parthenon’ (unpublished paper). 14 On this speech, see further D. Castriota, Myth, Ethos and Actuality: Official Art in Fifth-Century BC Athens, Wisconsin 1992, 49; N. Loraux, The Invention of Athens: The Funeral Oration in the Classical City, Harvard 1986, 147–8. On Amazons as feminine in defeat, cf. Blok’s discussion of Achilleus’ falling in love with Penthesileia once she has been fatally wounded by him and has consequently lost her warrior qualities, op. cit. 195–288. 15 Apollod. Epit. 1, 22; Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.57 ff.; Ov. Met. 12, 459 ff.; Hyg. Fab. 14, 242. On other transgressive females, see V. Zajko, Women’s Resistance to Sex and Marriage in Greek Myth, Ph.D. thesis, Exeter 1993, passim; S.J. Deacy, ‘The vulnerability of Athena: parthenoi and rape in Greek myth’ in S. Deacy and K.F. Pierce (eds.) Rape in Antiquity, London 1997. 16 G. Sissa, Greek Virginity, Harvard 1990, 73–123. 17 See Blok, op. cit. passim. 18 See further A. Sommerstein, Aeschylus: Eumenides, Cambridge 1989, 231. 19 Eratosth. [Cat.] 13 = Eur. fr. 92 Radt (in which Athena wounds Hephaistos); cf. Fulg. Myth. 2.14; Lactant. Div. Inst. 1.17; Hyg. Fab. 116; Etym. Mag. s.v. Erechtheus; Lucian Dial. d. 13; Antig. Car. 12; Apollod. Bibl. 3.14.6; schol. Hom. Il. 4.8; Hyg. Poet. Ast. 2.13; Nonnus, Dion. 42.247–51. For further discussion of this myth, see Deacy op cit.; Blundell op. cit. 20 See further P. Schmitt, ‘Athena Apatouria et la ceinture: les aspects

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Susan Deacy féminins des apatouries à Athenes’, Annales E.S.C. 32 (1977) 1059–73; Deacy op. cit. 21 Blok, op. cit. 424–30. See also Dowden’s discussion of the relationship between zwsth're" and zwvvai, op. cit. 22 See Pantel, op. cit; H.W. Parke, Festivals of the Athenians, London 1987, 88-92. 23 F. Frontisi-Ducroux and F. Lissarrague, ‘From ambiguity to ambivalence: a Dionysiac excursion through the ‘Anakreontic’ vases’ in D.M Halperin, J.J. Winkler, F.I. Zeitlin (eds.) Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient World, Princeton 1990, 211–56: 230, 232. 24 On male worship of Dionysos, see also the assumption of attributes of the cult of Dionysos by Cadmos and Teiresias in Euripides’ Bakchai. Furthermore, the City Dionysia is a highly masculine festival: see e.g. J.J. Winkler, ‘The Ephebes’ song: tragoidia and polis’, in J.J. Winkler and F.I. Zeitlin (eds.) Nothing To Do With Dionysos? Athenian Drama in its Social Context, Princeton 1990, 20–62, and S. Goldhill, ‘The great Dionysia and civic identity’ in J.J. Winkler and F.I. Zeitlin (eds.) op. cit. 97–129. 25 Frontisi-Ducroux and Lissarrague, op. cit. 228. 26 Parke, op. cit. 77. 27 On this rite, and others like it, see further, Vernant, Myth and Society, 24–5. 28 The initiative taken here by Athena is comparable with that demonstrated in her rejection of marriage arranged by Zeus. On both occasions, she may be seen to transgress the norms of father-daughter relationships by virtue of her assumption of an active role. This feature of her father-daughter relationships is considered in my forthcoming Ph.D. thesis. 29 On this, see further S.J. Deacy, ‘Athena in Boiotia: local identity and cultural identity’ in J.M. Fossey (ed.) Boiotia Antiqua 5, McGill 1995, 91–103. 30 E.K. Borthwick, ‘Two notes on Athena as protectress’, Hermes 97 (1969) 385–97. 31 See further Sommerstein op. cit. 269. 32 For comparable association between Tritogeneia as warlike and as born from Zeus cf. Hes. Theog. 924–6. 33 Ar., Nub. 988–9, with scholia; Borthwick op. cit. 34 Cf. Pind, Ol. 7.36–8: where Athena leaps from Zeus’s head, gives a war cry and thereby causes Heaven and Earth to tremble. 35 See further M. Detienne and J-P. Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society, Sussex 1978, 107–30. 36 A.N. Athanassakis, ‘The birth of Athena Tritogeneia’, Hellenika 40 (1989) 7–20. 37 Cf. Loraux, The Experiences of Tiresias: The Feminine and the Greek Man, Princeton 1995, 187–8; Castriota, op. cit. 146–9. 38 The relationship between the myth and the defeat of the Amazons is also discussed in Dowden op. cit. 39 On the relationship between the two passages, see A.H. Sommerstein (ed.) Aristophanes: Birds, Warminster 1987, 252.

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11

ORPHIC GODS AND OTHER GODS A.-F. Morand Introduction In this inquiry, I will discuss the contrasting ways in which two gods, Eubouleus and Hipta, are described in the Orphic Hymns. The Orphic Hymns are a hexametric text comprising a prologue or prayer and eighty-seven Hymns.1 Each Hymn begins with a title naming the god to whom the poem is addressed and the name of a plant, a burnt offering to the god. The Hymn itself is a long list of epithets or short clauses referring to the god, closed by a prayer. The addressees are a variety of known deities: the gods of the Greek Pantheon; Orphic gods such as Protogonos; obscure deities, such as Mise, an androgynous Dionysos, and Hipta, Dionysos’ nurse, who is connected with Sabazios. The eight Hymns to Dionysos stand at the centre of the corpus; he receives the greatest number of Hymns.2 The Hymns are generally thought to come from Asia Minor, and to date between the second and the fifth centuries AD.3 The Orphic Hymns are likely to have been used by an actual community. They refer to rituals like the offering of plants, to religious officials like the ‘oxherd’, boukovlo", and to participants in the cult, such as ‘new initiates’, neovmustoi. Because they are likely to constitute an actual cult text, the Hymns are invaluable for our knowledge of the history of religion, however tedious they may sometimes seem to modern readers. Because of difficulties of interpretation, the Hymns have been underexploited. Despite excellent studies of the epithets and religious content of some of the Hymns, a general commentary does not yet exist.4 Too often, en passant references to one Hymn or another are made, without any sense of the interdependence of the whole corpus. Jane Harrison describes the Hymns in the following words: If, in attempting to understand Orphic Theogony, we turn to the collection of hymns known as ‘Orphic’, hymns dating for the most part about

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A.-F. Morand the fourth century AD, we find ourselves at once in an atmosphere of mystical monotheism. We have addresses to the various Olympians, to Zeus and Apollo and Hera and Athene and the rest, but these are no longer the old, clear-cut, departmental deities, with attributes sharply distinguished and incommunicable; the outlines are all blurred; we feel that everyone is changing into everyone else. A few traditional epithets indeed remain; Poseidon is still ‘dark-haired’, and ‘Lord of the Horses’ – he is a stubborn old god and hard to fuse; but, for the most part, sooner or later, all divinities greater or less, mingle in the mystery melting-pot, all become ‘multiform’, ‘mighty’, ‘all-nourishing’, ‘first-born’, ‘saviours’, ‘all-glorious’, and the like. In a word the several gods by this time are all really one, and this one god is mystically conceived as a potency (daivmwn) rather than a personal divinity (qeov").5

In different terms, Harrison’s ideas persist today: that the Orphic Hymns describe hopelessly blurred gods, all more or less merged into one another; that they are not a valid source for our knowledge of Orphism. This essay aims to show, on the ground of concrete evidence, how two different gods, Eubouleus and Hipta, are treated in the Hymns and the use that can be made of the evidence. For Hipta, epigraphy helps to place the goddess in the context of local cult. With both deities, the stress on the way they appear in the Hymns and subsequently the interdependence of these deities with the whole text will suggest the ways the Hymns can be used as a source. Since the word ‘Orphic’ seems never to be used nowadays without the qualification ‘so-called’, a last prefatory remark is necessary. It is obviously important to know whether concepts such as Orphic or Orphism existed in ancient times. The problem is largely modern; the ancients simply ascribed poems to Orpheus. As regards the Hymns, the ideas expressed in the text are in harmony with other testimony about the writings of Orpheus; I have no reason to believe that the address ‘Orpheus to Mousaios’, found at the beginning of the Hymns, does not belong with the rest of the text. Allowing for variation over time, our definition of Orphism should begin from writings associated with the name ‘Orpheus’, not from our ideas of what is or is not Orphic. Eubouleus is not the addressee of a Hymn; his name appears several times in the Hymns in association with other gods. Hipta is the recipient of Hymn 49. The aspects of a cult that also existed for Eubouleus will be discussed in the second part, in connection with Hipta. Eubouleus The name ‘Eubouleus’ raises several questions which have implications for our understanding of the religious ideas in the Orphic 170 Return to Table of Contents

Orphic gods and other gods Hymns.6 Since both the forms ‘Eubouleus’ and ‘Euboulos’ appear, is there a corresponding difference in the gods each name is applied to? Does the designation ‘Eubouleus’ denote a god or is it merely a divine epithet? How is Eubouleus represented in the Hymns and for what purpose? These questions will be discussed after a brief presentation of the passages where the names ‘Eubouleus’ and ‘Euboulos’ occur. In the Hymns, Eubouleus is mentioned exclusively in descriptions of other gods. It usually is one of the names of Dionysos. Persephone is called ‘mother of loud Eubouleus of many shapes’, mh'ter ejribremevtou polumovrfou Eujboulh'o" (29.8). In Hymn 30, Dionysos is called ‘Eubouleus, of many counsels, born from the unnameable unions of Zeus and Persephone, immortal demon’, Eujbouleu', poluvboule, Dio;" kai; Persefoneivh" | ajrrhvtoi" levktroisi teknwqeiv", a[mbrote dai'mon: (30.6–7). Often in the Orphic Hymns we find play on words with similar resonance and meaning, sometimes with etymological implications, such as ‘provider of good counsels (Eujbouleu')’, ‘of the many counsels (poluvboule)’. Mise, a feminine or androgynous Dionysos, is called ‘much remembered seed, Eubouleus of many names’, spevrma poluvmnhston, poluwvnumon Eujboulh'a (42.2). In the Hymn to Trieterikos, Dionysos is portrayed as ‘nocturnal Eubouleus, bearer of the mitra, who shakes the thyrsus’, nuktevri j, Eujbouleu', mitrhfovre, qursotinavkta (52.4). The Dionysos associated with the name ‘Eubouleus’ is the son of Persephone and Zeus, a nocturnal figure connected with the Underworld.7 In all these passages, Eubouleus appears in the vicinity of the word a[rrhto", ‘unnameable’, and is connected with the principal mysteries of the community using the Orphic Hymns. ‘Eubouleus’ also occurs to describe another god. Thus, Tyche, who is also called Artemis in the same Hymn, is described as ‘born from the blood of Eubouleus’, Eujboulh'o" | ai{mato" ejkgegaw'san, (72.3–4); this probably alludes to Pluto or Zeus Chthonios.8 The name ‘Euboulos’ only appears twice: in Hymn 18, Euboulos qualifies Pluto, ‘Euboulos receiver of many’, w\ poludevgmwn|Eu[boul’ (18.11–12). Euboulos is paralleled, in Hymn 18, with other names, all placed at the beginning of the line: ‘Chthonian Zeus’, ‘Pluto’, ‘Euboulos’.9 Finally, in Hymn 41, to Mother Antaia, a name for Demeter, Euboulos appears to be a mortal made immortal, ‘having made a god of Euboulos by mortal necessity’,10 Eu[boulon teuvxasa qeo;n qnhth'" ajp∆ ajnavgkh" (41.8). This Euboulos seems to be similar to the swineherd brother of Triptolemos who was autochthonous from Eleusis and who saw his pigs swallowed into the ground during the rape of Kore.11 In sum, the name ‘Eubouleus’ and ‘Euboulos’ are used 171 Return to Table of Contents

A.-F. Morand most of the time to qualify Dionysos, twice for Pluto, and once for a mortal made immortal. The first problem that needs to be addressed is whether the distinction between the names Eubouleus and Euboulos corresponds to an actual distinction in the Hymns. As both forms are used for Pluto, they appear to be used indifferently.12 In the second section, we will see that the forms Sabos and Sabazios are used in the same way. Furthermore, the occurrences of Euboulos resemble those of Eubouleus. The passage where Dionysos is called ‘provider of good counsels, of many counsels’, Eujbouleu', poluvboule (30.6), shows that Eubouleus is used like an epithet; but it is also used as a divine name, along with Pluto or Zeus Chthonios. This intermediate position between name and epithet makes this word ideal for describing the unity of the divine. Protogonos, Ericepaios and Phanes serve a similar function. This phenomenon is paralleled outside the Hymns: Macrobius, speaking of the Sun, quotes verses of Orpheus where the words ‘Phanes’, ‘Dionysos’, ‘Eubouleus’, and ‘Antauges’, are different names to describe one aspect of the divine.13 Macrobius then discusses the meaning attached to each name. This perfectly parallels the Hymns for the use of ‘Eubouleus’ as a unifying name. The Hymns stress a connection, but the connection does not produce an indiscriminate amalgam. The Hymns insist on various aspects of Eubouleus: the fact that Eubouleus’ birth should not be spoken of, and his nocturnal aspect. The adjectives which most commonly qualify him are poluvmorfo", ‘of many shapes’, and poluwvnumo", ‘of many names’.14 There is an insistence on these terms, but it remains to be decided whether the implication is that the gods are more or less interchangeable, as J. Harrison asserted. Eubouleus qualifies an Underworld Dionysos, Zeus Chthonios, or Pluto, and implies a connection between these deities in their Underworld functions. The mortal Euboulos, who was made a god, appears in a Hymn where the descent of Mother Antaia in Hades is described, as well as the union of Zeus Chthonios (41.5; 41.7). Eubouleus is used to stress the link between these figures and at the same time, each Eubouleus gains some characteristics of the god he qualifies, through the epithets. (Dionysos) Eubouleus is ‘loud roaring’; (Pluto) Euboulos is the ‘receiver of many’. In the Orphic Hymns Eubouleus links different gods – and gains the characteristics of the god he qualifies – but lacks definite features of his own. Other Orphic texts emphasise the unity of the divine in its diversity; Eubouleus may be considered a vehicle for this notion in the Hymns. Because Eubouleus was described in varied ways and in 172 Return to Table of Contents

Orphic gods and other gods relation to various gods and because of his position somewhere between a divine epithet and a full character, Eubouleus was chosen in the Orphic Hymns as a unifying qualification; a way to show the coherence, parallelisms, and identities between different gods. This trend, found in Greek religion, is especially characteristic of Orphism.15 The ‘Eubouleus of many shapes’ used to convey a sense of unity provides a first answer to the question What is an Orphic god? But the picture is not yet complete. Hipta Hipta was revered in a cult and is alluded to in texts attributed to Orpheus. I will first discuss the texts other than the Orphic Hymns. Hipta is mentioned in four inscriptions from around Kula, northeast of Philadelphia in the region of Lydia called Katakekaumene. These inscriptions date from the first to fourth centuries AD , and were found within ten to twelve kilometres of each other.16 One of these inscriptions, found in a private house in Kula, is as follows: Diei; Sabazivw/ kai; Mhtrei; Ei{pta: Dioklh'" Trofivmou, ejpei; ejpeivasa peristera;" tw'n qew'n, ejkolavsqhn ij" tou;" ojfqalmou;" kai; ejnevgraya th;n ajrethvn17 To Zeus-Sabazios and Mother Hipta Diocles son of Trophimos. Because I caught the doves of the gods I was punished in the eyes and had the act of divine power inscribed.

This text is one of the many socalled ‘confession inscriptions’ from second- and third- century AD Maeonia or Katakekaumene.18 Like the others this text describes an offence to a god or gods, the god’s punishment by means of physical injury, the god’s forgiveness, praise of the god’s power, and finally the erection of a stele.19 In this case it is

Plate 1. Photograph by the German Archaeological Institute in Rome.

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A.-F. Morand not clear whether the stele was erected to beg for their forgiveness or to thank the gods for healing the injury. If we compare this text to the other ‘confession inscription’ addressed to Sabazios and Hipta, a certain number of specific features appear: the offence of theft of the divine property and punishment affecting the eyes.20 The first stele stresses pairs – two eyes, two gods, and two birds, since a pair of doves and of eyes is represented above the text.21 These texts prove that Hipta was not invented by the author or authors of the Hymns. The words ”Ipta/ Ei{pta are of non-Greek origin – reflected on the steles where the name is not declined.22 It is interesting that mother Hipta is a goddess only attested by inscriptions from a confined area. It has been suggested that all the inscriptions come from a single sanctuary to mother Hipta and Sabazios.23 The stolen doves of the gods may imply the existence of a sacred grove.24 Apart from the inscriptions, Hipta is only attested in writings attributed to Orpheus. Proclus in his commentary on the Timaeus speaks of writings of Orpheus On Hipta, kai; oJ jOrfeu;" ejn toi'" peri; th'" {Ipta" lovgoi".25 He also states elsewhere in the same text: liv k non ej p i; th' " kefalh' " qemev n h kai; drav k onti auj t o; peristev y asa… uJpodevcetai Diovnuson: …oJ de; ajpo; tou' mhrou' tou' Dio;" proveisin eij" aujthvn… 26 having placed a winnowing basket on top of her head and coiled a snake around it, she received Dionysos… He came forth from Zeus’ thigh to her…

This passage links Hipta and the infant Dionysos at the moment just after his birth from Zeus’ thigh. The Orphic Hymn to Hipta confirms and completes the inscriptional evidence. I will start from the Hymn itself, then move to its immediate context, and finally to its place in the collection of Orphic Hymns. 49 ”Ipta", qumivama stuvraka. ”Iptan kiklhvskw, Bavkcou trofovn, eujavda kouvrhn, mustipovlon, teletai'sin ajgallomevnhn Savbou aJgnou' nukterivoi" te coroi'sin ejribremevtao ∆Iavkcou.26a klu'qiv mou eujcomevnou, cqoniva mhvthr, basivleia, ei[te suv g∆ ejn Frugivhi katevcei" “Idh" o[ro" aJgno;n h] Tmw'lo" tevrpei se, kalo;n Ludoi'si qovasma: e[rceo pro;" teleta;" iJerw'i ghvqousa proswvpwi. Hymn to Hipta, make a fumigation of storax. I invoke Hipta, the young lady nurse of Bacchos who cries euai, Celebrating rites and exulting in the mysteries of pure Sabos27 And the nocturnal dances of loud Iacchos. Listen to me as I pray, Chthonian queen and mother,

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Orphic gods and other gods Whether you are settled in Phrygia, on pure Mount Ida Or whether Tmolos gladdens you, the beautiful dancing place of the Lydians: Come to these mysteries with rejoicing on your holy face.

Hipta, a nurse of Dionysos, celebrates the mysteries of Sabazios and Dionysos. The adjective ‘who cries euai ’ suggests that like the other nurses of Dionysos, she is a member of the Dionysiac cortège.28 The Orphic Hymns often repeat words and play on sounds and resonance. The adjective ‘pure’, for example, is applied to both Mount Ida and Sabos. Tmolos is a mountain in Lydia south of Sardis in the vicinity of the inscriptions naming Hipta.29 The Orphic Hymn to Hipta refers to Sabos/Sabazios, and the Hymn to Sabazios refers to Hipta and Tmolos: ‘on most holy Tmolos, near faircheeked Hipta’ (Tmw'lon ej" hjgavqeon par ”Iptan kallipavrhion 48.4). Outside the Hymns, the name Sabazios describes either Zeus or Dionysos. But this Hymn does not link the two deities, as was the case with Eubouleus. On the contrary, Sabazios is individually defined as the son of Kronos who had Dionysos sown in his thigh. Sabazios is called father (48.1); Hipta is called mother (49.4).30 Though the Hymn to Hipta may have been used separately by members of the community of the Orphic Hymns, it is also clearly connected with the Hymn to Sabazios. Sabazios’ association with Hipta is paralleled in most of the inscriptions.31 Just as both can be addressed on steles, they are the recipients of Hymns. In the Orphic Hymn, Hipta is described as glorifying ‘the mysteries of pure Sabos’. Furthermore, the liknon and the snake mentioned by Proclus in relation to Hipta may well have been cult objects, since the presence of snakes in the mysteries of Sabazios is attested.32 The figure of Dionysos is the key to understanding how the Hymns to Hipta and Sabazios are connected to the rest of the corpus. The Hymns to Sabazios and Hipta stand among the Hymns to Dionysos. These Hymns emphasise the three births of Dionysos and his presence in the Underworld. Hymn 44, addressed to Semele, describes her childbirth pains caused by a fiery light (purfovrwi aujgh'i 44.4). Dionysos Bassareus Trieterikos, who spends time with Persephone,33 is described as ‘engendered in fire’ (45.1). The winnowing basket, mentioned by Proclus in reference to Hipta, does not appear in the Hymn to Hipta, but it appears in the name Liknites. Hymn 46 is addressed to Liknites, or Dionysos of the winnowing basket.34 Perikionios, yet another name for Dionysos, is mentioned and is called giver of wine and fire (47.1 and 47.4–5). Dionysos is described in the Hymns to Hipta and Sabazios, 175 Return to Table of Contents

A.-F. Morand where he is first called ‘loud shouting’, ejrivbromon, and then ‘eiraphiotes’. This last epithet is explained in two ways by ancient authors, by a connection with a goat kid, e[rifo", or with the idea of sewing, rJavptein.35 Characteristically, Nonnos offers both etymologies.36 At the beginning of book 9 of the Dionysiaca, Nonnos describes the lightning which brought Dionysos to birth, and his sewing into Zeus’ thigh. The god is called ‘Eiraphiotes, because his father had sown him in his fruitful thigh’, ejfhvmisan Eijrafiwvthn, | o{tti min eujwvdini path;r ejrravyato mhrw'i.37 When the Hymn to Sabazios qualifies Dionysos as ‘Eiraphiotes, who was sown into a thigh’, eijrafiwvthn, | mhrw'i ejgkatevraya", in emphatic position between two caesurae, it refers to the same etymology of the word and to the same episode of Dionysos’ life.38 Play upon words and meanings is commonly found in the Hymns, as we have seen with ‘Eubouleus of many counsels’ (30.6). The implication is that the epithets of the god are not randomly placed: the order of words is significant; the Hymns convey sense through word order. A further remark should be made. ‘Eiraphiotes’ occurs only once in the Orphic Hymns. The choice of this characteristically Dionysiac epithet is not due to the fact that Dionysos is ‘hard to fuse’ and even less that he is ‘a stubborn old god’. The Hymns qualify Dionysos as a new-born in his relations with his father Sabazios-Zeus and his nurse Hipta. The Hymn to Hipta also contains a description of Dionysos, but the text is unfortunately corrupt. The manuscripts have the following words: nukterivoisi coroi'si puribremevtoi" ijavcoisi (49.3).

The Hymns’ lists of epithets, often with alliteration and assonance, are a fruitful ground for scribal errors. W. Quandt understands this line as: nukterivoi" te coroi'sin ejribremevtao ∆Iavkcou. And the nocturnal dances of loud Iacchos.

In the word puribremevtoi", an error in the ending is easy to explain because of the repeated vowel -oi. But the change from ejri- to puriwould be less understandable. The idea of fire, often present in relation to the birth of Dionysos, fits much better. I would therefore suggest puribremevtao ∆Iavkcou. Hesychius, quoting Timachides, explains the word puribremevta" as a roaring fire or produced by, or born in, a roaring fire.39 Nonnos mentions ‘Eiraphiotes roaring with fire’, purivbromo", Eijrafiwvth".40 As in the Hymn to Sabazios, the Dionysos depicted is not any Dionysos, but the infant, just after his fiery birth from Semele. 176 Return to Table of Contents

Orphic gods and other gods Furthermore, the region of Tmolos, which is mentioned both in the Hymn to Hipta and to Sabazios, and Maeonia, the place of origin of all the inscriptions to these two gods, is volcanic and often shattered by earthquakes. The idea of fire is obviously present even in the word Katakekaumene, one of the names of the region. It is a region of wine and the Tmolos is sometimes described as the place of origin of the Bacchants.41 Strabo ends the description of the Katakekaumene with these words: ∆Astei>zovmenoi dev tine", eijkovtw" purigenh' to;n Diovnuson levgesqaiv fasin, ejk tw'n toiouvtwn cwrivwn tekmairovmenoi.42 Some say with wit, judging from these regions, that it is with likelihood that one speaks of Dionysos born in fire.

In the Greek Anthology, a poem by Macedonios describes Sardis, at the feet of Tmolos, rearing Bromios in the midst of the thunder.43 Sardis speaks in the first person, strengthening the idea that it was regarded as a place of origin of the god. Louis Robert’s summaries of travellers’ accounts of the Katakekaumene show how the region could have been regarded as an ideal setting for the birth of Dionysos: Le voyageur étonné voit d’abord se déployer devant lui comme par enchantement la plaine de Koula sillonnée du nord-est au sud-est par d’énormes coulées de lave, revêtue de scories et de masses poreuses et boursouflées qui ont l’air de nager encore sur la surface d’un fluide incandescent.44 Mais par devant s’étale une mer de rochers noire, couverte de blocs et de saillies raboteuses: le grand flot de lave jeune de Kula.45

The Orphic Hymns to Hipta and Sabazios describe a specific part of Dionysos’ life, his birth amid thunder and his sojourn in Zeus’ thigh. These events are referred to with specific epithets and were probably localised in the region of Tmolos. The inscriptions have shown us that Hipta was the object of a local cult and may have had a sanctuary. The inscriptions all come from a single region, also mentioned in the Hymns. The different pieces of evidence converge. The Hymns to Sabazios and Hipta do not offer a blurred picture. Sabazios is Zeus-Sabazios; Hipta is the nurse of the new-born Dionysos. Dionysos’ epithets refer to the death of Semele and the incubation in Zeus’ thigh. The Hymns may even refer to a version of the myth that was set near Mount Tmolos in Lydia. It would not be a great surprise to find references to a local version of a myth in the Orphic Hymns, just as one finds in Nonnos’ Dionysiaca. Finally, Hipta 177 Return to Table of Contents

A.-F. Morand may be regarded as an Orphic goddess inasmuch as she is associated with the name Orpheus in the Orphic Hymns and in Proclus. In conclusion, I would like to stress two aspects of the divine in the Orphic Hymns. Some gods, like Eubouleus, serve to link different gods. The variety of Eubouleus’ mythic aspects contributes to this. Other gods, like Hipta and Sabazios-Zeus, are individually defined. These are not inventions of the Hymns, nor are they products of merging and amalgamation; they retain their characters, and even local characteristics, as far as the genre of non-narrative Hymns allows. I have chosen the examples of Eubouleus and Hipta to show how these gods are used in the Hymns and how their traditional features are preserved and at the same time transformed. Found in writings assigned to Orpheus as well as in the Orphic Hymns, Eubouleus and Hipta are Orphic gods. Linking myth, cult organisation, and ritual, the Orphic Hymns constitute a fundamental source for our knowledge of religion and especially of Dionysism and Orphism in the first centuries AD .

Notes

1 I am currently working on a doctoral thesis on the Orphic Hymns, under

the supervision of Prof. André Hurst of the University of Geneva. The present essay can only sketch general lines and aspects of the subject not included in my thesis. I should like to thank Prof. Hurst, Prof. P.J. Parsons, and Mr G. Rowe for their comments at various stages of my work. 2 Hymns 30 (Dionysos); 42 (Mise); 45 (Dionysos Bassareus Trieterikos); 46 (Liknites); 47 (Perikionios); 50 (Lysios Lenaios); 52 (Trieterikos); 53 (Amphietes). W. Quandt (ed.), Orphei Hymni, 2nd edn, Berlin 1955; numbers between parentheses, with no further indication, refer to this edition of the text. 3 L. van Liempt, De Vocabulario Hymnorum Orphicorum atque Aetate, Purmerend 1930, 72: AD 3–4 for the vocabulary and syntax. U. von WilamowitzMoellendorff, Der Glaube der Hellenen II, 2nd edn, Basel 1956, 506: ‘Frühestens gegen Ende des zweiten Jahrhunderts n. Chr. ist diese Sprache möglich’. M.L. West, The Orphic Poems, Oxford 1983, 29: ‘… perhaps in the second or third century of our era’. 4 W.K.C. Guthrie, ‘Epithets in the Orphic Hymns’, CR 44 (1930) 216–21; J. Rudhardt , ‘Quelques réflexions sur les hymnes orphiques’, in P. Borgeaud (ed.) Orphisme et Orphée, Recherches et rencontres, Publications de la Faculté des lettres de Genève 3, Geneva 1991, 263–89. 5 J. Harrison, Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion, Cambridge 1903, 625. 6 The figure of Eubouleus has been thoroughly studied; see especially: H.W. Stoll s.v. ‘Eubuleus’ and F.A. Voigt s.v. ‘Eubulos’, in Roscher, Lex. 1.1 (1884–6) 1397; O. Jessen, RE 6.1 s.v. ‘Eubuleus’ (1907) 861–9; F. Graf, Eleusis und die orphische Dichtung Athens in vorhellenistischer Zeit, Religionsgeschichtliche

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Orphic gods and other gods Versuche und Vorarbeiten 33, Berlin and New York 1974, 158–81; idem, ‘Zum Opferkalender des Nikomachos’, ZPE 14 (1974) 139–44; G. Schwarz, LIMC 4 s.v. ‘Eubouleus’ (1988) 43–6. 7 29.7 (Persephone); 30.7 (Dionysos); 42.3 (Mise); 52.5 (Trieterikos). 8 Cf. J.M. Gesner’s comment; in G. Hermann, Orphica cum notis H. Stephani A. Chr. Eschenbachii I.M. Gesneri Th. Tyrwhitti, Leipzig 1805, 341. 9 18.3; 18.4; 18.12 (Pluto). 10 W. Theiler, ‘Textvorschläge zu den orphischen Hymnen’, Philologus 94 (1941) 247: ‘Demeter machte Eubulos zum Gott weg (ajpo; ) von menschlichem Zwang’. 11 Clem. Al. Prot. 2.17.1 (cf. Kern, Orph. frag. 50); Paus. 1.14.2–3 (cf. Kern, Orph. frag. 51); Clem. Al. Prot. 2.20.2 (cf. Kern, Orph. frag. 52). 12 Cf. Corn., Theol. Graec., 35 [p. 74.10–11 Lang], where the forms Eu[boulon and Eujbouleva are found side by side. Cf. P. Krafft, Die handschriftliche Überlieferung von Cornutus’ Theologia Graeca, Heidelberg 1975, 249. Alternative forms, from the different dialects, are found in other divine names, such as “Areu" “Arh"; ÔErmh'", ÔErma'", ÔErmavwn. For different opinions about Eubouleus/ Euboulos in the Hymns, cf. Graf, Eleusis, 173; Graf, ZPE 14 (1974) 143 n. 20; Rudhardt, op. cit. 280. 13 Macrob. Sat. 1.18.12 (cf. Kern, Orph. frag. 237). 14 Eubouleus outside the Hymns is used for Zeus Chthonios and Dionysos. Eleusinian myth speaks of the mortal Eubouleus. These ‘different shapes’ are obviously reflected in the Hymns. Cf. n. 6 for references. 15 For the way in which the different Hymns are related to one another through epithets and the relevance of this phenomenon to Orphism, cf. Rudhardt, op. cit. 263–89 (esp. 269–74). 16 a) Mother Hipta and Sabazios are found beneath two unidentified elongated shapes on a stele reused in the wall of a church in Gölde, near Kula. (first century AD, on the basis of the lettering); J. Keil and A.P. Premerstein, Bericht über eine zweite Reise in Lydien, DAW 54, Vienna 1911, no. 188; P. Hermann, TAM 5.1 (1981) no. 352 (for bibliographical references for the inscriptions to Hipta and Sabazios, cf. TAM 5.1); E.N. Lane, Corpus Cultus Iovis Sabazii II, Leiden 1985, no. 37 (= CCIS ). b) The only inscription that mentions Hipta without Sabazios. From a private house in Menye (Maeonia). Keil and Premerstein suggest a date in the first century AD. Keil, op. cit. no. 169; TAM 5.1 (1981), no. 529. c) A ‘confession’ inscription from Ayazviran (north of Kula). (It probably dates from the second or third century AD .) P. Hermann, Ergebnisse einer Reise in Nordostlydien, DAW 80, Vienna 1962, no. 45; J. and L. Robert, REG 76 (1963) 168 no. 228; TAM 5.1 (1981) no. 459; CCIS II no. 36; G. Petzl, Die Beichtinschriften Westkleinasien, EA 22, Bonn 1994, no. 49. 17 W.H. Buckler, ‘Propitiatory Inscriptions’, BSA 21 (1914–16) 169–72; TAM 5.1 (1981) no. 264; CCIS II no. 40; Petzl, op. cit. no. 50. Cf. Plate 1 (p. 173). 18 R. Pettazzoni, La confessione dei peccati III, Bologna 1936, 54–95; H.S. Versnel, ‘Beyond cursing: the appeal to justice in judicial prayers’, in C.A. Faraone and D. Obbink (eds.) Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion,

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A.-F. Morand New York and Oxford 1991, 60–106 (esp. 75–9). The ‘confession’ inscriptions have been recently gathered and discussed by G. Petzl in the book mentioned in n. 16 c. 19 Petzl, op. cit. ix. 20 Other inscriptions of the same type contain a punishment affecting the eyes; e.g., Petzl, op. cit. no. 5; 16; 45; 85; 93; 99. For other representations of eyes on the stele, cf. no. 5; 90; 99. 21 Cf. Plate 1 (p. 173). Two shapes are found above the first inscription mentioned in n. 16 a. 22 Cf. for instance, the inscription mentioned in n. 16 c. 23 P. Hermann Nordostlydien 51, locates it near Ayazviran. There seems to have been a sanctuary of a Zeus Sabazios connected with wine near Demirci. Cf. H. Malay, Greek and Latin Inscriptions in the Manisa Museum, DAW 237, Vienna 1994, no. 62–7. 24 For a sacred grove dedicated to Sabazios and Artemis Anaitis, cf. Petzl, op. cit. no. 76. 25 Procl. in Ti. 34b [Diehl] (cf. Kern Orph. fragm. 199). 26 Procl. in Ti. 30b [Diehl] (cf. Kern Orph. fragm. 199). 26a Line 2: this is the text of the manuscripts and not of Quandt’s latest edition. Line 3: the text of this line will be discussed later. 27 = Sabazios. 28 Nonnos also mentions several nurses: Dion. 9.28; 9.54; 9.147. 29 For the Ida and the Tmolos compared, cf. Nonnus, Dion. 10.318. 30 On mater/pater in Dionysiac groups, cf. A. Bruhl, Liber Pater, Paris 1953, 245. 31 Close connections between nearby hymns are common; cf. the hymns to Asclepios (67) and Hygieia (68). For an inquiry into the sequence of the Hymns, cf. C. Petersen, ‘Über den Ursprung der unter Orpheus Namen vorhandenen Hymnen’, Philologus 27 (1868) 385–431. 32 Dem. De Cor. 260; Clem. Al. Prot. 2.16.2. Snakes also appear on representations connected with Sabazios, cf. for instance, Malay, op. cit. no. 67. 33 Cf. 53.3–4 (Amphietes). 34 On Dionysos Liknites and Amphietes, cf. for instance, C.P. Jones ‘The Bacchants of the Pontus’, EMC 9 (1990), 53–63; J.-M. Moret, ‘Les départs des Enfers dans l’imagerie apulienne’, RA (1993) 294–351; G. Bowersock, ‘Dionysos as an epic hero’, in N. Hopkinson (ed.) Studies in the Dionysiaca of Nonnus, Cambridge Philological Society suppl. vol. 17, Cambridge 1994, 156– 66. 35 Porph. Abst 3.17; Hsch. s.v. ‘Eijafiwvth"’ [Latte]; Etym. Magn. s.v. ‘Eijrafiwvth"’; ‘ “Ereya’ [Gaisford]. 36 For the etymology e[rifo", cf. Nonnos, Dion. 21.81 (14.155) [Hopkinson and Vian]. 37 Nonnos, Dion., 9.23–4 [Chrétien]; ejpevrrafen Eijrafiwvth" 42.315 [Keydell]. 38 The connection between these words has been noticed by J. M. Gesner; cf. Hermann, op. cit. 311. 39 Hsch. s. v. puribremevta" : Timacivda" (ad Aesch. Sept. 207) de; ãlevgeià h[toi oJ puri; brevmwn, h] dia; puro;" brevmonto" gegonwv" [Schmidt].

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Orphic gods and other gods 40

Nonnos, Dion. 14.229 [Gerlaud]. Cf. W. Quandt, De Baccho ab Alexandri aetate in Asia Minore culto, diss. Halle 1912, 175–8. 42 Strab. 13.4.11 [Jones]. 43 Anth. 9.645 [Beckby]. 44 L. Robert, Villes d’Asie Mineure, 2nd edn, Paris 1962, 292 (P. de Tchihatcheff). 45 ibid. 293 (A. Philippson). 41

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INDEX Where a Greek name has a familiar latinised form, that has normally been used: thus ‘Alcaeus’, ‘Chalcas’, ‘Croton’; but ‘Herakles’.

Achilles, 8, 19 Admetus, 49 Aegina, 58 Aeolic poets, 1 Aeschylus, 20, 114–5, 123–4, 136–7, 143–4, 158; see also ‘Oresteia’ Agamemnon, 132, 162 Aghia Irini, 29 Aiakidai, 58 Aithra, 158 Ajax, 4, 123–4, 130–1, 136 Akrotiri, 7 Alcaeus, 46 Alcman, 71–2, 75 Alyattes, 121 n. 44 Amazons, ch. 10 passim Ameinokles, 110–1 Amphiktyones, 53 Anat, 94 Anaximander, 112 Anemospila, 27 Antaia, Mother, 171–2 Antauges, 172 anthropomorphism, 21–2, 37, 43–4; see also ‘epiphany’, ‘statues’ Antigone, 129–30 Antiope, 157 Apatouria, 53 Aphrodite, 93–4 armed (at Sparta), 88, 95; (at Corinth?) 93, 95 Apollo, 3–5, 19, 21, 29, ch. 4 passim, 93–4, 123–4, 132, 162, 170; see also ‘epithets (cult)’ Lykeios, 132 Patroios, 53 Apollonians, 108–9, 115

Apostles, Acts of, ch. 9 passim archaeology, oriental, 30 Archilochus, 148 Ares, 18 Argos, 53–4, 103 Aristodicus, 102 Aristophanes, 159, 165 Artabanus, 114 Artayctes, 105–6, 111 Artemis, 21, 23, 29, 46, 171 Asclepius, 49 Asine, 49 Asteria, 77 n. 10 Astyages, 120 n. 35 Athena, 3–5, 8, 21, 30, 45, 124–5, 131, 170; and Amazons, ch. 10 passim; in Corinth and Sparta ch. 6 passim Agoraia, 96 n. 2 Alea, 96 n. 2 Amboulaia, 96 n. 2 Apatouria, 158–9 Axiopoinos, 96 n. 2 Chalinitis, 89–91 Chalkioikos, 82–3, 85–7 Ergane, 88–9, 95 Hellotis, 89–90 Hippia, 89 Keleutheia, 96 n. 2 Ophthalmitis/Optilitis, 96 n. 2 of Pania, 99 n. 35 Pareia, 96 n. 2 Phoinike, 90 Poliouchos, 82–3, 87 Skiras, 160 Syllania, 87 Tritogeneia, 162–4

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Index Xenia, 96 n. 2 Zosteria, 159 Athens, Athenians, 25, 51–3, 57, 73, 75, 102, 108, 113, 124, 131, 159, 161, 164–5 Atlas, 66, 73–4 Attica, 155, 157 Ausean parthenoi, 161 Auxesia, 58 axe, double, 2

Delia, 52 Delos, 47, 69, 77 n. 10, 109–10 Delphi, 19, 21, 23, 28, 46, 50, 53–7, 108–9, 132 Demaratus, 103 Demeter, 88, 95, 104, 144–5, 171 Demophon, 145 deus, 15 Diodorus Siculus, 153, 155 Dionysus, 16, 23, 29, 38–9, 88, 95, 125, 129–30, ch. 9 passim, 159– 60, 169, 171, 174–7 cult of, chs. 9, 11 passim Bassareus Trieterikos, 175 Eiraphiotes, 176 Liknites, 175 Perikionios, 175 Dioscuri, 87 divination, 17–19, 21, 45, 47–9, 54, 102, ch. 7 passim, 125, 127–8, 134–6 Di-wi-ja, 16 Dodona, 18–9, 108–9 Dorieus, 103–4 Dreros, 29–30 ‘Drimios, son of Zeus’, 23 Dryopes, 49 Dura-Europos, 144, 148

Bacchylides, 49 Barca, Barcaeans, 101 Barnabas, 4 Bellerophon, 89 bells, 86 birds, 6 Boeotia, 1 Branchidae, 102 Bronze Age, ch. 1, passim, 22 Calypso, 21 Cambyses, 113 Cappadocians, 74 Carneia, 52–4 Cassandra, 19 Chalcas, 18, 45 Chians, 110 Chrysothemis, 123, 132 chthonic divinities, 123, 131–2, 136; see also ‘Erinyes’ Circe, 21 Cithaeron, 66–7, 69, 72–3, 75–6 Cleomenes, 103, 109–10, 114 Clytemnestra, 132–3 Cnidus, Cnidians, 117 n. 14 Corcyraeans, 120 n. 35 Corinna, 72–3, 75 Corinth, Athena at, 89–95 Creon, 123, 129–30 Crete, ch. 1, passim Croesus, 49, 109–110, 114 Croton, Crotoniates, 103–4 Cyrene, 51

earthquake, ch. 9 passim eastern influence, 94; see also ‘Hittites’ Egypt, Egyptians, 102, 106, 113 Egyptian iconography, 30 Electra, 132–3 Eleusis, 103, 145, 171 Enipeus, 68 Enkomi, 24 Ephyra, 18 Epidaurus, 58 epilepsy, 20 epiphany, 3–8, 27–8, 49, 145 epithets (cult), 50–3 Ericepaios, 172 Erinyes, 125, 128–9, 131–3, 136, 161–2 Eros, 93, 125, 129–30

Damia, 58 Deianeira, 127–9

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Index Eubouleus, ch. 11 passim Euboulos, 172 Euenius, 108–9, 115 Eumenides, see ‘Erinyes’ Euripides, 20, 50, 66–7, 69, 76, 123–5, 136–7, ch. 9 passim, 165 Bacchae, ch. 9 passim, 160

Horos, 30 horses, 89, 94 Hyperboreans, 48–9 Ida, Mt., 175 Inachus, 66 Indoeuropean language, 15–16, 19 Io, 147 Iron Age, 22 Ishtar, 94 Isis, 30, 150 n. 43 Ismene, 123 Isopata, 7, 27

fertility symbols, 2 festivals, 52, 87, 90 Furies, see ‘Erinyes’ Gaia, 66 Gitiades, 83 Glaucus, 56, 113 gods, as human creations, 43 Gyges, 109, 112, 114

Kaineus, Kainis, 156 Kalamata, 147–8 Kalapodi-Hyampolis, 23 Karnos, 54 Karphi, 29 Katakekaumene, 173, 177 Kato Symi, 23 Khalkas, see ‘Chalkas’ Kition, 24 Klaros, 17 Knossos, 7–8, 24–6, 28 Kommos, 23 Kronos, 164 Kula, 173 Kumarbis, 74

Hades, 39 Hagia Triada, 2 Hector, 70 Helenus, 134–5 Helicon, 72–3 Helios, 93 Hellotia, 90 Hephaestus, 18, 88, 95, 158 Hera, 23–24, 147, 170 Heraclitus, ch. 3 passim Heraion (Samos), 97 n. 18 Herakles, 96 n. 2, 106, 124–5, 127–9, 133–6, 155 Hermes, 23, 47, 124, 132 Hermotimus, 107–8 Herodotus, 20, 167 n. 10; and divine retribution, ch. 7 passim Hesiod, 30, 31 n. 5, 66 Hesychia, 49 Hipparchus, 112 Hippocratic writing, 20 Hippolytus, 21 Hipta, ch. 11 passim Hittites, 74–5 Homeric epic and theology, ch. 1 passim, 16–21, 30, 45, 68, 70, 137 Homeric Hymns, 47–9, 69, 144–5, 162–3 Horace, 148

Lampon, 108 Lebadeia, 28 Leotychidas, 110, 113 Leto, 29, 69 Libya, 155, 160–1 lightning, ch. 9 passim Linear A, 23 Linear B, 1, 3, 6, 8, 15–16 Lisbon, 147 Lycurgus, 96 n. 2 Lydia, 112–3 Lysias, 155–6, 165 Lystra, 4 Macedonios, 177 Macrobius, 172 Maeonia, 173, 177

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Index Mallia, 27 Mardonius, 108 Mari, 28 Maxims (at Delphi), 55–6 Menander, 20 Metaneira, 145 Metis, 164 Miltiades, 121 n. 39 Minoan art, 1–2, 6–7, 23, 27–8 Minoan religion, ch. 1 passim, 23, 25–7 Mise, 169 Molpadia, 157 monotheism, 43 mountains, 7, ch. 5 passim Mycenae, 3, 23–5 Mycenaean art, 2, 7 Mycenaean epic, 1 Mycenaean religion, chs. 1–2 passim; ‘lost’ gods, 23 Mytilene, 31 n. 15

Palekastro, 26 Palladion, 25 Panionius, 106–8 Paphos, 23–4 Paris (Alexandros), 106, 113 Paul, St, 4, 140. See also ‘Saul’ Pausanias (regent), 108 Pegasus, 89, 92–3 Pentheus, 139, 141–3, 146, 148 Periander, 120 n. 35 Persephone, 171 Perseus, 74 Persia, Persians, 104–5, 108 Persian threat (of 490s and 480s), 57 Phaeacians, 3 Phaleron, 160 Phanes, 172 Pheretime, 101, 108, 110, 120 n. 35 Phidias, 22 Philippi, 140, 142 Philoctetes, 125, 133–6 Phylakopi, 24–5 Pindar, 48–9, 77 n. 10, 143 Plataea, 104 Plato, 19, 55, 145 Pluto, 171–2 Polycrates, 108 polytheism, 43 Posidon, 23, 68, 94, 105, 110, 156, 158, 161, 164, 170 possession (by divinity), 19 Potidaea, 104–5, 110 Pound, Ezra, 127 Proclus, 174–5 Proitids, 147 Prometheus, 145 Protesilaus, 105–6, 111 Protogonos, 169, 172 Pythagoras, 20 Pythia (festival), 52–3 Pythia (prophetess), 19, 21, 28, 56–7, 103, 109

Naxos (Sicilian), 51 Neoptolemus, 134–6 Nephthys, 30 Nestor, 4 Nilsson, M.P., 23 Niobids, 46 Nonnus, 176 Odysseus, 4, 17–19, 21, 96 n. 2, 124–5, 131, 133–4 Oedipus, 66–7, 123, 126, 131, 136 Olympia, 4, 23 Olympian divinities, 170 Olympos, Mt., 143 oracles, see ‘divination’ Oresteia, 133, 162 Orestes, 124, 132–3, 161–2 Oroites, 108 Orpheus, 172, 174 Orphic divinities, ch. 11 passim Orphic hymns, ch. 11 passim Ortygia, 77 n. 10 Oschophoria, 160 Ouranos, 164

retribution, divine, ch. 7 passim Rhetra, ‘Great’, 54, 87 Romans, 21

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Index Sabacus, 102, 106–7, 111, 113 Sabazios, Sabos, 172, 174–7 Samos, 24, 97 n. 18 sanctuaries, 3, 24. See also ‘temples’ Sardis, 177 Saul, 139–42 Scamander, 5, 68 seers, see ‘divination’ Semele, 144–5, 175–6 Silas, 140 slaves, 16 ‘snake-goddesses’, 26 Socrates, 5 Solon, 110, law of, 108 Sophocles, 49, 67, ch. 8 passim Ajax 125, 130–1 Antigone, 123, 125, 127, 129–30, 144 Electra, 125, 127, 132–3, 136 Oedipus at Colonus, 123, 125, 130–2, 146 OedipusTyrannus, 125–7, 129 Philoctetes, 124–5, 133, 136 Trachiniae, 125, 127–9 Sparta, Spartans, 52–4, 56, 82–9, 102, 104, 107 statues, 3, 22, 24–6, 28–9, 36, 83, 125 Stratonikeia, 27 sulphur, 19 Sybaris, Sybarites, 103–4

Theras, 96 n. 2 Theseus, 157 Thesprotoi, 18–19 Thessaly, 1 Thetis, 5 Thucydides, 96 n. 5, 116 n. 7 thunder, ch. 9 passim Timo, 121 n. 39 Tiresias, 18, 129 Tiryns, 3, 7, 24–25 Titans, 145 Tmolos, 175, 177 Toreador frescoes, 2 tragedy, ch. 8 passim; see also ‘Aeschylus’, ‘Euripides’, ‘Sophocles’ Triton, river, 160, 162–3 Tritonis, lake, 160 Trophonios, 28 Troy, Trojan war, 30, 70, 106–7 Tyche, 171 Tyro, 68 Tyrtaeus, 54

Talthybius, 104, 107, 109 Tartarus, 145 Telemachus, 21 temples, 3–4, 22, 24–5, 27 Teucer, 131 Thales, 8 Thargelia, 52 Theano, 3, 5 Thebans, Thebes, 24, 58, 147 Themis, 49–50 Themison, 119 n. 29 Themistocles, 113 theos, ch. 2 passim Thera, 2, 7, 96 n. 2

Xanthippos, 106 Xerxes, 108, 114, 123

Ullikummis, Song of, 74 vase-painting, 4, 6, 24–5, 84, 91–2, 159 Virgil, 20, 32 n. 18 votive offerings, 86–7 Weather God (Hittite), 74

Yazilikaya, 74–5 Zeus, 15–16, 18, 23, 87, 123, 134–5, 144–5, 147, 156, 158, 162–4, 170, 174–7 Agoraios, 96 n. 2, 162 Amboulios, 96 n. 2 Chthonios, 171–2 Syllanios, 87, 96 n. 2 Xenios, 96 n. 2

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