Antike Mythen: Medien, Transformationen und Konstruktionen

Antike Mythen

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Antike Mythen Medien, Transformationen und Konstruktionen Herausgegeben von

Ueli Dill und Christine Walde

Walter de Gruyter · Berlin · New York

Die Erstellung der Druckvorlage erfolgte mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Freiwilligen Akademischen Gesellschaft, Basel Der Abdruck des Auszuges aus dem Gedicht „Archeology“ von W. H. Auden (in: Thank You, Fog. Last Poems, London 1974, S. 23) erfolgte mit freundlicher Genehmigung des Verlages Faber & Faber, London

앝 Gedruckt auf säurefreiem Papier 앪 das die US-ANSI-Norm über Haltbarkeit erfüllt.

ISBN 978-3-11-020909-9 Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. 쑔 Copyright 2009 by Walter de Gruyter GmbH & Co. KG, D-10785 Berlin. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist ohne Zustimmung des Verlages unzulässig und strafbar. Das gilt insbesondere für Vervielfältigungen, Übersetzungen, Mikroverfilmungen und die Einspeicherung und Verarbeitung in elektronischen Systemen. Printed in Germany Einbandgestaltung: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Erstellung der Druckvorlage: post scriptum, www.post-scriptum.biz Druck und buchbinderische Verarbeitung: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen

Fritz Graf zum 65. Geburtstag

Inhaltsverzeichnis Vorwort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XI

sarah iles johnston A New Web for Arachne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

Verbindlichkeit peter t. struck The Invention of Mythic Truth in Antiquity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

25

vinciane pirenne-delforge Under Which Conditions Did the Greeks “Believe” in Their Myths? The Religious Criteria of Adherence . . . . . . . . . . . . .

38

hans g. kippenberg Die Religion im modernen Europa erhält eine Vorgeschichte . . . . . . .

55

Kult und Ritual nanno marinatos Meta-mythology of “Baetyl Cult”. The Mediterranean Hypothesis of Sir Arthur Evans and Fritz Graf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

73

francesca prescendi Prométhée fonde-t-il le sacrifice grec? En relisant Jean Rudhardt . . . .

81

jörg rüpke Equus October und ludi Capitolini: Zur rituellen Struktur der Oktober-Iden und ihren antiken Deutungen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

96

john scheid Théologie romaine et représentation de l’action au début de l’Empire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Astrologie, Magie und Mantik aurelio pérez jiménez Influencia del mito hesiódico de la sucesión en los textos astrológicos grecorromanos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 emilio suárez de la torre The Portrait of a Seer. The Framing of Divination Paradigms through Myth in Archaic and Classical Greece . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158 luc brisson The Philosopher and the Magician (Porphyry, Vita Plotini 10.1–13). Magic and Sympathy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189 christopher a. faraone Does Tantalus Drink the Blood, or Not? An Enigmatic Series of Inscribed Hematite Gemstones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 david frankfurter The Laments of Horus in Coptic. Myth, Folklore, and Syncretism in Late Antique Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229

Orte josine h. blok Gentrifying Genealogy: On the Genesis of the Athenian Autochthony Myth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251 marcel piérart Récits étiologiques argiens du temps des hommes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 jan n. bremmer Zeus’ Own Country: Cult and Myth in the Pride of Halicarnassus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 292 angelos chaniotis Myths and Contexts in Aphrodisias . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313 attilio mastrocinque Sacred Precinct: Cattle, Hunted Animals, Slaves, Women . . . . . . . . . . 339

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anthony kaldellis The Great Medieval Mythogenesis: Why Historians Should Look Again at Medieval Heroic Tales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 356 bruce lincoln In Praise of the Chaotic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 372

Mensch und Tier wendy doniger Dogs as Dalits in Indian Literature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391 richard seaford The Fluttering Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 406 philippe borgeaud Mythe et émotion. Quelques idées anciennes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 415 michael d. swartz Bubbling Blood and Rolling Bones: Agency and Teleology in Rabbinic Myth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 432

Protagonisten cornelia isler-kerényi Orpheus und die Buchrolle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 453 rené bloch Orpheus als Lehrer des Musaios, Moses als Lehrer des Orpheus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 469 carolina lópez-ruiz Mopsos and Cultural Exchange between Greeks and Locals in Cilicia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 487 walter burkert Sardanapal zwischen Mythos und Realität: Das Grab in Kilikien . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 502 mary r. lefkowitz Biographical Mythology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 516

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christoph auffarth Imago mortis – imago vitae: Senecas Aufführung von Sokrates’ Tod – Repräsentation, Performance, Theatralität . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 532

Literatur und Kunst martin west Iolaos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 565 milette gaifman The Libation of Oinomaos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 576 juan antonio lópez férez Penélope en la Odisea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 599 rené nünlist The Motif of the Exiled Killer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 628 claude calame The Abduction of Helen and the Greek Poetic Tradition: Politics, Reinterpretations and Controversies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 645 lowell edmunds A Hermeneutic Commentary on the Eschatological Passage in Pindar Olympian 2 (57–83) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 662 froma i. zeitlin Troy and Tragedy: The Conscience of Hellas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 678 bernhard zimmermann Ursprungsfragen. Aristoteles über die Genese der dramatischen Gattungen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 696 anton bierl Der griechische Roman – ein Mythos? Gedanken zur mythischen Dimension von Longos’ Daphnis und Chloe . . . . . . . . . . . . 709 karin schlapbach Stoff und Performance in pantomimischen Mytheninszenierungen der Antike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 740 Beiträgerinnen und Beiträger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 757

Vorwort Der vorliegende Band ist Fritz Graf zu seinem 65. Geburtstag gewidmet. In seiner Fokussierung auf Mythos und Religion gibt er zwar nur einen, wenngleich wichtigen Aspekt seines wissenschaftlichen Schaffens wieder, aber er ist in vielfacher Hinsicht Spiegel seines wissenschaftlichen Wirkens: Als seine Assistenten an der Universität Basel, wo er von 1987 bis 1999 den Lehrstuhl für Lateinische Philologie innehatte, wurden wir beide Zeugen seiner beständigen intellektuellen und räumlichen Horizonterweiterung. Wir erlebten ihn als einerseits akademischen Lehrer, der es verstand, Impulse aufzunehmen und weiterzugeben, andererseits als engagierten und begnadeten Wissenschaftsorganisator. Wie mühelos die vierzig hier versammelten Beiträge zusammenkamen, verfasst von Wissenschaftlerinnen und Wissenschaftlern aus 10 Ländern (Belgien, Deutschland, Frankreich, Großbritannien, Italien, Kanada Niederlande, Schweiz, Spanien und den USA), zeigt den Reichtum der internationalen Beziehungen, wissenschaftlich und persönlich, die aus seiner breit gefächerten Tätigkeit erwachsen sind. Auch die Überreichung der Festschrift am 11. September 2009 am Istituto Svizzero in Rom, einer anderen wichtigen Etappe seiner Karriere, unter Beteiligung der American Academy Rome, wird seinem Wirken als Grenzgänger zwischen dem Alten Europa und der Neuen Welt in augenfälliger Weise gerecht. Wie bei Festschriften üblich, haben wir den Beiträgerinnen und Beiträgern wenig thematische Vorgaben gemacht. Daraus hat sich ein Kaleidoskop der aktuellen religions- und literaturwissenschaftlichen Forschungsansätze zu Mythos und Religion ergeben, die oft ihren Ausgangs- oder Anknüpfungspunkt bei einer Arbeit von Graf haben. Die aus unterschiedlichen Fachbereichen stammenden Beiträge ließen sich am besten als Knotenpunkte in einem Netz arrangieren, wobei jeder vielfältige Beziehungen in alle Richtungen hat. Ihre lineare Abfolge in diesem Band könnte deshalb auch ganz anders aussehen. Wir hoffen, es werde dem Jubilar und den geneigten Leserinnen und Lesern des Bandes Freude bereiten, dem Netz der Bezüge und Assoziationen nachzugehen. Als Herausgeber mussten wir in der formalen Gestaltung einen Kompromiss zwischen den Gepflogenheiten der verschiedenen scientific communities finden; eine ganz konsequente Vereinheitlichung war aus diesem Grund nicht realisierbar. Abkürzungen, die nicht in den Bibliographien der einzelnen Artikel aufgelöst sind, orientieren sich in der Regel an Der Neue Pauly.

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Ein Band wie dieser, zwischen dessen Planung und Erscheinen nur knapp anderthalb Jahre vergangen sind, konnte nur dank der Kooperation, Disziplin und Hilfsbereitschaft aller Beiträgerinnen und Beiträger entstehen. Ihnen gilt deshalb unser erster Dank. Ferner danken wir den wissenschaftlichen Mitarbeiterinnen und Mitarbeitern an der Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz, Daniel Groß, Anna Kranzdorf, Vanessa Kümhof und Ingo Stelte, für die tatkräftige und kompetente Unterstützung bei der redaktionellen Bearbeitung der auch durch ihre Heterogenität anspruchsvollen Manuskripte. Dank gebührt auch Gabriel Dill für seine tatkräftige Mitarbeit bei der Korrekturkontrolle und Barbara Gygli Dill für ihre stete, mit sicherem Urteil geleistete Hilfe. Herrn Stefan Krauss ( post scriptum, Hinterzarten) möchten wir für seinen großartigen Einsatz bei der Erstellung der Druckvorlage und die ebenso effiziente wie angenehme Zusammenarbeit danken. Frau Dr. Elisabeth Schuhmann vom De Gruyter-Verlag sei dafür gedankt, dass sie sich von Anfang an für diesen Band begeisterte und sein Erscheinen möglich machte. Unser letzter Dank gilt der Freiwilligen Akademischen Gesellschaft Basel (FAG), die die Drucklegung dieses Bandes mit einem großzügigen Beitrag gefördert hat. Basel und Mainz am Rhein, im Juni 2009 Ueli Dill und Christine Walde

From murals and statues we get a glimpse of what the Old Ones bowed down to, but cannot conceit in what situations they blushed or shrugged their shoulders. Poets have learned us their myths, but just how did They take them? That’s a stumper. When Norsemen heard thunder, did they seriously believe Thor was hammering? No, I’d say: I’d swear that men have always lounged in myths as Tall Stories, that their real earnest has been to grant excuses for ritual actions. aus W. H. Auden, Archaeolog y

A New Web for Arachne sarah iles johnston

Spiders are tiny creatures, spinning slender threads, and yet they can create structures of great variety. So too, although I will begin from the rather slender threads of an ancient story, I hope to demonstrate anew how varied was the body of ancient narration that we are accustomed to call ‘myth’ and how fluid it might be in its applications1.

The story and its author The story in question comes to us from a scholion to Nicander’s Theriaca, a poetic treatise on dangerous animals (12a, Crugnola): ὁ δὲ Ζηνοδότειος Θεόφιλος ἱστορεῖ ὡς ἄρα ἐν τῇ Ἀττικῇ δύο ἐγένοντο ἀδελφοί, Φάλαγξ μὲν ἄρσην, θήλεια δὲ Ἀράχνη τοὔνομα. καὶ ὁ μὲν Φάλαγξ ἔμαθε παρὰ τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς τὰ περὶ τὴν ὁπλομαχίαν, ἡ δὲ Ἀράχνη τὰ περὶ τὴν ἱστοποιίαν· μιγέντας δὲ ἀλλήλοις στυγηθῆναι ὑπὸ τῆς θεοῦ καὶ μεταβληθῆναι εἰς ἑρπετά, ἃ δὴ καὶ συμβαίνει ὑπὸ τῶν ἰδίων τέκνων κατεσθίεσθαι. And Theophilus, of the School of Zenodotus, relates that there once were two siblings in Attica: Phalanx, the man, and the woman, named Arachne. While Phalanx learned the art of fighting in arms from Athena, Arachne learned the art of weaving. They came to be hated by the goddess, however, because they had sex with each other – and their fate was to be changed into creeping creatures that are eaten by their own children.

The scholiast’s reason for mentioning the story is Nicander’s use of the word φαλάγγια (phalangia). As we learn both from Nicander and from numerous 1

I am perhaps the first contributor to a Festschrift to thank the honoree for his help with the essay at hand, but habits are hard to break and so here, as in many other cases, I express my gratitude to Fritz Graf for his discussions concerning this material. I also thank Daniel Gloor, a doctoral student in arachnology at the Universität Basel and friend of the Graf family, for help with the habits of real – as opposed to mythic – spiders.

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other ancient authorities, phalangion could designate any member of a family of venomous spiders. In some discussions, ancient authorities distinguish between phalangia and non-venomous spiders, to which they apply the term arachnai, but other authorities understand both phalangia and non-venomous spiders to be sub-groups of a more inclusive family, to all of which the term arachnai can be applied2. In any case, in spite of these disagreements amongst the ancient experts, and in spite of the scholiast’s use of the rather vague word ἑρπετά at the end of the tale (which I have translated here as ‘creeping creatures’), it is clear that what Theophilus related was a tale in which transgressive siblings were transformed into spiders. What we have here, at least on the most obvious level, is an aition for the race of spiders. We cannot say much about our author. C. Müller associated him with a Theophilus whose tales were twice borrowed by [Pseudo]-Plutarch for use in his Greek and Roman Parallel Stories 3. In his Italian History, according to [Pseudo]-Plutarch, Theophilus told about how the princess of a besieged Etruscan city jumped from a battlement but was safely carried to earth when Aphrodite caused her garments to billow out like a parachute. In his Peloponnesian History, Theophilus told about how a certain Peisistratus of Orchomenus was murdered by his citizens, who then tucked away bits of the dismembered corpse in their garments. Peisistratus’ son, having been secretly informed about what had happened, quickly claimed to have seen his divinized father rising towards Mount Pisa. Müller also connects our author with a Theophilus cited by [Pseudo]-Plutarch in his treatise on rivers as the source of a story about how the Tigris got its name: Dionysus, when he was being persecuted by Hera, asked Zeus for help in crossing the river, and Zeus sent a tiger to bear him safely to the other side4. F. Jacoby disagreed with Müller’s equation of the Theophili, arguing that the Theophilus credited with the stories I have just related was an invention of [Pseudo]-Plutarch, perhaps in imitation of the (real) Theophilus who told the story of Arachne and Phalanx, or perhaps in imitation of a (real) Theophilus who wrote a periegesis of Sicily, about which we know only that it included mention of a Sicilian city and spring called Palike5. If we are dealing with a case of imitation, I would guess that Jacoby’s first suggestion is more likely – the three stories I have just related have a certain fabulous quality in common with the tale of Arachne and Phalanx that we do not expect from a geographic description of Sicily. 2 3 4 5

Further on methods of categorization: Beavis (1988) 34 f., Scarborough (1979). FHG 4, 515–517. Par. min. 13, 308f–309a; par min. 32, 313c; fluv. 24. FGrH 296, 3A 179 f. Our story is not included as a fragment here, because it is not historical in nature. The Theophilus who wrote a periegesis of Sicily is included in FGrH 573, 3B 674.

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If Müller is correct that all of these Theophili are one and the same – or if Jacoby is correct that the Theophilus cited by [Pseudo]-Plutarch was an invention modeled on the Theophilus who told our story – then we might describe the author of our story as a collector of remarkable tales associated with specific locales. We begin to get a picture of someone similar to Diodorus Siculus – catholic in his inclusion of all sorts of interesting details about the places whose histories he narrates. The story of Arachne and Phalanx might remind us as well of the stories that Antoninus Liberalis collected from Nicander’s Metamorphoses, Boio’s Ornithogonia and some other sources: his tale is situated within a particular place (Attica) and explains not only how particular humans turned into particular animals, but also how some of the animals’ most striking features mirror behavior that the humans exhibited before their transformation, as we will see later in this essay. We might guess that our Theophilus, like Nicander and Boio, dates to the Hellenistic period, a time during which collecting such stories became popular. Given that the adjective that the scholiast applies to him, Ζηνοδότειος (which I have translated as ‘of the school of Zenodotos’), receives no further modification, we are probably meant to understand that Theophilus was a pupil of the most famous Zenodotus of all – the Homeric scholar from Ephesus who lived during the late 4th and early 3rd centuries BCE. This would confirm a Hellenistic date for our Theophilus. Theophilus associated the story of Arachne and Phalanx with Attica – a localization that is borne out by the fact that, although the diminutive phalangion was used by authors from a wide variety of backgrounds, the non-diminutive form, phalanx, is applied to spiders only by Attic authors as far as I can tell6. Later in this essay, I will proceed on the assumption that this localization is accurate, and will interpret the tale of Arachne and Phalanx within an Athenian setting.

Spiders and their affordances First, however, some remarks on the term ‘affordance’, and why I will use it as I explore Theophilus’ tale. The term was invented in 1979 by the perceptual psychologist J. J. Gibson to designate a characteristic feature of a phenomenon to which an individual actor (human or animal) can react in various ways, depending upon the actor’s perceptions and capabilities. A stick, for example, may offer the affordances of straightness, length and a tapering tip, but is understood as ‘good to dig ants out of a hole with’ only if the actor possesses the fine motor skills necessary for the task and the 6

Aristoph. Ran. 1314 and cf. Vesp. 1509; Plat. Com. fr. 22; Xen. mem. 3.11.6; Aristot. hist. an. 609a5.

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cognitive sophistication to conceive of the notion. Inherent in this notion of ‘affordance’ are the assumptions that characteristics take on meaning only as a result of their relationship with the actor, and that each actor will bring to the relationship different expectations and preconceptions (whether biologically or culturally determined), which in turn create the significance of the affordance. A stick that is straight and long with a tapering tip may also be perceived as a weapon or a scepter, for example. Affordances can circumscribe the potential meanings or uses of the phenomenon to which they are attached, but they cannot determine those meanings7. Maurizio Bettini has adapted the term ‘affordance’ to the study of cultural phenomena, and particularly to studying the ways in which human observers react to animals’ characteristic appearances and habits8. The weasel’s habit of carrying her pups in her mouth, for example, is an affordance that gave rise to the ancient belief that weasels give birth through their mouths. The weasel’s tubular body, which is able to slip through narrow spaces easily, is an affordance that led to her reputation as a helper of women in labor – it was hoped that, like a weasel, the baby might slip easily through the narrow space of the birth canal9. Neither characteristic of the weasel compelled ancient thought in a particular direction; rather they afforded opportunities that could lead in any of a number of directions, depending on the cultural backgrounds of the observers – arguably, in another culture, the weasel’s carrying of her pups in her mouth might be interpreted to mean that weasels ate some or all of their young. (And of course, there is no necessary connection between the meaning given to an affordance and its actual function within the life of the animal.) As Bettini has developed it, ‘affordance’ is a more useful term than ‘symbol’ for articulating the ways in which cultural productions (e. g., myths and rituals) collect and convey meanings. Our own, western history of interpretative practice has predisposed us to think of a symbol as having an essential and nearly static meaning (X symbolizes Y, or perhaps X can symbolize both Y and Z, but seldom can X move amongst symbolizing Y, Z, A, B, C, D, etc.). This essentialism is, in fact, crucial to the success of most symbols that we encounter in art and literature: unless they can convey meaning clearly and quickly to a fairly wide range of observers, they will fail in their task. Had the lily not become associated almost exclusively with purity in Christian thought, it could not have symbolized Mary across so many centuries and such a broad geographic span as it 7 8 9

Gibson (1979). The example of the stick is mine. Bettini (1998) 202–211. A detailed English summary of the book, composed by Bettini himself, can be found at http://www.unisi.it/ricerca/centri/cisaca/nascere. html; see § 1.8.2 in particular for the concept of affordances. Bettini (1998) 144–197 = § 1.7.

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has10. An affordance, in contrast, particularly because its meaning arises through interaction between the observer(s) and the phenomenon in question, allows the development of spectrums of association, which suggest characteristics or patterns of action that do not rely on essentializing equations. The range of meanings available to an affordance can even include some that would seem to clash, when thinking in symbolic terms. For example, the spider’s habit of capturing and consuming insects can be interpreted to manifest both a vicious, predatory nature and helpfulness, insofar as the spider rids the environment of pests – the two meanings can even be pondered simultaneously by an observer who watches a spider at work in the corner. Whereas our usual understanding of the word ‘symbol’ makes it hard to say that the spider ‘symbolizes’ both vicious predation and helpfulness, the concept of affordances allows the possibility that both meanings might be evoked within a single cultural production. Similarly, the weasel’s ability to slip down narrow passages was associated in antiquity not only with easy birth but also with losing one’s voice; the latter association probably also reflects the fact that the cry of the weasel was characterized in antiquity as unpleasantly shrieking or laughter-like11. Ovid’s version of the tale of Heracles’ birth seems to draw on all of these associations: a maid named Galinthias (‘weasel-woman’) fools Lucina into allowing Alcmene to give birth by making a deceptive statement and then laughs at how easily she has tricked the goddess. Lucina, enraged, turns Galinthias into a weasel and condemns the new creature to use her mouth for giving birth rather than for speaking12. In a case such as this, we would hesitate to say that the weasel straightforwardly ‘symbolizes’ easy birth, dangerous speech, speechlessness or anything else. Instead, all of these actions, values and qualities concatenate within a single story that is rich with overlapping significances. A given reader may pick up on all or only some of them. The concept of the affordance, in sum, better encourages us to appreciate the multivocality of a phenomenon’s characteristics than does the concept of the symbol. Within any given cultural production, our job as interpreters will be to recognize the affordances upon which the production meditates, seek out the meanings attached to those affordances, and under10 Of course, the original meaning of symbolon relies on this restricted one-to-one relationship; see Struck (2004) 78–84. The essentialism of symbols was developed by Neoplatonists; subsequently, during the middle ages and Renaissance, a greater range of potential meaning might be admitted to a given symbol, but in any particular instance, its meaning was set by the artist or author. Works such as Vincenzo Cartari’s Le imagini degli dei antichi (ca. 1400) were handbooks intended to aid in the assignment of proper meaning (cf. Graf 2008, 153–157). 11 Bettini (1998) 146–149 = § 1.7.1. 12 Ov. met. 9.285–323.

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stand how those meanings complement or challenge one another, ultimately producing larger structures of significance. It may sound as if I am simply advocating a new version of Geertz’s practice of ‘thick description’ here – that is, advocating a thorough contextualization of cultural products within the culture that produced them – but I hope to take Geertz a step further than we usually do. We tend to remember his statement that “man is an animal suspended in webs of significance that he himself has spun”, but we inadequately appreciate his further insight that “coherence cannot be the major test of validity for a cultural description. […] Nothing has done more, I think, to discredit cultural analysis than the construction of impeccable depictions of formal order in whose actual existence nobody can quite believe.”13 Thinking in terms of affordances, rather than symbols, will help us to read the story of Arachne and Phalanx in a manner that is adequately ‘thick’ and culturally responsive insofar as it is built upon the qualities assigned to spiders in Greek thought, but also adequately ‘open’ insofar as it recognizes that the spider could evoke several ideas simultaneously, which will not necessarily fall into a single, completely coherent interpretative line alongside other cultural productions that meditate upon the same issues. What is important to recover is the way in which the spider’s affordances resonated, both separately and in tandem, in ways that the story’s audience could appreciate. What then, were the spider’s most striking affordances in ancient eyes? In the next few paragraphs, I will look at three of those that are most frequently mentioned by ancient authors and sketch the significances that were attached to them14. For the moment, I will avoid privileging some over others, in order to recreate as far as I can the range of potential associations that an ancient listener or reader would have brought to the story of Arachne and Phalanx. Weaving webs: The single most frequently mentioned affordance of the spider in ancient sources is its ability to spin fiber and then weave it into a textile. The meaning attached to this affordance varies quite a bit, however, as it does in most cultures. At times, it is understood to indicate industriousness – spiders were almost as highly esteemed, in this respect, as were ants and bees15. And yet spiders’ webs could also be used to signify neglect, in the sense that their presence indicated that an object or place had been abandoned by humans. Although this could have a negative valence (Odysseus’ marital bed is said to be covered with webs after his twenty years of absence) it could also be positive (Bacchylides describes peace as a time when shields 13 Geertz (1973) 5, 18. 14 Except where noted, for the rest of the essay I subsume both arachnai and phalangia under the word ‘spider’. 15 E. g., Hes. op. 777, Aristot. hist. an. 622b23; Ael. nat. 1.21; further at Beavis (1988) 39.

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are covered with webs)16. Sometimes, the spider’s web was lauded as a work of delicacy, produced by an intelligent creature17, but it could also be represented (even as it was being praised) as a repetitively symmetrical product, born out of instinct rather than art18. The ease with which a web could be destroyed allowed it to represent the transitory nature of creation as well19. Finally, a spider’s web could evoke entrapment and a predatory nature, particularly when a weaker figure used tricks to capture a stronger one – the best known case being Aeschylus’ description of Clytemnestra capturing Agamemnon20. Spiders and parricide: In the tale from Theophilus, Arachne and Phalanx are said to be “changed into creeping creatures that are eaten by their own children”. This reflects an affordance of spiders that we first hear about from Aristotle, who says that young phalangia “when they grow to full size, very often surround their mother and eject and kill her; and not seldom they kill the male as well, if they can catch him”. This information is repeated by several later authors, with Pliny adding the detail that the murderous spiderlings subsequently eat their parents’ corpses21. Although it is somewhat unusual for spiders to eat one another unless their normal prey is scarce22, modern arachnologists tell us that the genus Stegodyphus Simon, 1873, which includes a species found in the Mediterranean (Stegodyphus lineatus Latreille, 1817), is matrophagous23; it is quite pos16 Bacchyl. fr. 4.69 f.; cf. Hom. Od. 16.35, Hes. op. 475, Eur. fr. 369 TrGF, Cratinus fr. 190, Pherecrates fr. 142, Soph. fr. 264, Theocr. 16.96; Philostr. imag. 2.28.2; further at Beavis (1988) 40. 17 Hom. Od. 8.280, Aristot. hist. an. 623a8, Ant. Pal. 9.372, Plut. soll. anim. 966e–f, Philostr. imag. 2.28.1, Plin. nat. 11.79–82; cf. Paus. 6.26.7. ‘A spider-like thread’ (arachnaios mitos) proverbially meant a ‘very fine thread,’ e. g., Anth. Gr. 6.39.3. 18 Aristot. phys. 199a20–22; Ael. var. 1.2 and nat. 1.21 (but cf. nat. 6.57, which is more nuanced); Plin. nat. 11.80.2, Sen. epist. 121.23. Cf. Feeney (1991) 193 f. Aristot. hist. an. 622b28–623b1, distinguishes amongst different types of spiders, some of whom spin webs that are sloppy and crude, and others of whom spin webs that are clever and polished. Plut. soll. anim. 966e–f lauds the fineness of the thread and regularity of the weaving but notes that there is no warp – i. e., he confirms its simplicity even as he admires it. Pliny, on the other hand, mentions both warp and a woof (tela and subtemina) at nat. 11.80. Further at Beavis (1988) 39. 19 E. g., Plat. Com. fr. 22, line 2 Kock; many other citations, mostly from later antiquity, are offered at Beavis (1988) 39 f. Cf. Plut. Is. 358 f., where the spider’s web is compared to hasty, poorly developed thoughts. 20 Aesch. Ag. 1492 and 1516; Suppl. 887; Xen. mem. 3.11.6; Ant. Pal. 9.372; Philostr. imag. 2.28.3 f. 21 Aristot. hist. an. 555b10–15 and 555a23–26 (where he uses arachnai, not phalangia); cf. Antigonus, hist. mir. 87 and Schol. Nic. Ther. 715a; Plin. nat. 11.85. 22 Most spiders avoid eating their own kin at least during their early lives when the family structure is still in place, e. g., Roberts et al. (2003) and Samu et al. (1999). 23 Salomon et al. (2005).

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sible that Aristotle, Pliny and others observed young Stegodyphi lineati taking their meals. Notably, Nicander’s description of a type of phalangion that he calls ‘starry’ (asterion) sounds something like the Stegodyphus lineatus: both have striking bands of color on their backs24. Stegodyphus lineatus does not present a danger to humans, which would seem to exclude it from the category of phalangia to which Nicander assigned it, but of course ancient taxonomy is not always identical to our own, and we know that a number of other non-threatening spiders were also classed among what Nicander calls the kakoerga phalangia in antiquity25. It is also possible that ancient observers saw young spiders of other genera (notably, members of the wolf spider family, which were sometimes wrongly considered to be dangerous to humans)26 riding on their mothers’ backs and abdomens and interpreted this as an attack, which would have encouraged the perception that spiders in general preyed upon their parents. We need say little about the significance of this affordance – parricide can hardly carry anything but a negative valence – but it is worth noting that in ancient thought, parricide was often paired with incest, another transgression against the integrity of the family, and that cannibalism was also occasionally paired with either incest, parricide or both to further mark their gravity – the tangled histories of the House of Atreus and the House of Laius furnish the most ready examples of these combinations. It is mythically ‘logical’, in other words, for incestuous siblings such as Arachne and Phalanx to end up as the victims of cannibalistic parricide. Spiders and priapism: one of the most horrifying varieties of phalangia in Nicander’s catalogue is the rhōx (ῥώξ; also called the rhax or rhagion)27. According to Nicander, its bite causes the victim’s eyes to turn reddish and a shivering to settle upon his limbs; numbness overcomes his hips and knees. So far, this is not very different from the effects of a few other phalangia that ancient authors describe, but a further symptom is quite striking: “[the victim’s] skin and genitals grow taut, and his penis projects, moistened with ooze.” Several other authorities describe the same symptom, either echoing Nicander’s phrases or using their own words; most of them extend this symptom to the family of phalangia as a whole28. 24 Nic. Ther. 725 f., cf. Plin. nat. 29.86. The asterion has been identified with a number of other spiders by modern scholars; see Gow/Scholfield (1953) 184; Scarborough (1979) 8 and Beavis (1988) 47. 25 Cf. Beavis (1988) 44 f. and Gow/Scholfield (1953) 22 f. 26 See Scarborough (1979) 11 f. 27 The name, which means ‘grape,’ refers to its dark color and its globular thorax. 28 E. g., Plin. nat. 24.61–63; Ael. nat. 17.11, Schol. Nic. Ther. 721–724, Paul. Aegin. Epitom. med. 5.6t1; Ps.-Dioscorides Ther. 4; Philumenus, De venenatis animalibus eorumque remediis 15.6; Aetius Iatr. 13.20; Eutecnius, Paraph. Nic. Ther. 59.

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Modern scholars are unanimous in identifying both the rhōx and all other genuinely dangerous spiders that were encountered by ancient authors as members of the genus Latrodectus Walckenaer, 1805, the only dangerous genus known to exist in Greece and surrounding areas today29. The bite of any member of this genus can cause priapism and leakage of semen if antivenin is not administered within a reasonable amount of time30. Thus, it seems likely that these ancient reports – incredible though they may seem upon a first reading – are based on observed effects. Nowadays, we know that priapism following spider bite is caused by neurotoxins that systemically produce strong muscle contractions, but it’s easy to imagine that in antiquity, this condition suggested that spiders caused men to manifest excessive, undesirable lust because they themselves were excessively lustful. And such was the case: in a study of ancient lore concerning the chaste tree, Heinrich von Staden has demonstrated that this plant was used for primarily two purposes by the Greeks and Romans. First, when portions of it were administered orally or cutaneously, it could treat a wide variety of sexual and reproductive ailments including (in women) wandering womb, failure to conceive and failure to lactate and (in men) failure to ejaculate, ejaculation at improper times, hardened testicles, and priapism. In short, as von Staden puts it, “the [chaste] tree is consistently used by Greek physicians in such a way as to reflect the belief that it both suppresses sexual desire and ensures reproductive normalcy, in female and male alike”. The use to which the chaste tree was put during the Thesmophoria was similar: women sat on mats made from its branches in order to dampen their desire temporarily, towards the larger aim of ensuring successful reproduction31. Second, strewing branches of the chaste tree under one’s bed or fumigating a room by burning its leaves was believed to avert the attacks of venomous creatures, particularly spiders; if this failed, portions of the chaste tree could be administered orally or cutaneously to treat the effects of their bites32. Pliny brings all of this lore together nicely within a single 29 E. g., Scarborough (1979) 7 f. Species are found throughout the world; the American variety is the black widow (Latrodectus mactans Fabricius, 1775). 30 Scarborough (1979) 8 n. 70; web-sites for physicians mention it, e. g., http://pre cordialthump.medbrains.net/2008/12/06/problems-in-toxicology-003/ and http:// medbrains.net/tag/toxicology/. Spider bite is particularly suspected when children present with priapism. 31 Agnos or lygos in Greek; agnus castus in Latin. Von Staden (1993). 32 The first source that advocates using the chaste tree against spider bites is the Herophilean physician Apollonius Mys (probably dating to the late 1st century BCE) Philumenus, Oribasius and Paul of Aegina also mention it; Oribasius also emphasizes its use as bedding material that will avert spiders. Von Staden (1993) 36 f., for whom see citations and detailed discussion, notes that all of these sources relied

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discussion, mentioning the use of the chaste tree at the Thesmophoria to preserve chastity; its effectiveness in promoting menstruation and lactation; its power to avert snakes and spiders and, when this failed, to neutralize their venom; its ability to check violent sexual desire – and for this reason, he says, particularly to act against the bite of the phalangion, which excites the genitals33. In sum, what ancient authors tell us about uses of the chaste tree suggests that the affordance of spider-induced priapism was interpretatively extended so as to present spiders as creatures of excessive lust – whose bites, in turn, undermined chastity and proper reproduction by exciting lust in their victims.

Theophilus’ story, once again Arachne These, then, were the affordances of spiders that the ancient audience probably would already have had in mind as they encountered the story of Arachne and Phalanx for the first time: an ability to spin and weave; a habit of parricide, sometimes followed by cannibalism; and a lustful nature. The ranges of significance attached to the second and third affordances were quite limited, which might lead us to return to and enlarge upon a statement I made earlier in this essay: what we have here is an aition for the race of spiders and for two of their negative characteristics, parricide and lust. Or to put it otherwise: we could choose to read this story straightforwardly as a tale in which sexual transgression within the family is punished by metamorphosis into creatures who are eternally lustful and abused by their children. Of course, like many aitia for members of the animal kingdom, this one blatantly carries a caution as well – incest leads to disaster. But several things encourage us to go further. First, the remaining affordance – the ability to spin and weave fibers – is still open to interpretation. heavily on earlier authors, suggesting that the traditions went back much further than our first attestations. We know that Nicander relied on a treatise called On Animals, composed by an Apollodorus who lived in the early 3rd century BCE, who in turn relied on Diocles of Carystos, a 4th-century doctor; it is thought that later authors drew both on Nicander and more directly on Apollodorus (in addition to von Staden [1993] see Gow/Scholfield [1953] 18; Scarborough [1979] 3–6). 33 Plin. nat. 24.61–63 (Pliny also mentions some other uses for the chaste tree). Cf. Dioscor. mat. med. 1.103 and Ael. nat. 9.26 who similarly join together the use of the chaste tree against sexual and reproductive problems (including excessive lust) and against venomous creatures. Nicander mentions that the chaste tree can be used to avert and treat the bites of venomous creatures: Ther. 63, 70 f., 78 f.

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Second, Phalanx is given a characteristic of his own that he shares neither with Arachne nor with the race of spiders: when the story opens, he is undergoing military training. The word ‘phalanx’, which means something such as ‘battle-array’ as well as ‘poisonous spider’, epitomizes this; the double connotation of the word surely helped to inspire the story as we have it, in fact34. Third, both Arachne and Phalanx are pupils of Athena, within a story set in Athens, which suggests that we need to think about possible relationships between the city and the siblings: at issue is not just the question of whether Arachne and Phalanx behaved like proper humans (which they clearly did not) but whether they behaved like proper Athenians, or in what ways they failed to carry out duties expected of Athenian youths. We should look within this story for articulations of what was valued in Athens, and how the fields represented by the siblings – warfare and weaving – came together in the Athenian imagination. Luckily, the significance of weaving within Athenian society has been well studied by several scholars, most importantly by John Scheid and Jesper Svenbro in their excellent book Le métier de Zeus: Mythe du tissage et tissu dans le monde gréco-romain 35. I will not repeat the details of their analyses here, but will instead summarize those of their conclusions that will be of the greatest significance for us. In the first part of the book, Scheid and Svenbro explore the ways in which weaving done by women frequently served as a metaphor (in Athens and elsewhere) for two institutions that underpinned society: marriage and the coalition of otherwise independent families and groups into cities. Particularly resonant for these representations is that fact that weaving, as humans do it, begins with fibers that can be viewed as opposing one another: some run vertically (the warp) and some run horizontally (the woof ). And yet, the proper combining of these fibers produces a textile that is strong, 34 The basic meaning of phalang- is ‘beam’ or ‘plank’ (IE bhelg-); from this it comes to refer to a number of things that are long and relatively slender. Most notably, the word ‘phalanx’ can also mean a piece of wood or a finger or toe bone; the meaning ‘battle-array’ would seem to reflect the straight line in which the soldiers arranged themselves. The application of the words phalanx and phalangion to spiders is established by the classical period (e. g., Aristoph. Ran. 1314, Plat. Euthyd. 290a and Xen. mem. 3.11.6), but it is unclear why; perhaps it is because their legs, which have two joints, look like fingers (this is especially so in the Latrodectus genus, where the legs tend to be longer and more slender than in other genera). Ovid appreciates this similarity: met. 6.143 (cf. Aristoph. Ran. 1314, Ov. am. 1.14.7, Anth. Gr. 9.372). Rhax also means ‘fingertip’, which Scarborough suggests Nicander evokes when he describes the manner in which the rhōx/rhax moves (Nic. Ther. 717; Scarborough 1979, 7). 35 In this essay, I cite page numbers from the English translation; readers should note, however, that the translation does not always adequately reflect the French.

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useful and beautiful – and so it is also with marriage, which combines the ‘opposites’ of male and female36, and with civic coalitions, which combine groups that might otherwise be at odds with one another. The metaphor of ‘weaving a city’ from disparate fibers is familiar to us from its extended use in Plato’s Statesman, but it also underpins, for example, a lesser-known story in which sixteen women of Elis, one from each of Elis’ sixteen warring tribes, managed to bring their husbands into peaceful civic collaboration. The sixteen women subsequently were rewarded with the honor of annually weaving a peplos for Hera, the main goddess of Elis, and with organizing games for Hera that were celebrated by local girls (the Heraea). Hera, of course, is also the goddess of marriage, and another story claims that the Heraea and their sixteen overseers were established by Hippodameia in thanks for the fact that she finally had been allowed to marry. Although we lack an actual statement to this effect in our ancient sources, it seems likely, as Scheid and Svenbro have suggested, that Hippodameia’s story also served to explain why the sixteen Elian women annually wove Hera’s peplos. If so, then in this pair of Elian tales, weaving serves not only as a metaphor for the union of both citizens and spouses, but as a metaphor for both simultaneously: as far as we can tell, the two stories coexisted, neither becoming an ‘official’ aition that ousted the other. Plato’s Statesman brings the two metaphoric realms together as well, for the “well-woven city” starts out by “weaving together” spouses of different temperaments to produce the best new citizens and citizen wives. Aristophanes’ Lysistrata explicitly compares establishing peace within Greece to producing and then weaving together fibers “in the way that women do” – but within the Lysistrata, it is impossible to think of establishing peace without also reestablishing the marriages that have been temporarily suspended, and so implicitly, Lysistrata’s metaphor brings the realms of the marital and the political together under the metaphor of weaving as well. In everyday practice, weaving was associated with marriage and thereby the union of families: a bride took cloth that she had woven to her new home, to serve as the bed cover under which she would lie with her husband (or in some cases, the husband supplied the cloth)37. Lysistrata’s extended metaphor (and perhaps Plato’s as well) was surely meant to evoke the most important civic occasion to which weaving contributed in Athens – the Panathenaia, which culminated in the dedication of a new peplos, woven by Athenian girls and women, to Athena Polias at her 36 The fact that words for the warp have masculine connotations and words for the woof have feminine adds strength to the metaphor. Scheid/Svenbro (1996) 13. 37 Plat. polit. 2279b1–2283b; sixteen women of Elis and Hippodameia: Paus. 5.16.2–7; Aristoph. Lys. 565–586 (and on all of this cf. Scheid/Svenbro 1996, 9–34); weaving cloth to take to a marriage: Scheid/Svenbro (1996) 61–82.

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temple on the Acropolis. This was the main festival of the Athenian year, providing an opportunity for all inhabitants of the city – male and female, young and old, citizen and metic – to join together in celebrating Athens’ accomplishments. A cluster of associated myths emphasize the festival’s articulation of Athenian unity: Theseus is said to have founded the Panathenaia to celebrate the unification of the previously independent villages of Attica. A separate festival, the Synoikia or ‘Joining Together of Households’, which was also said to have been founded by Theseus, preceded the Panathenaia by twelve days38. The Panathenaia additionally emphasized the creation of order from disorder, as expressed most vividly by the theme that traditionally was woven into Athena’s peplos: the Gigantomachy, during which Athena and the other Olympian gods defeated the giants39. It was not only civic order and unity that the Panathenaia and its peplos celebrated, however; its preparation brings us back to weaving as a metaphor for marriage and to its extended significance as a task that every proper virgin mastered during the time when she was learning how to be a good wife. For although the bulk of the work of weaving Athena’s new peplos was done by older females called ergastanai (‘craftswomen’), the ritually important inception of the project included young girls called Arrhephoroi, chosen from noble families; the Arrhephoroi may have continued to work on the peplos thereafter as well40. The Arrhephoroi had other duties, too. On a night during the month of Skiraphorion, they received a package from the priestess of Athena on the Acropolis and carried it, unopened, down a special staircase to the temple of Aphrodite in the Gardens at the bottom of the Acropolis. The priestess of Aphrodite gave them a package to carry back, again unopened, to the priestess of Athena. This marked the end of the Arrhephoroi’s year-long service; they returned to their families and new girls took their place41. The myth associated with this nocturnal journey told of how three princesses of Athens – Aglauros, Pandrosus and Herse, daughters of Athens’ first king, Cecrops – were charged by Athena with guarding a basket into which they were not allowed to look. They looked anyway and caught sight of Athena’s foster child Erichthonius, who was either part-snake and part-human or a baby enwrapped in snakes. Maddened with fright, the girls 38 Plut. Thes. 24.1–3; Thuc. 2.15.2 f.; a good general review of the two festivals and evidence is still Deubner (1956) 22–38; cf. Neils (1992a). In the Hellenistic period, the goddess’ name seems to have changed to Athena Archegetis (Mikalson 1998, 108–110); for our purposes this change is insignificant. 39 Barber (1992) 112–117; Ridgway (1992) esp. 122–124. 40 Reviews of the issues and evidence at Barber (1992) and Burkert (2001). 41 Our main source is Paus. 1.27.3; further at Kearns (1989) 21–27; Burkert (2001) and Goff (2004) 198–205.

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jumped off the Acropolis to their deaths42. Walter Burkert has discussed the connections between this myth and the Arrhephoria, noting that the myth narrates a premature, improper introduction to motherhood and its concomitant sexuality, and that the ritual enacts a proper introduction, during which girls travel from the realm of Athena, the virgin goddess, to the realm of Aphrodite, the goddess of sexuality, and then back again to Athena, whose duties also included receiving, at her temple on the Acropolis, each and every Athenian bride on the eve of her marriage43. Burkert has also stressed the coherence of the two tasks with which the Arrhephoroi were charged: a girl’s preparation for marriage comprised both an introduction to sexuality, in preparation for her roles as wife and mother, and the mastery of spinning and weaving, a good wife’s tasks par excellence. Myth brings the two together by associating the daughters of Cecrops not only with the introduction to sexuality (a transgressive introduction, in their case) but also with weaving and the care of textiles: Aglauros and Pandrosus were the first wool-workers; the sisters were the first to weave clothing for the people of Athens; and Aglauros was credited with establishing the Plynteria and Kallynteria (festivals at which the statue of Athena and its clothing were cleansed)44. The most central Athenian festival and its accompanying myths, then, explore in depth some ideas that are more briefly articulated in the myth of Arachne and Phalanx as we have it from Theophilus: a young Athenian virgin (Arachne), whose tutelage by Athena implicitly makes her the representative of all Athenian virgins, embarks on learning one of the most important skills that she will need as a wife – weaving – but spoils her transition by trying to acquire the other prerequisite of the wife – an introduction to sexuality – preemptively and with the wrong partner. The story of Arachne and Phalanx takes things a step further than the story of Cecrops’ daughters, however. The actions of Arachne and Phalanx contravene not only the rules of proper behavior for virgins but also the rules of proper civic behavior: a ‘marriage’ that weaves together brother and sister completely subverts the institution’s purposes as ancient sources articulated them: if a strong city is built upon the union of diversified families and a strong family is built upon the union of diversified spouses, then the union of siblings, by definition, weakens the fabric of both.

42 Discussions of and citations for the myth are given by the scholars in the previous note. 43 Goff (2004) 198–205, offers an attractive interpretation that downplays the secrecy of the myth and ritual; her differing conclusions do not affect my argument here. 44 Phot., Hesych. and Suda s. v. protonion; Phot. s. v. Plynteria and Hesych. s. v. Kallynteria and Plynteria.

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The significance of Arachne’s weaving goes further, however. The metamorphosis of a sexually transgressive virgin into a spider is appropriate not only because spiders are excessively lustful and conduct their family lives in unhappy ways, but also because a contrast can be drawn between the sort of weaving virgins are trained to do and the sort of weaving spiders do. This brings us back to interpreting the affordance of the spider’s web, which, as I mentioned earlier, was represented in antiquity as both the product of industry and intelligence and the product of artless instinct. Rather than imposing either of these two meanings, to the exclusion of the other, I would suggest that both may have been at work. At the beginning of the story the heroine, whose name already brought to mind the spider, may have evoked the positive connotations of the spider’s web (after all, she was introduced as Athena’s protégé and thus destined for excellence in the arts of spinning and weaving) but the negative connotations would have come to the fore when the girl became a spider in form as well as name – it is hard to imagine that any transformation meant as a punishment would fail to carry negative valence45. Certainly, if we bring our own observations of spiders to the story, the webs that the new Arachne will create are far from the political and marital unions for which women’s textiles served as a metaphor: spiders are isolated creatures and do not share their webs46. Indeed, our only ancient description of spiders sharing a web – which happens when they mate – reads like an awkward, hesitant parody of unification: the female phalangion sits in the middle of her web and the male sits on the periphery. She pulls on a strand to move him a bit closer and then he pulls on a strand to bring her a bit closer. They repeat this until their hind-parts meet, and it is in this position that they clumsily mate47. The spider’s web, then, is very different from the cloth under which the new bride lay with her husband, and very different as well from the metaphorical textiles that Plato’s Statesmen-Weavers produce. 45 Fenney (1991) 191–194, Salzman-Mitchell (2005) 135–139, and Johnson (2008) 74–95 argue for the strong negative valence of transformation into an eternally weaving spider in Ovid’s version of the story. Notably, Latrodecti spin webs that look markedly unpatterned (see S. Jones’ remarks on the web-page sponsored by the Ohio State University Department of entomology: http://ohioline.osu.edu/ hyg-Fact/2000/2061A.html). If Arachne’s connection with Phalanx brought this group of spiders to mind, the negative valence of her transformation would be stronger yet. 46 According to I. Agnarsson, Director of the Zoology Museum at the University of Puerto Rico, only 20 to 25 species of spiders (out of about 39,000) are ‘quasi-social’; most of these are tropical (http://theridiidae.com/Social%20Spiders.html). 47 Aristot. hist. an. 542a12–17. If Plutarch’s opinion that a spider’s webs were all woof and no warp was shared, then this, too, would have signaled failure on the spider’s part to weave opposites into a single whole (above n. 18).

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Phalanx If Arachne represents the failed virgin, whose transition into the state of a married woman is marred by her improper introduction to sexuality, then what does her brother represent? Our only clue is what the story tells us: Athena is training him in hoplomacheia, ‘fighting in arms’, a subset of war-craft, another of the goddess’s prominent areas of expertise. More specifically, the word hoplomacheia refers to training exercises that young Athenian men underwent48. Phalanx, then, implicitly serves as the representative of all Athenian youths, and he, too, fails in his transition to maturity. An additional observation lends appeal to this reading: in antiquity, women’s weaving paradigmatically corresponded to men’s work at war: the good wife stayed home in front of her loom while the good husband went out to the battlefield. Already, Hector says to Andromache, “Go back to our house and resume your work with the loom and the distaff […] the men must see to the fighting.”49 Within an Athenian context, we can take this even further. One of the occasions on which men’s preparation for military service was highlighted was the Greater Panathenaia, during which some of them competed in a hoplite race – that is, a race while dressed in full armor50. Other events at the Panathenaic games included the apobates, a race in which armor-clad men dismounted from a chariot in motion and then mounted again51; a contest in which men on horseback threw javelins at a target (essentially what members of the cavalry did during battle and a skill that Xenophon emphasizes as central to military preparedness); and three other horse and chariot competitions specifically highlighting the skills of warriors52. The vases given to victors in all events of the Panathenaic games showed an armed Athena performing the Pyrrhic dance, which legend said she had invented after the gods defeated the giants – an appropriate image not only because the gigantomachy was understood to be the Panathenaia’s founding event but also because the festival itself included three Pyrrhic dance competitions (for boys, for unbearded youths and for men). The dancers, who wore armor and carried spears and shields, mimed the postures and actions of warfare53. A prize for euandreia – ‘excellence in masculinity’ – was also awarded at the Panathenaia54. 48 49 50 51 52

Plat. leg. 833d–e; cf. Lach. 181e–182a, Gorg. 456d; Kyle (1992) 87 f.; Wheeler (1982). Hom. Il. 6.490–493; Salzman-Mitchell (2005) 123; Scheid/Svenbro (1996) 16 f. Kyle (1992) 88 f. Kyle (1992) 89 f. The apobates supposedly was invented by Erichthonius. IG II² 2311, lines 58–71; Xen. hipp. 1.21; 1.25; 3.6; equ. 8.10; 12.12 f. Discussion at Kyle (1992) 91–93. 53 Ridgeway (1992) 127; Kyle (1992) 94 f.; on the miming movements, see particularly Plat. leg. 7, 815a. Age groups: IG II² 2311, lines 72–74. 54 Crowther (1985); IG II² 2311, line 75.

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Of course, the Panathenaic frieze of the Parthenon showcases military might, as well, through images of hoplites in chariots and cavalry on horseback, ensuring that Athenian military preparedness was kept in mind not only during the Greater Panathenaia but during each and every year’s celebration. At the Panathenaia, in sum, men exhibited their prowess in the skills that defined maturity as a male, just as women exhibited their accomplishment in weaving, one of the skills that most centrally defined femininity. Hector’s words to Andromache were on public display; the complementary roles that the genders played in ensuring the success of family and state were ritually inculcated. The complementarity of the roles is also suggested by the fact that by the 4th century at latest, the daughters of Cecrops had developed connections with ephebes as well as with the Arrhephoroi: the ephebes took their oath of loyalty in Aglauros’ shrine and offered sacrifice to Pandrosus in combination with Athena Polias and Kourotrophos (the latter of whom we find mentioned in connection with Aglauros and Pandrosus on several other occasions)55. As resident Athenian divinities specializing in the protection of the city’s children and adolescents (as kourotrophoi ), Aglauros and Pandrosus appropriately could be called upon to participate in the final stage in the maturation of the city’s males, as well as of its females.

When was the story of Arachne and Phalanx told? Theophilus’ story of Arachne and Phalanx, then, resonates with the same themes as do the ritual of the Arrhephoria, the festival of the Panathenaia and the myth of Cecrops’ daughters. Theophilus’ story, however, more economically combines these themes into a coherent whole: adolescent maturation, transgressive sexuality, weaving and military strength are entwined within a single narrative. At the Arrhephoria and in the myth of Cecrops’ daughters, in contrast, the themes of female maturation and transgressive sexuality are brought to the fore, weaving is alluded to insofar as Aglauros and Pandrosus are connected with it in other myths and rituals, but male maturation and military power are absent. The Panathenaia put male matu55 Ephebic oath: Demosth. or. 19.303, Philochorus FGrH 328 F 105; Merkelbach (1972) and Siewart (1977). Sacrifice to Pandrosus: IG II² 1039, line 58 (1st century BCE). Scholars agree that Aglauros and Pandrosus originally were (and to some degree remained) independent divinities, joined in myth to serve as paradigmatic king’s daughters (a type that typically appears in triads; Herse, for whom we have no traces of cult apart from her sisters, may have been invented to fill out the threesome). The fact that Aglauros is the wife of Ares by at least the 5th century suggests that she was associated with male military roles even earlier: Hellanicus FGrH 323a F 1. Similarly, the story of her leaping from the Acropolis to ensure Athens’ victory over Eleusis suggests she was early connected with warfare. Cf. Kearns (1989) 23–27.

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ration on prominent display and glorified a product of female maturation – the peplos – but as far as we know did nothing to express (through either myth or ritual) the dangers of transgressive sexuality. It is our story’s use of spiders, and concomitantly their affordances, that enables it to treat all of these themes, and their interrelationships, so effectively within a single narrative space. The moment that listeners (or readers) encountered the names ‘Phalanx’ and ‘Arachne’ they were prepared for a range of possible plots involving weaving, familial crime and lust. The introduction of Athena as the siblings’ tutor further narrowed the range to a story about maturation; after this, the dénouement cannot have been altogether surprising. This is not to say that the story was banal – just the opposite: the characterizations that the protagonists brought to the story, which drew on the affordances of spiders, ensured that its themes were even more powerfully expressed. Most effective myths (and effective rituals) do this in one way or another: by playing on the same theme in several variations, they ensure its transmission and heighten its impact. We might wonder under what circumstances such a story was told. What the scholiast gives us is undoubtedly condensed beyond what Theophilus wrote, but we cannot say how long Theophilus’ version was, whether he wrote in prose or poetry, or hazard any other guesses about the nature of his work. We can say with fair certainty, however, that the story was not a cultic aition, for two reasons. First, if a ritual or festival were believed to have been established in the wake of the siblings’ fate, it probably would have been intrinsic enough to the plot to have been mentioned even in a brief treatment (cf. n. 57 below). Second, we have no trace of cult being paid to Phalanx or Arachne in Attica or anywhere else. The first reason is not a hard and fast rule (there are exceptions) and the second reason is an argumentum ex silentio, but the two together make it difficult to imagine our story as a cultic aition. The story looks similar, as I said above, to many of those that Antoninus Liberalis passes down to us from Nicander, Boio and other authors. Polyphante scorns marriage; Aphrodite makes her fall in love with a bear and give birth to cannibalistic giants; eventually, she metamorphoses into a bird called the strix. Polytechnus and his wife Aëdon compete with one another in their household tasks (carpentry and weaving); Polytechnus loses and in fury rapes his sister-in-law; his wife and sister-in-law serve him his son for dinner and eventually everyone is changed into appropriate types of birds. Ascalabus taunts Demeter and is turned into a gecko56. All of these, as well as many of the other stories that Antoninus transmits, focus on articulating proper relationships between individual members of society (or between humans and gods) by describing the direly transformative effects of trans56 Polyphante: Ant. Lib. 21 (from Boio); Polytechnus and Aëdon: Ant. Lib. 11 (from Boio); Ascalabus: Ant. Lib. 24 (from Nicander; cf. Ther. 483–487).

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gression – and the majority of them do so without any mention of a cult or ritual having been established as a consequence57. Indeed, like the story of Arachne and Phalanx, most convey meaning at least in part by drawing on the affordances of the animals involved58. All these stories are also similar to another group of tales that I have discussed elsewhere: stories about women such as Lamia and Mormo, who are metamorphosed into animals or animal-human hybrids and then go on to persecute pregnant women, young children and sleeping men. Stories of these creatures were told at home by mothers and nursemaids to make children behave, but they were also lampooned on the comic stage for the amusement of male audiences, used by women to explain (and thus cope with) the traumas of miscarriage and infant death, and cited by ancient sources as defining features of particular places (thus, for example, Corinth is described as a place where you are likely to run into Mormo). Yet other stories about the ghosts of dead virgins, such as Erigone and Carya, were danced and sung by choruses at festivals such as the Anthesteria and the Caryateia59. Such stories had broad and varied cultural relevance, in other words. As scholars who have yet to cast off the heavy mantle of the Cambridge Ritualists, classicists have tended to ignore these tales because they have no clear aitiological connection to ritual and cult – often, classicists do not even grant them the title of ‘myth’, But if myth is, as Scheid and Svenbro have nicely expressed it, a “concatenation of categories” (categories such as ‘fabric’ or ‘city’) through which meanings are created, then the tale of Phalanx and Arachne, as well as the other examples I have just given, certainly qualify as myth, whatever the occasions on which they were narrated. The statement from which I have borrowed the phrase “concatenation of categories,” is worth contemplating in its entirety: In reflecting on [the difficulties of defining ‘myth’], we came to consider the myth not as a story but as a simple linking or concatenation of categories, linking thanks to which it becomes possible, within a given culture, to engender mythical stories, images and rituals. Thus envisioned, the now-equal relationship among story, image and ritual is one not of mirroring but of common descent, giving the respective documents an air of close parentage, the origin of which would be this linking of categories we call myth60. 57 Exceptions are Ant. Lib. 1, 4, 13, 17, 25, 26, 29, 33, 40 (out of a total of 41 stories), each of which mentions establishment of cult or ritual at the end of its brief narration. 58 The birds into which people are transformed in Ant. Lib. 11 provide good examples. On the use of affordances in the story of Polyphante (Ant. Lib. 21), see Cherubini (2009). 59 Johnston (1999) 161–249 and Johnston (1997); Mormo and Corinth: Schol. Aristid. Pan. p. 42 Dindorf, and Johnston (1997) 67 f. 60 Scheid/Svenbro (1996) 3.

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Envisioning our story of Arachne and Phalanx as one descendent, one particular “concatenation”, of a cluster of categories – weaving, warfare, sexuality – from which are also descended the Arrhephoria, the Panathenaia, the myth of Cecrops’ daughters, the ephebes’ oath at the shrine of Aglauros, and the claim that Pandrosus and Aglauros were the first wool-workers, frees us from worrying about how each descendent might have been formally related to the others. That is, it frees us from such concerns as whether (and how) a particular story was attached to a particular ritual; on what other (non-ritualized) occasions the story might have been conveyed; how that story was related to similar stories; or how a ritual for which we have no aitiological myth might otherwise have been justified61. By this model, the story of Arachne and Phalanx can be allowed to articulate the same concerns as the other cultural products I have examined in this essay without having a direct, formalized connection to any of them. The story may have been told among the women of a household as they sat at their looms; it may have been told to children who saw young spiders eating their mother; it may have been lampooned in a satyr play; it may have been recorded (in fact, Theophilus seems to indicate that it was) to exemplify the sorts of tales that people in Athens told. It may also have been narrated or illustrated in literary and artistic creations that no longer remain to us, for reasons we can only guess at. It may have been, and done, all of these things – but even without being able to say more than we have about its provenience and use(s), we have been to tease out of this myth a lot about its expressive values, because myth, in the end, floats free of the other cultural products that sometimes accompany it. Arachne weaves as circumstances require – and so, too, do those ancient men and women from whose text(ile)s we now derive the stories they told, and the rites they performed.

Bibliography Barber (1992). – Elizabeth J. Wayland Barber, “The Peplos of Athena”, in: Neils (1992a) 103–118. Bettini (1998). – Maurizio Bettini, Nascere. Storie di donne, donnole, madri ed eroi (Torino 1998). Beavis (1988). – Ian C. Beavis, Insects and Other Invertebrates in Classical Antiquity (Exeter 1998).

61 Of course, when we know how a story was conveyed (e. g., how and when it was publicly performed), this can be helpful in understanding how the story articulated social concerns. My points here are only that (1) stories may be narrated apart from formal occasions and still convey powerful messages and (2) such stories may repeat and enhance the messages conveyed by stories that are formally performed.

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Burkert (2001). – Walter Burkert, “The Legend of Kekrops’ Daughters and the Arrhephoria: From Initiation Ritual to Panathenaic Festival”, in: Savage Energies: Lessons of Myth and Ritual in Ancient Greece (Chicago 2001) 37–63 (Eng. transl. of “Kekropidensage und Arrhephoria”, Hermes 94 [1966] 1–25). Cherubini (2009). – Laura Cherubini, “The Virgin, The Bear, The Upside-Down Strix: An Interpretation of Antoninus Liberalis 21”, Arethusa 42.1 (2009) 77–97. Crowther (1985). – Nigel B. Crowther. “Male ‘Beauty’ Contests in Greece: The Euandria and the Euexia”, AC 54 (1985) 285–291. Deubner (1956). – Ludwig Deubner, Attische Feste (Berlin 1956). Feeney (1991). – Denis Feeney, The Gods in Epic: Poets and Critics of the Classical Tradition (Oxford 1991). Geertz (1973). – Clifford Geertz, “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture”, in: id.: The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York 1973) 3–30. Gibson (1979). – James Jerome Gibson, The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception (Boston 1979; now published Hillsdale, N. J.). Goff (2004). – Barbara E. Goff, Citizen Bacchae (Berkeley 2004). Gow/Scholfield (1953). – Andrew Sydenham Farrar Gow/Alwyn Faber Scholfield, Nicander. The Poems and Poetical Fragments (Cambridge 1953). Graf (2008). – Fritz Graf, Apollo (London 2008). Johnson (2008). – Patricia Jane Johnson, Ovid Before Exile: Art and Punishment in the ‘Metamorphoses’ (Madison, Wis. 2008). Johnston (1997). – Sarah Iles Johnston, “Corinthian Medea and the Cult of Hera Akraia”, in: James Joseph Clauss/Sarah Iles Johnston (eds.), Medea (Princeton 1997) 44–70. Johnston (1999). – Sarah Iles Johnston, Restless Dead: Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley 1999) Kearns (1989). – Emily Kearns, The Heroes of Attica, BICS Suppl. 57 (London 1989). Kyle (1992). – Donald G. Kyle, “The Panathenaic Games: Sacred and Civil Athletics”, in: Neils (1992a) 77–102. Merkelbach (1972). – Reinhold Merkelbach, “Aglauros (Die Religion der Epheben)”, ZPE 9 (1972) 277–283. Mikalson (1998). – Jon D. Mikalson, Religion in Hellenistic Athens (Berkeley 1998). Neils (1992a). – Jenifer Neils (ed.), Goddess and Polis: The Panathenaic Festival in Ancient Athens (Princeton 1992). Neils (1992b). – Jenifer Neils, “The Panathenia: An Introduction”, in: Neils (1992a) 13–28. Ridgway (1992). – Brunilde Sismondo Ridgway, “Images of Athena on the Acropolis”, in: Neils (1992a) 119–142. Roberts et al. (2003). – J. Andrew Roberts/Philip W. Taylor/George W. Uetz, “Kinship and Food Availability Influence Cannibalism Tendency in Early-Instar Wolf Spiders (Araneae Lycosidae)”, Behavioral Ecolog y and Sociobiolog y 54.4 (2003) 416–422. Ross/Smith (1979). – Kenneth Ross/Robert L. Smith, “Aspects of the Courtship Behavior of the Black Widow Spider, Latrodectus hesperus (Araneae: Theridiidae), with Evidence for the Existence of a Contact Sex Pheromone”, Journal of Arachnolog y 7 (1979) 69–77. Salzman-Mitchell (2005). – Patricia B. Salzman-Mitchell, A Web of Fantasies: Gaze, Image and Gender in Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’ (Columbus, OH 2005). Salomon et al. (2005). – Mor Salomon/Jutta Schneider/Yael Lubin, “Maternal Investment in a Spider with Suicidal Maternal Care, Stegodyphus lineatus (Araneae, Eresidae)”, Oikos 109 (2005) 614–622.

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Samu et al. (1999). – Ferenc Samu/Søren Toft/Balázs Kiss, “Factors Influencing Cannibalism in the Wolf Spider Pardosa agrestis (Araneae, Lycosidae)”, Behavioral Ecolog y and Sociobiolog y 45 (1999) 349–354. Scarborough (1979). – John Scarborough, “Nicander’s Toxicolog y. II: Spiders, Scorpions, Insects and Myriapods”, Pharmacy in History 21 (1979) 3–34. Scheid/Svenbro (1996). – John Scheid/Jesper Svenbro, The Craft of Zeus, Eng. trans. by Carol Volk (Cambridge, Mass. 1996; Le métier du Zeus: Mythe du tissage et du tissu dans le monde gréco-romaine, Paris 1994). Siewart (1977). – Peter Siewart, “The Ephebic Oath in 5th-Century Athens”, JHS 97 (1977) 102–111. Von Staden (1993). – Heinrich von Staden, “Spiderwoman and the Chaste Tree: The Semantics of Matter”, Configurations 1 (1993) 23–56. Struck (2004). – Peter T. Struck, Birth of the Symbol: Ancient Readers at the Limits of the Texts (Princeton 2004). Wheeler (1982). – Everett L. Wheeler, “Hoplomachia and Greek Dances in Arms”, GRBS 23 (1982) 223–233.

Verbindlichkeit

The Invention of Mythic Truth in Antiquity peter t. struck Introduction It is commonly understood that the Greek term mythos means something entirely different from modern definitions of ‘myth’. Liddell and Scott tells the most authoritative version of the story: in Homer the term is a rather generic word for speech, and by the classical period it comes to mean something like a tall tale, usually a false and absurd one. Plato in the Gorgias opposes a mythos to a logos (a rational account) and to speaking truthfully: “Listen, then, as they say, to a beautiful story, which you will consider a myth, I think, but which I consider an actual account (logon); for the things which I am about to tell, I will tell as the truth” (Plat. Gorg. 523a). Aristotle later coins it to mean the plot of a tragedy, and there the story seems to end. Though I have of course streamlined a bit, there are no other major developments. The ancient traditions of mythography do very little to challenge this narrative, since they display mostly antiquarian interest, where the concern for any truth-value is bracketed. We see nothing like the consequential intellectual movements in recent centuries that have attended to the idea of ‘myth’ (or mythe, Mythos, or mito). As Fritz Graf has shown in his Greek Mytholog y, the great German philologist and scholar Christian Gottlob Heyne (1729–1812) re-coined the term for the modern world1. He meant to dignify the kind of tale his predecessors had known by the Latin term fabula, which, as Graf has pointed out, carried a sense of absurdity and even a hint of derision. The Greek term was pulled back into modern Europe as part of a salvage operation. No longer are we Latin Churchmen looking down our noses at ancient fables, we are now scientific observers inspired by the Greeks’ love of wisdom. It is very much a piece of Heyne’s effort to persuade his contemporaries that these ancient stories were not simply indecorous fanciful tales told by primitive 1

Graf (1996) 9–12.

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people. There was something to them. Heyne’s rhetorical levering helped open up an entirely new realm to a set of scholars from Herder, to Max Müller, to Harrison, to Jung, to Lévi-Strauss, and beyond, for whom myth was resolutely not frivolous or absurd, and was in fact a kind of well-spring of deep truth about what it means to be human. This is quite a turnaround. Graf has charted a robust set of modern thoughts around the notion of what I am here calling ‘mythic truth’ – that is, the idea that myths are certain ancient stories, re-told by poets, painters, sculptors, and parents to their children, that contain nuggets of deep insight on the world and the human place in it2. Considering the common narrative of the Greek term mythos, it seems ironic that an ancient word that itself carries a hint of derision, as Plato has already shown, should have been re-awakened in order to undo a sense of derision. Of course, the aura of Greek, just since it is Greek, conveys a legitimizing gravitas (one could compare what modern psychoanalysts were able to do with psychê ). But I will here be proposing that Heyne’s reviving of the Greek term is not so ironic as we might suspect. There are ancient Greek precursors to the idea that a mythos is a story defined by a unique claim to a deeper truth. To appreciate this, one needs to take a closer look at certain less well-known evidence that reveals the ancient notion of myth to be more multiform than we have fully appreciated up until now. While many surely saw mythoi as tall tales (as Plato almost always did, Thucydides too3), other ancient authors claim, in a way analogous to Heyne and his successors, that myths contain a certain kind of profound knowledge.

Myth, fable, and poetry – some initial delimitations Most, though not all, of this story is contained within the various traditions of ancient allegorism4. The idea that the poems of Homer, Hesiod, Orpheus, and few others are full of extractable wisdom is a commonplace in allegorical commentaries from the likes of the Derveni commentator, Metrodorus of Lampsacus, Stoics like Chrysippus and Cornutus, rhetorical scholars like Heraclitus the Allegorist and the author of the Life of Homer, and the Neoplatonists of Late Antiquity like Porphyry and Proclus. Within this heterogeneous corpus we find a subtle distinction at the outset, one that makes salient an important limitation of the idea here being scrutinized. 2 3 4

Graf (1996) 35 f. See, e. g., Thuc. 1.21. On allegory in general, see David Konstan’s very lucid “Introduction” in Russell/ Konstan (2005) xi–xxx; Lamberton (1986); Struck (2004) 149–151, where some of the ideas in this paper were tentatively explored.

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Several of the allegorical commentators give us well-developed ideas of poetic truth, while fewer of them help us get at the question of what I am calling mythic truth. It is not uncommon that an allegorical commentator explicitly venerates the poet as the inspired font of wisdom. Heraclitus the allegorist, the Derveni Commentator, and Proclus, for example, leave behind such a view5. Here the poet is understood to have been gifted with profound insight. This is a kind of ‘truth’ that belongs to the poetic craft, and we could trace a history of this idea in antiquity. It would contain a place for these allegorists, reckon with the very different forms of insight that Aristarchus thought great poets were capable of mustering, and consider Aristotle’s observation in the Poetics that poetry is weightier and more philosophical than history because it deals with what could happen or might happen, rather than the narrower terrain of what did happen (Aristot. poet. 1451b). We would need to survey all the ways in which the ancients imagined their poets to use the poetic craft to convey insights. But in antiquity, as in the modern period, several readers drew distinctions between ancient authoritative tales, whose authorship is not clear, and famous poets’ iterations of them. I will be particularly interested in these attestations of a split between the two, since they make clear that there was an understanding in antiquity that the mythoi themselves contain truths, irrespective of the poets’ intentional reconstructions of them. This is a more apposite precursor to the modern study of myth, which sees it as distinct from the study of poetry. Figures from Heyne to Lévi-Strauss de-coupled the truths myths contain from any particular poet’s intention. This separates out the guiding hand of a single artist, and leaves behind something that specifically belongs to myth itself. A final limitation, attendant upon the first: many in antiquity expected Aesopic fables to have a kind of tidy truth built into them6. This took the form of a generalizable gnomic sentiment that would have some direct and pragmatic application in the context in which the fable was told. Within the rhetorical tradition, these kinds of tales are known by many names, including ainoi and ainigmoi – they sometimes also travel under the name of mythoi 7. There is surely a kind of truth in the tale, but again the source of the truth does not rest precisely in a mythic frame, but rather in the intention of Aesop. Further, the narrowness of the message in Aesopic truths sets them apart from the modern developments for which I am tracing antecedents. They tend to give local insight into how to navigate one’s life rather than a global overview of the cosmos and the human place in it.

5 6 7

See Russell/Konstan (2005) 3; Derveni Papyrus, cols. 7, 12 (Laks/Most); for Proclus see Struck (2004) 234–252. See, recently, Kurke (2003); Lefkowitz (2009). See Theon Rhetor, Prog ymnasmata 3 (Spengel).

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Mythic truth in Plato and Aristotle Plato famously warns against looking to the ancient myths for knowledge (Plat. rep. 3; 10). This is often taken, rightly, as a gauge for how much authority myths had for his contemporaries. His general warnings don’t prevent him from, on occasion, appealing to myth when he finds something in it that supports a general point he is making, always leaving hints that he isn’t entirely serious8. He also produces his own myths, presumably with the idea that they will replace deficient myths then in circulation. The story of Er, which closes the Republic, for example, shows us a myth conveying eschatological information on the fate of souls, which he sets up in competition with Homer’s nekyia (Plat. rep. 614b). Even more interesting, he also leaves behind more general statements about myths and where they come from – adding up to a myth about myth, if you will. In the Statesman, as he articulates the myth of the divine shepherd, he explicitly includes discussion of its premises, giving us a fascinating commentary on myth in general that runs alongside his telling of the myth itself. The dialogue spends some effort building up a portrait of the ideal political leader, and then Plato’s main discussant, the Stranger, suggests that the picture they have developed, while fit for an ideal world, may not be possible to attain in the messy world such as it is. To illustrate his argument, the Stranger digs through the ancient myths. Plato has him forward the caveat that such a path of discussion is a kind of childish entertainment (παιδιὰν), nevertheless he feels it necessary to make reference to a “great myth” (δεῖ μεγάλου μύθου προσχρήσασθαι), because it conveys a message congruent to the one that he is developing (Plat. polit. 268d). He collects pieces of several different famous myths: he looks at the myth of the sun rising in the West as part of the struggle between Atreus and Thyestes; he mentions the reign of Kronos, understood as a kind of Edenic existence; and various stories of autochthonos birth. He claims that all of these are vestiges from a massive cosmological event of long ago. They tell of a time when the world turned on its axis in the other direction from the way it does now. This is why we have handed down to us a myth of the sun rising in the West. And since at these times, time passed in the other direction as well, human lives began in the earth and arced their way through old age to middle age and to infancy, ending in birth. And since there were no families (the earth was everyone’s mother) neither were there any clans or nations, and so no need for conflict. And further, at that time the whole world itself was directly guided in this opposite direction by a divine shepherd who tended to all the needs of humans. Eventually the divine shepherd drops the 8

For a recent treatment and summary of the background, see Morgan (2000).

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tiller and the world, left to its own devices, spins the other way (in its current direction) like a recalcitrant child. While both Plato’s and the Stranger’s investment in this story about myth remains unclear, it lays out a fascinating scenario for where mythic truths come from. Plato summarizes the idea (Plat. polit. 269b–c): All these stories then come from the same experience, and in addition to these a thousand others still more wonderful than them, but on account of the magnitude of time some of them have vanished, others have been related in separate pieces with each of the parts scattered from each other. But the experience which is the cause of all these no one has told, and just now it ought to be; for the tale will be suited to an exposition on the nature of the king9. Ταῦτα τοίνυν ἔστι μὲν σύμπαντα ἐκ ταὐτοῦ πάθους, καὶ πρὸς τούτοις ἕτερα μυρία καὶ τούτων ἔτι θαυμαστότερα, διὰ δὲ χρόνου πλῆθος τὰ μὲν αὐτῶν ἀπέσβηκε, τὰ δὲ διεσπαρμένα εἴρηται χωρὶς ἕκαστα ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων. ὃ δ’ ἐστὶν πᾶσι τούτοις αἴτιον τὸ πάθος οὐδεὶς εἴρηκεν, νῦν δὲ δὴ λεκτέον· εἰς γὰρ τὴν τοῦ βασιλέως ἀπόδειξιν πρέψει ῥηθέν.

A very similar proposal is placed in the mouth of Solon’s Egyptian interlocutor in the Timaeus. There we also hear of succeeding generations, wiped out by periodic cataclysm, and the suggestion that the oldest tales are garbled fragmentary records from formative events of very long ago. The Phaethon tale preserves a ‘truth’ in the form of a ‘myth’ about the shifting of the heavenly bodies that orbit the earth, and a destruction of the things on the earth by a great fire that recurs at intervals (τοῦτο μύθου μὲν σχῆμα ἔχον λέγεται, τὸ δὲ ἀληθές ἐστι τῶν περὶ γῆν κατ’ οὐρανὸν ἰόντων παράλλαξις καὶ διὰ μακρῶν χρόνων γιγνομένη τῶν ἐπὶ γῆς πυρὶ πολλῷ φθορά. Tim. 22c–d). Because the Egyptians are safe from these destructions by fire (owing to their low altitude and the Nile), and because they are safe from deluges from the sea, they keep actual records of what happened, whereas everyone else, including the Greeks, have their records wiped out (and even the knowledge of how to keep records) and so they have only incomplete memories to work from, that are “hardly different from childish myths” (παίδων βραχύ τι διαφέρει μύθων. Plat. Tim. 23b). In both the Statesman and the Timaeus, then, we have myths not only about great leaders and Atlantis, but also what we could call a myth about myth itself. He speaks of an early time, almost unimaginably long ago, when ancient men witnessed monumental and formative events, and over successive epochs of history, remnants of the human race survive to tell the tale. But due to the massive time elapsed, punctuated by calamities of various kinds, and incomplete technologies to record, the legends are mixed up and survive only in fragments. Of course, given Plato’s low opinion of 9

All translations my own.

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the epistemological power of myth, one should be cautious about claiming that he actually endorses his story of the origins of myth. But he may be capturing a general sense of his time, and in any case, Plato’s version is the first attestation of several recurrent ideas in the story of ‘mythic truth’ in antiquity. When we turn to Aristotle, we find a nearly identical picture in his Metaphysics, book Lambda. This is a powerful and consequential tract, in which he looks at the primary sources of motion in the cosmos. He here proposes the idea of a multiplicity of unmoved movers to account for the motions of the heavenly bodies, with the prime mover, which is behind the motion of the sphere of fixed stars, being the primary unmoved mover. At Aristot. metaph. 1072b this prime mover is identified with god, and after he articulates the choir of unmoved movers below it, he says the following (Aristot. metaph. 1074b1–15): It has been handed down by ancient men from very early times, and left behind to posterity in the form of a myth, that these heavenly bodies are gods and that the divine surrounds the whole of nature. The rest of it has been added, up to the present time, with an eye to the persuasion of the masses and expedience in relation to the laws and general advantage. They say that these gods have a human form and are similar to certain other animals, and the other things that follow from and are attendant upon these statements. If, from these statements, someone should separate out and accept only the first, that they supposed the primary substances to be gods, we would consider it an inspired statement, and might think that, while each of the arts and sciences likely has been recovered many times to the degree possible and then perished again, these are the teachings of those arts and sciences preserved like remnants up to the present day. And so to this extent alone an ancestral lore from the earliest men is visible to us. Παραδέδοται δὲ παρὰ τῶν ἀρχαίων καὶ παμπαλαίων ἐν μύθου σχήματι καταλελειμμένα τοῖς ὕστερον ὅτι θεοί τέ εἰσιν οὗτοι καὶ περιέχει τὸ θεῖον τὴν ὅλην φύσιν. τὰ δὲ λοιπὰ μυθικῶς ἤδη προσῆκται πρὸς τὴν πειθὼ τῶν πολλῶν καὶ πρὸς τὴν εἰς τοὺς νόμους καὶ τὸ συμφέρον χρῆσιν· ἀνθρωποειδεῖς τε γὰρ τούτους καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ζῴων ὁμοίους τισὶ λέγουσι, καὶ τούτοις ἕτερα ἀκόλουθα καὶ παραπλήσια τοῖς εἰρημένοις, ὧν εἴ τις χωρίσας αὐτὸ λάβοι μόνον τὸ πρῶτον, ὅτι θεοὺς ᾤοντο τὰς πρώτας οὐσίας εἶναι, θείως ἂν εἰρῆσθαι νομίσειεν, καὶ κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς πολλάκις εὑρημένης εἰς τὸ δυνατὸν ἑκάστης καὶ τέχνης καὶ φιλοσοφίας καὶ πάλιν φθειρομένων καὶ ταύτας τὰς δόξας ἐκείνων οἷον λείψανα περισεσῶσθαι μέχρι τοῦ νῦν. ἡ μὲν οὖν πάτριος δόξα καὶ ἡ παρὰ τῶν πρώτων ἐπὶ τοσοῦτον ἡμῖν φανερὰ μόνον.

Once again Aristotle’s investment in the idea is not whole-hearted, since the prospect is considered conditionally, and he does not take up the notion with vigor in any of the rest of the corpus. However, he seems to think a scenario very similar to the one Plato set out is possible. Here again, we have observations from extremely ancient peoples that have survived in garbled form through successive cataclysms. Aristotle’s statement contains some subtle but unmistakable differences and additions as well.

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Here the insight preserved in the myth is not attributed to these ancients witnessing some formative event. Instead, they just, preternaturally, seem to have understood something that to our (Aristotle’s) contemporary science likely proves to be true. The scenario credits them with an uncanny insight. Again, we needn’t hold Aristotle entirely to this, especially considering that he says the direct opposite of these ancient folk at Aristot. pol. 2, 1269a4–8. More likely they just made a lucky guess. But as was the case with Plato, he is probably referencing a more widely held idea that these ancient men did in fact have some special apprehension of the way of things. One might even point to a degree of poignancy in the notion of an ‘ancestral lore’ that is just barely visible to us. Second, the changes in the myth over time, while due partly to fragmentation caused by epochal convulsions, is also due to social and political imperatives. The stories are distorted to serve the purposes of manipulating the masses of people to follow laws and engage in good behavior. Aristotle reveals here an understanding that myths serve a social purpose, and they have the power to instill social values, something Plato had already realized. Furthermore, Aristotle’s way of making this observation also places an illuminating frame around the relative value of the kinds of information myths are thought to convey. Ideas about the shape of the cosmos and the nature of the divine are most prominent, and the mythic elements that arise to accommodate a given social imperative are seen to be distortions that need to be weeded out to reach the real truth of the myth. There is a useful contrast here to certain modern ideas. Some more recent thinkers on myth value most highly the information that myths convey about the societies that tell them. Already in the 19th century K. O. Müller noticed that the shape of an ancient tale reflects the political and social values of the society that tells it, and this was a core idea behind different forms of functionalism in the 20th century. But it does not even occur to Aristotle that such information might be particularly useful. Such accretions can only be seen to get in the way of the real truths behind the myths, which are understood to be connected to large questions about cosmology and theology. There is, in fact, general agreement in antiquity on what is the wheat and what is the chaff.

Stoicism and beyond From these early attestations in the philosophers, who are dealing directly with grand issues of cosmology, the general idea that myths are the distilled observations of ancient wise men becomes rather widely diffuse. For example, it occurs to the erudite, but hardly systematic, travel writer Pausanias. In his discussion of legends around Poseidon, Zeus, and Kronos, he tells us (Paus. 8.8.3):

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When I started out, I used to see in these tales of the Greeks a higher degree of simple-mindedness in their authors, but on getting as far as Arcadia I started to hold this sort of view of them: In ancient times those among the Greeks who were considered wise spoke their sayings not straight out but in enigmas, and so the legends about Kronos I conjectured to be a certain sort of Greek wisdom. Τούτοις Ἑλλήνων ἐγὼ τοῖς λόγοις ἀρχόμενος μὲν τῆς συγγραφῆς εὐηθίας ἔνεμον πλέον, ἐς δὲ τὰ Ἀρκάδων προεληλυθὼς πρόνοιαν περὶ αὐτῶν τοιάνδε ἐλάμβανον· Ἑλλήνων τοὺς νομιζομένους σοφοὺς δι’ αἰνιγμάτων πάλαι καὶ οὐκ ἐκ τοῦ εὐθέος λέγειν τοὺς λόγους, καὶ τὰ εἰρημένα οὖν ἐς τὸν Κρόνον σοφίαν εἶναί τινα εἴκαζον Ἑλλήνων.

It is noteworthy that Pausanias mentions this idea as coming to him as part of his approach to Arcadia. This is a region already associated, through Greek pastoral poetry and the Roman bucolic imagination, with an older order, and a time when fewer complexities of civilization separated people from their gods. He also sees in the myths a particular kind of speech, an enigmatic form, that is the vehicle by which myths convey their truths to us. We will see this idea of mythic language expressed elsewhere. Quite a bit has intervened between Aristotle and Pausanias, of course, and the most consequential developments are to be found in Stoicism. Cicero’s De natura deorum is a particularly rich source for the idea that myths contain profound hidden truths. This work, which stages a debate between different philosophical schools, particularly associates the Stoics with this view. As he investigates the nature of the gods, Cicero’s Stoic spokesman Balbus draws from many sources of information. He looks at abstract arguments about the perfection of the shape of sphere and of the heavenly bodies, he argues from created nature and how it behaves providentially, from cultic practices, and from etymological investigations of the names of the gods themselves. Another potent source of insight for him is the ancient myths, which he calls fabulae. The fabulae reveal that the ancients had insights with an uncanny resemblance to the real truth of things (such as contemporary Stoic physics has discovered it) (Cic. nat. deor. 2.63–72). His reading of the succession myth behind Hesiod’s Theogony provides a good example. Balbus sees the myth as a code for the deep structure of the cosmos. That Ouranos is castrated is an indication that the highest principle, the fiery divine aether, produces all things on its own and without need for union with anything else. Kronos is associated with chronos (time) and his swallowing of his children is an allegory for the idea that time devours all ages. When Zeus binds Kronos, the myth indicates that time cannot be unlimited, but must unfold according to delimited cycles. Though he nowhere lays out an explicit theory for where these truths come from, he gives some hints. He examines where our ideas of the gods come from and after a short consideration of Euhemerism he then suggests that scientific insight is another source behind the myths (Cic. nat. deor. 2.63):

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Also, from another line of thinking, indeed a powerful science, a large number of gods springs, gods who are clothed in human guise and have supplied an abundance of myths to the poets, but have crammed human life with every kind of superstition. Alia quoque ex ratione et quidem physica magna fluxit multitudo deorum qui induti specie humana fabulas poetis suppeditaverunt, hominum autem vitam superstitione omni referserunt.

This passage treats myth as a theological expression produced by some unknown earlier group of people. They are presumably ancient (though we have no fulsome discussion of successive eons of time interrupted by cataclysm) and further must have had a science that was well ahead of their time. They make myths out of their special knowledge and provide them to poets, who then embellish the divinities into anthropomorphic forms. In this passage Balbus makes a distinction between the myths on the one hand and what poets do with them on another (though he will nuance this distinction later, as we will see). This is similar to Aristotle’s discussion of an early time when the ancients encode wisdom in their tales, followed by a later time of embellishment. In Aristotle’s evidence, the embellishment happens for political expedience. Cicero here has Balbus attribute the deviations from the early true forms specifically to the poets and presumably to their urge to tell an entertaining tale. We also see a distinct mark of disdain in his saying the poetic fabrications have provoked all kinds of superstitions. He makes a finer point of this derision later on in the dialogue (Cic. nat. deor. 2.70 f.): And so, don’t you see how a scientific sense has been pulled from the good and useful study of physics, as it has been discovered, over to fabricated and fictitious gods? And this gave birth to false opinions and confused errors and superstitions that are nearly old wive’s tales. For we know the appearance of the gods and their ages, dress, and accoutrements, and moreover their lineages, marriages, and familial relations, and all of it is transferred into an image of human weakness. For they are shown even with troubled souls: we observe the desires, sorrows, and rage of the gods. And truly, as the myths relate, they are not free from wars and battles. And not only as in Homer when there are two opposing armies and particular gods protect one of them from the other side, but even, as in the case of the Titans and Giants, the gods fight their own wars. These things are discussed and believed in by the silliest people and they are full of emptiness and extreme insignificance. Nevertheless, while the myths are despised and rejected, the divine extends through the nature of each thing, through earth it is Ceres, through the sea it is Neptune, and so on for the rest, and what sort of natures they have is able to be understood, so too tradition has called them that name. Videtisne igitur ut a physicis rebus bene atque utiliter inventis tracta ratio sit ad commenticios et fictos deos. Quae res genuit falsas opiniones erroresque turbulentos et superstitiones paene aniles. Et formae enim nobis deorum et aetates et vestitus ornatusque noti sunt, genera praeterea coniugia cognationes, omniaque traducta ad similitudinem inbecillitatis humanae. nam et perturbatis animis inducuntur: accepimus enim deorum cupiditates aegritudines iracundias; nec vero, ut fabulae ferunt, bellis proeliisque caruerunt, nec solum ut apud Homerum cum duo exercitus contrarios

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alii dei ex alia parte defenderent, sed etiam ut cum Titanis ut cum Gigantibus sua propria bella gesserunt. haec et dicuntur et creduntur stultissime et plena sunt futtilitatis summaeque levitatis. Sed tamen is fabulis spretis ac repudiatis deus pertinens per naturam cuiusque rei, per terras Ceres per maria Neptunus alii per alia, poterunt intellegi qui qualesque sint quoque eos nomine consuetudo nuncupaverit.

This very rich passage builds on the first one from Balbus and clarifies a few things. The idea of ‘myth’ here is more tightly bound to what the poets do and so is also caught up in the derision that seemed to be mainly directed toward the poetic fabrications of the earlier passage. Certain fabulae are to be despised and rejected. What truth there is in the mythical material seems mainly to dwell at the level of individual deities’ characters and their associations with particular parts of the cosmos. The narratives are embellishments, again presumably for entertainment value, and are to be rejected in their literal form. But as the reading of the succession myth from Ouranos to Kronos to Zeus has shown, one can read back through these myths, undoing the salacious flights of fancy, and one will arrive at the true insight that was the initial spark for the tale. There remains a kind of scientific observation at the core of the myths, then. In the end, myths are enlightening, insofar as they are accretions on core scientific observations. So, while there is no reverence for myth in Balbus’ account, there is an idea that they are precipitated by, and built around true observations about the structure of the cosmos. Attentive reading of them will allow one to recover scientific insight. Finally, we turn to the work of a Roman Stoic, Cornutus, whose Compendium of Greek Theolog y is among the richest allegorical tracts to survive from antiquity. He develops Stoic ideas of the traditional pantheon as a collection of expressions of underlying cosmological truths. This tract also puts on display an approach to the ancient tales that we saw attested in Plato and Aristotle, but Cornutus has developed it further. His closing statement, which outlines his overall stance toward the myths, is a good place to begin (75.18–76.5): And so, my child, you may now be able in this way to take the rest of the things handed down to us in mythical form, ostensibly about the gods, and refer them to the elementary models that have been pointed out, having been convinced that the men of antiquity were no common men, but that they were both competent to understand the nature of the cosmos and were inclined to make philosophical statements about it through symbols and enigmas10. Οὕτω δ’ ἂν ἤδη καὶ τἆλλα τῶν μυθικῶς παραδεδόσθαι περὶ θεῶν δοκούντων ἀναγαγεῖν ἐπὶ τὰ παραδεδειγμένα στοιχεῖα, ὦ παῖ, δύναιο, πεισθεὶς ὅτι οὐχ οἱ τυχόντες ἐγένοντο οἱ παλαιοί, ἀλλὰ καὶ συνιέναι τὴν τοῦ κόσμου φύσιν ἱκανοὶ καὶ πρὸς τὸ διὰ συμβόλων καὶ αἰνιγμάτων φιλοσοφῆσαι περὶ αὐτῆς εὐεπίφοροι. 10 Citations are to the still standard edition by Lang (1881).

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So, the ancients had extraordinary powers of insight, and they had a particular mode of expressing these insights – an oblique, enigmatic code, akin to the one Pausanias understands. That there is an earlier age of greatness from which the current period has slipped is in some tension with a Stoic emphasis on the idea that the world is getting better and knowledge is expanding11. Their physics includes the notion of an advancing cosmic fire, coextensive with the divine itself, that over great cycles of time consumes the world. This advance is a kind of revealing of the cosmos, and so one would associate earlier times with a lesser degree of this ‘revealing’. In any case, it is clear in Cornutus that in the earlier time there were extraordinary men who saw into the deep structure of the cosmos so penetratingly that their insights matched the most advanced scientific observations of his day. Like Plato and Aristotle, Cornutus also hands on the idea that the myths arrive to us in broken form. He looks at the famous scene at the opening of Iliad book 15, where Zeus berates Hera by reminding her of how he once punished her by hanging her from the heavens with a golden chain and attaching anvils to her feet. He unravels this enigma by reading it as an allegory for the air (Hera) stretching down from the upper regions of the aether (Zeus) down to the heavier, denser regions of earth and sea (the two anvils). He claims here that, “The poet seems to be handing down this fragment of an ancient myth ” (ἔοικε γὰρ ὁ ποιητὴς μυθοῦ παλαιοῦ παραφέρειν τοῦτο ἀπόσπασμα. 26.17). The term ‘fragment’ suggests an idea of some whole story that gets broken up and is then passed on. What the poets are working with, then, is something like the situation imagined by Plato in the Statesman. The poet works with nuggets of an ancient tradition, and reconfigures them to meet the needs of his own tale. But Cornutus, more like Balbus, has a particular sense of how these whole stories get broken up. In his view, the poets play the crucial role in the fragmentation (27.19–28.2): One must not conflate the myths or transfer the names from one to another; nor ought the myths be considered irrational if something has been plastered onto the traditional genealogies by people who do not understand the message they indicate enigmatically, but treat them as if they were mere poetic fabrications. Δεῖ δὲ μὴ συγχεῖν τοὺς μύθους μηδ’ ἐξ ἑτέρου τὰ ὀνόματα ἐφ’ ἕτερον μεταφέρειν μηδ’ εἴ τι προσεπλάσθη ταῖς παραδεδομέναις κατ’ αὐτοὺς γενεαλογίαις ὑπὸ τῶν μὴ συνιέντων ἃ αἰνίττονται, κεχρημένων δ’αὐτοῖς ὡς καὶ τοῖς πλάσμασιν, ἀλόγως τίθεσθαι.

Cornutus frames his discussion as a contrast between mere poetic fabrications (πλάσματα) and truth-bearing ancient myths. He sees the mythic tales as something other than the kinds of creations a poet might make. They convey deep truths about the cosmos, where as poetic tales are made up, 11 See a discussion in Most (1989).

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presumably to please an audience. At another point in his treatise, which is addressed to his son, Cornutus more explicitly blames the poets for mishandling the truths the myths contain. He expresses disagreements with Hesiod (31.12–18): Well then, you might at some time have a more perfect interpretation than Hesiod’s genealogy. For I think that although he has transmitted certain things from the ancients, other things he has added from his own imagination of a more mythical nature, and in this way a great deal of ancient theology has been corrupted. But for now let us examine the things that have been preserved for the most part. Ἀλλὰ τῆς μὲν Ἡσιόδου <γενεαλογίας> τελειοτέρα ποτ’ ἂν ἐξήγησίς σοι γένοιτο, τὰ μέν τινα, ὡς οἶμαι, παρὰ τῶν ἀρχαιοτέρων αὐτοῦ παρειληφότος, τὰ δὲ μυθικώτερον ἀφ’ αὑτοῦ προσθέντος, ᾧ τρόπῳ καὶ πλεῖστα τῆς παλαιᾶς θεολογίας διεφθάρη· νῦν δὲ τὰ βεβοημένα παρὰ τοῖς πλείστοις ἐπισκεπτέον.

Here Cornutus recapitulates a disdain we saw from Cicero’s Balbus (and Aristotle, for that matter) for misguided accretions onto core truths. Cornutus continues to suggest that the poet makes up these additions for the sake of entertainment. In his view the poet is a potentially careless figure, who may or may not fully comprehend the potent messages in the materials with which he or she works. We should also note the use of the comparative adjectival form ‘more mythical’ in a way that is meant to disparage poetic accretions. This should caution against the idea that there is a full split between the idea of truth-bearing myth on the one hand and false poetic accretion on the other.

Conclusion The idea of ‘myth’ in antiquity, in both Greek mythos and Latin fabula, carries significantly more weight than is suggested by a history that privileges the line from Homer to Plato. In Homer, there is not really a word for ‘myth’ yet, since the term will only emerge after some self-conscious reflection on Homeric discourse and its subject matter, versus other discourses. Instead we have mythos corresponding to speech or story tout court. Plato didn’t place much stock in the ancient tales, since he, like Thucydides, was working hard to establish a claim to truth for another kind of discourse, and so ‘tale’ became ‘tall tale’. But the evidence here suggests another set of ideas, activated mostly within the allegorical tradition, that sees myths as potentially containing profound insights. Raising the profile of this thinking on ‘myth’ helps us see more clearly the polemical nature of the idea of myth as especially meaning false tale. These polemics, of course, were quite successful, since later Stoic thinkers, as we have seen, built in answers to them. They speak of falsity now inhering mainly in poetic accretions and flights of fancy – whereas some core insight, at the center of the myth, is allowed to remain deeply true.

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It is noteworthy that in each of the different ideas examined here, we see an implicit or explicit valorizing of some period of very remote antiquity. The ‘faraway’ provides an origin from where some secure insight might come. In these texts, as in many modern notions, the idea of mythic truth draws on a primitivist scheme, in which ancient peoples had some uncanny special insight. We also see consequential differences in thinking between ancients and moderns that are made more salient from comparison. While several modern schemes see the myths as a way into contingent, historical truths, of culture and social or political organization, the ancients showed almost no interest in this. The kinds of truths that myths are thought to contain are more exclusively related to very big questions, about the shape of the cosmos and the human place in it. In both ancient and modern ideas, though, one sees what we might call a preservationist instinct. The maintaining of mythic truth answers to a rather strong need to locate some source of wisdom that is more than the here and now – a present time and current location that offer us only tantalizing glimpses of the order of things. Maybe there is some other time or place when people knew better.

Bibliography Graf (1996). – Fritz Graf, Greek Mytholog y: An Introduction (Baltimore 1996). Kurke (2003). – Leslie Kurke, “Aesop and the Contestation of Delphic Authority”, in: Leslie Kurke/Carol Dougherty (eds.), The Cultures within Ancient Greek Culture: Contact, Confl ict, Collaboration (Cambridge 2003) 77–100. Lamberton (1986). – Robert Lamberton, Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition (Berkeley 1986). Lang (1881). – Karl Lang, Cornuti theologiae Graecae compendium (Leipzig 1881). Lefkowitz (2009). – Jeremy Lefkowitz, Aesop’s Pen: Adaptation and Satire in the Aesopic Tradition (Diss. University of Pennsylvania 2009). Morgan (2000). – Kathryn A. Morgan, Myth and Philosophy from the Pre-Socratics to Plato (Cambridge 2000). Most (1989). – Glenn W. Most, “Cornutus and Stoic Allegoresis”, in: ANRW 2.36.3 (1989) 2014–2065. Russell/Konstan (2005). – Donald A. Russell/David Konstan (eds.), Heraclitus: Homeric Problems (Atlanta 2005). Struck (2004). – Peter T. Struck, Birth of the Symbol: Ancient Readers at the Limits of their Texts (Princeton 2004).

Under Which Conditions Did the Greeks “Believe” in Their Myths? The Religious Criteria of Adherence vinciane pirenne-delforge

In 1987, Fritz Graf published a book entitled Griechische Mythologie. Eine Einführung, which was soon translated into English under the same title: Greek Mytholog y. An Introduction 1. This work was immediately evaluated as “the best historical survey” on the subject and this is still the case today2. Besides this essay, a large amount of work has been published by Fritz Graf, demonstrating a wide range of interests and impressive expertise. As his main concerns have always been Greek myth and religion, I would like to connect both of these themes in this modest contribution3, in order to thank our colleague and friend for his revealing and always inspiring work. Such an ambition may seem adventurous as neither “myth” nor “religion” has been spared by the post-modern and critical dismantling of many interpretive categories or dichotomies such as muthos vs. logos. We must underline once more that “myth” and “religion” are not concepts native to the Greek language and do not have to be used as frameworks of thought4. However, the splitting-up of these categories as “ideal types” does not lessen the need to understand the narratives that we call “myths” and the Greeks called logoi or muthoi. We must also address their connection with what we call “religion”, which fits in with various Greek expressions such as tà hierá (“sacred things”), tà theîa (“that which refers to the gods”), tà nómima (“that which is prescribed and refers to tradition”)5. A pragmatic definition of 1 2 3 4 5

Graf (1987) and (1993). Bremmer (1994) 65 n. 4. Very recently, this was still the opinion of Calame (2007) 282. This paper is the English adaptation of an analysis in French included in a book on Pausanias. See Pirenne-Delforge (2008) 64–85. See, in particular, Detienne (1981), Calame (1991) and (1996) 9–55, esp. 46. On the definition of “myth”, see Des Bouvrie (2002) 11–69. On the different Greek words referring to “religion”, see Rudhardt (²1992) 11–17, and (2008).

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Greek “myth” might describe it as a narrative rooted into the knowledge shared by a society, i. e. a traditional story referring to the representation of the past shared by this specific human community and to the representation of the gods and the world framing its current life6. Such narratives are transformed during oral performance or written composition but these variations are not aleatory. They are restricted within certain limits and such a capacity for adaptability is a measure of their vitality. What has for a long time been interpreted as a gradual transition from muthos to logos and as the Greek move towards enlightenment has been largely questioned for at least two decades7. In fact, the expressive power of “myth” and its capacity to illustrate the truth in one way or another survived the early Classical period, when its cultural and religious relevance began to be called into question. Furthermore, “mythical” narratives seem to have incited critical debate as early as their first appearance in our Greek literary heritage. The proem of Hesiod’s Theogony is a beautiful example of such a potentiality, with a contrasted speech attributed to the Muses. Two verses spoken by the goddesses and directed to the “shepherds that camp in the wild, disgraces, merest bellies”8 provide a contrast to fictions, ψεύδεα (some would say “lies”) “that sound like realities”, i. e. “plausible fictions”, on the one hand, and “truths”, ἀληθέα, on the other9. Both propositions are endorsed by the Muses, who underline their own capacity to perform the first as well as the second kind of address according to their own good will10. Fictions as well as truths are connected with divine inspi6 Cf. Graf (1993) 1–8. Even if “myth transcends the text” (2), narratives are our best tool for grasping myths. 7 See for example the critical essays gathered in Buxton (1999), among which we find Fritz Graf ’s article entitled “Mythical Production: Aspects of Myth and Technology in Antiquity”. 8 Hes. theog. 26, transl. West (1988) 3. 9 Hes. theog. 27 f.: ἴδμεν ψεύδεα πολλὰ λέγειν, ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα | ἴδμεν δ’ εὖτ’ ἐθέλωμεν ἀληθέα γηρύσασθαι. These lines have been much discussed. For example, five papers were presented on this issue during a conference held in Lille and entitled “Hésiode et le métier du mythe”: Judet de La Combe/Blaise/Rousseau (1996). My own reflection owes much to the article published by Jean Rudhardt in this book. See also Daix (2006), Pucci (2007) 60–70, and Heiden (2007), whose work is briefly discussed in the following note. 10 The expression “lies that resemble truth” from verse 27, is generally thought to refer to polemic against a rival poetry. Such a common opinion was recently addressed by Bruce Heiden arguing that homoios does not mean “resemblance so close as to be deceptive” but “the same with respect to a certain quality”: Heiden (2007), with previous bibliography. Following a suggestion made by Marie-Christine Leclerc in 1993, the author aims at demonstrating that the Hesiodic Muses claim to tell only the truth because their lies were somehow equivalent to truth. So far so good. In this respect, however, the opposition between alethea and pseudea remains, even

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ration and refer to what we call “mythical” narratives, which are, as early as the Hesiodic poetry, themselves related to critical assessment. Different levels of “truth” are connected with the goddesses themselves. The poet’s own position in these matters certainly consists of claiming a higher degree of truthfulness for the inspiration poured onto his own lips by the Muses11. “Mythical” narratives therefore constitute a group of tales in which both plausible fiction and truth may potentially be present, unless truth strays far from the standards of plausibility. I shall return to this point. Criticism of myths must not merely be seen as a peculiar stage of the reading of traditional tales, as has been thought for a long time. This critical posture is deeply embedded in the system and is a fundamental part of it since rivalry seems to be present as early as Hesiod’s poetry. Hence our difficulty in grasping this and accounting for such a rich and multiform whole. Quoting Geoffrey Lloyd, I might say that some puzzling statements “have, no doubt, to be understood, in each case, against a background of a rich and complex set of beliefs, that are gradually acquired by the members of the society concerned, a set that contains more and less central, more and less secure, items, some open to doubt, others requiring specialist or learned interpretation, and yet others passing as unquestioned or axiomatic”12. Distinguishing one context of discourse13 from another is necessary for defining to what degree statements may be left undisputed or, on the other hand, open to challenge. In the Hesiodic account of the poet’s encounter with the Muses at the foot of Mount Helicon, truths are related to emphatic and authoritative statements (γερύεσθαι), which need not necessarily require likelihood, while fictions seem to be more closely connected with reality and are plausible. These two verses entail some notions that will become fundamental tools in the ancient and modern reflection about Greek myths: truth, fiction, likelihood. Many authors, at each stage of the long-standing Greek cultural life, might be taken into account in order to illustrate the coexistence of these notions as far as “myths” are concerned. Skipping centuries, I choose though the philological analysis of homoios is highly convincing. Following Chantraine s. v. ψεύδομαι, and Leclerc (1993) 71 f.; 216–218, I choose for my part to understand pseudea as “fictions”. Since the word etuma points to “sensible realities” and not “truth” as alethea may do, we recapture an understandable opposition between “plausible fictions” and “truth”, i. e. lifelikeness on the one hand, and truth on the other, even though such a truth – alethea – does not necessarily fit in with reality. From this perspective, the Muses do not tell deceptive lies but their inspiration points to several levels of “truth”. See also Daix (2006). 11 Graf (1993) 79: “Hesiod claims to hear the truth in person.” 12 Lloyd (1990) 27. 13 What Buxton (1994) calls the contexts of mythology in the subtitle of his work Imaginary Greece.

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Pausanias and his journey into the cultural landscape of Roman Greece in order to decipher some of the criteria he used to express his adherence to mythical narratives. This is not mere chance as Paul Veyne, in his short book Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths?, quoted a range of examples from Pausanias’ work14. One of these examples comes from the beginning of the eighth book of Pausanias’ Periegesis, where he displays the genealogical succession of the Arcadian kings. Pelasgus was the first king who ruled over the region and he civilized its inhabitants. Lycaon, the next king, was even wiser than his father in his actions but, in matters of religion, his choices were less judicious. He sacrificed a new-born child to the Zeus he had called Lycaeus, while his contemporary Cecrops offered cakes to Zeus Hypatos on the acropolis of Athens. After the sacrifice, Lycaon was immediately turned into a wolf (8.2.1–3). At this point, Pausanias interrupts the story in order to assess this statement (8.2.4): For my own part, I believe the tale (καὶ ἐμέ γε ὁ λόγος οὗτος πείθει), which has been handed down among the Arcadians from ancient times (ἐκ παλαιοῦ), and has likelihood (τὸ εἰκός) in its favour. For the men of that time, because of their righteousness and piety (ὑπὸ δικαιοσύνης καὶ εὐσεβείας), were guests of the gods, and sat with them at table. […] Men were raised to the rank of gods in those days, and are worshipped down to the present time15.

However, times have changed. Pausanias denounces the sin of his own age, on the one hand, and the human capacity of building falsehood upon truths (οἱ τοῖς ἀληθέσιν ἐποικοδομοῦντες ἐψευσμένα), on the other (8.2.5 f.). People delighted by marvellous stories (ὁπόσοι δὲ μυθολογήμασιν ἀκούοντες ἥδονται), such as Tritons speaking with a human voice or stones shedding tears, have corrupted truthful issues by mixing them with fictions (τοῖς ἀληθέσιν ἐλυμήναντο, συγκεραννύντες αὐτὰ ἐψευσμένοις, 8.2.7). In this passage, Pausanias makes a strong distinction between a metamorphosis into a wolf supported by ancestral tradition, hence rooted in times of piety, and the same phenomenon connected with more recent times, which therefore becomes incredible fantasy (μυθολόγημα). The traditional Arcadian discourse is believable insofar as the quality of the period to which it refers may be placed high on a moral and religious level, even though metamorphosis is an issue normally open to challenge by Pausanias16. Deciphering his expressions of belief implies an understanding of the distinction he draws between different kinds of tale. On the one hand, we find muthologemata, conceived as marvellous tales involving heroic achievements 14 Veyne (1988; French original 1983). Cf. Buxton (1994) 155–158. 15 On the issue of “gods born of human beings”, see Pirenne-Delforge (2009 forthcoming). 16 Paus. 1.30.3; 1.41.9; 6.8.2 f.

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and fantastic bestiary. On the other, there are credible stories, which are not necessarily plausible in their materiality (metamorphosis sounds strange in this respect) but are supported by specific arguments. Another passage further in the same book authorizes such a qualification and sheds light on its implications. Pausanias has just told the Arcadian version of the story of Cronus swallowing his own children: Zeus was supposed to have escaped from his father’s voracity but so was Poseidon, since Rhea first gave her husband a horse instead of the new-born god, just as she did afterwards, substituting a stone for Zeus17. Whereas he often maintains a silence about such local stories, which he meticulously reports without a commentary18, Pausanias interrupts his discourse once more to comment on this Arcadian tale. The passage is well-known and has been much commented upon19: When I began to write my synthesis, I was inclined to count these Greek stories (τούτοις Ἑλλήνων […] τοῖς λόγοις) as foolishness (εὐηθίας), but on getting as far as Arcadia I grew to hold a more thoughtful view of them, which is this. In the days of old, those Greeks who were considered wise spoke their sayings not straight out but in riddles (δι’ αἰνιγμάτων), and so the stories about Cronus I conjectured to be one sort of Greek wisdom. In matters of divinity, therefore, I shall adopt the received tradition (τῶν μὲν δὴ ἐς τὸ θεῖον <ἀν>ἡκόντων τοῖς εἰρημένοις χρησόμεθα)20.

This passage is a welcome addition to Pausanias’ previous statement about muthologemata, a word which does not appear here21. In fact, “these Greek logoi ”, thought to be foolish before travelling the roads of Arcadia, point to the well-defined category of stories referring to gods. The swallowing of one’s own children is a strange divine behaviour and this conception of the gods had already been denounced by philosophers centuries earlier22. Nevertheless, we may suspect such a behaviour to have been included among the Hesiodic alethea. In this respect, Pausanias gives evidence of two ways of addressing these stories: rejecting them as foolishnesses, on the one hand, and, on the other, respecting them as “riddles” to be carefully reported, since they were handed down by a tradition deeply rooted in a community. The register of the enigmatic, which means hidden 17 Paus. 8.8.2. 18 Pausanias echoes Herodotus’ statement that he must report tales without necessarily believing them: Hdt. 7.152; cf. Paus. 6.3.8. See Pirenne-Delforge (2008) 26, 30–32. 19 Oliver (1972); Veyne (1983) 106–110; Elsner (1992) 21; Habicht (²1998) 156 f.; Hartog (1996) 151–158; Jost, in Jost/Casevitz (1998) XXXIII–XXXVI; Hutton (2005) 303–311; Pirenne-Delforge (2008) 71 f., 337–341. 20 Paus. 8.8.2 f. (translation adapted from W. H. S. Jones). 21 On the rare occurrences of this semantic field in the Periegesis, see Pirenne-Delforge (2008) 82–86. 22 Graf (1993) 178–191.

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discourse about the divine, implies a suspension of judgement insofar as it is anchored in a remote past, an age of piety and respect. All the other tales are open to challenge, which implies the need to read them with a critical eye in order to identify truthful elements of the Greek past, which have been saturated by marvellous and incredible concretions. These other tales refer to human actions including the heroic sphere. The ten books written by Pausanias are full of interesting places where he discusses stories. Sometimes foolishness is denounced. For example, how might we suppose that the inhabitants of Troy had been deceived by a wooden horse? Everyone must be aware that Epeus constructed an engine for breaking down the wall23. The reality of the Trojan War is left undisputed as such but the details must be corrected. In the same vein, at Sparta, a statue dedicated to Aphrodite by Tyndareus represented the goddess as having fetters on her feet. One of the aetiologies explained this particularity by referring to Tyndareus’ will to punish Aphrodite because she was at the origin of his daughters’ shame24. The historicity of this consecration is not put into doubt but the validity of the aetiology is contested. At Olympia, Pausanias describes a tablet recording the victories of the Spartan Chionis and considers as very simple those who believe that Chionis himself dedicated the tablet since one of the recorded races had not yet been introduced when Chionis was alive. Pausanias’ framework for evaluation is the same whatever period he is dealing with: he wants to provide a trustworthy report but plausibility may be the only achievement of his investigations. When investigation completely fails, he places different versions one beside the other without taking on any particular position. The account of local traditions is sometimes associated with an interjection of incredulity, which does not imply more commentary: “for people believing this” (ὅτῳ πιστά). Twice, the expression refers to the underworld25 and three passages refer to the marvellous capacities of things or heroes26. At Thebes, Pausanias uses a significant expression, which might be a commentary on his own position in such matters. He is visiting the agora of the city and he says: “The Greeks who believe that the Muses sang at the wedding of Harmonia can point to the place in the market-place where they say the goddesses sang.”27 Whatever its credibility, the story is closely connected with a definite place and the autopsy of such places is an essential component of Pausanias’ journey. 23 24 25 26 27

Paus. 1.23.8. Paus. 3.15.11. Paus. 2.5.1; 2.31.2. Paus. 2.31.10; 4.2.7; 9.10.1. Paus. 9.12.3 (transl. J. G. Frazer): Ἑλλήνων δὲ τοῖς ἀποδεχομένοις ᾆσαι Μούσας ἐς τὸν Ἁρμονίας γάμον τὸ χωρίον ἐστὶν ἐπὶ τῆς ἀγορᾶς, ἔνθα δή φασι τὰς θεὰς ᾆσαι.

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Since the visitor firstly aimed at preserving the Greek heritage in all its local and particular components, critical assessment only remained an option and was not obligatory. Such narratives left undisputed were nevertheless virtually open to challenge. This was one option among others. The very limit of Pausanias’ critical approach was defined by what he called to theion in one of the passages of book eight quoted above: “In matters of divinity, I shall adopt the received tradition.” Accordingly, we may point out three possibilities in Pausanias’ framework for evaluation, when he opts for discussion: – narratives involving heroes, thought to be actors of the Greek past, are open to critical assessment, regarding genealogical and narrative cohesion; – narratives involving heroes, who are more or less saturated with fantasy, are challenged; – narratives involving gods are seen as “riddles” to be left unquestioned. Nevertheless, things are not that simple. There are intersections between these three kinds of tale. Narratives involving heroes may be stripped of their marvellous concretions in order to dig out a kernel of truth. Furthermore, some parts of the narratives are related to gods or traditional ritual acts and should be left undisputed for that reason. The second and third options are closer than we might suspect. This is the point I would like to address now. My first example comes from the first book and is related to Pausanias’ visit to Megara, where he mentions a temple to Apollo and his sister Artemis that is said to have been built by Alcathous, son of Pelops, after slaying the monstrous lion of Cithaeron. The beast was ravaging the land and the king Megareus had promised that whoever should slay the lion would marry his daughter. A classical heroic challenge, indeed. Megareus had already lost two sons, one killed by the lion and the other by Theseus. Alcathous succeeded, got the girl and the throne, and consecrated the temple of the twin deities as thanksgiving. So the tale goes, concludes Pausanias (1.41.3). We would have been left alone with this tale but Pausanias, as author, interferes in his text with a critical statement (1.41.4): “Though I wish to conform to the Megarian tradition, I am unable to do so on all points.” He must face a chronological and genealogical problem: since Theseus is a descendant of Pelops, Theseus would not have killed the son of Alcathous who was himself a son of Pelops. The Megarians are not reliable on this point but the very conclusion of the whole argument is significant (1.41.5): “As far as Alcathous and the lion are concerned, whether it was on Cithaeron or elsewhere that the killing took place, he built a temple to Artemis Agrotera and Apollo Agraeus; let it suffice to remember it (ἐς τοσόνδε ἔστω μνήμη).” This passage is very indicative of the way in which Pausanias tackles the various elements he encounters during his journeys. Buildings are the concrete

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supports of memory28. Even though heroic and genealogical narratives may be challenged and questioned, monuments related to cults contribute to the rooting of the piety of the present in a remote past. Alcathous’ pious consecration does not need to be called into question as such, only the genealogical manipulations need to be. Instead, the following example will be more expressive. In the ninth book, which refers to Pausanias’ visits to Boeotia, the sceptre of Chaeroneia is a curiosity all the more worth mentioning as this object is the most honoured of the gods by the inhabitants (9.40.11: θεῶν δὲ μάλιστα Χαιρωνεῖς τιμῶσι τὸ σκῆπτρον). The expression used by Pausanias closely connects the honours paid to this object with the cult performed by other cities in honour of their poliadic deity. The divine status of the sceptre derives from its history. Homer says that Hephaestus made the sceptre for Zeus, Hermes received it from Zeus and gave it to Pelops, who left it to Atreus, Atreus to Thyestes. Agamemnon finally obtained it from Thyestes. The sceptre probably arrived in Phocis with Electra as intermediate, and was finally obtained by the inhabitants of Chaeroneia, who called it Spear. It has no public temple, but is kept by its priest in a private house. Every day, all sorts of offerings are displayed on the table by its side. The sceptre is worshipped as a god would be. Furthermore, Pausanias states that “there is something peculiarly divine (τι θειότερον) about this sceptre, [which] is most clearly shown by the fame it brings to its owner” (9.40.11), but he does not specify the nature of such a fame. The visitor is faced with common cultic features, known elsewhere as trapezomata 29, related to something completely uncommon but tremendously ancient, full of divine brightness and deeply rooted in a long-standing ritual performance. The peculiar status of the sceptre was closely connected with its divine origin, as Hephaestus was said to be its craftsman. Pausanias might have left this point unchallenged, since a divine power is said to be at work behind the main cult of a local community. Instead, he argues extensively for the genuineness of the sceptre, which is said to be the only piece of art really worked by Hephaestus. Three other pieces of work attributed to the divine craftsman are discussed and their authenticity denied. The argument deserves close attention. The first object is a bronze bowl kept in the temple of Apollo at Patara in Lycia. Telephus was said to have dedicated this work of Hephaestus. Pausanias dismisses the claim, as the Lycians apparently ignore the fact that the first to melt bronze were two Samians who were living some generations after Telephus. The second item is the chest brought by Eurypylus from Troy, which is assumed to be kept by the Patreans. However, this piece is not exhibited for inspection at Patras. The third and last object is the famous 28 On this point, see Hutton (2005) 127–174; Pirenne-Delforge (2008) 32–40. 29 Gill (1974).

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necklace given to Harmonia as a wedding present. It was identified with a jewel conserved in the sanctuary of Adonis and Aphrodite at Amathus on Cyprus. The necklace is made of green stones fastened together with gold, while the Odyssey describes the necklace finally given to Eriphyle as being made of gold, although Homer was not ignorant of jewels composed of different materials (9.41.1–5). Accordingly, as Pausanias concludes, likelihood (τὸ εἰκός) implies that the sceptre is the only work of Hephaestus. Firstly, Pausanias’ argument refers to two sources of information: poetic songs and human opinion transmitted from one generation to another (9.41.1: ἡ φήμη). The poetic songs are a good starting point, and they are all the more reliable as the poet is Homer himself. The opinions passed down are a weak source and are open to deformation. Therefore, each claim has to be assessed according to various criteria. The claim of the Lycians regarding the bronze bowl is unwarranted because of the relative chronology of metallurgy, a surprising argument as far as a divine work is concerned30. The chest of Eurypylus cannot be dated with precision, as the Patreans do not have it on display. Pausanias’ scepticism is certainly based on his own visit to the city, where he extensively refers to the origin of the chest and to its role in the history and the rituals of the place. Due to the fact that the chest was carried outside Dionysus’ sanctuary on one night during the festival of the god, it was difficult for the visitor to be present at this moment31. The necklace kept in Amathus cannot be Harmonia’s famous jewel because of a contradiction between its materiality and the Homeric description. Finally, Pausanias did not prove the authenticity of the sceptre. He only denied the same quality to the other pieces of work assumed to be the results of Hephaestus’ skill. The “likelihood”, the eikos, related to the genuineness of the sceptre in his conclusion is not the logical consequence of the argument. In fact, its support lies at another level of Pausanias’ discourse, i. e. inside the daily honours paid to an object not only depending on the divine sphere but really taking on a divine status. The weight of a long-standing ritual is a powerful criterion in favour of the work’s authenticity. Likelihood does not result from an argument built on a strong historical assessment but from a qualitative evaluation deeply anchored in ritual performance. Accordingly, the antiquity of a discourse is not necessarily an unequivocal criterion. Let us take the example of the marvellous tale narrated by the inhabitants of Tanagra in Boeotia about a Triton. In the sanctuary of Dionysus, Pausanias saw such a fantastic beast and he took the opportunity to describe this kind of animal, which he had also seen in Rome, along 30 The same argument is provided for refuting the attribution of a dedication to Ulysses (Paus. 8.14.7 f.). This is less intriguing in this case, as the episode is only related to the human world. 31 Paus. 7.19.6; 7.20.1.

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with many other beasts he had never seen before. Two tales are narrated to explain why a Triton has been conserved in this sanctuary. The most venerable (ὁ μὲν δὴ σεμνότερος […] λόγος) tells how the Triton was overcome by the god prayed to by his female worshippers who were present on the sea-shore to be purified before performing his orgia. The other story is not so extraordinary but is more plausible (πιθανώτερος δέ ἐστι). The Triton used to devastate the territory and carry off all the cattle till the inhabitants set out a bowl of wine for drinking. They finally caught the beast in this manner. They said that Dionysus had killed the Triton because he had been drunk (9.30.4 f.). Here we face the human ability to elaborate marvellous stories. On the other hand, as far as the sceptre is concerned, a venerable story is closely related to ritual. This is a strong distinction. In stories related to divine agency, the religious criterion of adherence is all the more efficient as the story is rooted into a ritual performance or a cult-place. Narcissus’ story will be our last example, among many others that might have been chosen. Narcissus’ spring located in the district of Thespiae is related to the death of the young man, supposed to have fallen in love with his own reflection. Pausanias does not subscribe to the story and provides another explanation. Narcissus had a twin sister, with whom he was in love. When the girl died, he found some comfort in looking at his own image reflected in the waters of the spring, imagining he was seeing his sister. But Narcissus is also the name of a flower and Pausanias goes forward with this detail. He is persuaded that the flower grew many years before Narcissus the Thespian and was therefore independent of him. The proof is found in a poem of Pamphus telling the tale of Kore, the daughter of Demeter, who was carried off by Hades when she was gathering a marvellous narcissus growing miraculously in order to deceive her. Since Pamphus is an old poet, born many years before Narcissus, this means that Narcissus did not give his name to the flower (9.31.7–9). There are three levels to the argument: firstly, the criterion of likelihood is applied to the story of Narcissus’ death, as a man of good sense would not fall in love with himself; secondly, a chronological measure separates Narcissus the man from the flower of the same name; thirdly, the tale of Kore raped by Hades receives no comment, as it belongs to those traditions about the divine that are left unquestioned and unchallenged. * Did Pausanias believe in myths? In fact, such a question misses the point because it takes as a whole several types of narrative that need to be distinguished: the mass of heroic stories alleged to encompass the remote past of the communities, on the one hand, the tales related to deities, on the other, those which are partially seen as ancestral wisdom. Human imagination and

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the taste for marvellous tales have built upon both of these sets of stories – this is the poetic fantasy – or have adapted some of them to search of identity and legitimization – this is the misappropriated use of genealogy. Between Hesiod and Pausanias, centuries passed and the relevance of such tales has been more and more called into question: leaving the world of poetic inspiration, narratives about the past have been submitted to different questions and new analytical frameworks, by those who wanted to search for things of the past. Hecataeus’ laughter when faced with the silly stories of the Greeks was a first step and the most radical option was taken by Thucydides deciding to put aside all of what he called muthodes, “mythic stuff ”, in his own work32. Without addressing all these well-known developments, let us point out the fact that Pausanias is not as far away from the double statement of the Hesiodic Muses as the chronological gap might lead us to suppose. What remains strongly is the religious dimension of the aletheia as a true but enigmatic discourse about the divine world. On the other hand, one part of the semantic field of aletheia seems to be alien to the inspired perspective of Hesiod and is more closely connected with the critical assessments of Hecataeus: the credible story is what is left when fantasy and embellishments have been cut out. Pausanias’ work attests to complementary attitudes as far as truth is concerned. A first level points out the hidden truth of the cosmogonic and theogonic tales, for which the main reference is Hesiod and his authoritative statements. A second level concerns the narratives improved by a critical work that makes them credible, just as Hecataeus seemed to practise in the poorly preserved fragments of his work. But the multiplicity of local traditions often hinders such an improvement. Therefore, this third level points out Herodotus’ way of addressing such traditions: he aims at setting down what is told, without necessarily believing it33, a statement that is quoted almost exactly by Pausanias in the sixth book of his work34. Critical assessments are halted by the necessity of setting down traditions as far as divine agency is concerned, on the one hand, and by the weight of long-standing ritual performance at a local level, on the other. If such a reserve is not a literary and intellectual posture inspired by the spirit of the time, we must change the wording of the question about Pausanias’ belief. We should not wonder whether Pausanias believed in myths but why he gave credence to some myths and not to others. The answer lies in the background of the narratives and is closely related to the authority with which Pausanias credits them. Adhering to such a statement as “Cronus swallowed his own children” is not the fearsome 32 Thuc. 1.21.1. See Graf (1993) 122–124. 33 Hdt. 7.152. 34 Paus. 6.3.8.

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consequence of a deficient rationality but the expression of the trust placed in the traditional background to which such a proposition belongs. Furthermore, both poetry and prophecy are closely connected with the register of ainigmata from the earliest days, when gods were still inspiring elected human beings35. The literal significance of a statement may be puzzling, but the source of the knowledge that informs it is indisputable and adherence results from this confidence. Cognitive anthropology has shown that we can roughly divide the domain of beliefs into two parts: intuitive beliefs on the one hand, which are connected with our approach to the natural world and therefore shared by various cultures, reflexive beliefs, on the other, which depart more or less seriously from our commonsense ideas. In this context of “counterintuitive” beliefs, the source of authority is an essential component36. The adherence to a statement as difficult to understand as “Cronus swallowed his own children” is possible in a group if the authority that conveys it is strong enough. Such information belongs to the knowledge shared by the group and forms the culturally determined beliefs. If authority fails to maintain its force, adhesion will become weaker or disappear, but transmission will nevertheless go on through the centuries37. Returning to Pausanias, we may build on this theoretical approach. Collecting Greek traditions is the main purpose of his work. The knowledge shared by a Greek community, even on a local level, belongs to what he calls panta ta Hellenika 38. However, inside this huge heritage, not all the narratives imply the same level of adherence. This adherence is all the stronger as the tale is rooted in ancient poetic statements related to the representation of the divine. It is effective too if a ritual performance attests at the present time a long-standing veneration. In the 2nd century AD, poetic performance no longer provides authoritative statements, as the rhapsodes and choruses of earlier times might have done. Hence authoritative validation has to come from elsewhere, in particular from ritual performance, related to monuments of the past. An example taken from Plato’s Phaedrus should make this point clear, by placing such a process as early as the Classical period. Socrates and Phaedrus are walking along the Ilissus River and discussing the tradition of Oreithyia’s rape by Boreas. Socrates points out that the alleged location of this event is some furlongs farther down, where there is an altar to Boreas. Then, Phaedrus asks him if he believes the tale (muthologema) is true. 35 On this point, see a revealing statement by Pausanias: 10.12.11. On ainigmata, see Struck (2005). 36 See Boyer (1994); Sperber (1996) 97–102. 37 Sperber (1996) 133. 38 Paus. 1.26.4. See Elsner (1992) 14; Hutton (2005) 55–58; Pirenne-Delforge (2008) 27–29.

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Socrates’ reply is in fact a charge against any rational interpretation of such stories. He criticizes the “rustic sort of wisdom” that tries to explain each tale in accordance with probability and concludes on the statement that he is more convinced by tradition (πειθόμενος δὲ τῷ νομιζομένῳ περὶ αὐτῶν) on these matters than by these pseudo-explanations without end39. In this case, tradition is surely connected with the altar erected to Boreas in this place and with the honours paid to this god at the local level. This passage might be an echo of what we find in the eighth book of Pausanias centuries later, when he forcefully states that, in matters of divinity, he will adopt the received tradition. In 1972, James Oliver noted that there was nothing different in the Arcadian tales to account for what he called Pausanias’ “conversion”, since Athenian logoi, for instance, were equally ancient and hence authoritative40. He tried to demonstrate that the Panathenaic discourse of Aelius Aristides could have influenced Pausanias when he was writing his Arcadian book, therefore producing a new awareness of the value of old stories. By contrast, Paul Veyne suggested that the experiencing of Arcadia itself, with its remote traditions, engendered the visitor’s new respect for these logoi 41. Others related this experience to some philosophical interest in Stoic allegorical interpretation42. Veyne is surely correct in his statement that Arcadia itself was a turning-point, even though we must be conscious that Pausanias’ self-presentation does not exactly reflect some genuine experience, one that is rarely accessible, if ever. Old Arcadian stories might have had an impact, but rituals must also be taken into account. Only twice within his ten books does Pausanias state that he personally performed a sacrifice. The first occurred on the island of Aegina, in the sanctuary of Damia and Auxesia where he states that “[he] saw the images and sacrificed to them according to the ritual observed in sacrificing at Eleusis”43. The second sacrifice was performed in the Arcadian town of Phigalia, where the Black Demeter received bloodless offerings, also consecrated by the visitor44. Still on a ritual level, many mystery cults related to Demeter and her daughter were attested in Arcadia, among which the cult of Despoina at Lycosoura was the most important for all the inhabitants of the region45. As far as the content of the mysteries is concerned, we are left in the dark by 39 40 41 42

Plat. Phaedr. 229–230c. Oliver (1972) 319. Veyne (1983) 109 f. Cf. Hutton (2005) 306 f. E. g. Habicht (²1998) 156–159, esp. 159; Rutherford in: Alcock/Cherry/Elsner (2001) 47. 43 Paus. 2.30.4 (transl. J. G. Frazer). 44 Paus. 8.42.14. 45 Paus. 8.37.9. See Jost (2003).

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Pausanias, who adopts the silent posture of an initiate46. Nevertheless, the mythical background of the cult encompasses some important motives such as the story of Poseidon turning into a male horse in order to mate with Demeter who tried to escape him disguised as a mare47. The goddess was honoured as Erinys and Lousa in Telphousa, in memory of this event, but the fact that Despoina was born from this union implies that this tale was also part of the cult of Lycosoura. Despoina’s father was called Hippios, an epiclesis much attested in Arcadia for Poseidon. His sanctuary at Mantineia had been reconstructed by the emperor Hadrian, who had prevented some workmen from looking into the ruins enclosed inside the new building. The entrance of the old temple built by Trophonius and Agamedes was forbidden and merely protected by a woollen thread, which was respected by pious people except for one, who died after having cut it48. This Poseidon is closely related to horses, but zoomorphic motives also characterize Demeter herself, as well as the punishment Zeus inflicted on Lycaon, turning him into a wolf. Furthermore, excavations held on the site of the sanctuary at Lycosoura have brought to light standing terracotta figurines with animal heads, and the sculpted veil of Despoina was decorated with characters disguised as animals49. These elements make it possible to suggest that animal motives were all the more important during the performance of the mysteries as many local myths were also imbued with such references. Piety, close proximity between deities and men, between deities and animals, primordial sacrifices to the Black Demeter, strange rituals in the cult of Zeus Lycaeus, and finally Lycosoura, assumed to be the oldest city in the world, form a range of elements to take into account in the assessment of the impact of the local mysteries on the way Pausanias changed his mind. The authority of the Arcadian traditions in matters of “religious anthropology” and their anchorage in the primeval ages of the world is so powerful that even implausible stories with regard to good sense and natural laws have to be respected. In this local context, such tales, rooted in performance, reclaim a relevance that would be disputed in others. * Pausanias’ text is important for the study of Greek “myth” and “religion”. On the one hand, this work offers rich evidence that would have disappeared if its author had not dealt with so many local monuments, peculiarities or obscure traditions. On the other, the visitor provides evidence of two positions 46 47 48 49

Paus. 8.25.7; 8.37.9. Paus. 8.25.4–7. Paus. 8.10.2–4. Jost (2003) 157–163.

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regarding this material: he is at the same time an insider who participates in the system he describes and an observer who tries to interpret the evidence from the outside. The distinction between these positions is often difficult for us to draw but the Arcadian “conversion” attests that it can shift insofar as the field of experience is still open and alive in the 2nd century AD. Pausanias was the privileged witness to the present investigation precisely because of his ambition to describe “all that was Greece”. Other contemporary writers would have been read in this perspective. For instance, Arrian offers an interesting remark at the beginning of the fifth book of his Anabasis of Alexander, where he refers to the city of Nysa. The city is said to be a foundation of Dionysus after he had submitted the Indians. But who was this Dionysus? When did he live and where did he come from? Arrian refuses to address these questions, stating that “this is not necessary to provide a close examination of the myths from the remote past regarding the divine: what seems to be incredible as far as plausibility is concerned does not seem unbelievable at all if one adduces the divine to the tale”50. Arrian infers that tales related to divine agency cannot be investigated with the same methods as the evidence connected with human agency and implies therefore a suspension of judgement. The respective aims of Pausanias and Arrian are not exactly the same, but as far as stories related to deities are concerned, standards of plausibility may be undermined without necessarily undermining credibility. Adopting a received tradition in its own context is one of the best ways of addressing these narratives. Plutarch’s treaties and biographies would also provide a large range of statements showing the necessity, for an insider observer, of assessing religious feelings and adherence to traditional tales according to the context of the discourse that encapsulates them51. Already in Hesiod’s Theogony, plausible fiction and truth may potentially be present in the discourse of the Muses and truth itself far away from standards of plausibility. The metaphoric power of tales related to divine agency therefore does not imply their rejection as foolishness without taking into account the context of their enunciation, i. e. the particular authority of the voice that supports them. For Pausanias, this fact became obvious in Arcadia.

50 Arr. an. 5.1.2: πλήν γε δὴ ὅτι οὐκ ἀκριβῆ ἐξεταστὴν χρὴ εἶναι τῶν ὑπὲρ τοῦ θείου ἐκ παλαιοῦ μεμυθευμένων. τὰ γάρ τοι κατὰ τὸ εἰκὸς ξυντιθέντι οὐ πιστά, ἐπειδὰν τὸ θεῖόν τις προσθῇ τῷ λόγῳ, οὐ πάντῃ ἄπιστα φαίνεται. Cf. Bosworth (1980 ff.) vol. 2, 202. 51 Plut. Cam. 6.5 f. See Veyne (2005).

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Bibliography Alcock/Cherry/Elsner (2001). – Susan Alcock/John Cherry/Jaś Elsner (eds.), Pausanias. Travel and Memory (Cambridge 2001). Bosworth (1980 ff.). – Albert Brian Bosworth, A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s “History of Alexander”, vol. 1 ff. (Oxford 1980 ff.). Boyer (1994). – Pascal Boyer, The Naturalness of Religious Ideas (Harvard 1994). Bremmer (1994). – Jan Bremmer, Greek Religion, Greece & Rome. New Surveys in the Classics 24 (Oxford 1994). Buxton (1994). – Richard Buxton, Imaginary Greece. The Contexts of Mytholog y (Cambridge 1994). Buxton (1999). – Richard Buxton (ed.), From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought (Oxford 1999). Calame (1991). – Claude Calame, “ ‘Mythe’ et ‘rite’, des categories indigenes?”, Kernos 4 (1991) 179–204 (= id., Sentiers transversaux. Entre poétiques grecques et politiques contemporaines, ed. by David Bouvier, Martin Steinrück, and Pierre Voelke, Grenoble 2008, 43–62). Calame (2007). – Claude Calame, “Greek Myth and Greek Religion”, in: Roger D. Woodard (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Greek Mytholog y (Cambridge 2007) 259–285. Daix (2006). – David-Arthur Daix, “Réalités et vérités dans la Théogonie et Les Travaux et les Jours d’Hésiode”, Mètis n. s. 4 (2006) 139–164. Des Bouvrie (2002). – Synnøve Des Bouvrie, “Introduction”, in: ead., Myth and Symbol, vol. I: Symbolic Phenomena in Ancient Greek Culture. Papers from the First International Symposium on Symbolism at the University of Tromsø, June 4–7, 1998 (Bergen 2002) 11–69. Detienne (1981). – Marcel Detienne, L’invention de la mythologie (Paris 1981). Elsner (1992). – Jaś Elsner, “Pausanias: A Greek Pilgrim in the Roman World”, Past & Present 135 (1992) 3–29 (reprinted in: Robin Osborne [ed.], Studies in Ancient Greek and Roman Society, Cambridge 2004, 260–285, with a postscript 2003). Gill (1974). – David Gill, “Trapezomata. A Neglected Aspect of Greek Sacrifice”, Harvard Theological Review 67 (1974) 117–137. Graf (1987). – Fritz Graf, Griechische Mythologie. Eine Einführung (München/Leipzig 1987). Graf (1993). – Fritz Graf, Greek Mytholog y. An Introduction (Baltimore 1993). Habicht (²1998). – Christian Habicht, Pausanias’ Guide to Ancient Greece (Berkeley ²1998 [1985]). Hartog (1996). – François Hartog, Mémoire d’Ulysse. Récits sur la frontière en Grèce ancienne (Paris 1996). Heiden (2007). – Bruce Heiden, “The Muses’ Uncanny Lies: Hesiod, Theogony 27 and Its Translators”, American Journal of Philolog y 128 (2007) 153–175. Jost (2003). – Madeleine Jost, “Mystery Cults in Arcadia”, in: Michael B. Cosmopoulos (ed.), Greek Mysteries: The Archaeolog y and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults (London 2003) 143–168. Jost/Casevitz (1998). – Madeleine Jost/Michel Casevitz, Pausanias. Description de la Grèce, vol. 8: Livre 8: L’Arcadie (Paris 1998). Judet de La Combe/Blaise/Rousseau (1996). – Pierre Judet de La Combe/Fabienne Blaise/Philippe Rousseau (eds.), Le métier du mythe. Lectures d’Hésiode, Cahiers de Philologie publiés par le Centre de Recherche philologique de l’Université Charles de Gaule-Lille, 16. Série Apparat critique (Lille 1996). Leclerc (1993). – Marie-Christine Leclerc, La Parole chez Hésiode (Paris 1993).

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Lloyd (1990). – Geoffrey E. R. Lloyd, Demystifying Mentalities (Cambridge 1990). Oliver (1972). – James H. Oliver, “The Conversion of the Periegetes Pausanias”, in: Homenaje a Antonio Tovar (Madrid 1972) 319–321. Pirenne-Delforge (2008). – Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, Retour à la source. Pausanias et la religion grecque, Kernos Suppl. 20 (Liège 2008). Pirenne-Delforge (forthcoming). – Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, “Reading Pausanias: Cults of the Gods and Representation of the Divine”, in: Jan Bremmer/Andrew Erskine (eds.), The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformations (Edinburgh 2009). Pucci (2007). – Pietro Pucci, Inno alle Muse (Esiodo, Teogonia, 1–115). Testo, introduzione, traduzione e commento, Filologia e Critica 96 (Pisa 2007). Rudhardt (²1992). – Jean Rudhardt, Notions fondamentales de la pensée religieuse et actes constitutifs du culte en Grèce ancienne (Paris ²1992, Genève 1958). Rudhardt (2008). – Jean Rudhardt, “Essai sur la religion grecque”, in: id. Opera inedita, Kernos Suppl. 19, ed. by Philippe Borgeaud and Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge (Liège 2008) 33–56. Sperber (1996). – Dan Sperber, La contagion des idées. Théorie naturaliste de la culture (Paris 1996). Struck (2005). – Peter T. Struck, “Divination and Literary Criticism?”, in: Sarah Iles Johnston/Peter T. Struck (eds.), Mantikê. Studies in Ancient Divination (Leiden 2005) 147–165. Veyne (1988). – Paul Veyne, Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? (Chicago 1988, French original: Les Grecs ont-ils cru à leurs mythes? [Paris 1983]). Veyne (2005). – Paul Veyne, “Les problèmes religieux d’un païen intelligent, Plutarque”, in: id., L’Empire gréco-romain (Paris 2005) 633–681. West (1988). – Martin West (trans.), Hesiod: Theogony and Works and Days (Oxford 1988).

Die Religion im modernen Europa erhält eine Vorgeschichte hans g. kippenberg

In präzisen Worten bestimmte Fritz Graf die Bedingtheit der Menschen von Raum und Zeit. Zwar sei der menschliche Körper in Raum eingebettet und der Zeit unterworfen, doch gehorchten Menschen diesen Bedingungen nicht sklavisch, sondern kontrollierten sie, indem sie geistige Landkarten entwerfen, die dann wiederum ihre Erfahrungen von Raum und Zeit prägen1. Ich möchte diese Worte von Fritz Graf im Blick auf einen Vorgang aufgreifen, der sich gegenwärtig in Europa abspielt. Das moderne Europa ist auf der Suche nach seiner Religionsgeschichte. Dabei ist es noch gar nicht so lange her, dass eine Auffassung vorherrschte, Religion habe nach Aufklärung und Industrialisierung ihre Macht eingebüßt. Der Pfad, den die Moderne in Sachen Religion genommen habe, sei am ehesten mit Säkularisierung zu benennen. So äußerte der Religionssoziologe Peter L. Berger in den sechziger Jahren die Auffassung, dass Religion sich im Zeitalter der Moderne zwangsläufig als soziale Macht auflöse. Einerseits ziehe sie sich in die private Sphäre zurück, andererseits werde sie zu politischer Rhetorik. Echte Gemeinschaftlichkeit fehle ihr. Der Gesamteffekt der […] ‚Polarisierung‘ ist sehr merkwürdig. Religion manifestiert sich als öffentliche Rhetorik und private Tugend. Insoweit sie gemeinschaftlich ist, fehlt ihr ‚Wirklichkeit‘, und insoweit sie ‚wirklich‘ ist, fehlt ihr Gemeinschaftlichkeit2.

Derselbe Peter L. Berger musste sich dreißig Jahre später korrigieren. In einem kleinen lesenswerten Band mit dem Titel die „Entsäkularisierung der Welt“, dessen Herausgeber er war, führt er die Leser durch Zonen unserer Welt, in denen die Modernisierung selber zur Triebkraft neuer religiöser Gemeinschaftlichkeit geworden ist. Europa allerdings bilde da eine Ausnahme. Apodiktisch heißt es: 1 2

Graf (2004) 243. Berger (1967) 128.

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Die Welt heute ist massiv religiös, sie ist alles andere als die säkularisierte Welt, die von so vielen Analytikern der Moderne erfreut oder besorgt vorausgesagt worden war. Es gibt jedoch zwei Ausnahmen. Die erste Ausnahme ist Europa – speziell Westeuropa.

Die andere sind – wie es wenig später heißt – westlich gebildete Akademiker und Intellektuelle3. Galt lange Zeit Amerika als Ausnahme von der Regel, dass Modernisierung zur Privatisierung von Religion und damit zu ihrem Verschwinden aus dem öffentlichen Raum führt, so sehen Berger aber auch Grace Davie (2002) heute die Ausnahme anderswo: global gesehen ist Europa die Ausnahme, während in den USA und anderswo religiöse Gemeinschaften an Verbreitung und Macht zugelegt haben. Allerdings lässt Berger den Leser darüber im Unklaren, wie sich die beiden Ausnahmen zueinander verhalten. Haben im modernen Europa Religionen definitiv ihre Macht eingebüßt oder haben wir es mit irrigen Annahmen von Intellektuellen zu tun?

Kleine Fächer im öffentlichen Interesse: der Fall der Religionswissenschaft Unabhängig von dieser Einschätzung entstanden in den neunziger Jahren an deutschen Universitäten Studiengänge und Institute, die die Religionsgeschichte Europas zu ihrem Gegenstand machten und zwar bis in unsere Zeit. In Erfurt und München taten sich sogar Vertreter der Theologie und der Religionswissenschaft zusammen, wie dies zuvor schon in den Niederlanden, Großbritannien oder den skandinavischen Ländern geschehen war. Diese interfakultären Verbünde schienen besonders geeignet, die Ausweitung der Kirchengeschichte auf die Religionsgeschichte leisten zu können. Angestoßen wurde diese Entwicklung auch von politischen Entwicklungen. Ebenfalls in den neunziger Jahren traf sich in der Werner-ReimersStiftung in Bad Homburg eine Gruppe von Wissenschaftlern, die innovative Fragestellungen in den Wissenschaften aufspürten. Dabei fiel ihr Blick auf den cultural turn in den Humanwissenschaften, den kulturwissenschaftlichen Paradigmenwechsel, den sie in Verbindung mit gesellschaftlichen Veränderungen brachten. Die historische Entwicklung der letzten Jahrzehnte hat die Inhalte, mit denen sich die area studies befassen, von der Peripherie ins Zentrum gerückt. In den ‚kleinen Fächern‘ werden heute zentrale politische Gegenstände verhandelt4.

Diese Veränderung betraf nicht nur die Indologie, die Sinologie, die Japanologie, die Islamwissenschaft, sondern ist auch an der Religionswissenschaft 3 4

Berger (1999) 9 f. Lackner/Werner (1999) 16.

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nicht spurlos vorüber gegangen. So spielten in Samuel P. Huntingtons Clash of Civilizations, Kampf der Kulturen Religionen eine Hauptrolle. Seine Metapher von den ‚blutigen Grenzen des Islams‘ schien eine gute Erklärung dafür, dass eine Koexistenz von Christentum und Islam nicht vorstellbar sei5. Eine Öffentlichkeit, die gerade die Erfahrung der Einwanderung von Muslimen machte, begann sich angesichts dieser Diagnose ernsthaft zu beunruhigen. Religionswissenschaftler mussten erleben, wie ihre Gegenstände plötzlich zu Mächten eines globalen kulturellen Dramas wurden. In der Öffentlichkeit wurde erbittert um viele Themen gestritten, die aus der Welt der Religionen stammten: das Kopftuch von Lehrerinnen an öffentlichen Schulen, der Muezzinruf in deutschen Städten, der Moscheebau, das rituelle Schlachten, die Verbreitung verdächtiger Sekten, wie Scientology. In den zehn Jahren, die inzwischen vorbei gegangen sind, ist die Zahl der Besorgnis erweckenden religiösen Sachverhalte stetig größer geworden. Religionskontroversen haben sich ausgebreitet, wie der Band von Matthias Koenig und Jean-Paul Willaime vorführt. Dazu kamen die Erfahrung religiöser Gewalt, die mit dem 11. September 2001 auch den Westen erreichte, aber auch so genannte Parallelgesellschaften von Muslimen in europäischen Städten. Das Begehren der Türkei, der EU beizutreten, brachte die Frage nach der Europaverträglichkeit einer islamischen Kultur auf die Tagesordnung, nicht nur in Europa, sondern auch in der Türkei (Küçük 2008). Überlegungen zu den Grenzen der EU wurden mit der Frage verbunden, ob nicht trotz aller Entkirchlichung die Kultur Europas christlich geprägt bleibe. Diese neue Aktualität von Religion und Religiösem hat ihren Ort in öffentlichen Diskursen und deren Medien und ist von dort aus aber auch in die europäischen Institutionen vorgedrungen6. Muss eine politische Zugehörigkeit, die im Blick auf Staaten national ist, im Blick auf Europa nicht auf Werten und Religion begründet sein?7 Die Autoren der genannten Studie zum cultural turn verbanden mit ihrer Beobachtung der unerwarteten Aktualität der so genannten kleinen Fächer aber auch eine kritische Bestandsaufnahme von deren Analysevermögen. Viele Spezialisten hätten zwar die Quellen fremder Kulturen und Religionen erschlossen, ihre Befunde aber zu einem angeblichen Wesen einer Religion essentialisiert, womit sie Recht haben. Man nehme z. B. den Hinduismus. Er habe, so schrieben Indologen in ihren Darstellungen, in seiner Geschichte die Fähigkeit bewiesen, Fremdes aufzunehmen und zu absorbieren. Auch hier dann die Überraschung, als dieselben Hindus 1992 die Babri Moschee in Ayodhya mit größter Wut binnen weniger Stunden dem Erdboden gleichmachten, um die Fundamente der darunter liegenden älteren Reste eines Rama-Tempels freizulegen und zum Grundstein eines Hindutempels zu 5 6 7

Huntington (1996) 334 f., 421. Tietze (2008). Joas/Mandry (2005); Taylor (2006).

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machen. Schnell, zu schnell wurden in diesem und ähnlichen Fällen Blockaden gegen eine Falsifikation der vertrauten Annahmen aufgeworfen. Es handele sich gar nicht um echte Gläubige, sondern um machthungrige Fundamentalisten, die Religion zu politischen Zwecken missbrauchten. Gleiches gilt für ähnliche Vorkommnisse in Judentum, Christentum, Islam, wo die gleiche Produktionstechnik am Werk war. An die Stelle der enormen historischen Diversität von Glaubensanschauungen und Ethiken der Angehörigen ein und derselben Religion traten normative Zuschreibungen, die das Abweichende als irrelevant neutralisierten. Einer Raffinerie vergleichbar verfeinerten wissenschaftliche Darstellungen das Quellenmaterial derart, dass am Ende eine reine glaubwürdige vorbildliche Religion stand.

Religionshistorische Diversität: Von kulturkritischer Deutung zur Neutralisierung Dass an der Errichtung der neuen interfakultären religionswissenschaftlichen Studiengänge die Theologie beteiligt wurde, war naheliegend, da beide Fächer lange Zeit Strategien der Neutralisierung des Problems der historischen Vielfalt praktiziert haben und es paradoxerweise gerade diese Gemeinsamkeit war, die zu ihrer Entzweiung führte. Es hat einmal eine Zeit gegeben, da war Religionsgeschichte noch unbestritten eine theologische Disziplin. So sprach die erste Auflage des protestantischen Lexikons Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart 1913 davon, dass die Religionsgeschichte „Teil der ganzen, großen Geschichtswissenschaft“ sei, jedoch als „besondere Disziplin“ in die Theologie gehöre. Religionsgeschichte steht für die Geschichtlichkeit des Christentums – eine Konzeption, die mit dem Werk Ernst Troeltschs verbunden ist. Die Hochschätzung historischer Vielfalt war systematisch begründet; die Vielfalt vergangener Religionen sollte den Blick für unerkannte aktuelle Manifestationen schärfen. Ein schönes Beispiel dafür ist der Eintrag „Mystik“ in der 1. Auflage der RGG. Dem historisch angelegten Artikel „Mystik“ wurde ein Abschnitt „Neue Mystik“ hinzugefügt, in dem es heißt: Das Bedürfnis nach Verinnerlichung und Vertiefung unserer unheimlich in die Breite gehenden, wissenschaftlich und technisch gerichteten modernen Kultur hat allerhand feinere Geister auch der M. [Mystik] wieder näher geführt, die in der 2. Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts gänzlich in Mißachtung und beinahe in Vergessenheit geraten war. […] Diese neue Bewegung [ist] durchaus selbständig und keineswegs eine direkte Fortsetzung alter Mystik. […] Vielmehr ist sie geboren aus einem erwachenden Widerspruch des Gemüts gegen den Gesamtgeist gerade unserer Zeit, nämlich gegen einen öden Materialismus einerseits, gegen eine einseitige Verstandesoder Willensreligion anderseits8. 8

Hoffmann (1913) 608.

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Dieser Lexikon-Eintrag ist beachtenswert, weil er die reflexive Deutungsleistung des historischen Begriffes der Mystik für die Gegenwart mit erfasst, ohne zu beklagen, dass es sich um eine „Erfindung“ handelt. Damit schließt der Autor an die damalige Geschichtswissenschaft an. Johann Gustav Droysen hat in seiner Vorlesung Historik seinen Studenten nahe gebracht, dass „das historisch Erforschte der Darlegung“ bedarf. Die Forschung sei zweierlei: „Bereicherung und Vertiefung der Gegenwart durch Aufklärung ihrer Vergangenheiten, und Aufklärung über die Vergangenheiten durch Erschließung dessen, was davon oft latent genug noch in der Gegenwart vorhanden ist“. Die Vorstellung, die der Historiker sich von der Vergangenheit macht, könne sich nicht mit den Dingen decken, als diese noch Gegenwart waren9. Darin liegt gerade seine Stärke. Die Darlegung der Vielfalt von Religionen in ihrer Geschichte kann nicht antiquarisch sein, sondern dient der Erkenntnis moderner Spielarten von Religiosität. Die Entfaltung des Quellenmaterials verläuft entlang der Reflexion des Lesers/Hörers auf zeitgenössische Kultur. Diese reflexive Darstellungsform verschwand nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg. In der zweiten Auflage der RGG in der Weimarer Zeit wurde der Teilartikel „Neue Mystik“ von Weinel auf einige fast willkürlich gewählte literarische Dokumente wie Rilkes Stundenbuch begrenzt, das dann als Vollendung einer „wirklichen neuen Gottesmystik“ gefeiert wurde10. Der Bezug auf „die unheimlich in die Breite gehende, wissenschaftlich und technisch gerichtete moderne Kultur“ war entfallen. Die Verknüpfung einer Darlegung historischer Vielfalt von Religionen mit einem Interesse an kulturkritischer nicht-institutionalisierter Religiosität wurde gelöst. Es ist daher nachvollziehbar, dass der Begriff der ‚Mystik‘ siebzig Jahre später von den Begriffen ‚New Age‘ oder ‚Esoterik‘ abgelöst wurde; nur sie konnten noch die kulturkritische Bedeutungsdimension zum Ausdruck bringen11. Nicht anders erging es dem Begriff der ‚Sekte‘. Zu Anfang des Jahrhunderts bezeichnete er eine genuine Sozialform christlicher Religiosität, die Heil nicht von einer Institution erwartete, sondern von einer weltablehnenden Praxis der Gläubigen. Doch wich diese positive Bewertung bald einer Verengung auf den Aspekt exzentrischer Marginalität. Damit war das Anliegen der ersten Auflage der RGG, Religion in ihren populären oft kirchenfeindlichen Gestalten ernst zu nehmen, auch hier aufgegeben12. Als im Laufe der siebziger und achtziger Jahre des 20. Jahrhunderts die Sozialform der Sekte im Protestantismus wieder massenhaft attraktiv wurde, musste man sich auch hier eine neue Bezeichnung suchen: es wurde der ‚Fundamentalismus‘. Das Verschwinden dieses 9 10 11 12

Droysen (⁶1971) 359–366; Rüsen (1993) 248 f. Weinel (1930) 358. Knoblauch (1991) 29 f. Kippenberg (2004).

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Typus historischer Reflexion entsprach einem Zeittrend, der die Theologie und die Religionswissenschaft seit dem Ersten Weltkrieg gleichermaßen erfasst hatte. Bekanntlich hat die dialektische Theologie die Reflexion auf die historische Vermittlung von Offenbarung als theologischen Irrweg verworfen13. Für diese Theologen war die Emanzipation der modernen Kultur vom Christentum, d. h. die Säkularisierung, begrüßenswert. Die Religionswissenschaft nahm eine ähnliche Entwicklung, wie die dialektische Theologie. Besonders anschaulich wird das an einer Erzählung des Religionswissenschaftlers Mircea Eliade. Sie trägt den Titel Adieu ! …14 und handelt von einer eigenartigen Theatervorstellung. Vor Beginn der Aufführung tritt nämlich ein Schauspieler auf die Bühne, ruft den Zuschauern dreimal „adieu“ („Gott befohlen“) zu und verschwindet dann hinter dem Vorhang, wo die Aufführung hörbar, aber unsichtbar abläuft; die Zuschauer hören nur hin und wieder Rufe und Satzfetzen. Als das Publikum wütend wird, erklärt ein Herr im Namen des Regisseurs, der Vorhang müsse während der ganzen Aufführung geschlossen bleiben. Unruhe bricht aus. Ein Schauspieler versucht dem Publikum zu erklären, warum das so sein muss. Gespielt würde die Religionsgeschichte, verfasst von einem Professor, der von dem Gedanken des Terrors in der Geschichte besessen sei15. Nur die Schauspieler hätten an dem Mysterium noch Anteil. An die Zuschauer gewandt erklärt er: Sie leben im 20. Jahrhundert, genauer gesagt im Jahre 1964 und sind nicht imstande, sich in eine andere Welt zurückzuversetzen. Wir vermögen dies, weil wir, als Schauspieler, am Mysterium teilhaben. […] Wie oft soll man Ihnen noch wiederholen, dass ‚Adieu!‘ ein historisches Stück ist, eine Zusammenfassung der gesamten Religionsgeschichte?! Denken Sie doch an Nietzsche, Gott ist seit über achtzig Jahren tot. Der Vorhang fällt doch nicht, wenn ein Mensch stirbt, sondern nur, wenn Gott stirbt. Dieser Tod hat das Schicksal der westlichen Zivilisation bestimmt. Er ist der Abschluss der Religionsgeschichte16.

Eliade hat religionshistorische Daten in ein Deutungsmuster übertragen, das die politische Zeitgeschichte, die die Zeitgenossen in Atem hielt, auf Distanz brachte. Der archaische Himmelsgott habe zwar einst die Welt geschaffen, zog sich danach aber von ihr zurück (deus otiosus) und überließ anderen Mächten das Feld. Nur ab und zu meldet er sich in Manifestationen des Heiligen, in Hierophanien, zurück17. „Imaginierte Objektsprachlichkeit“ nennt Burkhard Gladigow dieses Verfahren, bei dem der Religionswissenschaftler wie ein Gläubiger spricht18. Von dieser Konzeption aus entwickelte 13 14 15 16 17 18

Pfleiderer (2000). Eliade (1980). Eliade (1980) 329. Eliade (1980) 335–339. Eliade (1954) 143–146. Gladigow (2001) 432–434.

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Eliade seine Deutung der modernen Welt. Sie ist nur scheinbar gottlos; der Bruch, den die moderne Kultur mit dem Heiligen vollzieht, ist selber in der Religionsgeschichte verankert. Ähnlich deuteten Gershom Scholem, Henry Corbin und andere Teilnehmer des Eranos-Kreises, mit denen Eliade eng verbunden war, die Moderne19. Die Säkularisierung ist kein Bruch mit der religiösen Tradition, sondern erfolgt in ihr. „Mein Säkularismus ist nicht säkular“: so brachte Gershom Scholem das Paradox auf den Punkt20. Die Verweltlichung der modernen Welt ist Teil eines metaphysischen Prozesses, der den Zeitgenossen allerdings verborgen blieb. Die Bewohner der säkularen Welt können zwar eine Karte für die Aufführung lösen, aber nur, um zu erleben, dass sie diesem Drama nicht mehr folgen können. Wenn Theologie und Religionswissenschaft in dieser Weise ihren Gegenstand von der subjektiven Aneignung trennen, werden sie sprachlos angesichts der zeitgenössischen Debatten um den Platz von Religion in der modernen Kultur. Haben wir es bei New Age oder Esoterik mit einer Aneignung einer alten europäischen naturphilosophischen Tradition zu tun oder handelt es sich um ein modernes Phänomen, vielleicht sogar von den Medien erfunden? Muss Fundamentalismus mittels des historischen Typus von endzeitlicher Sekte bestimmt werden oder ist er eine moderne politische Manipulation? Das Dilemma ist evident. Hält man an einem gesellschafts- bzw. geschichtsresistentem Glauben bzw. Religiosität fest, fehlen Begriffe für davon divergierende Erscheinungen, die dann anderen Instanzen und Mächten zugeschrieben werden müssen; geht man umgekehrt davon aus, dass Glauben und Religiosität historisch und kulturell vermittelt sind, muss man die Idee eines dauerhaften Elementes in der Religionsgeschichte aufgeben. Mit Definitionen aber kommt man diesem Problem nicht bei, denn – wie Nietzsche richtig bemerkt – „definierbar ist nur das, was keine Geschichte hat“21.

Zur Frage des Sonderwegs der europäischen Religionsgeschichte Wenn aber Religionen auch im europäischen Raum eine Geschichte haben, wie ist die dann zu bestimmen? Ist ihr Ausgang „Säkularisierung“ oder „religiöser Säkularismus“? Hartmut Lehmann hat „Säkularisierung“ als europäischen Sonderweg analysiert, dabei hat er jedoch die Reichweite des Konzepts eingeschränkt22. Für Europa typisch seien die säkulare Sprache, in 19 20 21 22

Wasserstrom (1999). Wasserstrom (1999) 61. Zur Genealogie der Moral II, Nr. 13. Lehmann (2004).

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der über Religiöses gesprochen wird und die Auseinandersetzung zwischen einem sozial mächtigen Christentum und atheistischen politischen Ideologien. Damit spricht er sich gegen zu gesetzmäßige und umfassende Auffassungen von Säkularisierung aus. In Frankreich ist die These verbreitet, die Säkularisierung sei eine zwingende Konsequenz der Aufklärung des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts und ihrer Religionskritik; sie steht aber in eklatantem Widerspruch zum Erstarken des französischen Katholizismus in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts23. Als ähnlich fragwürdig erweist sich die häufig für Deutschland geäußerte Auffassung, Säkularisierung sei eine Folge der Industrialisierung. Sie stimmt nicht mit Befunden überein, wonach das 19. Jahrhundert eher ein neues, zweites konfessionelles Zeitalter war24. Selbst die heilsgeschichtlichen Erwartungen schwanden nicht. Man rechnet heute mit einer dauerhaften Existenz einer Tradition messianischer Revolution im Westen vom Mittelalter bis in unsere Zeit25. Zwar rückte mit dem Aufkommen der Wissenschaft und der zunehmenden Fähigkeit, Naturprozesse zu erklären und zu kontrollieren, die Zukunft mehr und mehr in den Bereich des Machbaren. Folge dieser neuen technischen und wissenschaftlichen Möglichkeiten war aber nicht ein Verschwinden des Glaubens an die Heilsgeschichte, sondern eine „Verdoppelung des Zukunftsbegriffes“, wie Lucian Hölscher gezeigt hat. Neben der wissenschaftlichen und sozialen Planung einer besseren Zukunft blieb die Erwartung einer Ankunft des Herrn – adventus – bestehen26. Prozesse von fortschreitender Säkularisierung und von Aktualisierung von Heilserwartungen waren gleichzeitig. Angesichts dieser Befunde einer weiterlaufenden Religionsgeschichte hat sich die Forschungsfrage angefangen zu drehen. Die Säkularisierungshypothese ist selber erklärungsbedürftig geworden. Der britische Historiker Callum G. Brown sieht ihren Ursprung in den „langen sechziger Jahren“ des 20. Jahrhunderts27. Als in Großbritannien und auch in anderen westlichen Ländern die christliche Lebenswelt kollabierte, machten Historiker und Soziologen „Säkularisierung“ zu einem Deutungsmuster für den gesamten Prozess der Geschichte der Religion im Westen seit dem 18. Jahrhundert. Tatsächlich kollabierte damals (nur) eine der Sozialformen von Christentum, die Kirchlichkeit. Seit dem 19. Jahrhundert war die Kernfamilie mit der nichtberufstätigen Mutter und Ehefrau die soziale Basis von Kirche geworden. Mit den soziokulturellen Wandlungsprozessen Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts – der Frauen-Emanzipation und neuen Familienformen – zerbröckelte diese Basis. Der Name Säkularisierung aber ist für diesen Vorgang zu anspruchs23 24 25 26 27

Gibson (1989). Blaschke (2000) und (2002); Graf (2005). Katz/Popkin (1998) 253. Hölscher (1989) 32–34; Hölscher (1999). Brown (2001) und (2003); McLeod (2005).

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voll. Wenn Religionssoziologen die Stärke oder Schwäche von Religion an der kirchlichen Betätigung der Mitglieder einer Gesellschaft ablesen und darin so etwas wie das Urmeter für Religion sehen, verstellen sie den Blick auf andere Sozialformen von Religion in der heutigen Kultur Europas. „Sind wir Europäer vielleicht nur auf andere Weise religiös als Menschen anderswo?“, gibt Grace Davie auf ihrer Website zu bedenken. Europäische Formen von Religion sind kein Prototyp globaler Religiosität; sie sind spezifisch für den europäischen Kontinent. Das relativ niedrige Niveau kirchlicher Aktivität im modernen Europa ist nicht einfach das Ergebnis von Modernisierung; es gehört zu uns als Europäern und muss auch so verstanden werden28.

Grace Davie hat mit ihren Untersuchungen und Konzepten wesentlich dazu beigetragen, diese Formen zu bestimmen. „Believing without belonging“ ist die bekannteste ihrer Schöpfungen. Ein geringer Grad an kirchlicher Bindung kann mit einer hohen Verbreitung religiöser Glaubensanschauungen koexistieren29. Die Individualisierung von Religion teilt Europa mit den USA und anderen religiösen Boomregionen. Der Unterschied Europas betrifft die praktizierte Bindung an lokale Gemeinden, die niedriger ist als anderswo. Allerdings muss man beachten, dass Europäer mehrheitlich Mitglieder ihrer Kirchen blieben, statt auszutreten. In einer neueren Studie hat Grace Davie diesen Sachverhalt untersucht und den Blick auf Leistungen religiöser Gemeinschaften gelenkt (von kirchlichen Ritualen zu zivilen Organisationen von Christen), die auch von der Kirche entfremdeten Christen geschätzt werden. Nicht „believing without belonging“ sondern „vicarious religion“ sei typisch für Europa30. Diese Richtung der Forschung ist auch von anderen eingeschlagen worden. In dem Raum zwischen Staat, Wirtschaft und Privatsphäre operiert heutzutage eine Vielzahl von Organisationen, für die alle ein hohes Maß gesellschaftlicher Selbstorganisation kennzeichnend ist und für die es unterschiedliche Rechtsformen gibt. Davon profitieren auch religiöse Gemeinschaften: Zu den im öffentlichen Raum handelnden zivilgesellschaftlichen Akteuren gehören auch die Religionsgemeinschaften, jedenfalls wenn sie […] im Plural und damit als Wettbewerber auftreten und nicht als monopolistische Staatskirche31. 28 „One emphasis within my work can be found in the idea of European exceptionalism: European patterns of religion are not a prototype of global religiosity; they are peculiar to the European continent. It follows that the relatively low levels of religious activity in modern Europe are not simply the result of early modernization; they are part of what it means to be European and need to be understood in these terms.“ (URL http://huss.exeter.ac.uk/sociology/staff/davie/research.php. Übers. H. G. K.). 29 Davie (1994). 30 Davie (2007). 31 Schuppert (2005) 21.

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Mit diesen Worten weist Gunnar Folke Schuppert darauf hin, dass heutige Rechtsformen für Religionen sich von den überlieferten institutionellen Typen lösen. Dank dieser neuen Sozialformen tritt andersartige Religiosität bzw. Religiosität andersartig an die Öffentlichkeit. Jahrelang haben Religionssoziologen die Privatisierung zum Leitfaden ihrer Untersuchungen von Religion in der modernen Gesellschaft gemacht, bis José Casanova den Spieß umdrehte und nachwies, dass die vermeintlich privatisierten Religionen sich heute nicht mehr mit der Sphäre des Privaten begnügen32. Vielmehr artikulieren Religionen in der zivilgesellschaftlichen Öffentlichkeit Erfahrungen und Ansprüche, die zwar ihren Ursprung im privaten Erleben und Beurteilen haben, aber von anderen geteilt und daher gemeinschaftlich vorgebracht werden. Der Glaube, in einer säkularisierten Welt zu leben, hat blind gemacht gegenüber einem Kosmos an Vereinigungen und Nichtregierungsorganisationen, die sich in Problembereichen von Umweltschutz, Menschenrechten, Verteilungsgerechtigkeit engagieren und an denen Christen mitwirken.

Prozesse der Europäisierung Doch was sind dann typisch europäische Formen von Religionen? Eine geographische Bezeichnung macht noch keinen geschichts- und kulturwissenschaftlichen Begriff. Das wird er erst, wenn die Bewohner der so bezeichneten Gebiete sich selber als Teil einer größeren Einheit verstehen, wie rudimentär auch immer ein solches Bewusstsein ausgebildet sein mag. Die Bezeichnung ‚Europa‘ ist im Griechischen, wo sie zuerst begegnet, jenes Gebiet, das im Westen und damit in Richtung der untergehenden Sonne liegt und mit dem man durch Schiffsverkehr verbunden war. Etymologisch scheint die griechische Bezeichnung auf eine semitische Wurzel ereb mit der Bedeutung ‚dunkel‘, ‚Abend‘ zurückzugehen. Eine analoge Wortschöpfung, möglicherweise aus derselben Wurzel gebildet, ist das arabische Wort maghreb für die Gebiete Nordafrikas, die im Westen lagen33. Was anderes haben die Bewohner dieser Gebiete geteilt als den Umstand, dass die griechische Kultur sowie die Religionen von Judentum und Christentum (später auch Islam) aus dem östlichen Mittelmeerraum in das westliche Gebiet gelangten und ein dauernder Orientierungspunkt der Kultur der Westbewohner blieben, auch als diese ihren Schwerpunkt vom Mittelmeer zum Atlantik verlagerten? Dieser Sachverhalt hat besondere Begriffsbildungen provoziert. Hier treffen wir auf die von Berger vermissten Akademiker, die Religionsgeschichte Europas ohne Glauben an seine Säkularisierung aufarbeiten. George Steiner spricht von Hellenismus und Hebraismus als einer Bikulturalität und sieht darin ein 32 Casanova (1994). 33 Brague (2002) 2–4; Morin (1991) 33–35.

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Spezifikum Europas; Remí Brague hält Europas Identität für „exzentrisch“, da sie nicht in Europa selbst liege, sondern außerhalb. Edgar Morin sieht die Einheit Europas in einer Komplexität, die die größten Unterschiede in sich vereinigt, ohne sie zu vermengen und die Gegensätze untrennbar miteinander verbindet34. Die vielfältigen Widersprüche von Religion und Vernunft, von Glaube und Zweifel, von mythischem und kritischem Denken stehen in einem Verhältnis dauernder „Dialogiken“ zueinander35. Alle drei Autoren haben Ähnliches im Blick: für die Leute im Westen sind Griechen und Juden, Hellenismus und Hebraismus, Athen und Jerusalem kulturelle Orientierungsmarken geworden. Die Europäer haben ihre Autoritäten aus einer Vergangenheit und aus einer Region erkoren, die nicht die ihre war. Und sie hielten zu ihnen respektvolle Distanz. Ob es die griechischen Philosophen oder die hebräische Bibel war: die Schriften wurden zwar übersetzt, aber die Übersetzung trat nicht an die Stelle des Originals. Nicht Anpassung des Fremden an die lokale Kultur, sondern Bewahrung der Differenz war für dieses Europa bezeichnend. Die Frage aber stellt sich, unter welchen Bedingungen die Westbewohner die fremden und fernen Religionen aufgenommen haben und welche kulturelle Form sie ihnen gegeben haben. An diesen Prozessen müsste man Akte der Europäisierung von Religionen ablesen lassen. Einer scheint mir besonders markant: der Rechtsdiskurs.

Religion als Gemeinschaftsgut Wenn man „Recht und religiöse Vergemeinschaftung“ zum Thema macht, steht man vor einer Geschichte von hohem Alter und besonderer Dynamik. Das zivile Zwölftafelgesetz, das nicht religiösen Ursprungs ist, sondern aus einem Konflikt in der Bewohnerschaft Roms hervorging, verbot die Abhaltung geheimer Versammlungen36. Während der folgenden Jahrhunderte römischer Geschichte wurden aus diesem Verbot Begriffe und Kriterien für Recht und Unrecht von Zusammenkünften und von Körperschaften entwickelt37. So besaßen die Mitglieder einer zugelassenen Vereinigung (collegium) die Vollmacht (potestas), untereinander eine Übereinkunft (pactio) abzuschließen, die rechtlich verbindlich ist, vorausgesetzt, sie verstößt nicht gegen öffentliche Gesetze. Vereine waren ein fester Bestandteil der antiken und nach-antiken Stadtgemeinschaften. Historische Berichte und zahlreiche Inschriften bezeugen ihre Verbreitung und lassen ihre Besonderheiten gut erkennen: dass sie sich einer Initiative von Bürgern verdanken, dass sie durch 34 35 36 37

Morin (1991) 19. Morin (1991) 126–128. Lex XII tab. 8,14 f. Kippenberg (2005).

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Gesetze geregelt wurden und eine autonome Körperschaft nach Analogie des politischen Gemeinwesens (der res publica) bildeten. Die Vereinsbildung ging von Bürgern aus. Tatsächlich waren meistens nicht Beamte, sondern Privatleute die treibende Kraft der Vereinsbildung, weshalb Konflikte mit den staatlichen Machthabern über derartige Gründungen vorgezeichnet waren. Es gab zwei Typen von Körperschaften. Erstens gab es die societas mit einer festen Anzahl von Mitgliedern, die individuell Eigentümer ihres Anteils blieben; sie erlosch mit dem Tod der Teilhaber. Daneben gab es das collegium (bzw. corpus) mit einer unbestimmten Anzahl von Mitgliedern, die gemeinsam Eigentümer waren. Es überdauerte den Tod von Mitgliedern. Die vorhandenen Quellen zum öffentlichen Recht zeigen, dass das römische Volk (populus Romanus) und die Stadtgemeinden (municipia) nach dem Prinzip des collegium verfasst waren. Private collegia und corpora waren erlaubt, aber nur zu drei Zwecken: des Berufs, des Begräbnisses und der religio. Alle anderen Vereinigungen waren unzulässig. Diese Bestimmung sorgte für eine Generationen übergreifende Kontinuität öffentlicher Religionsinstitutionen. Kaiser Galerius hob 311 n. Chr. das Versammlungsverbot für christliche Gemeinden auf und Konstantin und Licinius erklärten im sogenannten Mailänder Edikt 313 n. Chr. die christliche Gemeinschaft zu einer religio, der anzugehören jeder Bürger ein Recht hat. Zugleich ordneten sie die Rückgabe von konfiszierten Vermögen an die christliche Körperschaft (corpus; griech. soma) an. Aus den inoffiziellen Vereinigungen der Christen wurde eine offizielle Körperschaft. Einen Schritt weiter ging Theodosius 380 n. Chr. und proklamierte die Kirche als die einzig wahre religio des Römischen Reiches38. Die christliche Kirche wurde in den Begriffen des Römischen Rechts anerkannt und agierte entsprechend dieser Anerkennung öffentlich. Was lag näher, als dass sie sich die paganen römischen Rechtsdiskurse über Rituale und Vereinigungen zueigen machte, darunter auch die Unterscheidung zwischen Aberglaube (superstitio) und Religion. Noch nicht einmal fünfzig Jahre nach Proklamierung der katholischen Kirche zur wahren religio des Römischen Reiches durch Kaiser Theodosius 380 n. Chr. brachte sein Nachfolger Theodosius II. 429 n. Chr. das Projekt einer Sammlung aller allgemeingültigen Gesetze auf den Weg, darunter auch der Religionsgesetze. Sie wurden unter zwei Titeln zusammengefasst, in denen man die Ausgangpunkte des Zwölftafelgesetzes wiedererkennen kann: neben dem Verbot von Schadenszauber das Verbot unerlaubter Versammlungen. Die Kaiserkonstitutionen zu religiösen Vereinigungen wurden in Buch 16 des Codex Theodosianus zusammengetragen. Nacheinander werden behandelt: der katholische Glaube (16,1) – die Bischöfe, Kirchen und Kleriker (16,2) – die Mönche (16,3) – Religionskritiker (16,4) – Häretiker (16,5) – 38 Cod. Theod. 16,1,2.

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Wiedertaufe (16,6) – Apostaten (16,7) – Juden, Himmelsverehrer und Samaritaner (16,8) – christliche Sklaven von Juden (16,9) – Heiden, Opfer und Tempel (16,10) – die religio (16,11). Das Buch bringt mit den Mitteln rechtlicher Begriffe eine Ordnung in die religiöse Vielfalt des römischen Reiches des 5. Jahrhunderts n. Chr.39. Durch die Auswahl aus den Kaiserkonstitutionen und ihre Zuordnung zu Titeln entwerfen die Juristen eine religiös begründete Rechtsordnung. Die Bezeichnung religio kommt ausschließlich der katholischen Kirche zu. Häretiker, Juden und Heiden fallen unter die Kategorie superstitio und sind potentielle Gefährdungen für das Wohlergehen des Gemeinwesens. Voraussetzung hierbei war der Glaube, dass das Wohlergehen des Staats mehr von der Religion abhänge als von der Verwaltung oder der Wirtschaft, wie es ein Kaisergesetz des Jahres 361 formuliert40. Allein der katholische Glaube des Titels 1 war auch die wahre religio des Reiches von Titel 11. Nur diese Körperschaft verdiente es, alle Privilegien des Vereinsrechtes zu erhalten; die Bürgerrechte wurden abhängig von der Zugehörigkeit zur katholischen Kirche. Aus der privaten Vereinigung von Christen war eine Vereinigung geworden, die allein die Bürgerrechte für ihre Mitglieder in Anspruch nehmen durfte. Die Distanz der anderen Vereinigungen von dieser einen wahren wurde mit den Mitteln juristischer Kasuistik ausgedrückt, bewertet und festgeschrieben. Als im 12. Jahrhundert die spätrömischen Rechtsbücher wieder auftauchten, wurden nicht nur diese religiösen Kategorisierungen von Juristen übernommen, sondern auch die Verknüpfung der Zulässigkeit von Vereinigungen mit dem Gemeinwohlinteresse. Und auch noch nach der schrittweisen Auflösung der Bindungen zwischen Bürgergemeinde und Glaubensgemeinschaft, Staat und Kirche im 18. Jahrhundert blieb diese Verknüpfung bestehen und religiöse Sachverhalte wurden mit diesen Begriffen klassifiziert. Und immer blieb die Bezeichnung religio Sachverhalten vorbehalten, die dem Wohl des Gemeinwesens förderlich waren. Der Juristendiskurs über Religion hat die Geschichte der Religionen in Europa bis heute geprägt. Die Existenz eines religiösen Pluralismus, die Gründung religiöser Vereinigungen durch Bürger unabhängig von staatlichen Instanzen sowie die Konzeption von Religion als einer dem Gemeinwohl dienenden Angelegenheit sind Tatbestände, die älter als der säkulare Verfassungsstaat sind, von diesem aber in seine eigene Grundlage übernommen wurden. Eine europäische Religionsgeschichte darf sich daher nicht auf das Studium einer von dieser Perspektive abgesonderten Religion beschränken. Als ein privilegiertes und geschütztes Gemeinschaftsgut steht Religion in wechselseitigen Beziehungen mit Wirtschaft, Recht, Herrschaft 39 Salzman (1993) 362–378. 40 Cod. Theod. 2,16.

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und Wissenschaft41. Ob aber neben Judentum und Christentum auch der Islam Anspruch darauf erheben kann, ein solches Gut zu sein, steht im Zentrum heutiger Auseinandersetzungen.

Bibliographie Berger (1967). – Peter L. Berger, Zur Dialektik von Religion und Gesellschaft. Elemente einer soziologischen Theorie (Frankfurt a. M. 1967). Berger (1999). – Peter L. Berger (ed.), The Desecularization of the World. Resurgent Religion and World Politics (Washington, DC 1999). Berger/Davie/Fokas (2008). – Peter L. Berger/Grace Davie/Effie Fokas, Religious America, Secular Europe? A Theme and Variations (Aldershot 2008). Blaschke (2000). – Olaf Blaschke, „Das 19. Jahrhundert: Ein zweites konfessionelles Zeitalter?“, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 26 (2000) 38–75. Blaschke (2002). – Olaf Blaschke (ed.), Konfessionen im Konfl ikt. Deutschland zwischen 1800 und 1970: Ein zweites konfessionelles Zeitalter (Göttingen 2002). Brague (2002). – Rémi Brague, Eccentric Culture. A Theory of Western Civilization (South Bend, Ind. 2002) (franz. 1992). Brown (2001). – Callum G. Brown, The Death of Christian Britain (London 2001). Brown (2001). – Callum G. Brown, „The Secularisation Decade: What the 1960s Have Done to the Study of Religion“, in: Hugh McLeod/Werner Ustorf (edd.), The Decline of Christendom in Western Europe, 1750–2000 (Cambridge 2003) 29–46. Casanova (1994). – José Casanova, Public Religions in the Modern World (Chicago 1994). Casanova (2006). – José Casanova, „Religion, European Secular Identities and European Integration“, in: Michalski (2006) 23–42. Davie (1994). – Grace Davie, Religion in Britain since 1945: Believing without Belonging (Oxford 1994). Davie (2002). – Grace Davie, Europe: The Execeptional Case. Parameters of Faith in the Modern World (London 2002). Davie (2007). – Grace Davie, „Vicarious Religion: A Methodological Challenge“, in: Nancy T. Ammerman (ed.), Everyday Religion. Observing Modern Religion Lives (Oxford 2007) 21–35. Droysen (⁶1971). – Johann Gustav Droysen, „Grundriss der Historik. 3. Aufl. 1882“, in: J. G. Droysen, Historik. Vorlesungen über Enz yklopädie und Methodologie der Geschichte. Hg. von Rudolf Hübner (München ⁶1971) 317–366. Eliade (1954). – Mircea Eliade, Die Religionen und das Heilige. Elemente der Religionsgeschichte (Salzburg 1954) (franz. 1949). Eliade (1980). – Mircea Eliade, „Adieu! …“, in: Eliade (ed.), Bei den Zigeunerinnen (Frankfurt a. M. 1980) 316–341. Gibson (1989). – Ralph Gibson, A Social History of French Catholicism, 1789–1914 (London 1989). Gladigow (2001). – Burkhard Gladigow, „ ‚Imaginierte Objektsprachlichkeit‘. Der Religionswissenschaftler spricht wie der Gläubige“, in: Axel Michaels/Daria Pezzoli-

41 Kippenberg/Rüpke/von Stuckrad (2009).

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Olgiati/Fritz Stolz (edd.), Noch eine Chance für die Religionsphänomenologie? (Bern 2001) 421–440. Graf, F. W. (2005). – Friedrich Wilhelm Graf, „Euro-Gott im starken Plural? Einige Fragestellungen für eine europäische Religionsgeschichte des 20. Jahrhunderts“, Journal of Modern European History 3 (2005) 231–256. Graf, F. (2004). – Fritz Graf, „Sacred Times and Spaces“, in: Sarah Iles Johnston (ed.), Religions of the Ancient World (Cambridge, Mass. 2004) 243 f. Hochgeschwender (2004). – Michael Hochgeschwender, „Religion, Nationale Mythologie und Nationale Identität. Zu den methodischen und inhaltlichen Debatten in der amerikanischen ‚New Religious History‘“, in: Historisches Jahrbuch 124 (2004) 435–520. Hölscher (1989). – Lucian Hölscher, Weltgericht oder Revolution. Protestantische und sozialistische Zukunftsvorstellungen im deutschen Kaiserreich (Stuttgart 1989). Hölscher (1999). – Lucian Hölscher, Die Entdeckung der Zukunft (Frankfurt a. M. 1999). Hoffmann (1913). – Walther Hoffmann, „Mystik: III. Neue Mystik“, in: RGG 4 (1913) 608–612. Huntington (1996). – Samuel P. Huntington: Der Kampf der Kulturen. The Clash of Civilizations. Die Neugestaltung der Weltpolitik im 21. Jahrhundert (München/Wien 1996). Joas (2004). – Hans Joas, Braucht der Mensch Religion? Über Erfahrungen der Selbsttranszendenz (Freiburg i. Br. 2004). Joas/Mandry (2005). – Hans Joas/Christof Mandry, „Europa als Werte- und Kulturgemeinschaft“, in: Gunnar F. Schuppert/Ingolf Pernice/Ulrich Haltern (edd.), Europawissenschaft (Baden-Baden 2005) 541–572. Katz/Popkin (1998). – David S. Katz/Richard Popkin, Messianic Revolution. Radical Religious Politics to the End of the Second Millennium (New York 1998). Kippenberg (2004). – Hans G. Kippenberg, „The Study of Religions in the 20th Century“, in: Slavica Jakelić/Lori Pearson (edd.), The Future of the Study of Religion. Proceedings of Congress 2000 (Leiden 2004) 47–64. Kippenberg (2005). – Hans G. Kippenberg, „ ‚Nach dem Vorbild eines öffentlichen Gemeinwesens‘. Diskurse römischer Juristen über private religiöse Vereinigungen“, in: Kippenberg/Schuppert (2005) 11–35. Kippenberg (2009a). – Hans G. Kippenberg, „Mircea Eliade. In einer Zeit entfesselter Gewalt fällt der Vorhang vor dem Heiligen“, in: Alf Christophersen/Friedemann Voigt (edd.), Religionsstifter der Moderne. Von Karl Marx bis Johannes Paul II. (München 2009) 245–256. Kippenberg (2009b) – Hans G. Kippenberg, „Religion als Gemeinschaftsgut. Religiöse Zusammenkünfte und Rituale als rechtliche Tatbestände“, in: Kippenberg/Rüpke/ von Stuckrad (2009) 127–154. Kippenberg/Rüpke/von Stuckrad (2009). – Hans G. Kippenberg/Jörg Rüpke/Kocku von Stuckrad (edd.), Europäische Religionsgeschichte. Ein mehrfacher Pluralismus (Göttingen 2009). Kippenberg/Schuppert (2005). – Hans G. Kippenberg/Gunnar Folke Schuppert (edd.), Die verrechtlichte Religion. Der Öffentlichkeitsstatus von Religionsgemeinschaften (Tübingen 2005). Knoblauch (1991). – Hubert Knoblauch, Die Welt der Wünschelrutengänger und Pendler. Erkundungen einer verborgenen Wirklichkeit (Frankfurt a. M./New York 1991). Koenig/Willaime (2008). – Matthias Koenig/Jean-Paul Willaime (edd.), Religionskontroversen in Frankreich und Deutschland (Hamburg 2008). Küçük (2008). – Bülent Küçük, Die Türkei und das andere Europa. Phantasmen der Identität im Beitrittsdiskurs (Bielefeld 2008).

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Lackner/Werner (1999). – Michael Lackner/Michael Werner, Der ‚cultural turn‘ in den Humanwissenschaften, Suchprozesse für innovative Fragestellungen in der Wissenschaft 2 (Bad Homburg 1999). Lehmann (2004). – Hartmut Lehmann, Säkularisierung. Der europäische Sonderweg in Sachen Religion (Göttingen 2004). McLeod (2005). – Hugh McLeod, „The Religious Crisis of the 60s“, Journal of Modern European History 3 (2005) 205–230. Michalski (2006). – Krzystof Michalski (ed.), Religion in the New Europe (Budapest/New York 2006). Morin (1991). – Edgar Morin, Europa denken (Frankfurt a. M. 1991) (frz. 1987). Pfleiderer (2000). – Georg Pfleiderer, Karl Barths praktische Theologie. Zu Genese und Kontext eines paradigmatischen Entwurfs systematischer Theologie im 20. Jahrhundert (Tübingen 2000). Rüsen (1993). – Jörn Rüsen, Konfigurationen des Historismus. Studien zur deutschen Wissenschaftskultur (Frankfurt a. M. 1993). Salzmann (1993). – Michele R. Salzman, „The Evidence for Conversion of the Roman Empire to Christianity in Book 16 of the ‚Theodosian Code‘ “, Historia 42 (1993) 362–378. Schuppert (2005). – Gunnar Folke Schuppert, „Skala der Rechtsformen für Religion: vom privaten Zirkel zur Körperschaft des öffentlichen Rechts. Überlegungen zur angemessenen Organisationsform für Religionsgemeinschaften“, in: Kippenberg/ Schuppert (2005) 11–35. Steiner (2004). – George Steiner, Nach Babel. Aspekte der Sprache und des Übersetzens (Frankfurt a. M. 2004) (engl. 1992). Taylor (2006). – Charles Taylor, „Religion and the European Integration“, in: Michalski (2006) 1–22. Tietze (2008). – Nikola Tietze, „Religionssemantiken in europäischen Institutionen – Politische Dynamiken einer semantischen Topographie“, in: Koenig/Willaime (2008) 400–443. Wasserstrom (1999). – Steven M. Wasserstrom, Religion After Religion (Princeton 1999). Weinel (1930). – Heinrich Weinel, „Mystik: IV. Neue Mystik“, in: RGG² 4 (1930) 355–360.

Kult und Ritual

Meta-mythology of “Baetyl Cult”. The Mediterranean Hypothesis of Sir Arthur Evans and Fritz Graf nanno marinatos The history of the term baetyl The Oxford Dictionary defines baetyl as “a sacred meteoric stone”. As we shall see, however, this definition is quite inadequate, for the term encompasses many more meanings. Perhaps another citation will show just what confusion reigns. The famous Mircea Eliade writes in his Patterns in Comparative Religion (1958): “pre-Islamic Arabs venerated certain stones called by the Greeks and Romans baytili [sic], a word taken from the Semitic and meaning ‘House of God’ ”1. Eliade also claims that beth-el is both the name for a god and a sacred stone2. Just about everything in these statements is inaccurate because no ancient source is cited. Eliade refers the reader to an orientalist, who assumes (but does not demonstrate) that pre-Islamic Arab cults are baetyl cults3. In fact baetyl has nowhere the unambiguous meaning “house of god” in any ancient source. There is a common denominator in the comparative approach used by Eliade, and the Oxford dictionary. The paradigm on which the term baetyl rests is a theory of primitive, animistic cult. Complications arise when we realize how loosely baetyl is used. I shall attempt here to show its history, particularly concentrating on its impact on the conceptualization of Minoan religion. The meta-mythology of baetyl is an appropriate topic for a volume in honor of Fritz Graf, since his own work may be used to improve the paradigm taking into account the historical frame of ancient Mediterranean religions. The first ancient author to have used the term (betul) is Pliny the Elder, in his Natural History where he classifies various types of stones. Betuli are 1 2 3

Eliade (1958) 228. Eliade (1958) 229. Lammens (1920).

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round stones to be distinguished from oblong ones, which he calls ceraunioi. “Those which are black and round are looked upon as sacred, and by their assistance cities and fleets are attacked and taken: the name given to them is betuli ”4. According to Pliny, then, the stones are sacred missiles that may destroy a town or a fleet, presumably because they could be directed with great precision against their targets. Another reference of approximately the same period is found in a Phoenician scholar by the name of Philo of Byblos, who wrote in Greek at the time of Nero. His work has survived only in fragments and was cited by the Bishop of Caesarea, Eusebius (263–339 AD). In his attempt to prove the superiority of Christianity, Eusebius used Philo’s Euhemerism as ammunition against paganism. Philo ascribes two distinct meanings to baetyl 5. The first is a personal name, Baitylos, who is a brother of the humanized Kronos6. The second is an object which he calls baitylion, a stone with a soul (empsychos lithos); it functions as a missile, a weapon used by Ouranos in his battle against Kronos7. But how trustworthy is Philo as a source? The history of ideas gets very interesting at this point. Philo claims to base his account on a Phoenician named Sanchuniathon, who had allegedly lived very long ago during the period of the Trojan War. This obscure figure supposedly had access to an even older scholar by the name of Tautos, whose books were hidden in the adyton of the temple of Amun8. Both these authorities whom Philo cites are probably fictitious, although scholars disagree about this issue9. Thus, Philo’s definition of baetyl is based on a complicated and constructed chain of tradition of doubtful authenticity. Still, Philo’s definition of baetyl as a missile confirms that of Pliny. The next source is Damascius, a pagan neoplatonist philosopher from Syria, who lived at the time of emperor Justinian in the 6th century AD. Damascius describes the cult of baitylos /baitylion as follows. There existed a man by the name of Eusebius, who was a servant (therapon) of the cult of the baetyl. He once saw a ball of fire in the sky attended by a lion. The lion disappeared, but the stone stayed in the sky, and its fire was gradually extinguished. Eusebius then took hold of it and asked it which god it was. The stone replied that he was Gennaios, the sun god in the form of a lion. (Damascius 4 5 6 7 8 9

Plin. nat. 37.51; Evans (1901) 118 n. 5. Evans (1901) 12 n. 1 cites various views about what baitylos means including goat skin. Philo Byblius 809.23 (Baumgarten 1981, 15). ἐπενόησεν θεὸς Οὐρανὸς βαιτύλια, λίθους ἐμψύχους μηχανησάμενος (810.24): Baumgarten (1981) 183–213, esp. 201 f. Baumgarten (1981) 2, 67 f. Baumgarten (1981) 63–93.

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explains that Gennaios had a cult in the form of a lion in the sanctuary of Zeus at Heliopolis of Syria)10. Eusebius took the baetyl, hid it in his garment and pretty much became enslaved to its will. The stone expressed itself and Eusebius interpreted its oracular songs (chresmodies) 11. Damascius’s baetyl was thus a fire-ball with oracular powers. Another stage in the history of the term baetyl came in the 17th century AD, and it is an important one, perhaps the most important of all. A French Protestant Biblical scholar, Samuel Bochart, made a connection between the etymology of baetyl and a passage in Genesis about Jacob’s dream at beth-el 12. This passage is important for the shaping of the paradigm, so I cite it here in full. Taking one of the stones of the place, he [Jacob] put it under his head and lay down in the place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. And the lord stood beside him. (Gen. 28:11–13)

The story continues that when Jacob woke up, he anointed the stone and named the place where the revelation had taken place beth-el which means “house of god” (Gen. 28:14–22). Bochart noted that if the Semitic word beth-el is transliterated into Greek, it becomes baetylos. Thus the etymology as “house of god” was established. It must be observed, however, that it was not the stone but the entire sanctuary that was named beth-el, so not even here do we find an unambiguous identification of the sacred stone as baetyl. The analysis of the sources has yielded four distinct meanings for understanding stone cult. 1. A very effective stone missile, fallen from heaven (Pliny) 2. Name of a person or god (Philo) 3. A fire ball, which is a manifestation of the lion solar god Gennaios. An oracular medium (Damascius) 4. The sanctuary beth-el in Genesis The polysemy of the term and the late date of its usage in the period of the Roman Empire dissuaded some scholars from using it too much to interpret early stone cult. For example, William Robertson Smith, in whose work Religion of the Semites (1889) we would expect to find it, avoids it almost completely. Only once does he mention that baetyls are portable stones to which magical life was ascribed13. Instead, Smith prefers to use the native 10 Damascius, Vita Isidori 203 (Zintzen 1967, 276). 11 Damascius, Vita Isidori 203 (Zintzen 1967, 276). On Magicians and miracle makers of this time period see Dickie (2001) 233–245. 12 Bochart (1646); see Baumgarten (1981) 202, with n. 131. Evans (1901) 112, 133, 203 with reference to Smith (1889) n. 1. 13 Smith (1889) 193.

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word msb /masseba to describe pre-Arabian cults14. Nor does Sir James Frazer refer to baetyl in the Golden Bough. One scholar, however, who did use the term, in the rather specific sense of the stone swallowed by Kronos, was A. B. Cook in his voluminous work Zeus 15. An important development came with the work of Sir Arthur Evans in 1901, who introduced it (permanently, it seems) to the study of Minoan religion. Evans made a worthy attempt to construct a coherent paradigm, as will be explained below. From the middle of the 20th century onwards, baetyl is used mostly in discussions of so-called primitive cults (see Eliade above). The introduction of the term in Minoan religion had the unfortunate consequences that it made it appear primitive.16 It is interesting to note that M. P. Nilsson used the term baetyl without defining what he meant17. In more recent years baetyl has been defined by an eminent scholar of Minoan archaeology as the stone where the worshippers locate the power of the Minoan divinity; other Minoan archaeologists call it an object of worship18. Each interpreter understands something slightly different by the term because neither the word baetyl nor the cult that it represents is transparent.

2. Evans’s and Graf ’s Mediterranean hypothesis As we have seen above, it was Sir Arthur Evans who introduced baetyl in Minoan studies in a most important monograph entitled Mycenaean Tree and Pillar Cult and Its Mediterranean Relations (1901). His principal thesis was that the Minoans and Mycenaeans had aniconic cults. He named all kinds of inanimate objects baetyls, distinguishing them from sacred trees, which were alive, as it were. He included round stones, rough boulders, stalagmites, palace-pillars, stelai and grave markers, but not the live missiles of Pliny and Philo, our two earliest sources19. Still, Evans made an attempt to construct a coherent paradigm, in which he synthesized the story of Jacob in Genesis with animistic theory as outlined in E. B. Tylor’s The Origins of Culture (1871). According to Tylor, primitives believed that spirits descended upon inanimate objects and took possession of them; the object then became 14 Smith (1889) 201, 205–212. 15 Cook (1914) 12, 464–549. 16 Extensively argued in Marinatos (2010) inspired by Evans’s own conclusions thirty years after the article discussed here. By 1930, Evans was convinced that Minoan religion was highly developed. 17 Nilsson (1950) 160, 258. 18 Warren (1988) 16–19; Dimopoulou/Rethemiotakis (2004) 22. 19 Evans (1901) 112 f.; Evans (1930).

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the indwelling place of the deity. Tylor is much cited by Evans although the former uses the term baetyl rarely20. But Evans had also another frame for interpreting aniconic cults of Minoan Crete: the Mediterranean hypothesis, as I call it, according to which most Mediterranean religions were interconnected. For example, he combined the passage about Jacob in Genesis (see above) with the myth of the stone swallowed by Kronos. There will be repeated occasion for observing the close correspondence of the Mycenaean and Semitic cult of sacred pillars. The best known instance of the kind is the pillar set up by Jacob, which was literally Bethel, the House of God. It has been suggested that these Semitic words […] indicating the stone as the temporary place of indwelling of the divinity – supplied the Greeks with the term baitylos or baitylion, and applied in a special way to the stone which, according to the Cretan legend, was swallowed by Kronos under the belief it was his son. But this stone, as Lenormant has well pointed out, is in fact nothing else than the material form of the Cretan Zeus Himself 21. In Crete again, where the continuity of early tradition was also exceptionally maintained, the same phenomenon confronts us. This is indeed the classic land of the baitylos, the stone that Kronos swallowed, […] [is] the earliest material form of the indigenous Zeus22.

In order to explain his Mediterranean hypothesis, Evans entertained the possibility that Minoan, Semitic and Anatolian cults were derived from those of an older ethnic stock23. I turn now to Fritz Graf ’s work. In an important article entitled “What is Ancient Mediterranean Religion?” he suggests that we may indeed speak of ancient Mediterranean religion since the entire region was united under emperors, beginning with Sargon of Akkad, in the 3rd millennium BC, and ending with the Imperium Romanum in late antiquity. This political unity (sometimes disrupted by the dissolution of empires into petty kingdoms) accounts for a great deal of similarity and continuity of cults and deities. Inhabitants of the Ancient Mediterranean, it seems, could travel wherever they wanted and almost always meet gods they knew; […] as the story that ended with Cronus vomiting up the five siblings of Zeus together with the stone he had swallowed instead of his youngest son24.

Thus, with Graf ’s example, we are back to the stone swallowed by Kronos, which he regards as part of the common pool of traditions. But, unlike Evans, Graf assumes that the unity of religious thought may be best explained by the historical and political frame of international empires in the second 20 21 22 23 24

Tylor (1958) vol. 2, 253; Evans (1901) 105 n. 5. Evans (1901) 112 f. Evans (1901) 127. Evans (1901) 131 f. Graf (2004) 11.

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and first millennia. Cults and myths flow from one culture to another, he writes, and calls this osmosis25. There are some similarities and some differences between Evans’s and Graf ’s hypotheses about ancient Mediterranean religions. Evans posited an original core of beliefs, which spread across boundaries over time and filtered down to Christian times. He thought he could prove continuity by archaeological evidence. Graf denies this: “Neat unilinear derivations, dear to scholars, is impossible”, he writes26. There is a difference too with how the two use archaeological evidence. Graf asserts (and I agree with him) that material culture cannot be used to verify continuity of cult: “In archaeology cult is difficult to grasp.”27 Indeed, material evidence without written texts can only verify preconceived paradigms, such as animistic theory.

3. The Mediterranean hypothesis and stone cult What do we actually learn about stone cults and baetyls from all this? The first lesson is that baetyl is not the right term to designate stone cults because it is too polysemic to be accurate. It was used in the 19th and early 20th centuries under the impact of animistic theory, and animism in its turn was dependent on the idea of evolution from primitive religions to sophisticated theological traditions. In this respect it is very interesting to note that Martin Nilsson takes the term baetyl for granted in his description of Minoan religion, but does not use it of Greek religion which he considered more advanced28. Today we no longer believe in primitive religions, but in interconnected cultural osmosis, a flow of osmotic similarities, as Fritz Graf puts it. Another lesson to be learned is that our ancient sources do not use baetyl to describe stone cults. The term means instead a miraculous fire ball, which is sometimes an oracular medium, at other times a deadly missile. And since all these sources are Roman or Late Roman, they can hardly be the right ones to describe so-called primitive religions. A third lesson is unexpected. Although Evans is responsible for introducing the dangerously vague term baetyl to the study of Minoan religion, he was basically right in detecting sacred stones. Indeed there is evidence that a stone was considered indwelling place of either a god or spirit of a dead person. Moreover, aniconic cults exist in Minoan religion, as Evans 25 26 27 28

Graf (2004) 5. Graf (2004) 8. Graf (2004) 8. Nilsson (1950) 160, 258.

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claimed, and they are indeed paralleled in the Semitic world and in Egypt. In other words these cults are typical of the ancient Mediterranean. Consider two Biblical passages in addition to the Jacob story cited above: “Joshua wrote these words in the Book of Law of God; and he took a large stone, and set it up there under the oak in the sanctuary of the Lord.” (Joshua 24:26 RSV) In another place, Gideon experienced an epiphany of god near a rock on which he had placed an offering: “and fire sprang up from the rock and consumed the meat and the unleavened cakes” ( Judges 6:2 RSV). The Hittites as well had holy stones called huwasi; they were set up in temples or open air sanctuaries. We know something about them because they are mentioned in inventories of the Hittite king Tudhalya IV: they were anointed, like cult images, and sacrifices were performed in front of them29. As for the Egyptians, they had the holy benben stone at Heliopolis which was a manifestation of the sun. One spell specifies that Atum-Kheprer rises as a benben stone in Heliopolis30. Pausanias reports that when he exited the temple of Apollo at Delphi, he saw a stone in an enclosure dedicated to the tomb of Neoptolemos, son of Achilles. It is not a big one, says Pausanias, and it receives libations. The belief was that it was the stone swallowed by Kronos (Paus. 10.24.6). Had Evans been alive, he would have been most gratified to learn of a recent discovery by the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago of a stele in Zincirli, Anatolia. Dating to the Iron Age, it bears a remarkable inscription which states that the soul of the deceased rests in a grave stone: “to my soul which is in this stele”31. In all these texts the rock is indeed the temporary indwelling place of the dead, as Evans had said (he thought stones could be the dwelling of both gods and departed spirits)32. We thus conclude that there are many examples in ancient Mediterranean religion which demonstrate that stones contained the spirit of a god or the deceased. But we do not need the special term baetyl, or the paradigm of primitive mentality to explain the phenomenon since it is not a feature of primitive man, but of Mediterranean religions, most of which had sophisticated theologies. Are we then to abandon the baetyl paradigm? I suggest that we dispense with the term firstly because it is imprecise, and secondly because it carries within itself connotations of primitiveness. But we need not abandon Evans’s theory (based on Tylor) that inanimate objects were conceived as the indwelling places of gods in ancient Mediterranean religions. We thus end with a positive remark. Evans’s thesis that aniconic cults in Minoan Crete were part 29 30 31 32

Mettinger (1995) 129 f. with references. Wyatt (2001) 151. Dennis Pardee, http://oi.uchicago.edu/news/zincirli.html. Evans (1901) 127.

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of a Mediterranean religious koine is the best, if not the only, hypothesis to decipher Minoan religion, which suffers from lack of extant texts and needs comparative material to be comprehended. Graf provides a historical and political frame for understanding the interconnectedness of the Mediterranean; and if we use Fritz Graf ’s revised version of ancient Mediterranean religions as a yard-stick of progress in scholarly thought, Evans had been amazingly avant garde in 1901. It is only the term baetyl that needs to be abandoned along with all the connotations it has accrued.

Bibliography Baumgarten (1981). – Albert Baumgarten, The Phoenician History of Philo of Byblos. A Commentary (Leiden 1981). Bochart (1646). – Samuel Bochart, Phaleg et Canaan (Cadomus 1646). Burkert (1979). – Walter Burkert, Structure and History in Greek Mytholog y and Ritual (Berkeley 1979). Burkert (1996). – Walter Burkert, Creation of the Sacred: Tracks of Biolog y in Early Religions (Cambridge, Mass. 1996). Cook (1914). – Arthur Bernard Cook, Zeus. A Study in Ancient Religion, vol. 1–3 (Cambridge 1914–1930). Dimopoulou/Rethemiotakis (2004). – Nota Dimopoulou/George Rethemiotakis, The Ring of Minos. The Epiphany Cycle (Athens 2004). Graf (2004). – Fritz Graf, “What is Ancient Mediterranean Religion?”, in: Sarah Iles Johnston (ed.), Religions of the Ancient World: A Guide (Cambridge, Mass. 2004) 3–16. Eliade (1958). – Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion (London/New York 1958). Evans (1901). – Arthur John Evans, “The Mycenaean Tree and Pillar Cult and Its Mediterranean Relations”, JHS 21 (1901) 99–204. Evans (1921–1935). – Arthur John Evans, The Palace of Minos (London 1921–1935). Lammens (1920). – Henri Lammens, “Le culte des betyls et les processions religieuses chez les Arabs preislamites”, Bulletin de l’Institut Francais d’Archéologie Orientale 17 (1919) 39–101. Marinatos (2009). – Nanno Marinatos, Minoan Kingship and the Solar Goddess. A Near Eastern Koine (Urbana 2009). Mettinger (1995). – Tryggve N. D. Mettinger, No Graven Image? Israelite Aniconism in Its Ancient Near Eastern Context, Coniectanea Biblica. Old Testament Series 42 (Stockholm 1995). Nilsson (1932). – Martin Persson Nilsson, The Myceanean Origin of Greek Mytholog y. Sather Lectures 8 (Berkley 1932, reprinted 1972) Smith (1889). – William Robertson Smith, Lectures on the Religion of the Semites (Edinburgh 1889). Tylor (1871). – Edward Burnet Tylor, The Origins of Culture, vol. 1–2 (New York 1871). Warren (1990). – Peter Warren, “Of Baetyls”, Opuscula Atheniensia 18 (1990) 193–206. Wyatt (2001). – Nicolas Wyatt, Space and Time in the Religious Life of the Ancient Near East, The Biblical Seminar 85 (Sheffield 2001). Zintzen (1967). – Clemens Zintzen, Damascii Vitae Isidori Reliquiae (Hildesheim 1967).

Prométhée fonde-t-il le sacrifice grec? En relisant Jean Rudhardt1 francesca prescendi

L’article de Jean Rudhardt «Les mythes grecs relatifs à l’instauration du sacrifice: les rôles corrélatifs de Prométhée et de son fils Deucalion»2 représente un point de départ idéal pour discuter des mythes étiologiques et de leur rapport au rite. L’interprétation du mythe prométhéen proposée par Rudhardt se révèle encore convaincante aujourd’hui. Le but de cette contribution est de mettre en valeur les points forts de la démarche de Rudhardt et d’analyser le contexte de gestation de cet article, en relation avec ses contemporains autant qu’avec ses prédécesseurs. Mon œil exercé plutôt à l’analyse des mythes romains pourra, je l’espère, apporter quelques compléments à l’interprétation du mythe prométhéen.

Le mythe et l’explication de J. Rudhardt Tout d’abord, il s’agira de résumer brièvement le contenu du mythe et l’interprétation que Jean Rudhardt en propose. Dans un passage de la Théogonie d’Hésiode (535–616), Prométhée est décrit en train de partager la viande d’un bœuf en deux parties. Il fait un tas de bonne viande qu’il met dans la panse de l’animal (gastèr), et un autre tas composé des os recouverts d’une belle graisse blanche. Il présente les deux portions à Zeus qui, tout en étant conscient de la ruse, choisit la plus belle mais la moins comestible. Zeus se met en colère et, en conséquence, prive les 1

2

Cet article, qui part de l’analyse d’un mythe grec pour aller vers des textes romains, est dédié à Fritz Graf, en souvenir des belles années bâloises, quand je faisais mes premiers pas dans le domaine de la religion grecque. Je remercie Philippe Borgeaud et Vinciane Pirenne qui m’ont apporté une aide indispensable pour la réalisation de ce travail. Je remercie aussi Mélanie Lozat et Aurore Schwab pour leur aide ponctuelle. Rudhardt (1970).

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hommes du feu. Cet épisode provoque une réaction de Prométhée: il vole le feu pour le rendre aux hommes. La riposte de Zeus consiste à envoyer aux hommes la femme comme châtiment. Ce mythe, selon Rudhardt, raconte le moment de la séparation définitive entre les hommes et les dieux qui vivaient ensemble jusqu’alors. Ce partage mythique entre une partie de l’animal non comestible réservée aux immortels et une part comestible réservée aux hommes est rattaché à l’usage rituel grec qui consiste à offrir aux dieux les fémurs de l’animal et la graisse tandis que les autres parties de l’animal sont réservées à la consommation humaine. Hésiode le dit clairement (theog. 556 f.): «C’est depuis lors (ek tou) que, pour les immortels, les tribus des humains de la terre font brûler les os blancs sur les autels odorants.»3 Selon Rudhardt, ce passage ne signifie pas que l’acte accompli par Prométhée est le premier sacrifice, contrairement à ce que dit Jean-Pierre Vernant qui étudie ce mythe à la même époque4. Pour Rudhardt, l’acte de Prométhée, même s’il est identique à ce qui est accompli lors du rite, représente un antécédent, c’est-à-dire le moment de rupture entre les hommes et les dieux, tandis que le sacrifice a la fonction opposée: réunir et mettre en contact les hommes et les dieux qui vivent dans deux mondes séparés. Selon Rudhardt, pour trouver le premier sacrifice, il faut aller au-delà du récit hésiodique, chez d’autres auteurs plus tardifs comme Apollodore5, qui racontent la suite de l’histoire: la colère de Zeus devant le comportement irrespectueux de Prométhée débouche sur le déluge. Seuls un homme et une femme réussissent à s’échapper: ce sont Deucalion, le fils de Prométhée, et Pyrrha, sa femme. Une fois que les eaux se sont retirées, Deucalion aborde au sommet du mont Parnasse, descend de son embarcation de fortune et sacrifie pour la première fois aux dieux immortels. Par cet acte, Deucalion instaure une nouvelle forme de communication avec les dieux qui consiste à leur offrir des dons à distance, ce qui est bien différent des modalités en vigueur à l’époque de Prométhée. Comme le précise Rudhardt, Deucalion peut être considéré comme l’inventeur de la religion, c’est-à-dire du rapport par lequel les hommes rendent hommage aux dieux. Je me propose de revenir par la suite, sur certains des aspects énoncés dans ce bref résumé. Auparavant, je voudrais clarifier quelques aspects intéressants de la rédaction même de l’article de Jean Rudhardt.

3 4 5

Trad. Bonnafé (1993). Cf. les articles dans la bibliographie. Rudhardt suppose cependant que, même si le récit est présent seulement chez les auteurs tardifs, il devait être connu depuis l’époque archaïque.

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Sur la rédaction de l’article de J. Rudhardt L’article de Jean Rudhardt est publié en 1970 dans le Museum Helveticum, la Revue suisse pour les Sciences de l’Antiquité. Que se passe-t-il à cette époque? Nous savons que Rudhardt s’intéresse au sacrifice grec depuis longtemps. En 1958, il a publié sa thèse Notions fondamentales de la pensée religieuse et actes constitutifs du culte dans la Grèce classique 6. Comme l’a justement relevé Philippe Borgeaud dans son introduction au livre des Opera inedita 7 qui contient des écrits posthumes de Rudhardt, son maître ne s’intéresse point aux mythes sacrificiels quand il écrit sa thèse. Effectivement, dans cette première étude, Hésiode ne figure pas parmi les sources8. L’intérêt pour le mythe semble naître chez Rudhardt plus ou moins dix ans plus tard. Ses réflexions théoriques reçoivent une première forme dans l’article «Une approche de la pensée mythique: le mythe comme langage» publié dans la revue Studia Philologica en 19669. L’article sur Prométhée vient quatre ans plus tard. Une étude sur l’hymne homérique à Déméter date de 1978 et une étude sur le mythe des races d’Hésiode de 198110. Dans les années septante, un autre grand savant de la religion grecque, Jean-Pierre Vernant, commence également à étudier le mythe de Prométhée. En 1979, il publie son étude fondamentale dans le très célèbre livre La cuisine du sacrifice dirigé avec Marcel Detienne. Mais Vernant avait traité de ce mythe à plusieurs reprises auparavant. En 1973, lors d’un colloque sur le mythe grec à Urbino, auquel participait aussi Rudhardt, il avait présenté une analyse structurale des passages de la Théogonie et des Travaux et les Jours 11. Cet article est repris dans le livre Mythe et société en Grèce ancienne (1974)12. En 1977 paraît son article «Sacrifice et alimentation humaine. A propos du Prométhée d’Hésiode»13. L’attention de Rudhardt et de Vernant s’est portée sur le mythe de Prométhée au cours des mêmes années, ce qui fait surgir la question de leur influence réciproque. Pourtant, une lecture de leurs bibliographies révèle qu’ils évitent de se citer mutuellement à ce sujet. Philippe Borgeaud, dans la même introduction aux Opera inedita, affirme que l’article de son maître a eu une grande influence sur l’école française. Cependant, Vernant qui, plus 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Rudhardt (1958). Rudhardt (2008) 15. Rudhardt (1958) 311. Rudhardt (1966). Rudhardt (1978); (1981b). Vernant (1973). Vernant (1974). Vernant (1977). Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge (2008) a présenté dernièrement des réflexions importantes sur ces travaux de Vernant lors du colloque «Relire Vernant». Je remercie la chercheuse de m’avoir soumis son texte dactylographié.

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que tous les autres savants de l’école française, se concentre sur Prométhée ne cite jamais explicitement l’article que le Genevois a publié en 1970. De même, Rudhardt ne se préoccupe pas de mentionner les travaux du savant parisien lors de la réédition de son article en 1981, à laquelle il a pourtant apporté quelques modifications. Pourquoi cette ignorance réciproque? Je serais tentée de penser que cette attitude est davantage le fait d’un profond respect de l’un pour l’autre que d’un quelconque mépris. En effet, la position des deux savants diffère seulement sur un point précis. Comme je l’ai déjà relevé, pour Rudhardt, l’acte accompli par Prométhée n’est pas un sacrifice. Pour Vernant, en revanche, c’est le premier sacrifice. Se citer mutuellement aurait impliqué une critique, un exercice auquel ils n’ont manifestement pas voulu se soumettre14. L’invitation de Vernant au colloque sur Le sacrifice dans l’antiquité, que Rudhardt organise avec Olivier Reverdin à la Fondation Hardt en 198015, révèle que le savant parisien était apprécié à Genève. De même, dans ses travaux, Vernant ne manque pas de renvoyer à la thèse de Rudhardt sur les Notions fondamentales, en la présentant comme une étude de référence sur le sacrifice grec. Les deux savants d’ailleurs avaient déjà eu plusieurs occasions de se rencontrer personnellement. Vernant avait été invité à Genève pour une conférence sur le mythe de création du monde et de l’homme dans le monde grec (Hésiode) et dans le monde hittitohurrite16. En 1973, les deux s’étaient rencontrés au colloque d’Urbino, dont j’ai déjà fait mention. En 1977, Rudhardt avait été invité au Collège de France pour une conférence sur Déméter17. La relation entre les deux était amicale. Il faut mentionner à ce propos une lettre que Rudhardt a envoyée à Vernant et dont il a gardé une photocopie que j’ai pu lire dans le Fonds Rudhardt conservé à la bibliothèque de Genève18. Cette lettre ne porte pas 14 Rudhardt et Vernant ont discuté ensemble de cette différence d’interprétation comme le montre la discussion publiée dans Rudhardt/Reverdin (1981) 28–30 où Rudhardt précise: «Lorsqu’il raconte l’acte de Prométhée, Hésiode n’emploie précisément pas le verbe érdein. C’est pourquoi j’ai dit un jour que cet acte n’est pas exactement un sacrifice, même si le mythe de Prométhée est, entre autres choses, un mythe de fondation, destiné à éclairer certains des gestes sacrificiels.» Vernant répond: «Même si je ne suis pas entièrement M. Rudhardt dans l’interprétation qu’il a proposé du récit hésiodique de Prométhée et de son articulation avec le mythe des races, je me trouve tout à fait d’accord avec lui pour souligner l’importance fondamentale du partage et de la distribution dans le sacrifice.» Vernant conclut que si «Prométhée peut être considéré comme fondateur du sacrifice, c’est en tant que répartiteur des morceaux de la victime». 15 Rudhardt/Reverdin (1981). 16 Borgeaud (2007). 17 Rudhardt (1978). 18 Je remercie Matthieu Dupin pour l’aide qu’il m’a apportée dans la consultation de ce Fonds.

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la référence de l’année, mais elle doit avoir été écrite en 1979 ou en 1980 parce qu’il y est question du manuscrit de l’article que Rudhardt a écrit sur le mythe hésiodique des races publié en 198119. On apprend que Rudhardt avait envoyé à Vernant son article dactylographié et que Vernant avait fait des observations ponctuelles sur le contenu. La lettre dont nous disposons est la réponse à ces observations. Rudhardt s’adresse à Vernant en employant la formule «Cher Monsieur» et le vouvoie. On voit qu’il apprécie les idées de son collègue et qu’il tient compte de ses remarques sans toutefois renoncer à défendre sa propre position. La fin de la lettre atteste qu’elle a été rédigée lors d’un séjour à Zermatt, où, comme Rudhardt le dit, il n’a pas le texte d’Hésiode à sa disposition (cependant les citations des vers grecs avec les accents et les esprits, que Rudhardt restitue de mémoire, sont impressionnantes). A la fin de la lettre, Rudhardt invite Vernant à prendre contact avec lui dans l’éventualité d’un déplacement en Suisse. Cette lettre permet de confirmer les rapports cordiaux qui existaient entre les deux savants basés surtout sur des échanges scientifiques. Pour conclure sur les influences de Rudhardt, il faut remarquer également qu’il ne cite pas dans la réédition de son article de 1981 le livre de Walter Burkert Homo necans: Interpretationen altgriechischer Opferriten und Mythen publié en 1972. S’il est vrai que le livre de Walter Burkert ne mentionne le mythe de Prométhée qu’une seule fois20, il porte cependant entièrement sur le sacrifice et sur les mythes qui s’y rapportent. Il aurait donc pu trouver place dans une note. Mais ceci non plus n’est pas un signe de méconnaissance du savant allemand. Burkert est en effet invité au même colloque sur le sacrifice tenu à la Fondation Hardt. J’ose imaginer que les savants de la génération qui nous précède avaient une autre conception de la bibliographie: l’impératif de citer tous les travaux parus sur un sujet semble moins contraignant qu’aujourd’hui. D’ailleurs, le maître de Rudhardt, Victor Martin, conseillait son élève de la manière suivante: «Etudiez bien les textes ! Vous lirez les travaux modernes, si vous en avez le temps.»21

J. Rudhardt critique K. Meuli En dépit du manque de renvois à ses contemporains, Jean Rudhardt prend position par rapport à ses prédécesseurs et en particulier à propos d’une théorie sur le sacrifice qui a eu et a encore aujourd’hui une grande résonance: celle du savant bâlois Karl Meuli (1891–1968). 19 Rudhardt (1981b). 20 Burkert (1972) 14. 21 Rudhardt (1981a) 8.

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Karl Meuli écrit son essai «Griechische Opferbräuche» en 1946. Dans ce riche travail, il analyse l’usage d’offrir aux dieux olympiens les os et la graisse des animaux en comparant cette pratique aux usages de peuples traditionnels. Il soutient l’idée que les peuples traditionnels, ainsi que les Grecs, ont conservé l’usage préhistorique de traiter avec un soin particulier les os et la peau des animaux chassés parce que cela leur permettait en même temps de désamorcer le sentiment de culpabilité envers leurs proies et de rendre hommage à la nature qui devait encore fournir des animaux à chasser. Karl Meuli a créé le terme de Unschuldskomödie, c’est-à-dire la «comédie de l’innocence», une expression qui désigne l’attitude de l’homme qui tue et qui cherche à justifier son acte de violence. Walter Burkert, comme on le sait, se réclame de cette idée de Meuli pour construire son interprétation du sacrifice grec. Le rapport entre cette théorie et le mythe de Prométhée saute aux yeux. Selon Meuli, le mythe ne serait qu’une étiologie créée par les Grecs pour rendre compte de l’offrande méprisable des os et de la graisse. Le fait que leurs dieux ne recevaient pas la meilleure partie de l’animal pouvait susciter de l’étonnement. Le mythe de Prométhée est là pour expliquer quand et comment cet usage étrange a lieu pour la première fois et pour rendre compte mythiquement d’un rite qui aurait perdu sa signification à travers le temps. Le mythe prométhéen serait donc une explication artificielle pour justifier un rite que les Grecs ne comprenaient plus. Jean Rudhardt a probablement connu cette étude de Meuli par son maître Victor Martin qui était professeur de grec de l’Université de Genève. En effet, Victor Martin écrit un compte rendu de l’article de Meuli dans la revue Archives Suisses d’Anthropologie générale en 194922. Il y propose un ample résumé de l’article sur un ton favorable. L’idée qui semble avoir motivé Martin à prendre une position positive sur le travail de Meuli est le fait que ce collègue (Meuli était professeur de Klassische Altertumswissenschaft à l’Université de Bâle23) a su décloisonner les disciplines en abordant en même temps des dossiers préhistoriques, ethnologiques et grecs. Quand Jean Rudhardt écrit son article, 21 ans après la parution du compte rendu de son maître, il prend position contre lui et contre le savant bâlois. Sa prise de position ne concerne pas les usages des peuples préhistoriques ou des cultures traditionnelles, mais l’interprétation du mythe prométhéen comme explication d’un rite qui serait devenu incompréhensible. Rudhardt ne peut souscrire à cette affirmation. Derrière cette prise de position, il y a toute la philosophie rudhardtienne. Selon lui, une culture s’explique par 22 Martin (1949). 23 En 1933, K. Meuli est nommé professeur extraordinaire; en 1942, professeur ordinaire de klassische Altertumswissenschaften mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Volkskunde (chaire de la fondation Vischer-Heusler), cf. le discours du recteur K. Pestalozzi dans Graf (1992) 10.

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elle-même: les éléments culturels et religieux qu’elle produit n’ont pas besoin de référents extérieurs pour être compris. Dans l’avant-propos au recueil d’articles de 198124, il affirme à propos de certains auteurs modernes (dont il n’indique pas les noms): Pour rendre compte de faits religieux déconcertants, ils [sc. ces auteurs] voulaient montrer en eux les survivances d’un passé où ces faits répondaient à des besoins et se trouvaient intelligibles en considération d’une mentalité, propre aux sociétés de ces temps lointains. Leurs démonstrations m’ont convaincu sur bien des points mais ils ne m’ont jamais expliqué comment il se peut faire que des institutions ou des croyances survivent aux conditions historiques où elles avaient trouvé une raison d’être et continuent de s’associer à une piété vivante, alors que ces conditions sont abolies depuis longtemps.

Le message exprimé de manière générale dans cette phrase s’adapte au cas particulier que nous sommes en train d’étudier: pour Rudhardt, il est inadmissible de penser que l’offrande des os et de la graisse serait un reste de l’époque préhistorique n’ayant plus de sens pour la culture grecque qui continue de poser ces gestes. Le fait que Rudhardt refuse d’entrer en matière sur la véracité de la théorie de Meuli concernant les données préhistoriques montre sa prudence à s’avancer dans des domaines culturels pour lesquels il se sent moins compétent. Pour la Grèce, par contre, il n’a aucune hésitation. Son effort constant de se faire Grec pour comprendre la religion et la culture grecques lui donne de l’assurance.

Le mythe de Prométhée avant Rudhardt Comme Rudhardt le dit au début de son article, le mythe de Prométhée a été pris en compte dans tous les travaux portant sur la mythologie grecque, en général, ainsi que dans les études plus spécifiques sur Prométhée. La communis opinio en fait le mythe étiologique du sacrifice grec. Déjà Ludwig Preller, dans sa Griechische Mythologie 25, affirmait que le mythe de Prométhée était une légende étiologique rattachée, probablement par Hésiode, au récit du vol du feu. Le fait que le mythe prométhéen soit une explication étiologique d’un type de sacrifice grec a été repris dans une étude publiée par Ada Thomsen de Copenhagen dans l’Archiv für Religionswissenschaft en 1909. Cette revue était à l’époque un vecteur important de la diffusion des idées dans le monde germanique. L’article a dès lors circulé et a été cité dans le Handbuch Geschichte der griechischen Religion de Martin Nilsson26. Le travail 24 Rudhardt (1981a) 8. 25 Preller (1895) 95 f. 26 Nilsson (1941) 132 n. 1.

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d’Ada Thomsen est cité aussi par Meuli27 qui remarque qu’elle avait suivi la bonne piste pour interpréter le rite sacrificiel grec ainsi que le mythe de Prométhée, mais qu’elle n’en avait pas tiré toutes les conséquences. Cette savante s’était effectivement rendu compte que le rite d’offrir les os des animaux était commun à beaucoup de peuples et que le sacrifice grec s’inscrivait dans ce cadre plus vaste28. Le rapprochement des données grecques et de celles d’autres peuples préhistoriques et traditionnels sera un outil de travail pour Meuli29. Un fil rouge semble se dessiner entre Preller, Thomsen, Nilsson, Meuli, Burkert et, pourquoi pas, aussi Victor Martin. Jean Rudhardt ainsi que JeanPierre Vernant reprennent l’idée du mythe étiologique, mais à la différence des savants germanophones, ils lui reconnaissent une portée plus profonde. Le mythe du partage prométhéen est considéré comme un mythe fondateur de la culture grecque, qui affirme la supériorité des dieux. Les êtres divins, en effet, ne reçoivent pas de la viande en offrande parce que, à la différence des mortels, ils n’ont pas besoin de se nourrir. De la même manière, l’accomplissement du rite affirme à chaque fois ce message. Le mythe n’est pas un récit lié de manière artificielle à un rite qu’on ne comprend plus. Au contraire, il explique de manière narrative ce que le rite accomplit30. Un autre savant de la génération antérieure à nos deux chercheurs a souligné l’aspect fondateur du récit prométhéen31, même si ses réflexions sont très différentes. C’est Carol Kerényi, que Rudhardt cite seulement en note, sans en discuter la théorie32. Dans son livre intitulé La religion antique 33, Kerényi écrit un chapitre sur le sacrifice grec où il aborde brièvement le mythe de Prométhée en le décrivant comme une ruse déterminante pour la création de la condition humaine. A ce propos, il fait un parallèle avec la faute d’Adam et Eve que la colère de Dieu chasse de l’Eden et qui commencent alors leur vie de mortels. Effectivement, la faute d’Adam et Eve provoque la même réaction que la duperie de Prométhée. L’une et l’autre séparent définitivement les hommes du divin, séparation nécessaire pour que le concept de religion se développe. 27 Meuli (1946) 910. 28 Cf. aussi Burkert (1992) 172 n. 10. 29 Meuli (1946) 909 relève que le livre de Schwenn (1927) 102–108 proposait de bonnes interprétations. Burkert (1992) 172 n. 10 précise que Schwenn avait déjà interprété le rite des Bouphonies comme manifestation de culpabilité envers les animaux. 30 Pirenne-Delforge (2008) reprend la formule de Vernant selon laquelle le sacrifice est une «définition de statut». 31 Sur la cohérence des mythes dont Prométhée est le protagoniste cf. Schwabl (1966) 73–85, cité aussi par Vernant (1977) 907 n. 2. 32 Rudhardt (1970) 3 n. 5 montre simplement qu’il veut prendre de la distance avec la théorie de C. Kerényi qu’il définit comme «psychologisante». 33 Kerényi (1940).

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Ensuite, dans son livre sur Prométhée et sur le mythologème grec de l’existence humaine34, Kerényi revient sur l’épisode du partage prométhéen: L’invention et la première exécution du sacrifice caractéristique d’une religion peuvent être considérées comme un acte de création du monde ou du moins comme un acte fondateur de l’ordre établi du monde.

Ce mythe raconte donc l’œuvre d’un Titan qui donne forme à l’humanité qui jusque-là n’existait pas en tant que telle, mais seulement comme race masculine. Même s’il utilise d’autres arguments que Vernant et Rudhardt, Kerényi semble percevoir la portée culturelle que ce mythe avait dans la société grecque.

Réflexions autour de la signification du mythe Quittons à présent l’étude des interprétations modernes et envisageons les auteurs antiques qui ont traité du mythe après Hésiode. La transmission du mythe du partage prométhéen est difficile à suivre. On sait qu’après Hésiode, l’auteur qui a accordé le plus d’attention à Prométhée est Eschyle. Une scholie au Prométhée enchaîné 35 montre que le mythe du partage sacrificiel était connu. On suppose que des auteurs hellénistiques ont transmis le mythe aux auteurs latins. Accius écrit une tragédie Prometheus 36. Prométhée est le protagoniste d’une satire ménippée de Varron (fr. 423–436 Astbury) et il apparaît, entre autres, chez Horace (carm. 1,3,25–28), Properce (1,12,10) et Ovide (met. 1,76–88), où cependant il n’est pas question du partage. Le premier texte conservé après Hésiode sur cet aspect du mythe est celui d’Hygin, le bibliothécaire d’Auguste, qui a écrit un ouvrage sur les mythes astronomiques. Ici, le mythe du partage est cité pour expliquer la constellation de la flèche qui a été dénommée ainsi à cause de la flèche utilisée par Hercule pour tuer l’aigle qui rongeait le foie de Prométhée. A propos de ce mythe, Hygin sent la nécessité de raconter les événements qui ont déterminé l’enchaînement de Prométhée (astr. 2,15,1). Les Anciens accomplissaient les sacrifices aux dieux immortels avec le plus grand respect et habituellement consumaient dans la flamme rituelle la totalité des victimes. Aussi, comme l’importance de la dépense ne permettait pas aux pauvres d’offrir des sacrifices, Prométhée qui, grâce à sa merveilleuse supériorité intellectuelle, penset-on, façonna des hommes, obtint-il de Jupiter après réclamation, dit-on, qu’une partie de la victime fût jetée au feu, une partie servit à leur propre nourriture. Par la suite, l’habitude a affermi cette pratique37. 34 35 36 37

Kerényi (1946) 26 (trad. personnelle). Schol. 1022a (Herington 1972, 232). TRF³, fr. 390. Antiqui, cum maxima caerimonia deorum immortalium sacrificia administrarent, soliti sunt totas hostias in sacrorum consumere fl amma. Itaque cum propter sumptus magnitudinem

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La première phrase de ce passage révèle qu’Hygin reprend ici une théorie sacrificielle également connue par ailleurs, selon laquelle la première forme sacrificielle aurait été l’holocauste38. On voit apparaître ici un Prométhée un peu différent de celui d’Hésiode. Il n’est pas seulement celui qui a façonné les hommes, comme la tradition grecque post-hésiodique l’affirme, mais il est aussi celui qui se fait bienfaiteur de l’humanité et défenseur des droits des plus pauvres, en particulier en ce qui concerne le droit au sacrifice et à l’alimentation carnée. Prométhée obtient de Jupiter la permission de modifier la pratique sacrificielle: il réserve une partie du corps de l’animal aux dieux (elle est jetée au feu) et une aux hommes. Cet usage, précise Hygin, est devenu usuel ensuite. Pour Hygin, Prométhée n’est pas l’inventeur du sacrifice. La pratique de l’holocauste est antérieure à lui. Il faut noter en passant que l’on ignore si, dans la conception d’Hésiode, la mise à mort des animaux existait déjà avant l’acte de Prométhée. Hésiode ne précise pas si Prométhée a été le premier à tuer un bœuf. Cette information est rapportée seulement beaucoup plus tard par Pline l’Ancien (nat. 7,209) dans un chapitre qui traite de tous les fondateurs (animal occidit primus Hyperbius Martis filius, Prometheus bovem: «Hyperbius fils de Mars a en premier tué un animal, Prométhée un bœuf»). Pour Hésiode et pour Hygin, par contre, Prométhée n’est pas l’inventeur de la mise à mort de l’animal, mais bien l’inventeur du partage du corps de l’animal. Le texte d’Hygin est explicite: la réforme que Prométhée opère sur les rites précédents consiste à transformer une partie du corps de l’animal en nourriture pour les hommes. Le passage se poursuit (Hyg. astr. 2,15,1 f.): Comme un dieu lui avait accordé volontiers cette permission, sans agir par intérêt, tel un homme, Prométhée en personne immole deux taureaux. Il commença par déposer sur l’autel leurs foies, puis il réunit le reste de la viande de chaque taureau et l’enveloppa dans un cuir de bœuf; quant à tous les os, il les enveloppa dans le reste de la peau et les déposa en évidence; puis il fit choisir à Jupiter la part qu’il voulait. Jupiter ne fit pas preuve d’une divine intelligence, lui – qui aurait dû tout deviner, selon la faculté divine, mais (puisque nous avons pris le parti de croire aux légendes) il se laissa tromper par Prométhée et, se figurant que chaque part était du taureau, il choisit les os pour la moitié qui lui revenait. Aussi, dans les sacrifices solennels et rituels, mange-t-on la viande des victimes et brûle-t-on dans le même feu le reste, qui était auparavant la part des dieux. sacrificia pauperibus non obtingerent, Prometheus, qui propter excellentiam ingenii miram homines finxisse existimatur, recusatione dicitur ab Ioue inpetrasse ut partem hostiae in ignem coicerent, partem in suo consumerent uictu; idque postea consuetudo firmauit. Trad. Le Bœuffle 1983. 38 Voir par exemple Porphyr. abst. 2,5 et 2,26; cf. aussi l’Hymne à Hermès 1,108 sq. où Hermès fait un holocauste de deux vaches (après avoir réparti les morceaux en 12 parts).

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(2) Mais, pour revenir à notre sujet, Jupiter découvrit la vérité, s’emporta et priva les mortels du feu pour ne pas laisser la faveur de Prométhée prévaloir sur la puissance des dieux et pour ôter tout intérêt à l’usage de la viande par les hommes, du moment que on ne pouvait plus la cuire. Prométhée, habitué aux ruses, songeait à rendre aux mortels le feu dérobé par ses soins39.

Les différences de ce passage avec le récit hésiodique sautent aux yeux. A la différence du Zeus d’Hésiode, Jupiter n’est pas le dieu omniscient et il se laisse vraiment tromper par Prométhée. Pour rendre la tromperie plus crédible, Hygin affirme que les bœufs tués sont au nombre de deux, afin que Jupiter puisse penser que chaque tas présenté par Prométhée correspond à un animal entier. D’ailleurs, la partie des os et de la graisse, qui constituait l’offrande faite aux dieux, est devenue au temps d’Hygin les reliquiae, c’està-dire un reste qu’on jette dans le feu davantage pour s’en défaire que pour honorer les divinités. Le deuxième paragraphe revient sur l’idée de l’alimentation et, en cela, Hygin rejoint encore Hésiode: le fait que Zeus/Jupiter retire le feu correspond à une tentative du dieu pour empêcher les humains de se nourrir correctement. Prométhée, en rendant le feu aux hommes, se fait davantage le défenseur du droit à l’alimentation. Et les hommes lui en sont reconnaissants. Un peu plus loin dans le texte d’Hygin (astr. 2,15,5), on lit: Ce fléau écarté [passage lacuneux], les hommes ont décidé de brûler sur les autels des dieux les foies des victimes sacrifiées, pour paraître les rassasier (exsaturare) en compensation des viscères de Prométhée40.

Les hommes instaurent le rite de l’offrande du foie comme substitut de celui de Prométhée qui était dévoré par l’aigle de Jupiter. Prométhée en apparaîtrait presque comme une victime sacrificielle que l’on peut racheter grâce à une partie animale de substitution.

39 Quod cum facile a deo, non ut homine auaro, inpetrasset, ipse Prometheus immolat tauros duos. Quorum primum iocinera cum in ara posuisset, reliquam carnem ex utroque tauro in unum conpositam corio bubulo texit; ossa autem quaecumque fuerunt, reliqua pelle contecta in medio conlocauit et Ioui fecit potestatem ut quam uellet eorum sumeret partem. Iuppiter autem, etsi non pro diuina fecit cogitatione neque ut deum licebat, omnia qui debuit ante prouidere, sed (quoniam credere instituimus historiis) deceptus a Prometheo, utrumque putans esse taurum, delegit ossa pro sua dimidia parte. Itaque post ea in sollemnibus et religiosis sacrificiis carne hostiarum consumpta, reliquias, quae pars fuit deorum, eodem igni conburunt. (2) Sed ut ad propositum reuertamur, Iuppiter cum factum rescisset, animo permoto mortalibus eripuit ignem, ne Promethei gratia us deorum potestate ualeret, neue carnis usus utilis hominibus uideretur, cum coqui non posset. Prometheus autem, consuetus insidiari, sua opera ereptum mortalibus ignem restituere cogitabat. Trad. Le Bœuffle 1983. 40 Qua dimissa, homines instituerunt ut hostiis immolatis iocinera consumerent in deorum altaribus, ut exsaturare eos pro uisceribus Promethei uiderentur.

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Une fois que ce mythe passe à Rome, les auteurs latins sont obligés d’expliquer différemment le rapport qu’il entretient avec le rite sacrificiel. Il ne suffit plus d’affirmer, comme le fait Hésiode, que depuis ce moment il est d’usage d’offrir les os et la graisse. Les Romains ne connaissent pas cette pratique. Ils sont donc obligés d’opérer des changements. C’est ainsi qu’Hygin introduit le détail du foie qui brûle pour les dieux, afin de récréer une relation étroite entre rite et mythe. En dépit de ces changements, il me paraît que la fonction fondatrice du mythe reste la même que chez Hésiode. Prométhée est le Titan qui crée l’humanité et ses conditions de vie en séparant les dieux des hommes, en donnant à ces derniers la nourriture et le feu dont ils ont besoin41. Et les hommes sont solidaires du Titan, comme le révèle l’offrande de substitution du foie. Dans le traité satirique de Lucien (Prom. 3), Prométhée est accusé de s’être réservé la meilleure part lors de la distribution et de n’avoir servi à Zeus que des os recouverts d’une graisse blanche. Dans ce cas-ci, Prométhée va jusqu’à prendre la place de l’homme.

Ouverture conclusive A la suite de ces observations, je voudrais risquer une comparaison entre le mythe de Prométhée et celui de Mithra, même si cela peut paraître surprenant42. Un tel exercice doit tenir compte des difficultés inhérentes à la différence des vecteurs respectifs des deux mythes: pour Prométhée, il s’agit exclusivement de textes, pour Mithra, exclusivement d’images. Une fois que l’on a pris conscience des limites de cette comparaison, elle permet de repérer des analogies dans le message fondamental des deux mythes. Ni le geste accompli par Prométhée, ni celui de Mithra ne construisent un sacrifice et ils n’illustrent pas tous les gestes du rite. En effet, ni l’un ni l’autre ne dessinent les gestes préliminaires propres au sacrifice grec et romain. De plus, le mythe de Prométhée ne fait aucune allusion aux splanchna, c’est-à-dire aux organes intérieurs de la victime rôtis sur l’autel et mangés sur place par les participants, un acte important du rite43. De son côté, la tauroctonie de Mithra ne semble nullement refléter le rite accompli par les 41 Sur les évolutions du mythe de la création de l’homme: Lozat (2006). 42 Cf. pour le mythe de Mithra mon analyse: Prescendi (2006). 43 Cf. Scubla (2004), mais aussi Pirenne-Delforge (2008) qui fait remarquer que Vernant est conscient de cette absence. En analysant l’interprétation de Vernant, PirenneDelforge arrive à la même conclusion que j’avance ici: Vernant comme Rudhardt est conscient que le texte d’Hésiode ne veut pas être la représentation complète d’un sacrifice. Cela justifie le fait qu’Hésiode se concentre sur un seul segment rituel: le partage.

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fidèles dans les mithrea. Ceux-ci ne tuent pas de taureau comme le fait le dieu dans le mythe44. Dans un cas comme dans l’autre, la fonction du mythe n’est donc pas de constituer un modèle à répéter lors du rite. Sa fonction et son lien avec le rite sont plus complexes. Dans le texte d’Hésiode, Prométhée sépare ce qui est comestible de ce qui ne l’est pas. Dans le mythe de Mithra, le taureau tué attire d’abord le chien et le serpent qui viennent lécher le sang sortant de la blessure tandis que le scorpion attaque les testicules et que des épis de blé poussent miraculeusement de la queue ou de la blessure de l’animal45. Ensuite, la peau du taureau sert de nappe à la table où banquettent Mithra et Soleil qui se nourrissent probablement de l’animal46. Le taureau est à l’origine des aliments qui constitueront la nourriture (céréales et viande) des êtres vivants, hommes et animaux. L’un et l’autre de ces mythes racontent donc un moment fondateur, c’est-à-dire l’action d’un être supérieur qui crée les conditions pour que des êtres qui lui sont inférieurs puissent exister et vivre de manière différente de celle des êtres divins. Le mythe de Prométhée, comme celui de Mithra, est une explication du rite, mais elle n’est ni artificielle ni superficielle. Ces mythes, par leur caractère de récit de fondation, racontent un moment de rupture à partir duquel l’ordre du monde s’est mis en place et les hommes ont acquis leur condition actuelle. On se souvient de la comparaison proposée par C. Kerényi entre le mythe de Prométhée et celui de la Genèse biblique. Dans ce cas aussi, comme pour Prométhée et Mithra, le mythe raconte un changement à partir duquel les hommes ont conscience d’être mortels et inférieurs à Dieu (ou aux dieux). En utilisant un langage mimétique plutôt que narratif, le rite sacrificiel propose, à chaque exécution, ce même message fondamental, même si, comme le dit Rudhardt, le rite souligne plutôt le moment de réunion des hommes avec les dieux, qui vivent désormais éloignés d’eux47. Ma réflexion sur le célèbre mythe de Prométhée n’avait pas l’ambition de fournir une nouvelle interprétation ni de proposer des idées révolutionnaires ou inédites. Mon but était de montrer que le mérite de Jean Rudhardt (mais aussi de Jean-Pierre Vernant), est d’avoir lu les textes anciens en les prenant au sérieux, sans recourir à des explications externes qui viendraient pallier les silences des données internes. C’est pour cela que les analyses que Rudhardt a consacrées aux mythes et aux cultes grecs constituent encore aujourd’hui une lecture intéressante.

44 45 46 47

Cf. par exemple Turcan (1991). CIMRM 1292. CIMRM 1137. J’ai traité de cette valeur du sacrifice à Rome en citant la bibliographie fondamentale (cf. surtout les travaux de John Scheid) dans mon livre Prescendi (2007).

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Bibliographie Bonnafé (1993). – Annie Bonnafé, Théogonie. La naissance des dieux (Paris 1993). Borgeaud (2007). – Philippe Borgeaud, «Hommage», ASDIVAL 2 (2007) 5 f. Burkert (1972). – Walter Burkert, Homo necans: Interpretationen altgriechischer Opferriten und Mythen (Berlin 1972). Burkert (1992). – Walter Burkert, «Opfer als Tötungsritual: Eine Konstante der menschlichen Kulturgeschichte», dans: Graf (1992) 169–189. CIMRM. – Maarten Joseph Vermaseren (ed.), Corpus Inscriptionum et Monumentorum Religionis Mithriacae, vol. 1–2 (Den Haag 1956–1960). Graf (1992). – Fritz Graf (ed.), Klassische Antike und neue Wege der Kulturwissenschaften. Symposium Karl Meuli (Basel, 11.–13. September 1991), Beitr. z. Volkskunde 11 (Basel 1992). Herington (1972). – Cecil John Herington, The Older Scholia on the Prometheus Bound (Leiden 1972). Kerényi (1940). – Karl Kerényi, Die antike Religion. Eine Grundlegung (Amsterdam 1940, trad. fr. La religion antique, Genève 1957). Kerényi (1946). – Karl Kerényi, Prometheus. Das griechische Mythologem von der menschlichen Existenz (Zürich 1946). Le Bœuffle (1983). – André Le Bœuffle (ed.), L’Astronomie d’Hygin (Paris 1983). Lozat (2006) – Mélanie Lozat, Prométhée et l’humanité (Genève 2006). Martin (1949). – Victor Martin, «L’ethnologie et la préhistoire au service de l’interprétation des classiques», Archives Suisses d’Anthropologie générale 13 (1947–1948, publié en 1949) 56–71. Meuli (1946). – Karl Meuli, «Griechische Opferbräuche», in: Phyllobolia für Peter von der Mühll zum 60. Geburtstag am 1. August 1945 (Basel 1946) 185–288. Nilsson (1941). – Martin P. Nilsson, Geschichte der griechischen Religion, vol. 1, Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 5,2,1 (München 1941). Pirenne-Delforge (2008). – Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, «Chacun à sa place, mais en créant des liens: la communication dans l’opération sacrificielle», communication présentée au Colloque Relire Vernant, Paris, 9–11 octobre 2008. Preller (1895). – Ludwig Preller, Griechische Mythologie. Theogonie und Götter (Berlin 1895). Prescendi (2006). – Francesca Prescendi, «Riflessioni sulla tauroctonia mitraica e il sacrificio romano», dans: Corinne Bonnet/Jörg Rüpke/Paolo Scarpi (edd.), Religions orientales, culti misterici, Mysterien: Nouvelles perspectives – nuove perspettive – neue Perspektiven (Stuttgart 2006) 113–122. Prescendi (2007). – Francesca, Prescendi, Décrire et comprendre le sacrifice. Les réfl exions des Romains sur leur propre religion à partir de la littérature antiquaire, Potsdamer altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 19 (Stuttgart 2007). Rudhardt (1958). – Jean Rudhardt, Notions fondamentales de la pensée religieuse et actes constitutifs du culte dans la Grèce classique (Genève 1958, réédité Paris 1992). Rudhardt (1966). – Jean Rudhardt, «Une approche de la pensée mythique: le mythe comme langage», Studia philosophica 26 (1966) 208–237 (réédité dans Rudhardt 1981a, 105–129). Rudhardt (1970). – Jean Rudhardt, «Les mythes grecs relatifs à l’instauration du sacrifice: les rôles corrélatifs de Prométhée et de son fils Deucalion», MH 27 (1970) 1–15 (réédité dans Rudhardt 1981a, 209–226). Rudhardt (1978). – Jean Rudhardt, «A propos de l’hymne homérique à Déméter», MH 35 (1978) 1–17 (réédité dans Rudhardt 1981a, 227–244).

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Rudhardt (1981a). – Jean Rudhardt, Du mythe, de la religion et de la compréhension d’autrui, Cahiers Vilfredo Pareto. Revue européenne en sciences sociales 19 (Genève 1981). Rudhardt (1981b). – Jean Rudhardt, «Le mythe hésiodique des races», dans: Rudhardt (1981a) 245–281. Rudhardt (2008). – Jean Rudhardt, Opera inedita. Essai sur la religion grecque et recherches sur les Hymnes orphiques, éd. par Philippe Borgeaud et Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, Kernos Suppl. 19 (Liège 2008). Rudhardt/Reverdin (1981). – Jean Rudhardt/Olivier Reverdin, Le sacrifice dans l’Antiquité, Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 27 (Vandœuvres-Genève 1981). Schwabl (1966). – Hans Schwabl, Hesiods Theogonie. Eine unitarische Analyse (Wien 1966). Schwenn (1927). – Friedrich Schwenn, Gebet und Opfer. Studien zum griechischen Kultus (Heidelberg 1927). Scubla (2004). – Lucien Scubla, «Sur le mythe de Prométhée et l’analyse du sacrifice grec», Europe 904–905 (2004) 55–72. Thomsen (1909). – Ada Thomsen, «Der Trug der Prometheus», Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 12 (1909) 460–490. Turcan (1991). – Robert Turcan, «Les autels du culte mithriaque», dans: Roland Etienne/ Marie-Thérèse Le Dinahet, L’espace sacrificiel dans les civilisations méditerranéennes de l’antiquité. Actes du colloque, Lyon 1988 (Paris 1991) 217–225. Vernant (1973). – Jean-Pierre Vernant, «Le mythe ‹prométhéen› chez Hésiode (Théogonie 535–616; Travaux 42–105)», dans: Bruno Gentili/Giuseppe Paioni (edd.), Il mito greco. Atti del convegno internazionale, Urbino 7–12 maggio 1973 (Roma 1977) 91–106. Vernant (1974). – Jean-Pierre Vernant, «Mythe de Prométhée chez Hésiode», dans: id., Mythe et société en Grèce ancienne (Paris 1974) 177–194. Vernant (1977). – Jean-Pierre Vernant, «Sacrifice et alimentation humaine. A propos du Prométhée d’Hésiode», ASNP, s. 3, 7,3 (1977) 905–940.

Equus October und ludi Capitolini: Zur rituellen Struktur der Oktober-Iden und ihren antiken Deutungen jörg rüpke

Umfangreiche römische Rituale haben antike wie moderne Beobachter zu den verschiedensten Erklärungen veranlasst. Solche Deutungen besitzen, so herrscht in der jüngeren Forschung Einigkeit, keinen normativen Status. Weder werden sie der Komplexität der kultischen Daten gerecht noch entspringen sie einer autoritativen Deutung jener „Priesterbücher“, nach denen die ältere Forschung seit Wissowa so intensiv gefragt hat1. Zugleich wird aber sichtbar, wie sehr „theologische“ Reflexionen und literarische Texte sich an Ritualen entwickeln. Aus einer anderen Perspektive, die nicht mehr nach der „Richtigkeit“ der Deutungen fragt, wird damit die Beschäftigung mit antiken Deutungsgeschichten interessant. Das soll exemplarisch an einer kritischen Analyse der rituellen Gestalt des „Oktoberpferdes“2 und seiner Deutungsgeschichte sowie der am selben Tag stattfindenden ludi Capitolini illustriert werden. Jenseits von myth-and-ritual school wie strukturalistischen Vereinfachungen bleiben somit die antiken Narrativen wie Analysen im Zentrum antiker Religionsgeschichte.

1 2

Siehe Beard/North/Price (1998) 47 f.; Rüpke (²2006) 107–117. Zu den libri sacerdotum s. Rüpke (2003). Die wichtigste ältere Literatur: Mannhardt (1884) 156–201; Gilbert (1885) 94–99; Usener (1904); Frazer (1925) 42–44. 337–339; Eitrem (1917) 19–37; Lesky (1926); Hubbell (1928); Marbach (1930); Clemen (1930); Hermansen (1940); Dumézil (1954), (1958); Rose (1958); Dumézil (1959); Wagenvoort (1962); Balkestein (1963); Dumézil (1963); Devereux (1970); Scholz (1970, mit der Rezension von Versnel 1972); Dumézil (1970) 217–227, Dumézil (1975); Vanggaard (1979); Croon (1981); Pascal (1981); Ampolo (1981); Scullard (1981) 193 f.; Radke (1990); Rüpke (1993).

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1. Das Oktoberpferd Innerhalb der Gattung Kalender (fasti) 3 erscheint erst im Chronographen von 354 des Philocalus eine Notiz zum 15. Oktober, die das sehr viel ältere Ritual des Oktoberpferdes nennt: Equus ad Nixas fit 4. Obwohl die rituellen Details recht klar erhoben werden können, sind die Interpretation und die Einschätzung von Stellenwert und Funktion im römischen Festkalender stark umstritten, wobei das Spektrum vom Zentralkult einer frühen Religionsstufe bis zum Sekundärritus reicht. Nach Scholz ist das Ritual „immerhin der bestbezeugte Kult der Marsreligion“ und ihm demnach ein zentraler Platz in der frührömischen Religion zuzuteilen5. Hingegen hält ihn Pascal in seiner Analyse aus den 1980er Jahren für ein zweitrangiges und spätes Ritenkonglomerat. Die Einordnung in der modernen Forschung erfolgt entweder als agrarischer oder militärischer Ritus; vermittels der Parallelisierung mit dem Ritualkomplex des indischen Aśvamedha wird vor allem seit Dumézil und Scholz ein königlicher Aspekt betont. In der einen oder anderen Deutung tritt der Ritus immer wieder als Kronzeuge für das jeweilige Marsbild auf. Die Hauptquelle für das Ritual des Oktoberpferdes stellt Festus in seinem Lexikon aus dem 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr. (Fest. 190,11–30 L) dar: October equus appellatur, qui in campo Martio mense Octobri immolatur quotannis Marti, bigarum victricum dexterior. de cuius capite non levis contentio solebat esse inter Suburanenses et Sacravienses, ut hi in regiae pariete, illi ad turrim Mamiliam id figerent; eiusdemque coda tanta celeritate perfertur in regiam, ut ex ea sanguis destillet in focum, participandae rei divinae gratia. quem hostiae loco quidam Marti bellico deo sacrari dicunt, non ut vulgus putat, quia velut supplicium de eo sumatur, quod Romani Ilio sunt oriundi, et Troiani ita effigie in equi sint capti. multis autem gentibus equum hostiarum numero haberi testimonio sunt Lacedaemoni, qui in monte Taygeto equum ventis immolant, ibidemque adolent, ut eorum fl atu cinis eius per finis quam latissime differatur. et Sallentini, aput quos Menzanae Iovi dicatus vivos conicitur in ignem. et Rhodi, quo quotannis quadrigas soli consecratas in mare iaciunt, quod is tali curriculo fertur cirvumvehi mundum.

Das wird durch zwei Exzerpte des in karolingischer Zeit schreibenden Paulus Diaconus ergänzt (Paul. Fest. 246,21–24 L): Panibus redimibant caput equi immolati idibus Octobribus in campo Martio, quia id sacrificium fiebat ob frugum eventum; et equus potius quam bos immolabatur, quod hic bello, bos frugibus pariendis est aptus.

3 4 5

Umfassend Rüpke (1995). InscrIt 13,2, 257. Zur Lokalisierung s. Hermansen (1940) 171, dann Scholz (1970) 104 f.; Coarelli (²1986) 72 f. und Flambard (1987). Scholz (1970) 11.

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Paul. Fest. 71,20–22 L: Equus Marti immolabatur, quod per eius effigiem Troiani capti sunt, vel quod eo genere animalis Mars delectari putaretur.

Plutarch beschreibt einen identischen Ritus für die Dezember-Iden (qu. R. 97, 287a–b): Διὰ τί ταῖς Δεκεμβρίαις εἰδοῖς ἱπποδρομίας γενομένης ὁ νικήσας δεξιόσειρος ῎Αρει θύεται, καὶ τὴν μὲν οὐρὰν ἀποκόψας τις ἐπὶ τὴν ῾Ρηγίαν καλουμένην κομίζει καὶ τὸν βωμὸν αἱμάσσει, περὶ δὲ τῆς κεφαλῆς οἱ μὲν ἀπὸ τῆς ἱερᾶς ὁδοῦ λεγομένης οἱ δ’ ἀπὸ τῆς Συβούρης καταβάντες διαμάχονται; πότερον, ὡς ἔνιοι λέγουσιν, ἵππῳ τὴν Τροίαν ἡλωκέναι νομίζοντες ἵππον κολάζουσιν, ἅτε δὴ καὶ γεγονότες ‚Τρώων ἀγλαὰ τέκνα μεμιγμένα παισὶ Λατίνων’; ἢ ὅτι θυμοειδὲς καὶ πολεμικὸν καὶ ἀρήιον ὁ ἵππος ἐστὶ τὰ δὲ προσφιλῆ μάλιστα καὶ πρόσφορα θύουσι τοῖς θεοῖς, ὁ δὲ νικήσας θύεται διὰ τὸ νίκης καὶ κράτους οἰκεῖον εἶναι τὸν θεόν; ἢ μᾶλλον ὅτι τοῦ θεοῦ στάσιμον τὸ ἔργον ἐστὶ καὶ νικῶσιν οἱ μένουτες ἐν τάξει τοὺς μὴ μένοντας ἀλλὰ φεύγοντας, καὶ κολάζεται τὸ τάχος ὡς δειλίας ἐφόδιον, καὶ μανθάνουσι συμβολικῶς ὅτι σωτήριον οὐκ ἔστι τοῖς φεύγουσι;

Angesichts der Eindeutigkeit der übrigen Quellen muss die Datierung als Irrtum gewertet werden, vielleicht wurde in der Überlieferung von Plutarchs Quelle ein „zehnter Monat“ zum „Dezember“. Die starken Übereinstimmungen lassen auch das von Polybios in seiner Kritik an Timaeus erwähnte Pferdeopfer (an einem bestimmten, aber nicht genannten Tag) als relevant erscheinen und führen uns ins 2. bzw. 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr. zurück (Polyb. 12,4b,1–3): Καὶ μὴν ἐν τοῖς περὶ Πύρρου πάλιν φησὶ τοὺς ῾Ρωμαίους ἔτι νῦν ὑπόμνημα ποιουμένους τῆς κατὰ τὸ ῎Ιλιον ἀπωλείας ἐν ἡμέρᾳ τινὶ κατακοντίζειν ἵππον πολεμιστὴν πρὸ τῆς πόλεως ἐν τῷ Κάμπῳ καλουμένῳ διὰ τὸ τῆς Τροίας τὴν ἅλωσιν διὰ τὸν ἵππον γενέσθαι τὸν δούριον προσαγορευόμενον, πρᾶγμα πάντων παιδαριωδέστατον· (2) οὕτω μὲν γὰρ δεήσει πάντας τοὺς βαρβάρους λέγειν Τρώων ἀπογόνους ὑπάρχειν· (3) σχεδὸν γὰρ πάντες, εἰ δὲ μή γ’, οἱ πλείους, ὅταν ἢ πολεμεῖν μέλλωσιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἢ διακινδυνεύειν πρός τινας ὁλοσχερῶς, ἵππον προθύονται καὶ σφαγιάζονται, σημειούμενοι τὸ μέλλον ἐκ τῆς τοῦ ζῴου πτώσεως 6.

Nur mit Vorsicht schließlich darf die rituelle Hinrichtung zweier Meuterer durch Caesar nach seinem Triumph im Jahre 46 v. Chr. zur Interpretation herangezogen werden (Dio 43,24,4): 6

Ablehnend Scholz (1970) 90 f., zustimmend Pascal (1981) 267 f. Scholz zieht nicht in Betracht, dass Polybios auf der Basis griechischer Religion argumentiert und auch nichts anderes vorgibt; eine Abweichung in der Interpretation darf daher kein Grund zur Ablehnung sein. Ausführlich zur Stelle Bernstein (1998) 239–241, der plausibel macht, dass Timaeus zeitgenössische römische Interpretationen wiedergab.

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Οὗτος μὲν οὖν διὰ ταῦτα ἐδικαιώθη, ἄλλοι δὲ δύο ἄνδρες ἐν τρόπῳ ἱερουργίας ἐσφάγησαν. καὶ τὸ μὲν αἴτιον οὐκ ἔχω εἰπεῖν (οὔτε γὰρ ἡ Σίβυλλα ἔχρησεν, οὔτ’ ἄλλο τι τοιοῦτο λόγιον ἐγένετο), ἐν δ’ οὖν τῷ Ἀρείῳ πεδίῳ πρός τε τῶν ποντιφίκων καὶ πρὸς τοῦ ἱερέως τοῦ Ἄρεως ἐτύθησαν, καὶ αἵ γε κεφαλαὶ αὐτῶν πρὸς τὸ βασίλειον ἀνετέθησαν 7.

Jeglicher Beleg für einen konkreten historischen Fall des Rituals fehlt.

2. Das Ritual Die folgende Beschreibung will weniger eine objektsprachliche Zusammenfassung der Quellen als vielmehr eine Strukturskizze des Rituals bieten, um so seine Komplexität angemessen darzustellen. Dabei soll der größere Rahmen, die Iuppiter-Iden mit den ludi Capitolini, noch außer Betracht bleiben. (1) In der zeitlichen Sequenz primär ist das Pferderennen, genauer: die Wettfahrt von Zweigespannen, bigae. Dass dieses Spielelement im Folgenden in den Hintergrund tritt, sollte weder seine Valenz als potentiell selbstständige Kultveranstaltung noch seine mögliche Bedeutung für die „Publikumswirksamkeit“ des Gesamtrituals vergessen lassen. Der Ort wird nicht genannt, doch wird sowohl von dem Ort des Opfers als auch von den Bigaerennen der Equirria das Marsfeld nahegelegt. (2) An das Rennen schließt sich die Tötung des rechten Pferdes des siegenden Wagens an. Damit wird das vorangegangene Rennen als ein Auswahlprozess interpretiert und im Rahmen des Gesamtrituals mediatisiert. Die Wahl des rechten Pferdes bereitet Schwierigkeiten. Zwar legt es – Rennen gegen den Uhrzeigersinn vorausgesetzt – den weiteren Weg zurück, doch galt nach den erhaltenen Zeugnissen – jedenfalls für Quadrigen8 – das linke Pferd als das wichtigere, da ihm bei der Wende in plötzlichem Halt und folgender Beschleunigung die entscheidende Rolle zufällt9. Die Tötung erfolgt mit einem Speer und wird als Opfer für Mars verstanden10. Die Träger des Kultes werden in den einschlägigen Quellen nicht genannt; an der Hinrichtung des Jahres 46 v. Chr. waren Pontifices und der 7 Mit Recht verweist Pascal (1981) 263 auf die sarkastische Sprache der Passage. Reid (1912) 41 bezweifelte die Faktizität überhaupt. Scholz (1970) 99–101 wie Weinstock (1971) 78 f. bezweifeln die Relevanz, sehen aber einen Bezug zur Divus Iulius-Ideologie. Den sakralen Rahmen betont Gladigow (1971) 21. Vgl. Dumézil (1963). 8 Das betont Radke (1990) 344. 9 Marquardt (1856) 517 Anm. 3320; Pollack (1907) 269 f. 10 S. a. Paul. Fest. 71,20–22 L.

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– uns leider unbekannte – Flamen Martialis beteiligt, diese Gruppe wäre auch aus allgemeinen Erwägungen heraus für das Oktoberpferd zu vermuten. (3) Dem getöteten Pferd wird der Schwanz abgeschnitten und dieser einem Ortswechsel unterworfen. Mit maximaler Geschwindigkeit bringt man (wer?) ihn zur Regia, um dort Blut auf einen focus zu tropfen. Ob dies als eine binäre Entscheidung verstanden wurde – lässt sich noch Blut aus ihm gewinnen oder nicht?11 –, lässt sich Festus nicht mehr entnehmen; realiter konnte wohl immer etwas produziert werden12. Deutlich wird hier auf der Ebene des Gesamtrituals wieder ein Spielelement eingeflochten. Ob in der Regia Vestalinnen tätig wurden, muss offen bleiben13; nahegelegt wird eine solche Beteiligung nur durch den noch zu diskutierenden möglichen Bezug zu den Parilia14. (4) Auch der Kopf des Pferdes wird abgetrennt. Es findet eine Selektion hinsichtlich der Empfänger statt: Anlieger der Via sacra und Suburanenses kämpfen darum – das dritte Spielelement des Rituals. Unabhängig vom Ausgang schließt sich ein Ortswechsel an: Der Kopf wird, siegen die Sacravienses, an die Regia geheftet, andernfalls an die turris Mamilia in der Subura. (5) Der Kopf wird mit Broten umkränzt15. In welcher Phase des Rituals dies geschieht, kann der Quelle nicht entnommen werden. Für das Wahrscheinlichste darf man die Zeit unmittelbar vor oder nach dem Opfer ansehen, doch darf auch eine noch spätere Bekränzung nicht ausgeschlossen werden.

3. Interpretationsvielfalt Die Interpretationen, die das Ritual gefunden hat, zeichneten sich schon in der Antike durch ihre Vielfalt aus. Da die antiken Verstehensversuche unübersehbar jeweils nur wenige Elemente berücksichtigen, sollen zunächst die einzelnen Stufen des Rituals betrachtet werden16.

11 Dumézil (1975) 155. 12 Die Risikostruktur des Aśvamedha scheint mir, gegen Scholz und Dumézil (1970, 225 f.), grundsätzlich andersartig. Die technische Möglichkeit des Schwanzritus erörtert Dumézil (1975) 185–187 bejahend. 13 Für Scholz (1970) 127–140 spielt diese Annahme eine zentrale Rolle in der Interpretation. 14 Diese Verbindung wird von Beard/North/Price (1998) 53 vorausgesetzt. 15 Paul. Fest. 246,21–24 L. 16 Vgl. Vanggaard (1979) 92 f., der glaubt, eine zeitliche Reihenfolge erschließen zu können.

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Das Rennen (1) Eine antike Interpretation des Rennens fehlt. Allein hier besteht eine rituelle Parallele zu den beiden anderen Wagenrennen für Mars, den Equirria17, deren zweites unmittelbar vor den März-Iden liegt; wie im Oktober geht ein EN-Tag voraus18. Die gänzliche andere Fortsetzung des Oktoberritus lehrt aber, ein Moment für die Rennen im Februar und März wahrzunehmen, das in anspruchsvolleren Interpretationen – Lustrationen, Nachbildung der Bewegung der Himmelskörper – übersehen wird: Auch diese Rennen waren betrachtenswerte Wettkämpfe, aus denen ein Siegergespann hervorging19. Das Opfer (2) Auf die Opferung im engeren Sinne, auf ihre Elemente beziehen sich alle antiken Interpretationen, selbst diejenige, die das Opfer ob frugum eventum geschehen sieht und noch zu diskutieren sein wird20. (a) Die erste Theorie geht von der Beziehung Opfermaterie – Opferadressat aus. In der Sicht der römischen Interpreten geht es um den Grundsatz der Angemessenheit der Opfer21. Betrachtet man das Opfer als ein kommunikatives Ritual22, das mit den Problemen jeder Kommunikation, der ständigen Definition und Redefinition der Partner, belastet ist, muss man das Opfermaterial als Informationsträger begreifen: Das Pferd drängt dem Adressaten eine kriegerische Identität auf 23. Dieser Ansatz ist in dem Sinne richtig, dass er angesichts dessen, was wir über die Bewertung des Pferdes24 und des Gottes Mars wissen, Wahrscheinlichkeit hat. Er bedeutet aber keine große Hilfe für das Verständnis des Gesamtrituals, sondern stellt lediglich den theologischen Bezug klar heraus. 17 Wissowa (1891) 165 wie Latte (1960) 120. 18 Es existieren keine stichfesten Gründe, für die März-Equirria eine Verschiebung von einer früheren Lage auf die Iden anzunehmen und unter Verweis auf das Oktoberpferd auch einen equus Martius zu postulieren (so Scholz 1970, 103). Zur kalendarischen Tagesnote EN, die wohl mit Endoitio exitio nefas aufzulösen ist, s. Rüpke (1991). 19 Allgemein Bernstein (1998) zu den frühen Spielen. 20 Paul. Fest. 246,21–24 L. 21 Verrius Flaccus: Fest. 190,11–30 L; Ov. fast. 1,385 f.: … / ne detur celeri victima tarda deo. 22 Rüpke (2001). 23 Zum Mechanismus allgemein Schwartz (1967). Hermansen (1940) 165, 172 und Balkestein (1963) 85 tragen genau an diesem Punkt ihre chthonischen Interpretationen ein. 24 S. Hubbell (1928) 183; vgl. aber die von Dumézil (1954) skizzierte Polyvalenz.

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In diesem Sinne stellt das Opfer in stärkerem Maße ein kommunikatives Ritual dar als ein Rennen. Vieles bleibt indes ungeklärt. Das Pferd galt den Römern nicht als essbar25, es kann sich also um kein Speiseopfer, keine prodigua hostia 26, handeln. Ins Auge springt der Moment der Zerstörung einer wertvollen, nämlich aus dem Siegesgespann stammenden Gabe. Bestimmte Teile werden im rituellen Prozess weiterverwendet, der Rest wohl irgendwie – sicher aber unauffällig – beseitigt, die Signifikanz der im Ritual verbleibenden Teile wird so nachhaltig gesteigert. Als außergewöhnlich wurde die Art der Tötung, das Speeren, empfunden27. Gründe der Praktikabilität sind nicht ersichtlich. Das Turner’sche Konzept des „positional meaning“ wie das Bell’sche der „Ritualisierung“ öffnen den Blick dafür, dass diese Art der Tötung im kultischen Bereich so exzeptionell war28, dass die Tötungshandlung, obwohl sie innerhalb eines Rituals stattfand, kaum noch als ritualisierte Form des Tötens empfunden werden konnte und Raum für ebenso außergewöhnliche Assoziationen geben musste. (b) Genau dieses Problem gehen die beiden weiteren Interpretationen unter dem Titel „Strafe“ an. Verbreitet war Verbindung mit dem Troianischen Pferd, die von Timaeus bis Lydus29 reicht. Die Unergiebigkeit von (a) und das Fehlen einer spezifischen und römischen Gegeninterpretation bei Polybios, der auf einer allgemein religionswissenschaftlichen Ebene bleibt, deuten darauf hin, dass die „troianische Interpretation“ nicht nur im vulgus vorherrschte, wie Festus, der sie an anderer Stelle selbst referiert30, behauptet. Es ist dieses Verständnis, das die rituelle Hinrichtung der sich empörenden Soldaten unter Caesar erklärt: Die Aufrührer im Heereskörper sind „troianische Pferde“, Verräter, die das Heil des Troianersprosses Iulius Caesar und ganz Roms gefährden. Die rituell, in der Sprache des equus October gestaltete Metapher rückt das konkrete Vergehen in eine mythische Sphäre, Rom wird mit Troia identifiziert31, der „Verrat“ bis in die letzte Konsequenz durchgespielt: Das passt in das von Weinstock gezeichnete Bild der ideologischen Begründung der Monarchie unter Caesar32. 25 26 27 28 29

Tac. hist. 4,60,1. Fest. 296,21–23 L. Dazu Pascal (1981) 267 f. Siehe auch Gladigow (1971); Radke (1990) 350. Mens. 4,140 spricht er, mitten im Oktober, doch ohne erkennbaren Bezug zu irgendeinem Fest, vom Troianischen Pferd: Περὶ τοῦ δουρείο ἵππου ὁ Εὐφορίων φησὶν πλοῖον γενέσθαι τοῖς Ἕλλησιν ῞Ιππον λεγόμενον· ἕτεροι δέ φασιν πύλην γενέσθαι οὕτω προσαγορευομένην ἐν τῇ Τροίᾳ, δι’ ἧς εἰσῆλθον οἱ Ἕλληνες. 30 Paul. Fest. 71,20–22 L. 31 So auch bei Cic. Mur. 78. 32 Weinstock (1971).

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Konnten die Motive33 solchermaßen aufgewiesen werden, darf man nun von einer bewussten Stilisierung Caesars ausgehen und die rituellen Details des Vorfalls zur Rekonstruktion des Oktoberpferdes heranziehen34. (c) Eine dritte, der zweiten ähnliche Interpretation bietet Plutarch. Die „Strafe“ beruht nun auf der Assoziationskette Pferd – Schnelligkeit – Flucht, die dem überlebensnotwendigen Halten der Phalanx widerspricht. Möglicherweise liegt hier eine Erfindung Plutarchs vor, aber sie löste das Problem der Wahl des rechten Pferdes – das schnellste, nicht das stärkste – und böte eine mögliche, wenn auch weniger prägnante Erklärung der Caesarischen Grausamkeit35. Interessant ist die nicht mythische, sondern pädagogische Note des Rituals, die Plutarch hier wie öfter zu identifizieren meint: Rituale als Vermittler fundamentaler kriegerischer, taktischer Verhaltensmaßregeln. (d) Polybios schließlich versteht das Pferdeopfer als eine Divinationsform in kriegerischem Kontext. Quellen dieser Interpretation sind für ihn allein ethnographische Daten. Die Weiterverarbeitung des Opfermaterials: Schwanz (3) Die Art des Opfers scheint aufs engste mit der weiteren Verwendung zusammenzuhängen. Dieser Gedanke der „Anteilgabe an der res divina “ tritt bei Festus besonders klar zutage und wird durch die Beispiele von Pferdeopfern anderer Ethnien noch unterstrichen. Die Wahl der extremen Körperteile Kopf und Schwanz erscheint einleuchtend36; die besondere Handhabung des Kopfes37 und des Schwanzes38 ist in der rituellen Taxonomie geläufig. Zunächst zum Schwanz. Festus und Plutarch sprechen von coda beziehungsweise οὔρα. Da mit hoher Wahrscheinlichkeit beide auf Verrius Flaccus’ De verborum significatu zurückgehen39, wird in der einzigen Quelle, die überhaupt präzise Auskunft gibt, cauda gestanden haben. Dies faktisch zu bezweifeln und als Euphemismus für penis zu verstehen, um so die Parallele zum Aśvamedha deutlicher herzustellen, oder durch die Behauptung 33 34 35 36 37 38

Sie vermisste Reid (1912) 41. Gegen Pascal (1981) 262 f. Diesen Bezug nimmt Vanggaard (1979) 87 an. Croon (1981) 265; s. a. Balkestein (1963) 74–81. Eitrem (1917) 34–37; Scholz (1970) 122–124. Siehe Wagenvoort (1962); offa penita: Fest. 282,11–14 L (Naevius): Penitam offam Naevius appellat absegmen carnis cum coda: antiqui autem offam vocabant abscisum globi forma, ut manu glomeratam pultem. Fest. 260,15–25 L: Penem antiqui codam vocabant; a qua antiquitate[m] etiam nunc offa porcina cum cauda in cenis puris offa penita vocatur. Arnob. 7,24: Offa autem penita est cum particula visceris cauda pecoris amputata. 39 Vanggaard (1979) 84 mit methodischen Konsequenzen.

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einer taxonomischen Austauschbarkeit von Schwanz und Penis zu überspielen, um den Fruchtbarkeitsaspekt zu betonen, ist methodisch unzulässig: Als Beweisgrundlage wären in einem quellenmäßig so eindeutigen Fall nur sonstiges römisches Ritual, nicht aber literarische oder ethnologische Belege ausreichend40. Für die Wahl des Schwanzes (anstelle eines Schenkelstücks etwa, nicht aber gegen den Penis) sprechen auch praktische Gründe. Für die sofortige Übertragung im schnellen Lauf eignet er sich wohl besser als jeder andere Körperteil. Bedenken muss man allerdings, dass das Vorhandensein des Schwanzes nicht ganz selbstverständlich ist und voraussetzt, dass die Praxis des Kupierens der Schwänze41 nicht auf die sakralen Rennen übergegriffen hat. Interessanter noch als die Frage nach der Identität des Schwanzes scheint mir die Frage nach seinem weiteren Schicksal, konkret die Beziehung zu den Parilia am 21. April. Die Grundlage der Vermutung liefern Properz42 und Ovid43, denen man die Verwendung von Pferdeblut an den Parilia entnehmen kann44. Berücksichtigt man einerseits die Anknüpfungsmöglichkeiten, andererseits das Fehlen jeglicher Alternativen45, scheint mir46 der Schluss auf die Verbindung equus October-Parilia unumgänglich. Gilt dies aber erst für die Zeit seit Properz? Properzens Kritik scheint durch nunc und novantur als aktuell ausgewiesen, curtus hat polemischen Charakter (und darf daher nicht überbewertet werden). Nimmt man Pro-

40 Zum ganzen Problem bezieht Vanggaard (1979) 89–92 ausführlich Stellung. Beispiele für eine forcierte Penis-Interpretation liefern Devereux (1970) 298–300 und Scholz (1970) 126 nach Wagenvoort (1962). Mit der Infragestellung der Identität verliert Scholz’ Deutung des Rituals auf dem Hintergrund der Legenden um die Geburt eines Königs aus Jungfrau und Phallos auf einem Herd die Hauptstütze, ebenso die Verbindung mit dem Dianakult von Aricia (ablehnend auch Versnel 1972, 164; Ogilvie 1973, 74). Auch die von ihm geforderte Anwesenheit der Vestalinnen wird so fraglich (Scholz 1970, 127–140). 41 Pollack (1907) 270. 42 Prop. 4,1,17–22: Nulli cura fuit externos quaerere divos, / cum tremeret patrio pendula turba sacro, / annuaque accenso celebrare Parilia faeno, / qualia nunc curto lustra novantur equo. / Vesta coronatis pauper gaudebat asellis, / ducebant macrae vilia sacra boves. 43 Ov. fast. 4,731–734: I, pete virginea, populus, suffimen ab ara, / Vesta dabit; Vestae munere purus eris. / Sanguis equi suffimen erit vitulique favilla, / tertia res durae culmen inane fabae. 44 So schon Marquardt (1856) 277; siehe auch Dumézil (1975) 188. Angesichts der gegenseitigen Stützung der beiden Quellen ist Binders Einwand, Properz schreibe qualia, nicht quae (1967, 115 mit Anm. 68), beziehe das Pferd also gar nicht direkt auf die Parilia, nicht schlagend. 45 Anders Scholz (1970) 97–99. 46 Mit Vanggaard (1979) 88 und Pascal (1981) 262. 277.

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perz ernst, muss man von einer zeitgenössischen Einführung dieses rituellen Details ausgehen47. Dagegen spricht aber die Zeit, mit der der Dichter die Gegenwart kontrastiert: die gute alte Zeit, ja Frühzeit, in der blutige Opfer fehlen. Auch wenn Properz die älteste Quelle für die rituelle Verbindung darstellt, wird man den Einsatz des Pferdeblutes kaum als frühaugusteische Neuerung bezeichnen können48. Wie die Asche der Kalbsföten von den Fordicidia49 trägt das Pferdeblut im suffimentum zur Zentralisierung des eher ländlich-dezentral anmutenden Ritus bei50. Die Verbindung Fordicidia – Parilia wird von den Vestalinnen getragen; die Fordicidia weisen gleichfalls dezentrale (curiae) und zentrale Elemente (Pontifices, Kapitol) auf 51. Volksmedizinisch war der lustrale Gebrauch von Pferdeblut abgedeckt52, doch ergäbe sich hier wie bei den Fordicidia eine vom Haupttag abweichende Interpretation der rituellen Materie53. Wichtig für das Ritual des 15. Oktober ist der Vorgang der Übertragung überhaupt. Exzeptionell kann weder das Schwanzabschneiden noch das bei jedem Opfer praktizierte Besprengen eines Altares mit Blut54 genannt werden. Viel auffälliger – und von Festus mit tanta betont – erscheint der Ortswechsel selbst, vom campus Martius, der außerhalb des Pomeriums lag, zur Regia, dem – in dieser Form – frührepublikanischen Kultzentrum55 auf dem Forum. Der Kampf um den Kopf (4) Wenden wir uns dem Kopf zu, tritt der Kampf zweier Stadtteile als auffälligstes56 Merkmal entgegen. Eine Deutung auf Synoikismus-Zusammenhänge lassen die Namen der Gruppen, Suburanenses und Sacravienses, 47 Scholz (1970) 97 f.; Pascal (1981) 275 ohne Konsequenzen, vgl. 287; dagegen Binder (1967) 106 Anm. 16. 48 Für den Hinweis danke ich dem Jubilar. 49 S. Ov. fast. 4,639 f.: Igne cremat vitulos quae natu maxima Virgo, / luce Palis populos purget ut ille cinis. 50 Vgl. Beard (1987) 4. 51 Dazu Latte (1960) 68 f. 52 Siehe Plin. nat. 28,146 f.: Damnatur equinum tantum inter venena. ideo fl amini sacrorum equum tangere non licet, cum Romae publicis sacris equus etiam immoletur. (147) quin et sanguis eorum septicam vim habet, item equarum, praeterquam virginum; erodit, emarginat ulcera. 53 Für Pferdeblut s. Dumézil (1975) 188–198. 54 S. Latte (1960) 388. 55 S. Momigliano (1969) 395 f.; Rüpke (²2006) 57. 56 Grenier (1925) 122.

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nicht zu. Auch weitere Theorien, die von einer ursprünglichen Mehrzahl der Opfer57 oder von der Übernahme des Ritus durch eine zweite Gruppe58 ausgehen, werfen mehr Fragen auf, als sie klären. Gleichermaßen lassen sich grundsätzliche und einseitige Deutungen des Kampfes oder Scheinkampfes nicht halten59. In der uns noch erreichbaren Stufe des Rituals muss die Interpretation ihren Ausgang von den Zielorten nehmen60. Der Regia steht die turris Mamilia gegenüber, der Sitz jener Familie aus Tusculum, die in den ersten Tagen der Republik mit Octavius Mamilius als Schwiegersohn und Verbündetem des vertriebenen Tarquinius Superbus den Gegner par excellence darstellte und Rom in zwei Schlachten, am Pons Sublicius und am Lacus Regillus, fast überwältigte61. Bedrohung und Usurpation stünden gegen Legitimität, der äußere Feind gegen das Innerste der Stadt62. Verfolgt man die Mamilius-Erzählung unter der Prämisse, in Roms überlieferter Frühgeschichte eher mythisches denn historisches Material zu finden, zeigen sich interessante Bezüge zum Ritual des Oktoberpferdes. Die Schlacht am See auf dem Gebiete Tusculums ist vor allem eine Reiterschlacht; Livius wie Dionysios von Halikarnassos bieten für sie die früheste umfängliche Schlachtbeschreibung63. Zweikämpfe zu Pferd und Verletzungen mit Lanzen spielen eine große Rolle. Die Schlacht ist so blutig, dass selbst auf der Siegerseite niemand außer dem Dictator Postumius – auch der ihm zugeordnete Magister equitum nicht – unverwundet herauskommt64; der Letztgenannte wird an der rechten Schulter verwundet. Mamilius, der wie schon vor dem Pons Sublicius 57 Mannhardt (1884) 192; Frazer (1925) 44; Clemen (1930) 337. 58 Siehe Vanggaards Kritik (1979) 85 Anm. 7 an Scholz. 59 Mannhardt (1884) 175: agrarischer Brauch; Usener (1904) 298 f. 312 f.: Kampf der Jahreszeiten; mit einschränkenden Modifikationen Lesky (1926). Eine generelle Kritik bei Piccaluga (1965) 106 f. Eine Steigerung des mana durch den Kampf (Rose 1958, 6) wird in den antiken Zeugnissen nirgends beobachtet. 60 Aufschlussreiche Bemerkungen zur Historisierung von rituellen Kämpfen bietet Gaster (1975) 37–40. Für den vorliegenden Fall können diese aber nicht in einer Entwicklungstheorie fruchtbar gemacht werden. Natürlich kann das Mamilier-Element nicht vor dem 5. Jh. v. Chr. entstanden sein, wäre damit „sekundär“ (Dumézil 1975, 156), wenn das Gesamtritual als älter erwiesen werden kann. Ob dieses ältere Ritual (wenn es denn je existierte) aber überhaupt einen Wettkampf enthielt, könnte nur hypothetisch beantwortet werden. 61 Gilbert (1885) 95; Werner (1963) 387 Anm. 5; 414 Anm. 2; Vanggaard (1979) 85 Anm. 7. 62 Dumézil (1975) 149–154. 63 Liv. 2,19 f.; Dion. Hal. ant. 6,5–13. 64 Liv. 2,19,5.

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(unter Porsenna) den rechten Flügel anführt65, wird durch einen Lanzenstich verwundet, durch einen zweiten durchbohrt und getötet. T. Herennius, der die Tat vollbringt, wird beim Spoliennehmen ( panibus redimitum im Ritual?) verwundet, er wird ins Lager getragen und stirbt, als er es erreicht (der Schwanz soll im Ritual bei Erreichen der Regia gerade noch „leben“). Nach der Rückkehr von der Schlacht erfüllt – nach Dionysios – der Diktator ein Gelübde, da trotz des Krieges genügend Nahrung vorhanden ist, und baut einen Tempel für Ceres, Liber und Libera – die aventinische Trias. Die Verbindungslinien, die ich gezogen oder auch nur suggeriert habe, sind unsystematisch, assoziativ, spekulativ. Sie lassen keine Verhältnisbestimmung von Ritual und Mythos zu, auch wenn in Anbetracht der exzeptionellen Form des Rituals und des sicher gemeinsamen Elementes Mamilius ein bloß zufälliger Zusammenhang unwahrscheinlich ist. Die Zusammenhänge sind in jedem Fall kompliziert. Die Schlacht am Lacus Regillus besitzt im Eingreifen der Dioskuren und dem darauf reagierenden Tempelbau ein bekannteres und für Tempel, Iuturnaquelle und die sicher spätere transvectio equitum an den Iden des Quinctilis/Juli ein unmittelbar aitiologisches Element – das bei Livius allerdings komplett unterdrückt wird. Die turris Mamilia steht in keinem erkennbaren konzeptuellen Verhältnis zur Subura, die zu den ältesten Stadtvierteln rechnet, sie liegt einfach darin 66. Das Cognomen Turrinus taucht bei den Mamiliern kurz vor der Mitte des 3. Jahrhunderts auf; vermutlich ist es – und damit der Turm – kaum ein bis zwei Generationen älter67. Die Mamilii erlauben aber wieder eine Querverbindung zu der sicher bezeugten und verbreiteten Deutung auf das Troianische Pferd: Mamilia, die Stammmutter, war Tochter des Telegonos, somit Enkelin des Odysseus68 – des Erfinders eben jener Kriegslist. All diese denkbaren Zusammenhänge – das ist noch einmal deutlich zu betonen – werden in den uns erhaltenen Quellen nie explizit gemacht, besitzen in Bezug auf zeitgenössische Deutungen daher allenfalls heuristischen Wert. Zurück auf den Boden der rituellen Daten. Fraglich muss bleiben, ob der Kampf real, das heißt von offenem Ausgang, oder ein Scheinkampf war, der trotz aller Intensität den Sieg der Regia garantierte; die Quellen lassen das offen. Hatte das mit Mamilius gegebene antagonistische Motiv große 65 Dion. Hal. ant. 5,22,4; 6,5,4. 66 Paul. Fest. 117,30–31 L. 67 Münzer (1920) 68 nimmt es für den Vater des Augurs von 260 v. Chr. an. Er könnte so heißen, weil er die turris gebaut hatte oder weil dieser Familienzweig in ihr wohnen blieb. Aber auch dann dürfte das Gebäude, wenn es namengebend wurde, kaum mehr als eine Generation älter gewesen sein. 68 Paul. Fest. 117,28 f. L; Liv. 1,49,9; Dion. Hal. ant. 4,45,1.

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Bedeutung, könnte das Ritual einen Sieg dieser Seite ausgeschlossen haben. Die Topographie lehrt, dass der Kopf vom Marsfeld in jedem Fall erst auf das Forum, also dicht an die Regia, kam69; erst dann zweigte der Weg in die Subura zum (unbekannten) Standort des Turmes ab. Die Suburanenses hätten einen deutlich weiteren Weg gehabt. Andererseits ist das Ritual ohnehin so konstruiert, dass eine echte rituelle Weiterverarbeitung des getöteten Pferdes nur in der Regia erfolgte, in die ein Teil, der Schwanz, sicher gelangte. Ein Verlust des Kopfes wäre also zu verschmerzen gewesen. Immerhin ist es möglich, dass Kopf und Schwanz zwar gleichermaßen einer Gefährdung ausgesetzt waren, tatsächlich jedoch keine Gefahr für die Übertragung vom Marsfeld in die Regia bestand70. Schon Festus71 spricht vom Kampf im Vergangenheitstempus, während er sonst, ebenso alle anderen Quellen bis hin zu Filocalus, das Präsens verwendet. Dieses verwendet auch Plutarch, ohne dass wir wüssten, ob er damit nur seine Quelle Verrius wiedergibt oder eigene Beobachtung bezeugt. Der Zeitpunkt des Verschwindens lässt sich also, wie das Motiv, nicht bestimmen72. Die Brote (5) Scholz’ Ersetzung der um den Kopf gebundenen Brote (panibus) durch Tücher (pannibus), mit denen das Pferd erstickt worden sein soll73, war ingeniös, gewann ihre Plausibilität aber nur aus der Parallele zum Aśvamedha74. Die Brote verleihen dem Oktoberpferd unleugbar einen Aspekt „Ernährung“, doch nicht in einem streng „agrarischen“ Sinne: Dies beweisen die Brotkränze der Esel an dem mit den Vestalia verbunden Bäckerfest75. Selbst eine kriegerische Interpretation auf der Basis der Volksetymologie, die adōria (Kriegsruhm) von ador (Emmer) ableitet76, ist möglich. Das

69 Zu einem archäologisch nachgewiesenen älteren (7./6. Jh. v. Chr.) Pferdeopfer in der Gegend der Regia s. Ampolo (1981) 236 f. 70 Damit wird auch Scholz’ Hypothese hinfällig, dass eventuell irgendwann einmal Schwanzblut auf einen Herd der turris Mamilia getropft sei (1970, 93). Zu den sakraltopographischen Bezügen des equus October s. a. Coarelli (²1986) 75. 71 190,14 L. 72 Sueton berichtet, dass Augustus eine Vorliebe für Kämpfe städtischer Rotten besessen habe: Suet. Aug. 45,2; ungenau Scholz (1970) 93. 73 Scholz (1970) 93–96. 102. 118–121. 74 Kritik: Versnel (1972) 164; Ogilvie (1973) 75; Vanggaard (1979) 94 Anm. 35; Croon (1981) 264. 75 Ov. fast. 6,311–318. 76 Paul. Fest. 3,22–23 L: Adoriam laudem sive gloriam dicebant, quia gloriosum eum putabant, qui farris copia abundaret. Dazu Ernout/Meillet 9.

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ganze Problem, das durch das Paulusexzerpt77 aufgeworfen wird, lässt sich philologisch lösen. Unverrückbar steht die kategorische Aussage id sacrificium fiebat ob frugum eventum. Der Rest des Lemmas bleibt durchaus nicht unverständlich, denn dem Pferd wird nicht etwa bellum, dem Rind fruges zugeordnet. Vielmehr differenziert Paulus genau. Frugum eventum, die aus den panes eindeutig erwachsende Interpretation, klingt noch zweideutig. Es könnte um Erträge des Krieges (bello) 78 oder um die im engsten Sinne selbstgezogenen, agrarischen „Früchte“ (nicht frugibus, sondern frugibus pariendis) gehen. Für Festus – die vermutlich umfangreichere, aber nicht erhaltene Vorlage unseres Paulusexzerptes – stand fest: Ein Pferd wird geopfert, es geht um Kriegserträge79.

4. Zwischenergebnis In der Betrachtung des Gesamtrituals erscheint die agrarische Interpretation erheblich geschwächt; die entsprechenden Deutungen des Schwanzes80 betonen diesen Bezug über Gebühr und finden im übrigen Ritual keine Stütze. Lässt sich nun als Hauptthema des Rituals die „Kapitalisation des Kriegsertrages“81 festhalten? Muss die Ambivalenz des Datums, Ende der potentiellen Kriegszeit oder Beginn der Winteraussaat82, zugunsten des ersten entschieden werden? Mit einer solchen Komplettinterpretation wären die anfangs skizzierten methodischen Prämissen glatt verworfen. Auch „Kriegsertrag“ interpretiert nur einen Ausschnitt des Rituals, fügt anderen Facetten eine weitere Deutung hinzu, für deren Verbreitung wir keinen positiven Anhaltspunkt besitzen. Vor einer abschließenden Sichtung der Deutungen ist auf ein gleichzeitig in geringer Entfernung stattfindendes Ritual einzugehen. Zuvor gilt es aber, die „Anstöße“ der rituellen Semantik und Syntax 77 Paul. Fest. 246,21–24 L. 78 Frugibus belli wäre eindeutiger, aber durch Häufung unschön und ohnehin sinngemäß ergänzbar. Zu frux als Ertrag allgemein s. Dig. 50,16,77. 79 Damit wird auch die methodisch saubere wie ingeniöse Vermutung Hubbells (1928) hinfällig, der Verg. Aen. 1,445 – das Pferd als Zeichen von facilem victu – als Ausfluss derselben Diskussion versteht, die sich in dem Paulus-Lemma niedergeschlagen hat. 80 Mannhardt (1884); Wagenvoort (1962). 81 So Dumézil (1970) 219, (1975) 209 f., der allerdings noch zu stark die agrarische Komponente – in der Form: Mars schützt während des Krieges und durch ihn die eigene Ernte – betont. Auf militärische Motive des Bauschmucks der frühen Regia weist Cristofani (1995) hin. 82 So Rose (1958) 5; Gjerstad (1961) 204 f. Sabbatuccis Deutung als Weinfest (1988, 330; ebenso für das Armilustrium 331 f.) ist nicht akzeptabel. Zu Weinfesten im Oktober s. Pötscher (1986), (1989).

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des Oktoberpferdes noch einmal zusammenzustellen. Sie sind immerhin so exzeptionell, dass eine Behandlung in den jüngsten Darstellungen römischer Opferrituale fehlt83. Ausgehend von einem normalen, das heißt wenigstens durch die beiden Equirria des Februar und März parallelisierten, Wagenrennen, schlägt das Ritual in Extreme um, die die gewöhnliche Ordnung und die rituelle Taxonomie verkehren: Der Sieger wird nicht belohnt, sondern getötet; rechts, nicht links bringt Unglück84; das ungenießbare Pferd wird zum Opfertier; nicht die Axt oder das Messer, sondern die Jagd- und Kriegswaffe Speer besorgt den Tötungsakt; nicht mola salsa, gemahlenes Korn, sondern fertiges Brot kommt auf den Kopf des Opfertieres85; der Schwanz, nicht der Kopf ist am wichtigsten; das Opfer wird nicht geordnet verteilt, sondern umkämpft; nicht das zubereitete cranium, sondern der „rohe“ Kopf wird ausgehängt. Die Verkehrung des normalen rituellen Codes zeigt erst das Selbstverständliche in seiner Selbstverständlichkeit und lässt den equus October so extrem deutungsbedürftig werden: Der Name selbst lässt alle Deutungen offen. Verkehrung der Ordnung – also ein weiterer Jahreseinschnitt, ein weiteres Neujahr? Das Datum darf nicht überbetont werden. Die Iden bieten sich als „natürlicher Festtag“ an86, die Lage im Oktober, unmittelbar nach einigen Weinlesefesten und lange vor den Jahresabschlussfesten des Dezembers, gibt keine Interpretationshilfe. Zu den Parilia des 21. April, mit denen das Ritual materiell verknüpft ist, besteht kein signifikanter zeitlicher Abstand. Gerade in der Normalität der zeitlichen Rhythmen wird das Extremritual durchgespielt, das wiederum im materialen Sinn in den unblutigen87 rituellen Neubeginn88 der Parilia hinein aufgehoben wird. Wie vorsichtig man aber mit der soeben vorgeführten Deutung der rituellen Syntax umgehen muss, wie sehr ihre Dramatisierung zu vermeiden ist, zeigt der Blick auf die weitere rituelle Struktur der Oktober-Iden.

83 84 85 86 87

So im Thesaurus cultus et rituum antiquorum wie in Scheid (2005). Diese Richtungswertung wurde allerdings in Rom selbst vertauscht. Zur normalen immolatio s. Wissowa (1912) 417; Scheid (2005) 50–55. Rüpke (1995) 548–550. Gegen diese verbreitete Charakterisierung steht das nur von Vanggaard (1971) 98 f. diskutierte Zeugnis des Calpurnius Siculus (ecl. 2,63), der (wohl in Neronischer Zeit) von einem Lammopfer spricht. Sollte es sich um eine lokale oder zeitliche Weiterentwicklung handeln, wird daran deutlich, wie prekär eine komplizierte rituelle Syntax, die nicht durch explizite Deutungen abgesichert wird, ist: Sie steht immer in der Gefahr, Normalisierungstendenzen zum Opfer zu fallen: Keine Feier ohne Opfer und Fleischmahlzeit gilt dann eben auch für die Parilia. 88 Das betont Bremmer (1987) 80 f.

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5. Ludi Capitolini Die von einem eigenen Kollegium ausgerichteten ludi Capitolini 89 reichen nach Livius in die Zeit der Gallierkatastrophe zurück90. Diese Datierung ist umstritten91. Verschiedene Quellen sehen Romulus als den Gründer. Dabei verleiht die Beziehung auf Iuppiter Feretrius92 dem Fest einen kriegerischen Anstrich. Neben dem Askoliasmos, dem Hüpfen auf eingefetteten Fellen, und den Boxkämpfen waren die als Kriegsgefangenen verstandenen Sardi venales – im Ritual durch einen mit toga praetexta und bulla ausstaffierten Greis (senex) vertreten – ein wichtiger Bestandteil des Ritus93. Darf man mit Scholz davon „ausgehen, dass die ludi Capitolini als Siegesfeiern galten, an welche der später noch bekannte, dann aber ins rein Proverbielle abgerutschte Brauch der Sardi venales geknüpft war“?94

89 Dazu Scholz (1970) 89. 164–167. 90 Liv. 5,50,4; 5,52,11. 91 Zuletzt hat Frank Bernstein für die sekundäre Verknüpfung einer älteren Institution mit Camillus plausibel argumentiert (1998, 103–106). 92 Enn. ann. 1, test. 51 Skutsch (= V) (Schol. Bern. Verg. georg. 2,384): Romulus cum aedificasset templum Iovi Feretrio, pelles unctas stravit et sic ludos edidit, ut caestibus dimicarent et curso contenderent (Text nach Burmann und Hagen; Scholz [1970] konjiziert celetibus und curro; zur praktischen Unmöglichkeit von Wagenrennen auf dem Kapitol vor 378 v. Chr. s. Bernstein [1998] 105). 93 Plut. qu. R. 53, 277 CD: Διὰ τί τοῖς Καπετωλίοις θέας ἄγοντες ἔτι νῦν κηρύττουσι Σαρδιανοὺς ὠνίους, καὶ γέρων τις ἐπὶ χλευασμῷ προάγεται παιδικὸν ἐναψάμενος περιδέραιον, ὃ καλοῦσι βοῦλλαν; / ῍Η ὅτι ῾Ρωμύλῳ πολὺν χρόνον ἐπολέμησαν οἱ λεγόμενοι Οὐήιοι Τυρρηνῶν, καὶ ταύτην τὴν πόλιν ἐσχάτην εἷλε, καὶ πολλοὺς αἰχμαλώτους ἀπεκήρυξε μετὰ τοῦ βασιλέως ἐπισκώπτων αὐτοῦ τὴν ἠλιθιότητα καὶ τὴν ἀβελτερίαν; ἐπεὶ δὲ Λυδοὶ μὲν ἦσαν οἱ Τυρρηνοὶ ἐξ ἀρχῆς, Λυδῶν δὲ μητρόπολις αἱ Σάρδεις, οὕτω τοὺς Οὐηίους ἀπεκήρυττον καὶ μέχρι νῦν ἐν παιδιᾷ τὸ ἔθος διαφυλάττουσι. Plut. Rom. 25,6 f.: Ἐθριάμβευσε δὲ καὶ ἀπὸ τούτων εἰδοῖς Ὀκτωβρίαις, ἄλλους τε πολλοὺς αἰχμαλώτους ἔχων καὶ τὸν ἡγεμόνα τῶν Οὐηΐων, ἄνδρα πρεσβύτην, ἀφρόνως δόξαντα καὶ παρ’ ἡλικίαν ἀπείρως τοῖς πράγμασι κεχρῆσθαι. διὸ καὶ νῦν ἔτι θύοντες ἐπινίκια, γέροντα μὲν ἄγουσι δι’ ἀγορᾶς εἰς Καπιτώλιον ἐν περιπορφύρῳ, βοῦλλαν αὐτῷ παιδικὴν ἅψαντες, κηρύττει δ’ ὁ κῆρυξ Σαρδιανοὺς ὠνίους. Τυρρηνοὶ γὰρ ἄποικοι Σαρδιανῶν λέγονται, Τυρρηνικὴ δὲ πόλις οἱ Οὐήϊοι. Fest. 428,36–430,20 L: „Sardi venales, uior“: ex hoc natum detur, quod ludis *** fiunt a vicinis *** uctio Veientium *** in qua novissimus *** rrimus producitur *** e senex cum toga praetexta bullaque aurea; quo cultu reges soliti sunt esse Ecorum, qui sardi appellantur, quia Etrusca gens orta est Sardibus ex Lydia. Tyrrhenus enim inde profectus cum magna manu eorum, occupavit eam partem Italiae, quae nunc vocatur Etruria. at Sinnius Capito ait, T. Gracchum consulem, collegam P. Valeri Faltonis, Sardiniam Corsicamque subegisse, nec praedae quicquam aliud quam mancipia captum, quorum vilissima multitudo fuerit. Das zuletztgenannte Datum auch in Vir. ill. 57,1–2. 94 Scholz (1970) 164.

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Das Thema stimmt mit einem wichtigen Aspekt des Marsrituals überein, ersetzt aber „Nahrungsbeute“ durch „Kriegsgefangene“, das heißt „menschliche Beute“. Scholz weist auf die Duplizität der Rituale hin und deutet dies – verbunden mit seiner konjekturalen Einführung von Wagenrennen ins Festprogramm95 – so, dass ursprünglich auch die ludi Capitolini Mars gegolten hätten96. Damit wird die ansonsten metaphorische Parallele überzogen. Die ludi wären eher als Iuppiter-Dublette zum Oktoberpferd zu sehen; vor allem aber setzten sie mit ihrer Prozession die Modelle Spolia opima-Prozession und Triumphzug schon voraus 97. Entsprechend wäre auch der Greis von den gefangenen Heerführern und (parodisch) vom Triumphator her zu deuten 98. Coarellis These, die ludi Capitolini bildeten den kalendarischen Ursprungsritus des später beweglichen Triumphzuges – immerhin datiert Plutarch Romulus’ Triumph über die Veienter auf diesen Tag99 –, geht ebenfalls von einem hohen Alter des Rituals aus und versucht, es durch ein genetisches Modell für Triumph und Spiele wahrscheinlich zu machen. Das setzt eine Frühdatierung des kapitolinischen Iuppiter Optimus Maximus-Kultes voraus100 und will gerade die antietruskischen Elemente als Argumente für etruskische Herkunft heranziehen (Sardi). Das lässt sich nicht halten. Bislang nicht berücksichtigt wurde in dieser Diskussion, dass das zentrale Problem in der Quellenkritik liegt. Die lächerliche Figur des alten Mannes mit dem Goldschmuck erscheint allein in vier Quellen. Die älteste Quelle stellt Verrius Flaccus dar, erhalten in einem Festusauszug101. Die Passage ist am Anfang verstümmelt (ein Paulusexzerpt fehlt), doch geht aus ihr hervor, dass bei den (Scaliger ergänzt wohl richtig:) kapitolinischen Spielen eine (gespielte) Versteigerung von „Veientern“ stattfindet, die – als negative Auslese102 – einen Greis hervorbringt: Der schlechteste „Sklave“ findet als letzter einen Käufer. Dieser wird wie beschrieben aus95 Siehe oben, Anm. 92. 96 Scholz (1970) 165. 97 Vgl. Versnel (1970) 256–266 zu den ludi Romani. Zu einer erst mittelrepublikanischen Datierung des Triumphzuges s. jetzt Rüpke (2006a). 98 Triumphator: Briquel (1991) 434. Anders, aber auch mit kriegerischer Dimension Gagé (1977) 477. 99 Plut. Rom. 25,6 f.; Coarelli (²1993) 433–435. 100 Coarelli (²1992) 436. Das Zeugnis des Ennius behandelt Coarelli nicht. Es könnte als Archaisierung erklärt werden, unterstriche dann aber den voretruskischen Ursprung in der römischen Sicht. 101 Fest. 428,36–430,20 L. 102 Auch in diesem Element kann man einen bewussten, parodistischen Bezug auf das Oktoberpferd erkennen, das durch das vorangegangene Rennen in positiver Auslese bestimmt wurde.

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staffiert. Der ganze Vorgang bietet nach dem Festustext die Grundlage (ex hoc natum) für das Sprichwort Sardi venales alius alia nequior 103. Die logische Verbindung muss in der Verwendung dieses Ausrufes auch im Spiel bestehen. Zwar fehlt diese Information im Text, sie bildet aber die Voraussetzung für die folgende Interpretation. Verrius Flaccus versteht das Kostüm als etruskische Königskleidung und stellt den Zusammenhang über die Theorie, dass die Etrusker aus Sardes in Lydien stammten, her. Die ebenfalls referierte Alternativinterpretation Sinnius Capitos104 verweist auf einen Sardinienfeldzug des Jahres 174 v. Chr., der nur eine riesige – und entsprechend billige – Menge an Sklaven als Beute eingebracht habe. Leider hat diese Position in der Antike und Moderne nicht genug Beachtung gefunden. Dabei weist sie auf einen richtigeren Weg: Sardi sind ausnahmslos Bewohner Sardiniens („Sarden“), der Bewohner von Sardis heißt Sardianus 105. Die Sarden galten, worüber sich Cicero breit auslässt, als verlogen106; das Kunstwort sardare des Naevius, ein ironisches „Verstehen wie ein Sarde“107, bescheinigt ihnen eingeschränkte geistige Fähigkeiten108. Sollte der Ruf Sardi venales bei den Auktionen des Tiberius Gracchus erklungen sein, hätte er somit schon damals eine besondere (und nicht gerade preistreibende) Pikanterie gehabt. Dass ein solcher Ausdruck für das spielerische Treiben der ludi Capitolini aufgenommen wurde – mit ihrer Auktion, die nicht das Höchst-, sondern Niedrigstgebot feststellen wollte –, erscheint mir durchaus möglich. Zu Etruskern wurden diese Sardi erst Personen, die am Ritual nicht mehr teilnahmen, sondern darüber zu reflektieren begannen. Genau zu diesen soll jetzt zurückgekehrt werden. Die wesentlichen kultischen Daten, Ruf und Greis mit bulla, referiert am Beginn des 2. Jahr103 Ergänzt aus Cic. fam. 7,24,2. 104 Sinnius Capito, fr. 20 Funaioli. 105 Siehe auch Briquel (1991) 433; wichtig: Tac. ann. 4,55,3. Plaut. Mil. 44 bietet einen frühen Beleg für das negative Sardenbild. Latte (1960) 442 Anm. 1 kommt auf dieser Basis zu einer noch Livius unterbietenden Spätdatierung, da der Ruf Sardi venales kaum vor der Eroberung Sardiniens 238 v. Chr. geläufig gewesen sein kann. So richtig eine solche Datierung des Sprichworts ist, so wenig ist damit für die Datierung der Spiele gewonnen, wenn nicht ausgeschlossen werden kann, dass dort der Ruf sekundär ist. 106 Cic. Scaur. 41 f. 107 Siehe OLD s. v. Vgl. das allgemeine Urteil von Albrechts (1979) 32 über Naevius: „komödiantisches Sprachschöpfertum“. Überliefert ist das Zitat als unmittelbar unserer Passage vorausgehendes Lemma bei Fest. 428,33–36 L (Paul. Fest. 429,8 f. L). Die Etymologie von Varro (ling. 7,108) ab serare … id est aperire ist nicht zu halten. 108 Dieses negative Stereotyp steht auch hinter der prononcierten Charakterisierung als Sardus (Hor. sat. 1,3,3, in Spitzenstellung), die Horaz dem Sänger Tigellius zuteil werden lässt (s. auch sat. 1,2,3).

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hunderts109 Plutarch in seinen Römischen Fragen, und zwar eindeutig für die kapitolinischen Spiele110. Das Spielelement111 der Versteigerung von Veientern wird nun direkt als Aition eingeführt und auf den (ahistorischen) Veienterkrieg des Romulus bezogen, die Verbindung mit Sardi leistet die Abstammungslinie Veienter – Etrusker – Lyder – Hauptstadt Sardes112. Plutarch stützt diese Linie, indem er – gegen seine römischen Gewährsmänner – Sardi in Sardiani korrigiert. Diese Aitiologie setzt Plutarch in seiner Romulusvita in historische Narrative um: Er datiert dessen Triumph über die Veienter auf den 15. Oktober und baut in ihn die genannten Elemente ein: Coarellis Theorie über die Entstehung des Triumphes bildet lediglich eine Umkehrung einer griechischen Theorie über die Entstehung der kapitolinischen Spiele, die deren Imagination als historische Quelle nimmt. Dass es sich um eine griechische Theorie handelt, beweist unsere letzte Quelle, Appians Darstellung des Triumphes von P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus im Jahr 201 v. Chr.113, verfasst ein halbes Jahrhundert nach Plutarch, kurz nach der Jahrhundertmitte114. 109 Siehe die Übersicht in Jones (1972) 135–137. Plutarch greift hier vermutlich auf Varro zurück, s. Briquel (1991) 435 Anm. 6; zu Varros chronologischem Verhältnis zu Sinnius Captio s. ebd., 436 Anm. 21. 110 Plut. qu. R. 53, 277CD. 111 Festus gebraucht bei der Ritualbeschreibung durchgehend Praesens, erst die Interpretation benutzt das Perfekt. 112 Die verbreitete Theorie einer lydischen Herkunft der Etrusker (Hdt. 1,94; für Rom s. etwa Verg. Aen. 10,148–158 und Tac. ann. 4,55,3) diskutiert ausführlich (und ablehnend) Dion. Hal. ant. 1,28–30. 113 Dieses Problem diskutiert Goldmann (1988) nicht; er stellt vielmehr die Eigenständigkeit Appians vor den Hintergrund von dessen Aufenthalt in Rom (113. 117). 114 App. Lib. 292–300 (= 66): Καὶ ὁ τρόπος, ᾡ καὶ νῦν ἔτι χρώμενοι διατελοῦσιν, ἐστὶ τοιόσδε. ἐστεφάνωνται μὲν ἅπαντες, ἡγοῦνται δὲ σαλπιγκταί τε καὶ λαφύρων ἅμαξαι, πύργοι τε παραφέρονται μιμήματα τῶν εἰλημμένων πόλεων, καὶ γραφαὶ καὶ σχήματα τῶν γεγονότων, εἶτα χρυσὸς καὶ ἄργυρος ἀσήμαντός τε καὶ σεσημασμένος καὶ εἴ τι τοιουτότροπον ἄλλο, καὶ στέφανοι, ὅσοις τὸν στρατηγὸν ἀρετῆς ἕνεκα ἀναδοῦσιν – πόλεις ἢ σύμμαχοι τὰ ὑπ’ αὐτῷ στρατόπεδα. βόες δ’ ἐπὶ τοῖσδε λευκοί, καὶ ἐλέφαντες ἦσαν ἐπὶ τοῖς βουσί, καὶ Καρχηδονίων αὐτῶν καὶ Νομάδων, ὅσοι τῶν ἡγεμόνων ἐλήφθησαν. αὐτοῦ δ’ ἡγοῦνται τοῦ στρατηγοῦ ῥαβδοῦχοι φοινικοῦς χιτῶνας ἐνδεδυκότες, καὶ χορὸς κιθαριστῶν τε καὶ τιτυριστῶν, ἐς μίμημα Τυρρηνικῆς πομπῆς, περιεζωσμένοι τε καὶ στεφάνην χρυσῆν ἐπικείμενοι· ἴσα τε βαίνουσιν ἐν τάξει μετὰ ᾠδῆς καὶ μετ’ ὀρχήσεως. Λυδοὺς αὐτοὺς καλοῦσιν, ὅτι (οἶμαι) Τυρρηνοὶ Λυδῶν ἄποικι. τούτων δέ τις ἐν μέσῳ, πορφύραν ποδήρη περικείμενος καὶ ψέλια καὶ στρεπτὰ ἀπὸ χρυσοῦ, σχηματίζεται ποικίλως ἐς γέλωτα ὡς ἐπορχούμενος τοῖς πολεμίοις. ἐπὶ δ’ αὐτῷ θυμιατηρίων πλῆθος, καὶ ὁ στρατηγὸς ἐπὶ τοῖς θυμιάμασιν, ἐφ’ ἅρματος καταγεγραμμένου ποικίλως, ἔστεπται μὲν ἀπὸ χρυσοῦ καὶ λίθων πολυτίμων, ἔσταλται δ’ ἐς τὸν πάτριον τρόπον πορφύραν, ἀστέρων χρυσῶν ἐνυφασμένων, καὶ σκῆπτρον ἐξ ἐλέφαντος φέρει, καὶ δάφνην,

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Nach der summarischen Erwähnung eines Triumphes von nie dagewesenem Glanz (292) fügt Appian die Beschreibung eines idealtypischen Triumphes ein, die er ausdrücklich als auch für seine eigene Zeit gültig erklärt – dabei ist zweifelhaft, dass er je selbst einer solchen Veranstaltung beiwohnte115. Nur zweimal wird in ihr die Verknüpfung mit dem narrativen Kontext versucht: Die gefangenen Führer werden als Karthager und Numider spezifiziert (294), die Schilderung des Schlusses, der Aufstieg des Imperators zum Kapitol und die anschließenden cenae, stehen – mit Scipio als Subjekt – wieder im Vergangenheitstempus (300). Im Zug siedelt er nach den gefangenen Führern, zwischen Liktoren und Triumphator beziehungsweise den ihm voranschreitenden Trägern von Räuchergerät (297) eine Gruppe von Musikanten an, die er mit einer etruskischen Prozession vergleicht (295). In deren Mitte geht nun jemand, der in seinem Purpurkleid, seinem Goldschmuck und seiner Lächerlichkeit nur das Pendant des senex mit der bulla sein kann (296). Diese Nachricht ist singulär und aus mehreren Gründen zweifelhaft. Zum einen sind die beiden Rollen, auf die hin der senex in den ludi Capitolini gedeutet werden kann, gefangener König und Triumphator, beide schon besetzt, sie bilden die Pole vieler, teilweise auch ausführlicher Triumphbeschreibungen116. Das argumentum e silentio scheint mir zum zweiten insofern stark, als die Information nicht nur in umfangreichen Schilderungen des Gesamtrituals fehlt, sondern auch in den Erörterungen, die sich mit dem Status des Triumphators befassen und besonderen Wert auf Spottelemente legen. Den letzten Einwand liefert Appians Text selbst. Bevor die lächerliche Figur erwähnt wird, sagt Appian in Bezug auf die tanzende Gruppe, dass man sie „Lyder“ heiße, weil die Tyrrhener lydische Kolonisten seien117. Diese Aussage beruht vielleicht auf einem Missverständnis, einer Verwechslung mit den ludiones, tunikabekleideten Tänzern in vielen Prozessionen, die Dionysios von Halikarnassos mit den Lydern zusammenbringt118. Auch so käme Appian in die Nähe der Gedankenkette, die Plutarch vom Triumph zu den Lydern spannt. Und an diesem Punkt liegt dann der Eintrag des senex der ähnlichen ludi Capitolini in die Darstellung nahe. Selbst wenn diese Lösung über den Status einer „Möglichkeit“ nicht hinauskommt, dürfte sie ausreichen, die Hypothese von der ludi Capitolini-

115 116 117 118

ἣν ἀεὶ Ῥωμαῖοι νομίζουσι νίκης σύμβολον. […] ἀφικόμενος δὲ ἐς τὸ Καπιτώλιον ὁ Σκιπίων τὴν μὲν πομπὴν κατέπαυσεν, εἱστία δὲ τοὺς φίλους, ὥσπερ ἔθος ἐστίν, ἐς τὸ ἱερόν. Siehe Goldmann (1988) 106, zur Stelle. Für Quellen und Literatur s. Rüpke (1990) 223–234. Zur Stelle kurz Rüpke (1990) 112. Dion. Hal. ant. 2,71,4.

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Urform des Triumphes – auf zwei unsichere Zeugnisse des 2. Jahrhunderts reduziert – zu erschüttern. Es scheint methodisch der beste Weg zu sein, die Frage nach der Genese offen zu lassen und die termini ante und post quos einzelner Ritualelemente deutlich zu markieren. Die Kampfspiele der ludi Capitolini bezeugt Ennius sicher für das dritte Jahrhundert; der Einbau von parodistischen Bezügen auf den Triumphzug, der schließlich nach 174 v. Chr. zu den „käuflichen Sarden“ geführt haben dürfte, ist für die Zeit des Ennius gerade noch nicht belegt. Dieses argumentum e silentio ist schwach, aber die Konstruktionen der römischen Gründungszeiten, ob Romulus oder Camillus, stehen dem nicht entgegen.

6. Ritualexegese In Anlehnung an Victor Turner lassen sich drei Bedeutungsebenen eines Rituals unterscheiden: Neben dem spontanen, eher affektiven denn kognitiven Verständnis der Teilnehmer am Fest selbst (operational meaning) steht die bewusste Exegese durch die Teilnehmer, vor allem aber Experten (exegetical meaning). Als dritte Ebene kommt die Bedeutung hinzu, die sich aus der Beziehung der rituellen Elemente zu anderen rituellen Symbolen ergibt (positional meaning) 119. Unsere Quellen explizieren vor allem (leider nicht immer) die zweite Ebene – mit all ihren Mängeln, Ambivalenzen und Streitereien. Die erste Ebene ist zumeist so selbstverständlich (oder idiosynkratisch), dass sie nicht formuliert wird: Spannung, Ausgelassenheit, Festfreude dürfen bei aller differenzierten Deutung als Grundbefindlichkeiten aber nicht übersehen werden120. Dem zuletzt genannten Zugang eignet eine gewisse Objektivität: Wo gibt es sonst noch Pferde in römischen Ritualen? Wo dient ein Speer als Opfergerät? Wo werden Brote benutzt? Solche Fragen lassen sich beantworten und lassen die Spezifika eines Rituals Kontur gewinnen. Aber auch hier bleiben methodische Optionen offen. Die strukturalistische Überbetonung dieser Ebene nimmt dem Ritual seine (wie gerade die Quellen zum Oktoberpferd zeigen:) wichtige kognitive Dimension121. Dieser Vorwurf trifft auch den radikalen Ansatz Frits Staals, bei der Rekonstruktion der rituellen Semantik und Syntax (rules) stehenzubleiben und die Kategorie der Bedeutung ganz auszublenden122.

119 120 121 122

Turner (1982) 18–21. Für kaiserzeitliche Feste s. dazu Chaniotis (2008). Für diese Kritik s. Turner (1982) 21. Siehe etwa Staal (1986) (1989).

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Immerhin weist diese Option auf die Eigenlogik der rituellen „Sprache“ – den metaphorischen Gebrauch all dieser Begriffe darf man nicht außer acht lassen, wenn man ans „Übersetzen“ denkt – und damit auf ein auch für das Oktoberpferd wichtiges Element, das nicht einfach sprachlich auf „Bedeutung“ reduziert werden kann: den Bezug zu einem bestimmten anderen Ritual, den Parilia, der nicht nur durch die Verwendung des gleichen Grundvokabulars (Rennen, Opfer) hergestellt wird, sondern durch die Verwendung eines Unikums, des aus dem Schwanz gewonnenen Blutes, eine bewusste Verknüpfung darstellt123. Die ständige Deutung der rituellen Daten durch die Überlieferungsträger lassen aber auch die Auseinandersetzung mit der kognitiven Ebene unausweichlich erscheinen, auch wenn das zu Aporien führt. Dabei zeigt sich, dass die Turnersche Differenzierung der exegetical meanings in die Formen myth und piecemeal exegesis, eine mit den aus anderen den Zeitgenossen bekannten Ritualen stammenden „Standardbedeutungen“ arbeitende Interpretation124, die assoziative Logik nur unzureichend beschreibt. So bleibt festzuhalten, dass eine den modernen Betrachter zufriedenstellende Gesamtdeutung nicht existiert. Die in der Antike verbreitetste Deutung – Troianisches Pferd – ist, gemessen an den rituellen Details, offensichtlicher Unsinn; schon die antiken Experten weisen diesen „Sinn“ zurück. Genau dieser „Unsinn“ ist aber produktiv: Er allein erklärt die zynische Nachahmung des Rituals in der Hinrichtung zweier Meuterer 46 v. Chr. Der Troiamythos, der nachweislich nicht als aitiologischer Mythos für den equus October entstanden ist, erklärt – für die Vertreter dieser Deutung – nicht nur das Ritual, sondern ist ihm selbst ausgesetzt: Auch wo kein Zusammenhang zum Ritual zu erkennen ist, tritt die römische Version des Mythos in einer Form auf, die einen den Griechen unbekannten Speerwurf des Priesters Laokoon auf das Pferd einfügt und den Mythos so dem Ritual angleicht125. Begleitende Geschichten können, teilweise unter dem Einfluss konkreter Ereignisse, aber auch auf das Ritual einwirken: Das ist vielleicht bei der turris Mamilia, sicher bei dem Ruf „Sardi venales“ der Fall. Solche Wirkungen können aber auch erst auf der Ebene der Referenten auftreten: Appians Triumphbeschreibung liefert ein Beispiel für die „Reifizierung“ von Ursprungstheorien in Ritualbeschreibungen. Ein katastrophales, aber heilsames Ergebnis: Jede antike Deutung hat ihr Recht, ist ein – oft unerwartet wirkmächtiges – Faktum. Keine noch so geniale Deutung enthebt von der Aufgabe, diese Fakten zu sammeln, historisch zu ordnen und ihre Träger(gruppen), soweit möglich, 123 Dazu ausführlich Rüpke (²2006) 110–118. 124 Rüpke (²2006) 18. 125 Siehe Rüpke (1993); zu einer republikanischen Tragödie Equus Troianus s. Jocelyn (1967) 206.

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zu bestimmen. Andererseits ist sehr deutlich geworden, dass das binnenkulturell selbst gegebene Bedürfnis nach Interpretation der rituellen Details mit den zeitgenössisch kursierenden Deutungen nicht völlig befriedigt wird. Insofern ist – über die prinzipielle Polyvalenz von Symbolen hinaus – die Suche nach einer sprachlichen Formulierung der Logik des Rituals im Rahmen des gesamten Symbolsystems legitim. Als Erklärung kommt ihr aber nur heuristische Bedeutung zu: Wer so gedacht oder auch nur danach gehandelt hat, das muss im Einzelfall erst erwiesen werden. Sie in den „Priesterbüchern“ zu suchen, ist verlorene Zeit.

Bibliographie Ampolo (1981) – Carmine Ampolo, „La città arcaica e le sue feste: Due ricerche sul Septimontium e l’Equus October“, in: Archeologia laziale. Bd. 4: Quarto incontro di studio del comitato per l’archeologia laziale, Quaderni del centro di studio per l’archeologia etrusco-italica 5 (Roma 1981) 233–240. Balkestein (1963) – Johannes Balkestein,. Onderzoek naar de oorspronkelijke zin en betekenis van de romeinse god Mars (Assen 1963). Beard/North/Price (1998) – Mary Beard/John North/Simon Price, Religions of Rome. Bd. 1: A History; Bd. 2: A Sourcebook (Cambridge 1998). Beard (1987) – Mary Beard, „A Complex of Times: No More Sheep on Romulus’ Birthday“, PCPhS 33 (1987) 1–15. Bernstein (1998) – Frank Bernstein, Ludi publici: Untersuchungen zur Entstehung und Entwicklung der öffentlichen Spiele im republikanischen Rom [Diss. Duisburg 1993/4], Historia Einzelschriften 119 (Stuttgart 1998). Binder (1967) – Gerhard Binder, „Compitalia und Parilia: Properz 4,1,17–20“, MusHelv 24 (1967) 104–115. Bremmer (1987) – Jan N. Bremmer, „Myth and Ritual in Ancient Rome: The Nonae Capratinae“, in: Jan N. Bremmer/Nicholas Horsfall (edd.), Roman Myth and Mythography, BICS Suppl. 52 (London 1987) 76–88. Briquel 1991 – Dominique Briquel, L’origine lydienne des Etrusques: Histoire de la doctrine dans l’antiquité, Collection de l’Ecole française de Rome 139 (Rome 1991). Chaniotis (2008) – Angelos Chaniotis, „Konkurrenz und Profilierung von Kultgemeinden im Fest“, in: Jörg Rüpke (ed.), Festrituale in der römischen Kaiserzeit (Tübingen 2008) 67–87. Clemen (1930) – Carl Clemen, „Die Tötung des Vegetationsgeistes in der römischen Religion“, RhM NF 79 (1930) 333–342. Coarelli (²1986) – Filippo Coarelli, Il Foro Romano. Bd. 1: Periodo arcaico (Roma ²1986 [1983]). Coarelli (²1992) – Filippo Coarelli, Il Foro Boario: Dalle origine alla fine della repubblica (Roma ²1992 [1988]). Cristofani (1995) – Mauro Cristofani, „La ‚terza‘ Regia: Problemi decorativi“, Archeologia Laziale 12 (1995) 64–65. Croon (1981) – Johan H. Croon, „Die Ideologie des Marskultes unter dem Prinzipat und ihre Vorgeschichte“, in: ANRW 17,1 (1981) 246–275. Devereux (1970) – George Devereux, „The Equus October Ritual Reconsidered“, Mnemosyne IV 23 (1970) 297–301.

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Dumézil (1954) – George Dumézil, „Bellator equos“, in: George Dumézil (ed.), Rituels indo-européens à Rome, Etudes et commentaires 19 (Paris 1954) 73–91. Dumézil (1958) – George Dumézil, „Quaestiunculae Indo-Italicae 1–3“, REL 36 (1958) 112–131. Dumézil (1959) – George Dumézil, „Le curtus equos de la fête de Pales et la mutilation de la jument Vispala“, Eranos 54 (1959) 232–245. Dumézil (1963) – George Dumézil, „Quaestiunculae Indo-Italicae 17: Le sacrifice humain de 46 av. J. C.“, REL 41 (1963) 87–89. Dumézil (1970) – George Dumézil, Archaic Roman Religion: with an Appendix on the Religion of the Etruscans, Bd. 1–2. Transl. P. Krapp (Chicago 1970). Dumézil (1975) – George Dumézil, Fêtes romaines d’été et d’automne suivi de Dix questions romaines (Paris 1975). Eitrem (1917) – Samson Eitrem, Beiträge zur griechischen Religionsgeschichte. Bd. 2: Kathartisches und Rituelles, Videnskapsselskapet Skrifter Hist.-filos. Kl. 1917,2 (Kristiania 1917). Flambard (1987) – Jean-Marc Flambard, „Deux toponymes du Champ de Mars: ad Ciconias, ad Nixas“, in: L’Urbs: Espace urbain et histoire (I e siècle av. J.-C. – III e siècle ap. J.-C.) (Rome 1987) 191–210. Frazer (1925) – James George Frazer, The Golden Bough [8]. T. 5: Spirits of the Corn and of the Wild, Bd. 2 (London 1925, repr. of. ³1912). Gagé (1977) – Jean Gagé, Enquêtes sur les structures sociales et religieuses de la Rome primitive, Collection Latomus 152 (Bruxelles 1977). Gaster (1975) – Theodor H. Gaster, Thespis: Ritual, Myth, and Drama in the Ancient Near East (New York 1975, repr. of the new and rev. ed. 1961, 1950). Gilbert (1885) – Otto Gilbert, Geschichte und Topographie der Stadt Rom im Altertum, Bd. 2 (Leipzig 1885). Gjerstad (1961) – Einar Gjerstad, „Notes on the Early Roman Calendar“, Acta Archaeologica (Kopenhagen) 32 (1961) 193–214. Gladigow (1971) – Burkhard Gladigow, „Ovids Rechtfertigung der blutigen Opfer: Interpretationen zu Ovid, fasti I 335–456“, AU 14,3 (1971) 5–23. Goldmann (1988) – Bernhard Goldmann, Einheitlichkeit und Eigenständigkeit der Historia Romana des Appian, Beiträge zur Altertumswissenschaft 6 (Hildesheim 1988). Grenier (1925) – Albert Grenier, Le génie romain dans la religion, la pensée et l’art, L’évolution de l’humanité 17 (Paris 1925). Hermansen (1940) – Gustav Hermansen, Studien über den italischen und den römischen Mars. Übers. Glöde (København 1940). Hubbell (1928) – Harry M. Hubbell, „Horse Sacrifice in Antiquity“, Yale Classical Studies 1 (1928) 181–192. Jocelyn (1967) – Henry David Jocelyn (ed.), The Tragedies of Ennius: The Fragments edited with an Introduction and Commentary, Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 10 (Cambridge 1967). Jones (1972) – Christopher Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford 1972, repr. with corr. [1971]). Latte (1960) – Kurt Latte, Römische Religionsgeschichte, HdbA 5,4 (München 1960, ND 1967). Lesky (1926) – Albin Lesky, „Ein ritueller Scheinkampf bei den Hethitern“, ARW 24 (1926) 73–82. Mannhardt (1884) – Wilhelm Mannhardt, Mythologische Forschungen. Aus dem Nachlasse hg. v. Hermann Patzig, Quellen und Forschungen zur Sprach- und Culturgeschichte der germanischen Völker 51 (Straßburg 1884).

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Marbach (1930) – Ernst Marbach, „Mars. 1. Der Kriegsgott der Römer“, in: RE 14,2 (1930) 1919–1937. Marquardt (1856) – Joachim Marquardt, Handbuch der römischen Alterthümer: Nach den Quellen bearbeitet. 4. Teil: Der Gottesdienst. Begonnen von Wilhelm Adolph Becker, fortgesetzt von Theodor Mommsen (Leipzig 1856). Momigliano (1969) – Arnaldo Momigliano, „Il rex sacrorum e l’origine della repubblica“, in: id., Quarto contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico, Storia e letteratura 115 (Roma 1969) 395–402. Münzer (1920) – Friedrich Münzer, Römische Adelsparteien und Adelsfamilien (Stuttgart 1920). Ogilvie (1973) – Robert M. Ogilvie, „[Rev.] Udo W. Scholz: Studien zum altitalischen und altrömischen Marskult und Marsmythos“, CR NS 23 (87) (1973) 73–75. Pascal (1981) – C. Bennett Pascal, „October Horse“, HSPh 85 (1981) 261–291. Piccaluga (1965) – Giulia Piccaluga, Elementi spettacolari nei rituali festivi romani, Quaderni di SMSR 2 (Roma 1965). Pötscher (1986) – Walter Pötscher, „Die römischen Weinfeste“, WüJbb 12 (1986) 131–142. Pötscher (1989) – Walter Pötscher, „Nochmals zu den römischen Weinfesten“, WüJbb 15 (1989) 119–124. Pollack (1907) – Erwin Pollack, „Equi circenses“, in: RE 6,1 (1907) 267–271. Radke (1990) – Gerhard Radke, „October equus“, Latomus 49 (1990) 343–351. Reid (1912) – James S. Reid, „Human Sacrifices at Rome and Other Notes on Roman Religion“, JRS 2 (1912) 34–52. Rose (1958) – Herbert J. Rose, Some Problems of Classical Religion: The Eitrem Lectures Delivered at the University of Oslo, March 1955 (Oslo 1958). Rüpke (1990) – Jörg Rüpke, Domi militiae: Die religiöse Konstruktion des Krieges in Rom (Stuttgart 1990). Rüpke (1991) – Jörg Rüpke, „Dies endotercisi?“, ZPE 86 (1991) 212–214. Rüpke (1993) – Jörg Rüpke, „Vergils Laokoon“, Eranos 91 (1993) 126–128. Rüpke (1995) – Jörg Rüpke, Kalender und Öffentlichkeit: Die Geschichte der Repräsentation und religiösen Qualifikation von Zeit in Rom, RGVV 40 (Berlin 1995). Rüpke (2001) – Jörg Rüpke, „Antike Religion als Kommunikation“, in: Kai Brodersen (ed.), Gebet und Fluch, Zeichen und Traum: Aspekte religiöser Kommunikation in der Antike, Antike Kultur und Geschichte 1 (Münster 2001) 13–30. Rüpke (2003) – Jörg Rüpke, „Libri sacerdotum: Forschungs- und universitätsgeschichtliche Beobachtungen zum Ort von Wissowas Religion und Kultus der Römer “, in: Philippe Bourgeaud/Francesca Prescendi (edd.), Georg Wissowa (1857–1931): Cent ans de religion romaine, Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 5 (München 2003). Rüpke (²2006) – Jörg Rüpke, Die Religion der Römer: Eine Einführung (München ²2006). Rüpke (2006a) – Jörg Rüpke, „Triumphator and Ancestor Rituals between Symbolic Anthropology and Magic“, Numen 53 (2006) 251–289. Sabatucci (1988) – Dario Sabbatucci, La religione di Roma antica dal calendario festivo all’ordine cosmico, La cultura 67 (Milano 1988). Scheid (2005) – John Scheid, Quand faire, c’est croire: Les rites sacrificiels des Romains (Paris 2005). Scholz (1970) – Udo W. Scholz, Studien zum altitalischen und altrömischen Marskult und Marsmythos (Heidelberg 1970). Schwartz (1967) – Barry Schwartz, „The Social Psychology of the Gift“, American Journal of Sociolog y 73 (1967) 1–11. Scullard (1981) – Howard H. Scullard, Festivals and Ceremonies of the Roman Republic (London 1981, dt. 1985).

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Staal (1986) – Frits Staal, „The Sound of Religion“, Numen 33 (1986) 33–64. 185–224. Staal (1989) – Frits Staal, Rules Without Meaning: Ritual, Mantras and the Human Sciences, Toronto Studies in Religion 4 (New York 1989). Turner (1982) – Victor Turner, „Introduction“, in: id. (ed.), Celebration: Studies in Festivity and Ritual (Washington 1982) 11–30. Usener (1904) – Hermann Usener, „Heilige Handlung“, ARW 7 (1904) 281–339. Vanggaard (1971) – Jens Henrik Vanggaard, „On Parilia“, Temenos 7 (1971) 90–103. Vanggaard (1979) – Jens Henrik Vanggaard, „The October Horse“, Temenos 15 (1979) 81–95. Versnel (1970) – Henrik S. Versnel, Triumphus: An Inquiry into the Origin, Development and Meaning of the Roman Triumph (Leiden 1970). Versnel (1970) – Henrik S. Versnel, „[Rev.] Udo W. Scholz: Studien zum altitalischen und altrömischen Marskult und Marsmythos“, Gymnasium 79 (1972) 162–165. von Albrecht (1979) – Michael von Albrecht, „Naevius’ ‚Bellum poenicum‘ “, in: Erich Burck (ed.), Das römische Epos. Grundriß der Literaturgeschichte nach Gattungen (Darmstadt 1979) 15–32. Wagenvoort (1962) – Hendrik Wagenvoort, „Zur magischen Bedeutung des Schwanzes“, in: Serta philologica Aenipontana [Bd. 1], Innsbrucker Beiträge zur Kulturwissenschaft 7–8 (Innsbruck 1962) 273–287 (engl. in: id., Pietas: Selected Studies in Roman Religion, Studies in Greek and Roman Religion 1 [Leiden 1980] 147–165). Weinstock (1971) – Stefan Weinstock, Divus Julius (Oxford 1971). Werner (1963) – Robert Werner, Der Beginn der römischen Republik: Historisch-chronologische Untersuchungen über die Anfangszeit der libera res publica (München 1963). Wissowa (1891) – Georg Wissowa, „De feriis anni Romanorum vetustissimi observationes selectae“, in: id., Gesammelte Abhandlungen zur römischen Religions- und Stadtgeschichte. Ergänzungsband zu des Verfassers Religion und Kultus der Römer [Marburger Universitäts-Programm 1891] (München 1904) 154–174. Wissowa (1912) – Georg Wissowa, Religion und Kultus der Römer, HdbA 5,4. (München ²1912).

Théologie romaine et représentation de l’action au début de l’Empire john scheid

En dépit des critiques justifiées qu’il a suscitées dans le détail, le livre de H. Usener sur les Götternamen 1 a représenté indubitablement une nouveauté dans l’histoire des religions de l’Antiquité. Il a mis son doigt sur un élément important du polythéisme, qu’il expliquait toutefois, dans le contexte de son époque, de manière historique. Diverses vérifications ont permis de voir que l’intuition d’Usener est productive, car non seulement elle a mis en évidence l’élément central de la religion des Grecs et des Romains, les conduites rituelles2, mais elle est vérifiable dans d’autres domaines que ceux qu’il a traités3. Généralement, toutefois, les lecteurs d’Usener ne se sont intéressés qu’aux traditions religieuses anciennes4, et à tout ce qui est censé provenir du passé lointain. Il y a toutefois chez Usener des remarques concernant des pratiques de l’époque impériale, qu’il n’a pas exploitées, mais citées en passant, dans les perspectives historiques qu’il ouvre dans les dernières pages de son livre5. Il se référait à des «abstractions divinisées» qui servaient à marquer l’activité impériale, en les rattachant à la même catégorie de dieux que les indigitamenta. Je voudrais développer ces intuitions dans le domaine romain et les offrir à Fritz Graf, qui a si souvent parlé de dieux et de rites avec moi. Le polythéisme des Romains est loin d’être un ensemble désordonné de divinités, un cimetière historique de toutes les divinités honorées, sans autre structure que celle des opinions individuelles des pratiquants. La théologie 1 2 3 4 5

Usener (³1948). Ce que U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf a bien compris, voir U. von WilamowitzMoellendorff, Lettre du 7. 12. 1895 à H. Usener, reproduit chez Mette (1979/1980) 79–81; Wessels (2003) 7–95. Cf. par exemple Scheid (1999) 184–203; Svenbro (2006) 25–36; Svenbro (á paraitre); Svenbro (2007). Voir Perfigli (2004). Usener (³1948) 300 sq.

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romaine paraît en fait comme une pensée et une pratique vivantes qui se caractérisent par une propension à la fragmentation des pouvoirs divins. Par ce biais, la pensée tentait de saisir tous les aspects de l’action divine, envisagés tantôt à l’état virtuel, comme des capacités traduisant la spécificité d’un mode d’action, tantôt dans ses différents effets. Et comme les rites des frères arvales le prouvent, cette «diffraction théologique» peut aussi bien être réduite, pour des raisons qui nous échappent, à un groupe restreint, voire à l’unité. Et cela jusqu’au IIIe siècle de n. è. au moins. C’était donc une pensée active, et nullement sclérosée, comme Mommsen le pensait6. Il est légitime de s’interroger sur la raison d’être de cette inclination, qui n’est pas sans rappeler les mille et un métiers romains, et peut-être l’incapacité romaine, et antique, d’imaginer l’agent unique7. Il est tentant aussi de conclure des données examinées que les mêmes prêtres étaient capables de réduire à l’unité le pouvoir et l’action d’une divinité donnée. Ainsi, le maître du Capitole peut très bien être vénéré seul, même sans Junon et Minerve. Son temple s’appelle d’ailleurs templum Iouis Optimi Maximi, et non templum Iouis, Iunonis et Mineruae. Dans un contexte donné, la théologie romaine n’ignorait donc pas la figure de l’agent unique, mais elle l’envisageait seulement comme un aspect de l’action divine, une manière parmi d’autres de la penser. Il n’est pas inutile de se rappeler ici que ceux qui se livraient à ces compositions théologiques sont les mêmes que ceux qui spéculaient dans leurs loisirs sur le divin en termes philosophiques. * Dans ses dernières pages, Usener avait signalé le foisonnement de qualités impériales qui étaient élevées au rang de divinités, en remarquant que «jusqu’à la période de sa maladie et de sa disparition, la religion romaine a conservé la capacité de créer de nouveaux concepts divins pour caractériser l’instant (neue gottesbegriffe für den augenblick zu erzeugen)»8. Et il cite toute une série de qualités ou d’actes divinisés. Voyons cela d’un peu plus près, en essayant de demeurer dans un contexte précis. Commençons par Auguste, et par la manière dont on a honoré les projections divines de son action à Rome. Je passe sur le Génie d’Auguste, dont le culte était pratiqué dès 30 av. J.-C. par tous les citoyens romains, et qui, comme dans les pratiques domestiques des Romains, représente le même type de dédoublement 6 7

8

Mommsen (⁶1854) vol. 1, 159–176 (= Paris 1985, vol. 1, 128–142). Voir à ce propos les travaux indépassés de Vernant (²1985) 263–322: «Prométhée et la fonction technique» (1952); «Travail et nature dans la Grèce ancienne» (1955); «Aspects psychologiques du travail dans la Grèce ancienne» (1956); «Remarques sur les formes et les limites de la pensée technique chez les Grecs» (1957). Usener (³1948) 300.

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de personnalité ou de capacité d’action. Regardons quelles sont les divinités nouvelles créées sous son principat. 29 av. J.-C. 22 av. J.-C. 19 av. J.-C. 11 av. J.-C. 9 av. J.-C. 4 ap. J.-C. 7 ap. J.-C. 9 ap. J.-C. 10 ap. J.-C. 13 ap. J.-C.

Victoria (statue de – dans la curie) Iuppiter tonans Fortuna redux autels de Concordia, Salus, Pax Pax Augusta Prouidentia Augusta Ceres mater, Ops Augusta Numen Augusti Concordia Augusta Iustitia Augusta

La première abstraction est la Victoire, dédiée le 28 août 29, qui salue les triomphes d’Auguste9. L’autel de cette statue célèbre sera encore au IVe siècle l’enjeu d’une grande bataille politique entre Symmaque et Ambroise. La statue était celle de Victoria, pas de Victoria Augusti, même si tous pouvaient le penser10. Le concept n’était pas nouveau: deux décennies avant, on avait créé des Ludi Victoriae Caesaris, donc une Victoire définie comme celle de César. Le temple suivant, dressé au Capitole le 1er septembre 22, recourt à une voie traditionnelle. Comme Auguste était sorti indemne d’un orage qui avait foudroyé l’un des porteurs de la litière dans laquelle il se trouvait, il honorait le Foudroyant, Jupiter, qui avait jeté la foudre sans vouloir l’atteindre11. L’épiclèse du dieu exprime donc une anecdote de la vie d’Auguste. C’est Jupiter en tant qu’il avait accompli cela, un soir en Espagne. Ensuite commencent à apparaître les divinités «abstraites» qui illustrent le bonheur d’action ou l’efficacité de l’empereur. Fortuna redux12, c’est la chance (pour les Romains) de son retour en 19 av. J.-C. Comme pour toutes les autres divinités que je cite, ce ne sont pas des sortes d’allégories qui auraient orné un arc de triomphe ephémère, mais des divinités qui à partir du moment où elles avaient été créées par une décision du Sénat, recevaient un autel, un temple et un calendrier rituel. Ainsi le jour de la fondation de l’autel de la Fortune du Retour, le 12 octobre, était-il appelé feriae, c’est-à-dire jour de grande fête, avec des sacrifices offerts par les magistrats, les prêtres et les vierges Vestales. Pour ce qui nous intéresse, le 12 octobre fut appelé ex cognomine [nos]tro, comme Auguste le rappelle dans les Res gestae, autrement dit Augustalia. Même si la mesure prit jusqu’à sa disparition avant de s’imposer complètement, cette 9 Degrassi (1963) 504; Dio 51,22,1. Bien entendu, je ne parle ici que de Rome, et non des autres cités où la Victoria Augusta est attestée. 10 Cf. pour ce lien Suet. Aug. 100 11 Suet. Aug. 29; Dio 54,4,2. 12 R. Gest. div. Aug. 11; Dio 54,10,3; Degrassi (1998) 519.

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décision révèle une démarche intéressante. Le jour devait prendre le nom de «fête d’Auguste», mais le sacrifice était adressé à Fortuna redux. A partir de 14 ap. J.-C., quand la fête reçut des jeux réguliers, le Divin Auguste fut ajouté aux destinataires de la fête. Les diverses versions des inscriptions officielles nous révèlent la démarche. Le calendrier d’Amiterne, qui est postérieur à l’année 20 ap. J.-C., a conservé le libellé du sénatus-consulte: celui-ci institue un jour de fête pour honorer le retour d’Auguste de Syrie, ainsi qu’un autel de Fortuna Redux dans la zone martiale près de la Porte Capène, ainsi que le rappellent les Res Gestae. Il appelle aussi ce jour Augustalia, mais on ne sait si cette décision était déjà appliquée régulièrement du vivant d’Auguste. En tout cas, après la mort d’Auguste, les calendriers écrivent Ludi Diuo Augusto et Fort(unae) Reduci committ(untur) 13. Nous pouvons en déduire que l’action était celle d’Auguste – le retour au bon moment, au moment fortuné – et la déesse qui exprimait cette vertu, ou cette action, était Fortune du bon retour. De la même manière, en juillet 13 av. J.-C., après la conclusion des guerres et des affaires d’Espagne, de Gaule et de Germanie, Auguste revint à Rome, et le Sénat et le Peuple commémorèrent l’événement par la dédicace de l’autel de la Pax Augusta, dont désormais l’anniversaire de la fondation et celui de la dédicace, trois ans plus tard, étaient célébrées par des sacrifices offerts par les magistrats, les prêtres et les vierges Vestales14. Suit la dédicace d’une série d’autels. D’abord à Concorde, Salus et Pax15 en 11 av. J.-C. C’est vraisemblablement Auguste qui les a dédiés, et la raison de ces dédicaces nous intéresse. D’après Cassius Dion16, le Sénat et le Peuple rassemblèrent alors de l’argent pour élever des statues à Auguste; cet hommage était dû à la soumission des Dalmatiens et des Pannoniens, ainsi qu’à la défaite des Besses et autres peuples qui s’étaient révoltés en Macédoine. Auguste refusa ces statues, mais utilisa l’argent pour faire des statues de Salus publica, Concorde et Pax. Il décomposa donc ses propres mérites en trois figures divines, qui exprimaient son action dans ces affaires: la concorde avec Tibère, le salut préservé du Peuple romain et la paix qu’il avait ramenée. La volonté est claire: pas d’honneur excessif pour l’homme Auguste, mais plutôt un hommage à ses vertus divinisées, aux divinités qui exprimaient le principe de son action. Les sous-entendus politiques ne nous intéressent pas, c’est la mise en œuvre systématique de cette décomposition des modes d’action d’Auguste en Concorde et en ses effets, la Salus et la Pax, qui nous importent. Au lieu de dresser une statue ou des statues à Auguste ob virtutem, ob victoriam ou -ias, ce qui suffirait à nos yeux, on recourt au biais que j’ai décrit. Et cela continue. 13 14 15 16

Degrassi (1998) 516. R. Gest. div. Aug. 12,2; Degrassi (1998) 476 (4 juillet); Dio 54,25,3. Ov. fast. 3,879–882; Degrassi (1998) 432–433 (30 mars). Dio 54,35,2.

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Le 26 juin 4 ap. J.-C., Auguste adopta Tibère. L’événement fut inscrit sur les calendriers. Un fragment nouveau des protocoles arvales a permis, il y a 25 ans, de préciser que ce 26 juin était aussi l’anniversaire de la fondation de l’Ara Prouidentiae Augustae, in Campo Agrippae, placé en quelque sorte visà-vis de l’Ara Pacis17. La publication du Sénatus-Consulte de Pison père18 a prouvé quant à lui que l’Autel de la Providence Auguste existait déjà en 19 ap. J.-C., puisqu’il y est question d’une inscription à Germanicus dressée près de l’Ara Prouidentiae Augustae par les sodales Augustales, créés entre 14 et 19. Et si l’autel existait entre 14 et 19, la date mensuelle de l’anniversaire de sa fondation montre qu’il est lié à l’adoption de Tibère (et de Germanicus). C’est donc encore une divinité exprimant l’action d’Auguste, pourvoyant efficacement à sa succession par cette adoption, qui est est honorée. En 7 ap. J.-C., Auguste consacra en ex-voto un autel à Cérès et un autre à Ops Augusta. Nous savons qu’Auguste avait fait un vœu concernant les Megalesia, qui tombent entre le 4 et le 10 avril, parce qu’une femme avait pratiqué quelque divination, et que le peuple était inquiet à cause des guerres en cours en Macédoine et en Dalmatie, ainsi qu’en raison d’une famine qui s’était déclarée19. Il est vraisemblable que les autels sont le résultat de ce vœu. La formulation théologique est à nouveau intéressante: grâce à la vénérable Cérès se réalise l’Abondance auguste. L’action du prince est traduite par la collaboration de deux divinités et produit un effet heureux. En 9 ap. J.-C., un autel de la Puissance divine d’Auguste fut dédié par Tibère. On s’accorde depuis Mommsen à restituer Numen Augusti, mais il demeure une incertitude20. Cette fois-ci, c’est l’ensemble du pouvoir d’action d’Auguste qui est pris en cause, et non seulement une de ses actions. Le jour choisi est d’ailleurs celui du jour anniversaire du mariage avec Livie. Comme dans le cas des arvales, on peut constater qu’à côté du morcellement de l’action en plusieurs aspects, les Romains sont capables de concevoir aussi une figure générale, unique, de cette action. D’ailleurs après la mort d’Auguste, Tibère dédie le même 17 janvier 15 un autel au Divin Auguste: j’y décèle la preuve que le Numen Augusti est, en quelque sorte, une autre façon d’envisager l’acteur unique qu’est le Divin Auguste. De son vivant, il avait un pouvoir d’action semblable à celui des dieux, dans une série de domaines; après sa mort et son apothéose, il a le pouvoir d’action unifié d’un dieu.

17 18 19 20

Degrassi (1998) 474; Scheid (1998) 30, nº 12, l. 54–57. Eck/Rufino/Fernandez (1996) 44, l. 81–84; 199 sq. Degrassi (1998) 493 (10 août); Dio 55,31,2 sq. Degrassi (1998) 401: Fastes de Préneste, 17 janvier: Pontifices a[ugures XVuiri s. f. VII] uir(i) epulonum uictimas inm[ol]ant N[umini Augusti ad aram q]uam dedicauit Ti. Caesar, Fe[licitat]i, q[uod Ti. Caesar aram] Aug. patri dedicauit. Fe[riae ex s. c. q]u[od eo die Ti. Caesar aram diui] Aug. patri dedicauit. Contre cette restitution Gradel (2002) 234–250.

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En 10 ap. J.-C., Tibère consacre le temple restauré de Concordia Augusta, le 16 janvier, le jour même auquel Empereur César a été appelé Auguste, en 27 av. J.-C. Je passe sur les discussions, et considère que les restitutions de Degrassi sont bonnes21. La statue de la Justice auguste, élévée le 8 janvier 13 ap. J.-C., se réfère, comme Ovide paraît le rappeler, à l’une des vertus canoniques d’Auguste, qui vient tempérer sa force 22. Nous ne savons pas si les autres qualités du bouclier des vertus reçu en 27 av. J.-C. ont été honorées elles aussi par des autels et des sacrifices réguliers sous Auguste. Nous savons en revanche qu’elles deviendront rapidement des thèmes monétaires et épigraphiques courants. Voilà donc comment Auguste et ses contemporains font représenter son pouvoir d’action, en décomposant et en célébrant les divers aspects de celle-ci. Nous pouvons constater une évolution. Tant qu’Auguste ne disposait pas de la totalité du pouvoir, les calendriers enregistraient simplement les jours où il avait réalisé un haut fait particulier, ainsi qu’on l’avait déjà fait sous César. Par exemple, le 7 janvier, ces mêmes documents commémorent le fait qu’il a pris pour la première fois les faisceaux de l’imperium, en 43 av. J.-C., ou que le 11 janvier il a fermé le Janus, et ainsi de suite. Puis, une fois Auguste assuré de la pleine possession du pouvoir, on passe aux divinités qui expriment les aspects de son action, avant de trouver une représentation plus globale de cette action en 9 ap. J.-C. avec le Numen Augusti, pour en venir en fin de compte à la divinité Auguste en 14. Le deuxième dossier que nous pouvons citer est celui de certaines émissions monétaires de Tibère. Le sujet serait infini, et je ne donnerai que quelques exemples, que m’a suggérés Claude Brenot. Si nous réunissons les émissions qui nous intéressent, on obtient les données suivantes23: Lyon émission de 14–16 ap. J.-C.

DIVOS AVGVST. DIVI F. (tête d’Auguste) IMP VII TR POT XVI (Tibère debout dans un char triomphal)

Emission de 23 ap., de 30 ap.

TR POT XXV… (Victoire assise sur un globe)

Emission au type de Pont maxim

PONT MAXIM ( Justice assise sur trône)

Emission de quadrans (date indét.)

ROM ET AV[g] (autel de Lyon) PONT MAXIM ( Justice assise sur trône)

21 Degrassi (1998) 398 sq.; Ov. fast. 1,607–618. 22 Degrassi (1998) 392 sq.; Ov. Pont. 3,6,23–26. 23 Pour ces émissions, voir Giard (1988).

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PONT.MAXIM.TRIBVN.POTEST.XVII. SC (figure féminine [Livie?] voilée et drapée, assise à droite sur trône, tenant de la main gauche un long sceptre et, de la droite, une patère)

Div. AVG. sur droit

PONT.MAXIM.TRIBVN.POTEST.XVII. SC (figure féminine [Livie?] voilée et drapée, assise à droite sur trône, tenant de la main gauche un long sceptre et, de la droite, une patère)

Emission de 22–23

DIVVS.AVGVSTVS PATER (Auguste radié et vêtu de la toge, assis sur un trône, patère long sceptre) CIVITATIBVS.ASIAE.RESTITVTIS. (Tibère lauré, en toge, assis sur chaise curule, patère, long sceptre) SPQR IVLIAE AVGVST (Carpentum attelé de deux mules) IVSTITIA (sous buste diadémé de Livie [?]) SALVS AVGVSTA (sous buste diadémé de Livie [?]) PONT.MAXIM.TRIBVN.POTEST.XVIIII SC

Drusus Caesar sur droit

(Cornes d’abondance se croisant sur caducée ailé) PIETAS (sous buste diadémé de Livie [?]) PONT.MAXIM.TRIBVN.POTEST ITER. SC

Emissions de 34–35

DIVO AVGVSTO S. P. Q. R. (Divus Aug. assis sur trône, placé sur char tiré par éléphants) (quadrige triomphal) (Temple avec divinités: dans vestibule Concordia; à gauche et à droit Mercure, Apollon, triade capitoline, Cérès, Victoires, Mars) PONT.MAXIM.TRIBVN.POTEST.XVI SC. (gouvernail placé verticalement sur globe)

Emissions de 35–36

DIVO AVGVSTO S. P. Q. R. (Divus Aug. assis sur trône, placé sur char tiré par éléphants) OB Cives SERV (bouclier entouré d’une couronne de chêne, dessous globe, dans certaines séries avec DIVO AVGVSTO SPQR)

Emissions de 36–37

DIVO AVGVSTO S. P. Q. R. (Divus Aug. assis sur trône, placé sur char tiré par éléphants) PONT.MAXIM.TRIBVN.POTEST.XVI SC. (gouvernail placé verticalement sur globe) CLEMENTIAE S C (petit buste entouré d’une couronne de laurier, au centre d’un bouclier [?]) MODERATIONIS S C. (petit buste entouré d’une couronne de laurier, au centre d’un bouclier [?])

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Je passe sous silence les monnaies qui, entre 31 et la fin du principat de Tibère, sont dédiées au thème du Divin Auguste. Ces monnaies illustrent le principe observé tout au long du principat d’Auguste. Les revers représentent plusieurs types de thèmes. Il y en a d’abord qui concernent le divin Auguste, et qui ne nous intéressent pas ici. D’autres thèmes évoquent des actes du prince: Ob civitatibus Asiae restitutis, Ob ciues servatos, ou simplement la titulature, et enfin des vertus. Ce sont celles-ci qui apportent des éléments à notre réflexion. A Lyon, à côté d’un thème local et le divin Auguste, deux thèmes nous intéressent. D’abord un revers avec Tibère triomphant, et un second qui remplace pour ainsi dire le premier à partir de 23, et qui représente Victoria. Donc l’empereur en action est remplacé par Victoria Augusti. Un deuxième thème concerne la vertu de Iustitia. A Rome les types sont plus nombreux. Je passe sur les revers figurant Auguste et ceux qui représentent peut-être Livie, ainsi que sur ceux qui se réfèrent aux titres ou aux actions du prince. Nous retrouvons une série de vertus: Iustitia, Salus Augusti, Pietas (sur les monnaies de Drusus Caesar), Clementia et Moderatio. Dans le temple représenté sur les monnaies de 34–35 apparaît, d’après les numismates, Concordia. Bref, nous avons presque tout l’éventail des cultes créées sous Auguste pour célébrer l’action impériale. Il est d’usage de comprendre ces thèmes comme de la propagande. Certes, il est indéniable que ces vertus avaient aussi cette mission, même si l’on peut se demander si cette technique inventée dans les années Trente peut s’appliquer à l’époque romaine. Mais en même temps, c’est un programme de description par une série de vertus divinisées censées résumer, ou qualifier, la richesse incommensurable de l’action impériale et de ses effets. Que le thème de la Providence soit célébré entre 31 et 37 avec référence au divin Auguste n’est pas étonnant, puisque la Providentia Augusta est étroitement liée à la succession au principat, au choix d’un successeur. Et c’était bien un problème qui se posait à Tibère à ce moment. Dans beaucoup de cas, nous l’avons vu pour Auguste, ces vertus étaient effectivement honorées d’autels et de sacrifices, comme Prouidentia par exemple. C’étaient de vraies divinités. C’est pourquoi, derrière la représentation de Iustitia, Pietas ou Salus Augusta je n’identifierais pas Livie, mais plutôt les déesses Iustitia, Salus et Pietas. Je ne veux pas dire que ces remarques résolvent le difficile problème de la compréhension des légendes monétaires. Je voudrais montrer simplement que les thèmes monétaires peuvent s’insérer dans le cadre des conduites théologiques courantes. Je pense que la démarche n’est pas moins valable que la recherche de significations «mystiques» ou ésotériques sous-jacents. Les revers monétaires ne constituent pas des actes cultuels, et nous ignorons même s’ils commémorent des autels et des cultes créés ou ranimés à telle ou telle date. Nous sommes plutôt ici dans une sorte de commentaire ou de spéculation théologiques essayant de décrire la surhumanité de l’action

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impériale. Et ce qui est très intéressant, c’est que les monnaies peuvent représenter côte à côte l’empereur en train de triompher et la Victoire. * Indépendamment de l’évolution contemporaine attestée par les juristes et par Augustin, qui se gaussait d’un côté de tous ces innombrables démons, et de «la multitude de dieux pour ainsi dire plébéiens», et pose de l’autre clairement le problème: «Que perdraient-ils s’ils acceptaient de vénérer par un sage raccourci un seul Dieu»24, force est de constater que les prêtres et les empereurs romains développaient une pensée polythéiste qui décomposait le mystère de l’action divine en une série de collaborations couvrant tous les aspects de l’action. L’attirance pour les petites divinités spécialisées n’est pas un fait isolé et réservé aux milieux populaires. Il est attesté au sommet de l’Etat et parmi les prêtres publics, jusqu’en plein IIIe siècle. L’Empereur Philosophe ou son fils en ont même fait sculpter une représentation sur la Colonne Antonine25. La théologie romaine de l’action enseigne donc qu’on ne saurait parler d’une évolution linéaire. Les Sondergötter et les divinités souveraines ont longtemps coexisté dans l’esprit et dans la pratique des Romains de l’Empire. On trouve donc le même paradoxe que sur le plan économique. Les Anciens paraissent avoir été capables d’imaginer l’action unifiée, capables d’approvisionner des mégapoles, ce qui nécessitait des représentations et des procédures économiques avancées. Mais cela ne les empêchait nullement de suivre une sorte d’inclination naturelle pour imaginer en même temps le morcellement des activités de travail. Car la représentation unifiée du travail, les conduites théologiques le prouvent, est tout compte fait longtemps une figure parmi d’autres de la fragmentation des actes.

Bibliographie Degrassi (1998). – Atilius Degrassi, Fasti anni Numani et Iuliani, Inscriptiones Italiae 13,2 (Rome 1998). Eck/Rufino/Fernandez (1996). – Werner Eck/Antonio Caballos Rufino/Fernando Fernandez, Das Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone patre (Munich 1996). Giard (1988). – Jean-Baptiste Giard, Catalogue des monnaies de l’Empire romain. Vol. 2: De Tibère à Néro (Paris 1988).

24 Aug. civ. 4,25,177: Deinde queramus, si placet, ex tanta deorum turba quam Romani colebant quem potissimum uel quos deos credant illud imperium dilatasse atque seruasse; 4,11,160: quid perderent, si unum Deum colerent prudentiore compendio? 25 Scheid (2000) 227–244.

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Gradel (2002). – Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford 2002) 234–250. Mette (1979/1980). – Hans Joachim Mette, «Nekrolog einer Epoche. Hermann Usener und seine Schule. Ein wirkungsgeschichtlicher Rückblick auf die Jahre 1856–1979», Lustrum 22 (1979/1980) 79–81. Mommsen (⁶1854). – Theodor Mommsen, Römische Geschichte (Berlin ⁶1854) (= Histoire Romaine, Paris 1985). Perfigli (2004). – Micol Perfigli, Indigitamenta. Divinità funzionali e funzionalità divina nella religione Romana (Pise 2004). Scheid (1998). – John Scheid, Commentarii fratrum arvalium qui supersunt. Les copies épigraphiques des protocoles annuels de la confrérie arvale (21 av. –304 ap. J.-C.), Roma antica 4 (Rome 1998). Scheid (1999). – John Scheid, «Hiérarchie et structure dans le polythéisme romain. Façons romaines de penser l’action», Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 1 (1999) 184–203 (tr. angl. dans: C. Ando [ed.], Roman Religion, Edinburgh 2003, 164–189). Scheid (2000). – John Scheid, «Sujets religieux et gestes rituels sur la colonne Aurélienne. Questions sur la religion à l’époque de Marc-Aurèle», dans: John Scheid/Valérie Huet (edd.), Autour de la colonne Aurélienne. Geste et image sur la colonne de Marc Aurèle à Rome, Bibliothèque des Hautes Etudes. Sciences Religieuses 108 (Tournai 2000). Svenbro (2006). – Jesper Svenbro, «Les démons de l’atelier. Savoir-faire et pensée religieuse dans un poème d’‹Homère› », Cahiers d’anthropologie sociale 1 (2006) 25–36. Svenbro (2007). – Jesper Svenbro, «Arraisonner la divinité? Limites religieuses de la pensée technique», Mètis 5 (2007) 91–100. Svenbro (à paraitre). – Jesper Svenbro, «Les divinités du métier. Autour de la lecture d’Aristote par Marx», Europe (numéro spécial consacré à J. P. Vernant, à paraître). Usener (³1948). – Hermann Usener, Götternamen. Versuch einer Lehre der religiösen Begriffsbildung (Frankfurt a. M. ³1948). Wessels (2003). – Antje Wessels, Ursprungszauber? Zur Rezeption von Hermann Useners Lehre von der religiösen Begriffsbildung (Berlin/New York 2003). Vernant (²1985). – Jean-Pierre Vernant, Mythe et pensée chez les Grecs. Etudes de psychologie historique (Paris ²1985).

Astrologie, Magie und Mantik

Influencia del mito hesiódico de la sucesión en los textos astrológicos grecorromanos aurelio pérez jiménez Πρῶτα μὲν οὖν Τιτὰν παντὸς Κρόνος αἰθέρος ἄρχει (Ps.-Maneth. 4.14)

1 La influencia de Homero y Hesíodo en los textos astrológicos es incontestable. Los más antiguos eran poemas didácticos, en hexámetros o dísticos elegíacos, y sus autores, poetas alejandrinos cultos, utilizan con frecuencia los epítetos y las fórmulas de la antigua épica. Por otra parte, convertidos los planetas en los dioses del mito griego, es evidente que la personalidad de aquellos dioses y su propia historia condicionaron en gran medida las influencias astrológicas de los planetas subordinados primero y luego identificados con ellos. Αsí, aunque estamos de acuerdo con Hübner en que la oposición Zeus-Crono del mito de la sucesión no ha condicionado la atribución de las casas a los planetas en la dodecátropos1, los elementos de este mito han dejado su huella en muchas de las influencias individuales de Júpiter y Saturno y a menudo en las relaciones aspectuales que la astrología fijó entre ambos planetas2. Igualmente, en la asociación entre Venus y Marte, a los que se atribuyen las casas cinco y seis, ha debido influir el mito homérico de los 1

2

Hübner (1996) 312. En efecto, en el sistema de Manilio, Saturno tutela el IC y Júpiter, como en el sistema habitual, la casa once. Pero, probablemente, la corrección de las tutelas en la dodecátropos canónica, que cambia a Saturno hasta la casa duodécima, cerca de Júpiter, sí puede haber sido facilitada por la estrecha relación mitológica entre los dioses Zeus y Crono. Véase Klibansky/Panofsky/Saxl (1991) 144 y Pérez Jiménez (1999b).

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amores entre Ares y Afrodita, interpretado alegóricamente por la astrología y aludido por el Ps.-Manetón3. Algunos episodios ya presentes en los poemas homéricos forman parte del saber pretendidamente científico de la astrología, como ese del adulterio entre Ares y Afrodita, al que se atribuyen los amores adúlteros que produce la conjunción del planeta Venus con el de Marte, utilizada para la exégesis alegórica de Homero4. En algunos casos, como éste o el de las funciones de Mercurio, que tutela a mensajeros, comerciantes, ladrones y viajeros, la huella de los mitos en los textos astrológicos está clara; pero en otros hay que buscarla entre líneas en las largas y sentenciosas descripciones de esos manuales técnicos; no suelen dar pistas, pero casi siempre resumen y llevan a la categoría de axiomas lo que antes los poetas presentaron bajo el ropaje literario de sus versos. Así, estamos convencidos de que la influencia homérica y hesiódica en la astrología antigua no se reduce sólo a unos cuantos epítetos con que poetas astrológicos como Doroteo, el Pseudo-Manetón, Anubión o Máximo, revisten de autoridad épica a sus planetas, aunque también esté ahí. Así, dejando para más adelante los epítetos de Saturno y Júpiter, he aquí los más significativos para los otros tres planetas, que, a través de ellos, hacen más divina su personalidad mitológica: a) θοῦρος (Dor. 5.33,34, p. 407 Pingree; Dor. 5.6,10,7, p. 387 Pingree; 5.25,50, p. 398 Pingree; Dor. App. 3 A6–7; Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].213, 473; 3[2].208, 340, 387; 6[3].81, 164, 373, 410, 492, 526, 619; 1[5].38), κορυθαίολος (Dor. App. 3 A6–7; Ps.-Maneth. 6[3].583), βροτολοιγός (Dor. App. 3 A6–7), ὄμβριμος (Dor. App. 3 A6–7) Ἐνυάλιος (Dor. 2.18,1,1 y 2, 5.33,34, p. 407 Pingree), para Marte; b) χρυσῆ (Dor. App. 3 A9–10), ἀφρογένεια (Dor. App. 3 A9–10; Ps.Maneth. 3[2].282, 309; 6[3].119, 268, 281, 431; 4.437, 491; Max. 402), Ἀφρογενής (Dor. 5.16,1–2,8, p. 391 Pingree; 5.37.8, p. 419 Pingree; Ps.Maneth. 2[1].177, 184, 359, 426; 3[2].195, 275; 6[3].39, 126, 152, 154, 240, 278, 533, 696; 4.180), εὐπλόκαμος (Ps.-Maneth. 1[5].17, 56; 5[6].75), εὐστέφανος (Dor. App. 3 A9–10; Ps.-Maneth. 6[3].194), Κυθέρεια (Ps.Maneth. 2[1].319; 3[2].155, 181, 387; 6[3].134, 139, 160, 194, 265, 399, 465, 513, 578, 675; 4.148, 359 [ἰσόμοιρα Κυθερηιὰς], 431; 1[5].62, 296; 5[6].75, 145), Κυθερείη, (Dor. 5.16,1,3, p. 391 Pingree; Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].328, 446; 3[2].329; 1[5].21, 56, 58, 203, 224), Κυθέρη (Ps.-Maneth. 4.126, 207 [Κυθερηίδος αἴγλης], 597), Κυθερία (Dor. App. 3 A9–10), Κυθήρη (Dor. 5.25,58, p. 399 Pingree; Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].232, 273, 460, 3 4

Ps.-Maneth. 5[6].282: ἣν Παφίην εὕρης περιπλεξαμένην τὸν Ἄρεα. Cf. Hübner (1996) 312 y (1998) 328 s. Cf. Plut. de aud. poet. 4, 19E–20A, entre otros. Sobre el tema, nos hemos ocupado en dos trabajos anteriores, a los que remitimos: Pérez Jiménez (1998) y (2002) 251–254.

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477; 3[2].72, 176; 6[3].116, 129, 301, 376, 491, 518, 681; 1[5].18; 5[6].250), Κύπρις (Dor. 1.2.1,5; 5.16.4,18 y 19, p. 392 Pingree; 5.25,58, p. 399 Pingree; 5.27,21, 23, p. 403 Pingree; Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].379; 6[3].163, 203, 206, 242, 269, 272, 283, 379, 396, 427, 439, 505, 586, 592, 686, 693, 724, 746; 4.59, 180, 356, 384, 392, 420, 437, 450, 457, 491, 582, 601; 1[5].30, 45, 65, 101, 106, 121, 246), Κυπρογένεια (Max. 264, 272, 531, 609), Κυπρογενής (Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].221; 6[3].243; 4.214), Παφίη (Dor. App. 3 A9–10; 5.6,10,5, p. 387 Pingree; 5.16,2,11; 5.33,34, p. 407 Pingree; Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].266; 3[2].147, 202; 6[3].188, 244, 583, 701; 1[5].22, 42, 109, 180, 343; 5[6].34, 53, 66, 100, 102, 111, 136, 139, 159, 165, 282, 284, 316, 326, 332, 340; Max. 446, 541), φιλομμειδής (Ps.-Maneth. 4.225), para Venus; y c) Ἀργεϊφόντης (Dor. 1.1,2–3, v. 10; App. 3 A11; Max. 532), διάκτωρ (Dor. App. 3 A11), Κυλλήνιος (Dor. App. 3 A11; Ps.-Maneth. 3[2].394; 4.206), Μαίης παῖς (Max. 138), χρυσοπέδιλος (Ps.-Maneth. 6[3].2[?], 671), ὠκύς (Dor. App. 3 A11), φαιδρός (Dor. App. 3 A11), para Mercurio. Se trata, como vemos, de epítetos inspirados directa o indirectamente por la Ilíada, la Odisea, los poemas hesiódicos o los himnos homéricos y que denotan una memoria tradicional mítica de estos poetas astrólogos, capaces de adaptar, con el lenguaje, los mitos de que fueron protagonistas sus dioses a los nuevos conceptos técnicos y pretendidamente científicos con que está comprometida su doctrina. Pero, como hemos dicho, el mérito de esos autores no se reduce al uso más o menos afortunado de determinados epítetos para sus planetas, signos zodiacales y paranatéllonta. Estos forman parte de una reinterpretación alegórica de los mitos antiguos que, como dicen Klibansky, Panofsky y Saxl5, va más allá de la simple comparación y que, asimilando con los auténticos dioses de la épica la personalidad de los planetas y la razón de sus influencias, sustituyen los atributos mitológicos de esos dioses antiguos por formulaciones cuya causa son los planetas de la astronomía y sus efectos cualidades, defectos y acontecimientos de la vida corriente. Quizá los planetas que más se prestan a la demostración de esta hipótesis sean el de Afrodita/Venus, el de Ares/Marte y el de Hermes/Mercurio, sobre algunas de cuyas relaciones con la tradición literaria de sus rasgos míticos ya nos hemos ocupado en otros lugares6. Sin embargo, en este trabajo nos centraremos en Saturno y Júpiter, en particular, en el mito hesiódico de la sucesión y su posible reflejo en los comportamientos astrológicos de ambos planetas, precisando con mayor documentación y en todos sus detalles lo que ya se intuye en la literatura moderna, sobre todo a propósito de Crono/Saturno7. 5 6 7

Klibansky/Panofsky/Saxl (1991) 152. Pérez Jiménez (1998), (1999a), (2002). Así, Klibansky/Panofsky/Saxl (1991) 144–161; Hübner (1995) 38, 69; Pérez Jiménez (1999b) 30–38 y (2002) 257 s.; Faracovi (1999). Algunas alusiones indirectas al

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2 Tanto en Homero como en Hesíodo, el epíteto propio de Crono (compartido con Prometeo) es ἀγκυλομήτης 8. Se le considera μέγας 9, βασιλεύς 10, πατήρ 11 y Οὐρανίδης 12. Es un dios esclavizador (de los Hecatónquiros, οὓς δῆσε πατὴρ ἀεσιφροσύνῃσιν, theog. 502) y con más defectos que virtudes. Zeus es también μέγας, βασιλεύς y πατήρ. Portador de la piel de Amaltea e hijo de Crono es αἰγίοχος Κρονίδης Ζεύς 13 y, en cuanto dios del cielo, que vive en las alturas, Κρονίδης ὑψίζυγος 14. Su perfil mítico lo convierte en liberador, tanto de los Uranidas (los Hecatonquiros) como del propio Crono a quien, según Hesíodo, liberó para convertirlo en rey de la Edad de Oro. El enfrentamiento entre ambos viene motivado por el comportamiento de Crono, que cae en los mismos errores de su padre Urano. El epíteto ἀγκυλομήτης, en su origen tal vez relacionado con la hoz (ἅρπη en Hes. theog. 175, pero δρέπανον en el verso 162, un nombre con el que se asocia la isla Drepane donde habrían caído los genitales de Urano)15, adquiere un sentido negativo que no hay que descartar en el propio Hesíodo por su aplicación a otro enemigo de Zeus (Prometeo es también ἀγκυλομήτης en Hes. theog. 48, 546). Crono es una divinidad asociada por Hesíodo a la tierra, en cuanto hijo de Gea; y, aunque la vinculación con la agricultura se hace más intensa cuando se identifica con él el Saturno romano, estos dos aspectos (la hoz y su madre) la condicionan sin duda. Su comportamiento con los hijos de Rea lo convierte en dios de la esterilidad humana o, por el nacimiento de Zeus, de pocos hijos. Hesíodo no menciona explícitamente su vejez, pero su

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

mito encontramos también en Bouché-Leclercq (1899) 94, 395 n. 3; y referencias de carácter general en Eisler (1946) 179–180 y Barton (1994) 112; pero esta relación mitológica no parece haber interesado a los historiadores más recientes de la astrología antigua, como Von Stuckard (2005), que, a propósito de la astrología griega, se interesa más por las conexiones con la filosofía y la astronomía que con el mito (98–108), o Campion (2008) que no silencia esas influencias mitológicas en la acción de los planetas tras su adscripción a los dioses griegos (cf. 153) pero, en cuanto a Saturno, se interesa más por las consecuencias astrológicas de la identificación de Κρόνος con χρόνος (cf. 218) que por las de la historia mítica del dios y su proyección al planeta. Hom. Il. 2.205, 319; 4.59, 75; 9.37; 12.450; 16.431; 18.203; Od. 21.415; Hes. theog. 18, 137, 168, 473, 495 y 546. Hes. theog. 459. Κρόνος βασιλεὺς υἱὸς καρτερόθυμος: Hes. theog. 476; 486 (θεῶν προτέρων βασιλῇ). Hes. theog. 73. Hes. theog. 486. Hom. Il. 2.375. Hes. theog. 52. Hom. Il. 4.166; 7.69; 18.185. Hes. erg. 18. Cf. Versnel (1994) 94.

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papel como rey de los primeros dioses, padre de la primera generación de los Olímpicos y abuelo de la segunda, supone implícitamente esa asociación con los viejos a la que suele atribuirse la esterilidad. El mito hesiódico lo presenta como infanticida (se come a sus propios hijos una vez nacidos), una actitud mantenida por la versión evemerista, aunque con limitaciones (compromiso con Titán de dar muerte sólo a los hijos varones). El término que Hesíodo utiliza para esta acción del malvado Crono es κατέπινε 16. Pese a todo, la épica ya llama al dios πατήρ, un título que no lo abandonará en la tradición literaria posterior. Pero su conducta supone importantes problemas familiares con los miembros femeninos de su casa (la esposa y la madre) que se convertirán en instrumento para el castigo de su inefable maldad. Por último, el nacimiento de Zeus contra su voluntad convierte a los hijos tragados (muertos) por Crono en hermanos mayores del futuro rey del Olimpo. De acuerdo con este mito, Zeus no nace en la casa familiar, sino fuera, en Creta, a donde se traslada Rea para dar a luz. Εs un dios libertador, pues primero liberó a los Hecatonquiros, encerrados en el Tártaro por su padre17 y luego, después de haberlo derrotado y encadenado, a éste mismo para que reinara entre los hombres, iniciando así la variante mítica de la Edad de Crono18. También es hesiódica la representación de Zeus como rey, pues obtiene el poder sobre el Universo tras su victoria sobre los titanes; pero un rey ordenador, moderado y que establece una estructura institucionalizada del mundo, con competencias bien distribuidas entre todos los dioses. A diferencia de su padre, él se caracterizará por su fertilidad y productividad, padre de muchos hijos engendrados con diosas y mujeres; amores éstos que inician la última sección, la de los héroes, de la Teogonía. Veamos ahora cómo estos y otros detalles del mito de la Sucesión o la mayor parte de ellos tienen un reflejo tácito o, alguna vez, más o menos explícito en los textos astrológicos, desde el momento en que la literatura técnica, en gran parte poemas didácticos, consagró la identificación de estos dioses con los planetas Saturno y Júpiter.

3 En primer lugar, aunque en los poemas astrológicos el título de Titán se reserva por lo general para el Sol (y por asociación el de Titánide se aplica a la Luna), no faltan ejemplos, como el verso del Ps.-Manetón que encabeza este trabajo, donde es epíteto del dios Crono. En el mismo autor el planeta 16 Hes. theog. 459, 467, 473, 497 (λίθον, πύματον καταπίνων). 17 Λῦσε δὲ πατροκασιγνήτους ὀλοῶν ὑπὸ δεσμῶν (Hes. theog. 501). 18 Expresamente indicado por el verso erg. 173b transmitido por un papiro y probablemente conocido por Proclo (cf. Van der Valk 1985, 8 s.).

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se menciona en dos ocasiones19 como Uránida, otro epíteto que Hesíodo utiliza para el dios en theog. 486, mientras que las indicaciones habituales en Homero y Hesíodo sobre la condición familiar de Zeus (hijo de Crono) atribuidas al planeta Júpiter (hijo de Saturno), Κρονίδης, Κρονίων y Κρόνου παῖς / υἱός son frecuentes en los poetas astrológicos (los dos primeros) o no faltan en alguno de ellos. En cuanto a los epítetos que califican la conducta y condición moral de ambos dioses (Κρόνος: ἀγκυλομήτης; Ζεύς: μητίετα, αἰνότατος), su poder (Ζεύς: ἐρισθενὴς, ὑπερμενὴς, ὑψίζυγος, ὕπατος, μέγας (Il. 18.292); Κρόνος: μέγας), su posición familiar, social y política (Κρόνος: βασιλεύς, πατήρ; Ζεύς: ἄναξ, πατήρ, ἀρίγνωτος, aplicado una vez en Homero a la ἀλκή de Zeus, κύδιστος) o algún aspecto de su perfil biográfico o de sus competencias (Αἰγίοχος, Οὐράνιος en el caso de Zeus), los textos astrológicos o bien los utilizan tal cual o con pequeñas variantes, o al menos aplican a las influencias de los planetas su significado. Así, para Saturno, el epíteto que leemos en Dor. App. 3 A1 y Ps.-Maneth. 4.425, es el habitual para Crono en Homero y Hesíodo: ἀγκυλομήτης. Para Júpiter, los epítetos homéricos y hesiódicos repetidos por los astrólogos son más numerosos. Son frecuentes los patronímicos Κρονίων (Dor. 1.1,2–3, v. 11; App. 2 A 160; 2 D 14, 3 A4; Ps.-Maneth. 1[5].208, 210; Max. 311, 324, 540, 606) o Κρονίδης (Dor. 1.1,2–3, v. 11; App. 2 A 160; 2 D 14; 3 A4; Ps.Maneth. 2[1].475; 1[5].34, 59; 5[6].62, 69, 75) y, en Ps.-Manetón, leemos una vez υἱὸς Κρόνου (Ps.-Maneth. 1[5].129). Está documentado también varias veces el epíteto Αἰγίοχος para Júpiter (Dor. 1.2.1,3, 2.18,2, 5.25.58, p. 399 Pingree; 5.27.24, p. 403 Pingree; 5.33.34, p. 407 Pingre; App. 3 A4; Ps.-Maneth. 6[3].753[?]; Max. 311); y alguna vez leemos, para el mismo dios, μητίετα (Max. 445), ἐρισθενής (Max. 540), ἄναξ (Max. 402), ἀρίγνωτος (Ps.-Maneth. 6[3].77, 122), κύδιστος (Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].475), κελαινεφής (Max. 605), μέγας (Ps.-Maneth. 3[2].315) y Οὐράνιος (Ps.-Maneth. 5[6].256, Antioc. 84).

4 No obstante, como hemos dicho a propósito de los otros planetas, la influencia de Homero y Hesíodo en los astrólogos y, en particular, en los poetas, no es sólo formal. En el fondo, los mitos son tan determinantes que, a menudo, las doctrinas y prescripciones de esta pretendida ciencia son, en realidad, una reproducción mimética o una relectura velada de esos mitos. Y en particular las influencias de Saturno y Júpiter, solos y en configuración, o en oposición

19 Ps.-Maneth. 4.238 y 460.

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ambos planetas, rememoran el mito hesiódico de la Sucesión, con casi todos los elementos con que lo elaboró Hesíodo en la Teogonía. Veámoslos: 1. Personalidad épica de los planetas En el poeta beocio, y también en Homero, tanto Crono como Zeus son reyes; el primero, de la primera generación de dioses personales, los titanes; y, el segundo, de los Olímpicos. Bien es cierto que a Crono el título se le concede en la tradición literaria, además de por ser el rey de los primeros dioses, como a propósito de su planeta leíamos en Ps.-Manetón, por el prestigio acumulado también desde los poetas épicos como rey de la Edad de Oro20. La astrología se hizo eco de esas competencias políticas de ambos planetas, representantes de los reyes del Universo21, una función que no logró eliminar por completo (y menos aún para Júpiter) el Sol entronizado de los estoicos, con el que habitualmente seguirán compartiendo aquellos las influencias regias. De ahí que, en la casa del Sol, la novena, los tres astros (y Mercurio por el papel de Hermes como administrador y servidor de reyes) τὰς ἀπὸ […] βασιλέων χάριτας ἢ δωρεὰς ἢ εὐεργεσίας χαρίζονται 22. Zeus es, además, padre de los dioses de la tercera generación sobre los que reina, así como de los héroes y, en consecuencia, de los hombres23. En cuanto a Crono, el epí20 Véase Versnel (1994) 95 y la bibliografía citada en la misma página, n. 15. Los términos de Saturno en Libra y de Júpiter en Cáncer son calificados por Valente de βασιλικαί (Vett. Val. 1.3.31 y 19). 21 Εsa función política del planeta está presente además en aquellos pasajes en los que, como Hermes Trismegisto (apud Rhet. CCAG 8.4, p. 164), su asociación en la casa octava con Marte en configuración con la suerte de la Fortuna en el horóscopo, ποιοῦσιν μέγαν τύραννον. Y habitualmente la conjunción de Saturno y Júpiter o una buena configuración entre ellos puede tener efectos positivos referidos a los reyes, como en estos versos del Ps.-Manetón sobre la presencia de Saturno en los signos de Júpiter: Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].150–164: Φαίνων μέν τε Διὸς ζῴοις μεγακύδεας ἄνδρας / τεύχει, καὶ βασιλεῦσιν ἰδ’ αὖθ’ ἑτάροισιν ἀνάκτων / ἐς φιλίην ζεύγνυσι, καὶ αὐτοὺς πολλάκι δασμῶν / πρήκτορας ἐξανέφηνεν ἐυπρήσσοντας ἄναξιν, / χρήματά τ’ ἐν χερσὶν δῶκεν βασιλήια νωμᾶν. 22 Paul. Alex. 34, p. 63 Boer. La relación de Júpiter con ἄρχουσι, βασιλεῦσι, puede leerse en los textos astrológicos (cf. Albumasar-Palco, CCAG 5.1, p. 189 y Rhet. CCAG 7, p. 225: εἰ δὲ ὁ Ζεὺς ἐν ἐπισήμῳ τόπῳ ἑστώς, σημαίνει τὴν βλάβην ἔσεσθαι ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄρχουσι καὶ τέκνοις βασιλέων). 23 Sin embargo, para los astrólogos antiguos, el papel del padre conviene en primer lugar al Sol y en segundo a Saturno (vid. Bouché-Leclercq 1889, 94, 305, 395, 437, 499); aunque también es cierto que Zeus conserva algún rastro de su antigua concepción épica como padre de dioses y hombres; por ejemplo, Timeo Praxides propone, para determinar las circunstancias de los padres, el signo en que está el Sol y el señor del signo en que está Júpiter (Vett. Val. 2.32[31].1). El mismo texto

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teto de <padre> le conviene sobre todo por serlo de Zeus, mientras que su mayor antigüedad y su relación con los dioses hijos de Zeus lo convierten en , una referencia que no aparece en la épica, pero que es facilmente deducible, y en viejo. Por eso no debe extrañarnos que la influencia sobre los padres sea compartida – lo mismo que la dignidad real- por ambos planetas. Respecto de Saturno, Valente entiende como secundaria esta función, seguramente por el mito en que el dios no permitía su propia paternidad, y hace a los hijos de Saturno ἀλλοτρίων τέκνων πατέρας y más padrastos o tutores que verdaderos padres24. Pero, en general, Saturno simboliza, después del Sol, a los padres, sin ninguna limitación o condición25. No tan explícito es ese papel para Júpiter, pese a su identificación con el dios griego y romano, aunque no queda excluido26. 2. La castración de Urano Si bien, como hemos visto en el epígrafe anterior, Saturno tiene que ver con los padres por la propia condición de Crono como tal respecto de Zeus y de los dioses de su generación, las influencias negativas que el planeta ejerce sobre ellos podrían estar relacionadas con el enfrentamiento de Crono a Urano. Así, en el IC, tradicionalmente ligado a él, sus influencias negativas (durante la noche)27 tienen que ver con el destierro del padre (atribuible a su papel como hijo de Urano, pero también a su destino como padre de Zeus) y los huérfanos (en este caso más pertinente para un Crono que anula el protagonismo divino de Urano). Esa actitud hostil del dios hesiódico, que venga así los ultrajes del padre a la madre, se refleja quizá en su responsabilidad astrológica en las muertes violentas de los padres28. Ahora bien, la

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evidencia las oscilaciones respecto de Saturno y Júpiter para esta función, cuando dice que la suerte del padre se determina por la distancia entre el Sol y Saturno y, según otros, entre el Sol y Júpiter (Vett. Val. 2.32[31].10). En Critodemo, CCAG 8.1, p. 260, los términos de Júpiter para Sagitario son βασιλικοί. Vett. Val. 1.1.7. Rhet. de planetarum natura ac vi, CCAG 7, p. 213, Albumasar, De mysteriis, CCAG 11.1, p. 175 (τοὺς πατέρας καὶ τοὺς πάππους); cf. Ps.-Maneth. 2[1].412. En Paul. Alex. 33, p. 52 Boer, la suerte del padre, cuando Saturno está ὕπαυγος (o sea, a menos de 15º del Sol), se fija por la distancia desde Marte a Júpiter; en nuestra opinión, eso implica una cierta competencia astrológica del planeta de Zeus en el destino de los padres: ἐὰν δὲ ὁ τοῦ Κρόνου ἀστὴρ ὕπαυγος εὑρεθῇ, ἀπὸ ῎Αρεως ἐπὶ Δία, καὶ τὰ ἴσα ἀπὸ ὡροσκόπου λάμβανε καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν νυκτὸς καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἡμέρας γενομένων. El texto es comentado por Bouché-Leclercq (1889) 305 y n. 3. Paul. Alex. 34, p. 56 Boer. Dor. 2.21–23, 17: εἰ δὲ Κρόνου ὡροσκοποῦντος ῎Αρης δύνει, δεινὰ μὲν τοῖς γονεῦσιν, αὐτὸς δὲ βιαιοθάνατος ἔσται. Aquí la acción de Saturno se combina con la de Marte.

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acción de Crono contra Urano no es la muerte de éste, también dios, sino su destitución como rey del Universo y la extirpación de sus genitales con una enorme hoz de acero producida por su madre Gea. Así que la hoz será un atributo del dios a partir de esta gesta hesiódica y, aunque este instrumento simboliza la influencia agrícola del planeta, la asociación que un poeta como Doroteo Sidonio de aquél con éste29 podría deberse a la castración de Urano. Pero, con carácter previo al hecho de la emasculación, la atribución a Saturno de engaños y emboscadas, tiene que ver con la ocultación y sorpresa con que el dios, escondido en el seno de su madre, llevó a cabo su gesta30. Así, según Hefestión, Saturno en el horóscopo significa en las katarchaí sobre testamentos, asechanzas31, que, precedidas de engaño como en el texto hesiódico son imputables igualmente a Saturno en las guerras, tal como leemos en Teófilo de Edessa32. De este modo, la ocultación y el engaño formarán parte de la descripción del planeta Saturno en los textos astrológicos33, igual que su vinculación con la tierra34, de la que era hijo el dios Crono. Εn cualquier caso, lo que sí parece consecuencia del papel mí-

29 30 31 32 33

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En otros textos, Saturno es único responsable (p. ej., Antíoco apud Reth. CCAG 1, p. 162: ἐὰν ἐπὶ τὸν κλῆρον τοῦ πατρὸς πρῶτος ὁ Κρόνος τὴν ἀκτῖνα βάλλῃ ἢ κατὰ σχῆμα ἢ κατὰ παρέμβασιν πρῶτον θεωρήσῃ τὸν κλῆρον τοῦ πατρὸς, προαναιρεῖ τὸν πατέρα). En Heph. 3.43.1 se dice que la Luna en determinadas posiciones regidas por Saturno y en configuración con éste, τὸ κλαπὲν τραχὺ καὶ ἁρμόζον ἔργοις σκληροῖς οἷον δίκελλα, σάκκος, σχοίνιον, δρέπανον. Como δολίη τέχνη es calificada la estratagema de Gea a la que responde positivamente Crono en theog. 161 y como λόχος la acechanza de Crono en theog. 174: εἶσε δέ μιν κρύψασα λόχῳ. Heph. App. 1, 2.8: ἐὰν οὖν ὡροσκοπῇ Κρόνος τῇ καταρχῇ ὁ διαθέμενος γέρων ἔσται, κακοῦργος καὶ [ὁ διαθέμενος] ἄδικος καὶ ἐνέδραν ἕξει καὶ ψεύσματα. CCAG 11.1, p. 205: Κρόνου καὶ Σελήνης μαρτυρούντων τῷ ὡροσκόπῳ δόλον λέγε γεγενῆσθαι, ἢ ἐνέδραν λέγε τῷ στρατῷ. Vett. Val. 1.1.7 s.: <῾Ο> δὲ τοῦ Κρόνου ποιεῖ μὲν τοὺς ὑπ’ αὐτὸν γεννωμένους […] ἀποκρύπτοντας τὴν δολιότητα, […] ὑποκρινομένην τὴν ὅρασιν ἔχοντας […]. (8) ποιεῖ δὲ καὶ […] κρυβάς; Hermes Trismegisto, apud Rhet. CCAG 8.4, p. 149: ἡ δὲ Σελήνη ὑπὸ Κρόνου ἢ ῞Αρεως ὁρωμένη, κρυπτῶν τόπων πόνυς ποιεῖ ἢ χάριν τινῶν πραγμάτων κρυπτῶν; igual que Marte es un planeta hostil, que causa δόλους καὶ ἐπιβουλάς (Vett. Val. 1.19.3); Rhet. De planetarum natura ac vi, CCAG 7, p. 213–215: Ὁ Κρόνος […] σημαίνει […] 215 Αὐτὸς δὲ ἀστὴρ λαχὼν τὴν οἰκοδεσποτείαν τῆς γενέσεως τὸ μὲν παλαιὸν καὶ ἐνδόμυχον καὶ σκοτεινὸν καὶ μονόγνωμον καὶ σιγηρὸν καὶ βαζυπόνηρον καὶ ἀφαντασίωτον καὶ κακόπαθον καὶ κατηφέστερον ἐς ὀψὲ τῶν χρόνων <ἀποτελεῖ>. El Ps.-Manetón lo llama δολοεργός (4.554). Vett. Val. 1.1.7–9: <῾Ο> δὲ τοῦ Κρόνου […] (9) γεηπόνους δὲ καὶ γεωργοὺς ποιεῖ διὰ τὸ τῆς γῆς αὐτὸν κυριεύειν. Rhet. de planetarum natura ac vi, CCAG 7, p. 213: Ὁ Κρόνος […] σημαίνει δὲ […] γεωπονίας. Albumasar, De misteriis, CCAG 11.1, p. 175: ὁ δὲ Κρόνος σημαίνει τὰ περὶ τῶν ἐγγαίων καὶ τῶν οἰκοδομημάτων.

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tico asumido por Crono en relación con su padre es la responsabilidad de Saturno a propósito de los castrados35. Así se hace saber en Retorio, tanto cuando Saturno se encuentra en un lugar favorable como desfavorable para él36 y en otros pasajes donde determinadas relaciones del planeta con la Luna, con Marte, con Venus o con Mercurio, provocan daños procedentes de eunucos37 o él mismo hace que nazcan eunucos38. La acción de Saturno en este sentido es tal que incluso produce la emasculación propia, como dice Hefestión39 y hacen los fieles de la diosa Cíbele. Sobre el comportamiento de estos últimos en presencia de Saturno como planeta del horóscopo, son explícitos estos versos del Ps.-Manetón (6[3].534–540): ὁππότε δ’ ὡρονομῇ Στίλβων ζῷον κατὰ θήλυ, δεικήλῳ δ’ ἐνὶ θηλυτέρῳ καὶ Μήνη ἐπείη, ὡρονόμῳ δὲ Κρόνος τε καὶ ῎Αρης ὁππότε κέντρῳ αἰπυτάτῳ ἐφέπωνται, ὀιζυροὶ γεγάασιν φῶτες· Δινδυμίῃ γὰρ ἀγείροντες κατὰ δήμους καὶ πόλιας πλάζονται ὁμοῦ ῥόπτροις τε καὶ αὐλοῖς, χερσὶν ἑαῖς κόψαντες ἄφνω τεκνοσπόρον αἰδῶ 40.

Sin duda en estos versos hay otros elementos astrológicos de los que puede hacerse depender la emasculación, como es el carácter hermafrodita de Mer35 Un detalle del mito para cuya influencia en los textos astrológicos remitimos a Pérez Jiménez (2008). 36 Rhet. CCAG 7, p. 225: ἐὰν εὑρεθῇ ὁ Κρόνος ἐν τόπῳ ἰδίῳ ὡροσκοπῶν ἢ μεσουρανῶν ἐν χρηματιστικῷ τόπῳ, γίνεται ἡ βλάβη εἰς ἐντίμους εὐνούχους ἢ πρεσβύτας ἢ γέροντας ἐμφανεῖς· εἰ δὲ ἐν ἀποκλίματι ἢ ἐν ταπεινώματι ἢ ἐν ἀχρηματίστῳ τόπῳ κείμενος, γίνεται ἡ βλάβη ἐπὶ δούλων ἢ εὐνούχων ἤγουν ἀφανῶν. 37 Firm. math. 7.25.17: Si Luna in sterilibus signis fuerit inventa, et cum ea sit Saturnus partiliter collocatus, Venus vero hos qualibet radiatione respexerit, sit autem Saturnus in finibus Veneris, et Venus in finibus Saturni, nec Lunam Iuppiter aliqua radiatione respiciat, eunuchi fient. Si vero in terrenis signis Luna cum Saturno sic fuerit sicut diximus, Venus vero cum Saturno commutaverit fines, et absit similiter testimonium Iovis, [coitus] fient eunuchi, sed qui cum mulieribus coeant. 38 Ps.-Maneth. 3[2].277–286 donde Saturno en conjunción con Venus y en aspecto con Marte o la Luna εὐνούχους πάμπαν ἔθηκεν y 1[5].121–125, donde Venus en diámetro con Saturno o la Luna, marte en cuadrado con Venus, Mercurio en el MC y Saturno en configuración con éste, εὐνούχους στείρους, οὔτ’ ἄρσενας οὔτε γυναῖκας. 39 Heph. 2.13.12: γίνονται δὲ εὐνοῦχοι ἢ ἑρμαφρόδιτοι ἢ ἄτρητοι ἢ ἀρρητοῦργοι γυναῖκες ὅταν ἡ Σελήνη πλήθουσα συνάψῃ ῎Αρει καὶ ῾Ερμῇ Κρόνου ἐπιμαρτυροῦντος. 40 «Cuando Estilbon se encuentra en el horóscopo en un signo femenino, y en una imagen femenina también está Mene, y cuando siguen al horóscopo Saturno y Marte en el centro más profundo, desgraciados son los mortales que nacen; pues mendigando para Dindimia por pueblos y ciudades andan errantes al son de timbales y flautas, tras cortar con sus dos manos el miembro inseminador de niños.»

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curio (Estilbon) y la presencia de la Luna (Mene), símbolo de femineidad, ambos en un signo femenino; podría pensarse además que la referencia a Saturno (junto con Marte), en el IC y, por tanto, en aspecto cuadrado con Mercurio, responde a su condición como planeta negativo; pero la vinculación del planeta con los eunucos en otros pasajes convierte en algo más que simple especulación la hipótesis de que la imagen mítica del Crono castrador de Urano inspira tanto este pasaje como otro del mismo Manetón donde la relación Marte-Saturno-Mercurio de nuevo propicia este comportamiento de los imitadores del divino Atis41. 3. Esterilidad e infanticidio Naturalmente, la intervención quirúrgica de Crono sobre los genitales de Urano, además del hecho de que el dios representa a los primeros dioses personales, por tanto a la vejez, hace de Saturno el símbolo de la esterilidad humana. Bajo su influencia están en los textos astrológicos los ἄγονοι, ἄτεκνοι, στειρώδεις y aquellas desviaciones sexuales que implican esterilidad en general42. Pero, aparte de estas referencias generales, contaminadas ya por la tradición literaria del dios, incluida su asociación con el tiempo, y dificilmente interpretables desde la perspectiva concreta del mito hesiódico, son abundantes los textos en que se puede seguir la huella de éste, sobre todo a propósito del comportamiento del dios con sus hijos. En efecto, la relación entre Saturno y Júpiter afecta casi siempre al destino de los hermanos y de los hijos43. De hecho, según Pablo de Alejandría, la suerte de los hermanos se fija por la distancia desde Saturno a Júpiter y la de los hijos por la que hay desde Júpiter a Saturno, tanto de día como de noche44. Así que Saturno, por alguna razón, representa a los hermanos, especialmente los mayores. 41 Ps.-Maneth. 5[6].177–180: ῎Αρεα δ’ εἰ γνοίης ἀκρονύκτιον ὀβριμοεργόν, / καὶ σὺν τῷδε Κρόνον τε καὶ ῾Ερμείην παρέοντα, / ἀράμενοι παλάμαις ὑπὸ τύμπανα φάσγανον ὀξὺ / μιμοῦνται δυσαγῆ Κυβελήιον ἔνθεον ῎Αττιν. Cf. Pérez Jiménez (2008) 267 y n. 30. 42 Antíoco (CCAG 11.2, p. 109) lo hace señor ἀσπέρμων καὶ ἀτέκνων προσώπων. Por ejemplo, los términos de Saturno en Aries son στειρώδεις (Vett. Val. 1.3.5), en Tauro, κατάστειροι, ἄγονοι, εὐνουχικαί (1.3.9), en Leo, στειρώδεις δὲ καὶ ἄσποροι (1.3.23), en Libra, στειρώδεις (1.3.31), en Escorpio, σπανοτέκνων, σπαναδέλφων (1.3,40), en Sagitario, στειρωτικαί (1.3.44), en Capricornio, δύστεκνοι (1.3.49) y en Acuario, στειρώδεις, δύσγονοι, σπανάδελφοι y σπανότεκνοι (1.3.55). 43 Pérez Jiménez (1999) 30 s. 44 Paul. Alex. 33, p. 52 Boer: Τὸν δὲ τῶν ἀδελφῶν κλῆρον καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἡμερινῶν καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν νυκτερινῶν ἀπὸ Κρόνου ἐπὶ Δία καὶ τὰ ἴσα ἀπὸ ὡροσκόπου, τὸν δὲ τέκνων κλῆρον καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἡμέρας καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν νυκτὸς γενομένων ἀπὸ Διὸς ἐπὶ Κρόνον καὶ τὰ ἴσα ἀπὸ ὡροσκόπου.

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Sin embargo, cuando está en horóscopo o en el MC causa individuos de pocos hermanos (σπαναδέλφους)45, lo que puede aplicarse a la conducta de Crono, funesta para los hermanos de Zeus. Saturno en el MC incluye entre las influencias negativas desgracias en el matrimonio (igual que el de Crono con Rea) y pocos hijos46. También ahora puede servirnos de guía otro pasaje del Ps.-Manetón en el que se subraya el comportamiento de Saturno en el horóscopo, equiparable, punto por punto, al de Crono respecto de sus hijos en la Teogonía. He aquí los versos en cuestión: Πρῶτα μὲν οὖν Φαίνων ὑπὲρ ὡρονόμοιο βεβηκώς ἤτοι πρωτοτόκους καὶ πρωτοτρόφους ἀνέφηνεν, ἢ καὶ ἀδελφειοὺς προτέρους διόλεσσεν ἅπαντας, τέκνων δ’ αὖτ’ ὀλετὴρ πέλεται, βίοτόν τε χαλέπτει ἀλλοτρίοις οἴκοισιν ἐών 47.

La imagen que subyace en este texto es la de Crono evitando el nacimiento de sus hijos (que son los hermanos de Zeus, muertos antes de que él naciera, y convertido así en primogénito48). Aquí es Saturno el que mata a los hermanos mayores y el que asesina a los niños y los textos astrológicos en prosa, menos condicionados por la tradición poética respetada por el Pseudo-Manetón, lo han reinterpretado a su modo. Así, para el Liber Hermetis, la posición de Saturno en el horóscopo significa que hay varios primogenitos […] uel primos filios uel primo nutritos (entendemos que por morir los anteriores) uel fratres natos ante eos interficientes, es decir que los nacidos con esa estrella matan a sus hermanos mayores, unde raros fratres habent 49. Tolomeo, también a propósito de los hermanos, se hace eco del mismo texto, aunque con variaciones: mantiene el significado de Saturno en el horóscopo para indicar los primogénitos, pero atribuye la causa de la muerte de los hermanos mayores a la presencia de Marte en el mismo ángulo50, olvidándose del significado mitológico que sí conserva, en cambio, la versión poética. Pero otros autores son más explícitos sobre el papel jugado respecto de hijos y

45 Dor. 2.21–23.14. 46 Paul Alex. 33, p. 65 Boer: δυσγάμους καὶ σπανοτέκνους καὶ πένητας ἀποτελεῖ. 47 Ps.-Maneth. 3[2].8–12: «Pues bien, en primer lugar si Phaenon transita por el horóscopo, se refiere sin duda a los primogénitos e hijos criados por primera vez o incluso hace perecer a todos los hermanos mayores, y es por su parte asesino de niños y dificulta la vida cuando está en casas ajenas.» 48 La misma acción leemos en Ps.-Maneth. 6[3].339 s.: καὶ δὲ καὶ ὡρονομῶν Φαίνων, ὁπόσοι προγένοντο / φωτὸς ἀδελφειοί, πάντας ζωῆς ἀπάμερσεν. 49 Hermes Latinus, De triginta sex decanis 26.70 (p. 78 Gundel, p. 154 Feraboli). 50 Tetrab. 3.6.2: εἰ δὲ καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν κέντρων ἡ ἐναντίωσις γένοιτο, καὶ μάλιστα τοῦ ὡροσκοποῦντος, ἐπὶ μὲν Κρόνου καὶ πρωτοτόκοι ἢ πρωτοτρόφοι γίγνονται, ἐπὶ δὲ ῎Αρεως θανάτῳ τῶν λοιπῶν σπαναδελφοῦσιν.

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hermanos mayores por Saturno y Júpiter a imitación de su dioses propietarios hesiódicos51. Tal vez uno de los pasajes que subraya mejor la aberrante conducta infanticida de Crono/Saturno52 sea el que encontramos en Valente sobre la configuración en cuadrado de este planeta con Marte (que incrementa su maldad) de modo que entre ambos ἀναιροῦνται γὰρ τὰ τέκνα αὐτῶν, ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ τὰ τῶν ἀδελφῶν 53. Pero no es el único: en la misma configuración (cuadrado) con el de Júpiter, βλάπτονται δὲ καὶ περὶ τέκνων· οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἄτεκνοι γίνονται, οἱ δὲ θάνατον τέκνων θεωροῦσιν 54. Aquí de todos modos la acción hostil de Saturno está suavizada (pues los saturnianos sólo verán la muerte de sus hijos); pero en unos versos del Ps.-Manetón recuperamos la abominable acción del Crono hesiódico transferida a los influidos por Saturno en horóscopo, que matarán a los hermanos mayores y a los hijos, si aquél se encuentra en domicilios ajenos55. Por otra parte, este comportamiento hesiódico de Saturno en la astrología parece confirmado por los textos que convierten al planeta en símbolo de glotones y beodos. Lo primero porque Crono se tragaba a sus hijos conforme iban naciendo, cosa que, referida al planeta, justifica el título de ἀθεσμοφάγος que le da el Pseudo-Manetón56 y el de πολυφάγους con que designa Albumasar a sus hijos57. Y lo segundo, porque el verbo usado por Hesíodo (καταπίνειν) asocia con la bebida tanto al planeta como a sus domicilios58. Con tal comportamiento las características de sus hijos o sus cualidades propias que tienen que ver con la insociabilidad (δύσμικτος, ἀμετροεπής, ἀτράπεζος 59),

51 Cf. las referencias en el comentario de Feraboli al pasaje de Tolomeo (Feraboli ²1989, 424–425). Como observa Bouché-Leclercq (1899) 395 n. 3, precisamente este comportamiento de ambos planetas los equipara a los dos dioses del mito hesiódico que, pese a ser los últimos engendrados, se convirtieron en primogénitos: el uno, porque Urano no dejó nacer a sus hermanos mayores y, el otro, porque su padre se los tragó. 52 Indicada a menudo en los textos astrológicos, como éste de Antíoco en el que, si la suerte de los hijos cae en casa de Saturno y cuenta en configuración con un planeta negativo (el propio Saturno o Marte), τοὺς πρωτοτόκους ἀναιρεῖ (Antíoco apud Reth. CCAG 1, p. 161). 53 Vett. Val. 2.17[16].78. 54 Vett. Val. 2.17[16].74. 55 3[2].8–12 (citado supra p. 146). Cf. Dor. 2.21–23.19: εἰ δὲ Κρόνου ὡροσκοποῦντος Ἕρμῆς δύνει, τέκνων θάνατος ἔσται. (25) σὺν δὲ ῾Ερμῇ δύνων τέκνα ἀναιρεῖ καὶ δούλους καὶ κτήματα καὶ τύχην ἐλαττοῖ. 56 Ps.-Maneth. 4.560–567. 57 Albumasar, De mysteriis, 3.50 (CCAG 11.1, p. 178), un aspecto que ya poníamos en relación con el mito hesiódico en Pérez Jiménez (2000) 146 s. 58 Cf. Pérez Jiménez (2000) l. c. 59 Ps.-Maneth. 4.563.

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la falta de cariño hacia los hijos60, la pérdida de personas queridas61, la violencia, la soberbia y la injusticia62 se adecuan perfectamente a la imagen del dios propuesta por el mito, alejada de los principios de moderación, del respeto a las leyes, de la justicia, la piedad y el diálogo que representan el espíritu griego, simbolizados en la victoria de Zeus. Sin duda en ello pensaban los astrólogos que trasladaron al planeta esa imagen de crueldad y misantropía con que describe el Ps.-Manetón a los que nacen con Saturno en el MC y Marte en Occidente: ῎Αρεϊ δυομένῳ μέσον οὐρανὸν ἢν Κρόνος ἔλθῃ, ἔσται μισέλλην γενέθλῃ τιμήν τε θεοῖσιν οὐχὶ νέμων, ἄνομός τε φρεσίν, πλήθοντι λογισμῷ ἀλλόφρων, δύσμικτος, ἀμετροεπής, ἀτράπεζος, αὐτόνομος, κακόθυμος, ἀθεσμοφάγος, δολοεργός, ὀθνείων κτεάνων ἐπιθύμιος, ὃν διὰ παντὸς δῆμοι μισήσουσι δι’ ἀφροσύνην ἀλόγιστον 63.

4. La venganza de Rea y Zeus La relación habitual entre Saturno y Júpiter refleja la hostilidad hesiódica entre Crono y Zeus, resuelta con el triunfo de Zeus, esperanza para Rea y Gea de un desenlace feliz en el ámbito divino. Así que, mientras Saturno significaba la venganza de Gea sobre Urano, Júpiter simbolizará la victoria64, 60 Dor. 2.21–23.15 εἰ μέντοι τύχῃ ἐν ζῳδίῳ ἐχθροῦ ἀστέρος – ἤτοι ῎Αρεως, Σελήνης, Ἀφροδίτης – καὶ μάλιστα ἐν Ταύρῳ, χεῖρον· ὀρφανίας γὰρ ποιεῖ καὶ ἀτεκνίας, καὶ μᾶλλον ἐν νυκτερινῇ τότε γὰρ καὶ […] σημαίνει καὶ αὐτοῦς φθονερούς, δυσεράστους, ὀκνηρούς, ἀμαθεῖς καὶ πρὸς τέκνα ἀστόργους. 61 Según Critodemo (CCAG 8.1, p. 259), los términos de Saturno en Libra significan ἀφαίρεσις στεργομένων προσώπων. 62 Por ejemplo, los términos de Saturno en Capricornio, su casa (y por tanto doblemente saturnianos) son, según Critodemo (CCAG 8.1, p. 260), τραχεῖς, ἀνυπόστολοι, αὐθεντικοί, δίκας κινοῦντες. 63 4.560–566: «Si con Marte ocultándose Saturno marcha por el medio cielo, será enemigo de los griegos con su nacimiento y no tributará honores a los dioses, será de mente malvada, lleno de extraviados pensamientos, de trato difícil, de palabra sin mesura, insociable, independiente, malévolo, que come alimentos ilícitos, pérfido, codicioso de bienes ajenos y al que por doquier odiarán los pueblos a causa de su irreflexiva locura.» 64 En general los efectos de Júpiter tienen que ver, en efecto, con el triunfo político y, a veces, militar; pero en ocasiones se establece una conexión muy estrecha en los textos astrológicos entre el planeta y el término que mejor define ese triunfo, νίκη. Por ejemplo, en la descripción de los términos zodiacales que hace Critodemo (CCAG 8.1, p. 257–261), los de Júpiter en Acuario son νίκη, ἐπίσημοι, λαμπροὶ ταῖς τύχαις ἐκ κακοπαθειῶν, τινὲς καὶ ἱερονῖκαι (260) y tal vez una de las razones por las que la Victoria como divinidad se asocia a Cáncer en Heph. 3.7.16–18 sea

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la esperanza65 y, por haber sobrevivido al nacimiento, la εὐτεκνία 66. Esto último se transfiere a las propiedades astrológicas de la casa undécima, regida por Júpiter, de la que se nos dice que ἀγαθῶν ἐλπίδων ἐστὶ σημαντικός 67. Parece que el destino de Crono a manos de su hijo (o el de Urano) ya estaba escrito en el cielo, si relacionamos con el mito estos otros versos del Ps.Manetón 2[1].342–346: ἐν δὲ Λέοντι, δόμῳ πανδερκέος Ἠελίοιο, Φαίνων μὲν μεγάλους τε καὶ ἐκ πατέρων ἀριδήλων τεύχει, καί τ’ ὄλβῳ βιότου ἅμα κῦδος ὀπάζει, ἀλλὰ κακῷ θανάτῳ ὀλέσει πάντως γενετῆρα 68.

Un texto que sigue o tiene su eco tanto en el Liber Hermetis 69 como en otros autores70 y en el que podemos imaginar que el Sol (primer símbolo del padre) representa a Urano, noble padre para Crono, pero que es víctima de sus manos. En cambio, a la historia contada por Hesíodo sobre el destronamiento de Crono corresponden punto por punto todos los detalles de otra prescrip-

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la vinculación del signo a Júpiter, del que su grado 15 es exaltación (cf. Pérez Jiménez 2007, 117 s.). Entendida tanto en el sentido de fe (πίστις: Anon. de planetarum patrociniis, CCAG 7, p. 97: Τῷ δὲ Διὶ ἀνήκει τὰ ὡραῖα πάντα καὶ οἱ ὁμαλοὶ τόποι καὶ οἱ ἥμενοι καὶ ἡ πίστις καὶ ἡ σωφροσύνη καὶ οἱ εὔρυθμοι ἐν φωνῇ καὶ οἱ χθαμαλοὶ λόγοι. […] σημαίνει δὲ καὶ πιστότητα καὶ εὐλάβειαν καὶ τῶν ἡδονῶν ἐπικρατεῖ καὶ γνώσεως; Ps.-Maneth. 5[6].256–259: Εἰ δ’ ἀγαθὸς σωτὴρ φαεσίμβροτος οὐράνιος Ζεὺς […] ἀρχῇ καὶ πίστει καὶ τιμαῖς ἐστεφάνωσεν), como de confianza en el futuro (ἐλπίς: Albumasar, De mysteriis, CCAG 11.1, p. 175: ὁ δὲ Ζεὺς ἀεὶ σημαίνει τὰ τῆς πίστεως καὶ τοῦ δόγματος καὶ τῆς δικαιοσύνης καὶ τῆς εὐφροσύνης, καὶ τὴν ἀγαθοεργίαν καὶ τὴν εὐτυχίαν καὶ τὸν πλοῦτον καὶ τὰς ἐλπίδας). Por ello, a propósito de la suerte de los hijos, que se fija a partir de Mercurio y Venus, dice Valente (2.39.1) que, si estos planetas están en mala configuración con Saturno y Marte, son causa de ἀτεκνίας […] ἢ ἀναιρέσεως τέκνων (una acción reservada a Crono por el mito), pero ὑπὸ δὲ Διὸς βοηθούμενοι εὐτεκνίας εἰσὶν αἴτιοι. Cf. Dor. 2.21–23.26: ῾Ο Ζεὺς ὡροσκοπῶν ἐν ζῳδίῳ θηλυκῷ εὐγάμους, εὐτέκνους, φιλαδέλφους, ἐναρέτους, ἐπιτρόπους ἢ ἄρχοντας ποιεῖ, καὶ μάλιστα ἡμέρας. Paul. Alex. 34, p. 68 Boer. «En Leo, casa del Sol que todo lo ve, Fenonte hace personas importantes y de brillantes padres, y suma prestigio a la dicha de la vida, pero siempre matará con mala muerte al padre.» 32.7 (p. 89 Gundel, p. 188 Feraboli): Saturnus in domo Solis uel facie uel gradu condicionalis cum fuerit orientalis et rectus sine aspectu Martis, patris nobilis natum ostendit, sed parentum separationem et ipsos natos in gloriis et felicitatibus magnis ducit; proficuum enim et augmentationem uitae et substantiae nato significat et aedificiorum et fundorum et uillarum domini fiunt, sed patris malam uel uiolentam mortem indicat uel in aquis eum interficit uel mala morte uel humidis molestiis. Rhet. CCAG 8.4, p. 201 y 102.

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ción de Anubión71 sobre el significado de Saturno y Júpiter en triplicidad; de ambos planetas se subraya la influencia positiva (basada en el simbolismo real de ambos, ya que si Mercurio los contempla significa βασιλεῦσιν ὑπηρετουμένοις); pero que también – y aquí comienza nuestra historia épica – ἀνατρέφουσι δὲ καὶ ἀλλότρια τέκνα οἱ τοιοῦτοι ὅταν ἐπὶ καλῶν τόπων ἱστάμενοι τύχωσιν· τῶν μέντοι ἰδίων τέκνων οὐκ ἀπολαύουσιν· ἢ γὰρ ἀεὶ τελευτῶσιν οἰ γεννώμενοι ἐν τούτῳ τῷ σχήματι ἢ ἐν ἀλλοτρίοις τραφέντες ὕστερον ἐπανίασι πρὸς τοὺς γονεῖς 72.

El eco hesiódico de ese texto se nos antoja incontestable: tampoco Crono disfrutó de sus propios hijos, pues, o murieron (tragados por él) o el que nació (Zeus) se crió entre otros (en Creta) y luego marchó en expedición (titanomaquia) contra su padre. De este modo la salvación de Zeus en el mito de Hesíodo cuenta con varios detalles habituales para Júpiter o para sus padres en los textos astrológicos. a) El engaño de Rea a Crono que trae como consecuencia su perdición y que explica, por tanto, la δυσγαμία 73, se atribuye a los hijos de Saturno en ciertas configuraciones (normalmente con Venus74, que representa a la esposa, o con la Luna, la madre75, según se considere el aspecto vengativo o el instinto maternal de Rea en el mito). No faltan textos en los que la atribución a los saturnianos de falta de afecto por la esposa y los hijos evidencia el comportamiento mitológico de Crono. Entre ellos es ilustrativo éste de

71 En paráfrasis de Doroteo, editada por Pingree (Dor. 2.14, p. 345 Pingree). 72 «Los que nacen en esa configuración alimentan también hijos ajenos, si los planetas están colocados por casualidad en lugares positivos; sin embargo, no disfrutan de los hijos propios; pues o siempre mueren los que nacen en esta configuración o criados en el extranjero luego vienen contra sus padres.» 73 En este sentido, el primer decano de Leo, que es Saturno, ποιεῖ ἐρωτικοὺς, κακογάμους, según Antíoco (CCAG 7, p. 115 s.). Hefestión concreta esa desgracia matrimonial en la actitud de la esposa (1.1.90: εὐεπίψογος δὲ διὰ γυναῖκα, donde εὐda el sentido de «fácilmente reprensible»). 74 Por ejemplo, en la conjunción, como leemos en De plan. 28 s.: Σὺν δὲ τῇ Ἀφροδίτῃ ὢν ὁ Κρόνος […] ἀτεκνία ἔσται ἢ σπανοτεκνία ἢ βραδυτεκνία πρὸς τὴν τοῦ Κρόνου κρᾶσιν, τά τε τῶν γάμων ψυχικὰ καὶ ἄστατα. Cf. Dor. 2.18,7, p. 221 Pingree y p. 354 Pingree (ὁ Κρόνος σὺν Ἀφροδίτῃ […], ποιοῦσι δὲ ἀτέκνους ἢ ὀψιτέκνους ἢ τὰ τέκνα θάπτοντας, εἰ δὲ καὶ γάμον ποτὲ δώσουσι ψύξουσι τοῦτον). De igual modo Albumasar-Palco (tal vez del astrólogo del 379) dice que tanto la marcha de la Luna desde Saturno hacia Venus como la inversa es πρὸς γάμον καὶ τέκνα κακή (CCAG 8.1, p. 184). 75 Dor. 2.16,73, p. 350 Pingree: ὁ Κρόνος Σελήνην διαμετρῶν τὴν μητρικὴν κτῆσιν ἀπόλλυσι καὶ αὐτῇ τῇ μητρὶ θλίψεις καὶ κρυπτῶν τόπων πόνους ἐπάγει ἢ λυπηρὰ σημαίνει καὶ δύστροπα.

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Fírmico Materno: sed circa uxores et filios erunt alieno semper affectu76. Y tampoco faltan pasajes astrológicos que recuerdan el engaño de Rea y, como consecuencia, el nacimiento de Zeus, entre los que citamos estos siete versos del Ps.-Manetón, ὁππότε δ’ αὖ Φαίνων μὲν ὑπὲρ κέντρου μεσάτοιο ἱστῆται, τῷ δ’ αὖτε καταντιπέρην Ἀφροδίτη, ἤτοι ἀπείρητοι τεκέων ἐπὶ πάγχυ γένοντο, ἢ φθείρουσι γονὰς ἀπὸ γαστέρος ὠμοτοκοῦσαι. εἰ δ’ ἐσθλὸς Φαέθων τοῖσίν γ’ ἐπιμάρτυρος εἴη, ψεύδεσιν ὠδίνεσσι λάθρῃ παίδων ἐγένοντο μητέρες ἀλλοτρίων καὶ ὑποβλήδην ἐτέκοντο 77.

Versos de los que los dos primeros indican la enemistad entre el padre (Saturno) y la esposa (Venus) y los dos siguientes, la consecuencia de esa configuración: que no tienen hijos o los pierden incluso antes de nacer. Sin embargo, la presencia de Júpiter (en los tres versos últimos) cambia esta situación y aquí el astrólogo prescribe resultados que encierran algunos elementos del nacimiento de Zeus: partos falsos (fingidos) como el de la piedra, secretismo, hijos ajenos (o extraños a la casa familiar, también como Zeus, que nació fuera de ella). b) Que el nacimiento de Zeus tuviera lugar en el extranjero, fuera del domicilio familiar, se refleja igualmente, como hemos visto en el pasaje de Anubión/Doroteo, en los textos astrológicos a propósito de los hijos de Saturno (con frecuencia en alguna relación con Júpiter o sus lugares): Éstos serán padres que exponen a sus hijos (y que, como le ocurrió a Crono, a veces luego los recuperan) o hijos expósitos criados por personas ajenas en tierras extrañas, o padres que entregan sus hijos a otros78. Y no falta, al 76 Firm. math. 4.19.5. 77 Ps.-Maneth. 6[3].286–292: «Cuando por el contrario Fenonte en el centro de en medio está situado, y Venus en oposición con él, o son del todo ignorantes de hijos, o pierden a sus hijos en el vientre abortando. Pero, si favorable Faetonte es testigo de éstos, con fingidos partos en secreto son madres de niños ajenos y dan a luz supuestamente.» 78 La separación de los hijos de sus padres, como la que le ocurrió a Zeus, está condicionada de forma general por la presencia de Saturno en los centros principales: Dor. 2.21–23, 14, p. 362 Pingree: Εἰ δὲ Κρόνος ὡροσκοπεῖ ἢ μεσουρανεῖ ἰδίῳ τόπῳ […] ποιεῖ […] τινας μὲν ἀγυναίους, τινὰς δὲ τῶν γονέων χωρίζει. Y se repite, con referencia a sus relaciones con el planeta Júpiter en otros lugares. Así en Maneth. 2[1].155 s., cuando Saturno está en los signos de aquél: πολλάκι δ’ ἀλλοτρίων τέκνων πατέρας καλέεσθαι / δῶκεν, ἢ ἐκθεμένοις παῖδας σφετέρους πάλι δῶκεν. Idem 6[3].51–59: Los nacidos bajo la influencia de planetas buenos son expósitos: ἢν δὲ γονῆς ἀγαθοὶ τελέθωσ’ ἐπιμάρτυροι ὥρῃ, / ἔκθετον ἐκ μεγάρου τοκέων βρέφος εὐθὺς ἐτύχθη· / κἢν μὲν Ζεὺς Μήνην σφετέραις ἀκτῖσιν ἀθρήσῃ, / ἀνὴρ, ὅς μιν ἀνείλεθ’, ὃν ποιήσατο παῖδα, / ἢ ἑτέρῳ δῶκεν τεκέων τητωμένῳ ἀνδρί, / ὃς

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menos en un documento, la referencia poética a Júpiter como planeta vinculado a Creta, precisamente por la historia del dios. Lo afirma un hexámetro de Doroteo, referido a Sagitario, casa de Júpiter: καὶ Κρήτη, Κρονίδαο Διὸς τροφός, ἡ δέ τε Μυσῆς 79.

5. El derrotado: Crono en el Tártaro El desenlace del mito comienza con el regreso de Zeus que libera a los Hecatonquiros, combate con los Titanes y los encierra en el Tártaro, para instaurar él un reinado de orden y esperanza. Que también el planeta es liberador, como el dios, lo leemos en la descripición de sus cualidades por Valente, que le atribuye δεσμῶν λύσιν y ἐλευθερίαν 80. La libertad como una consecuencia del poder de Júpiter es un hecho incontestable en distintos textos astrológicos81. Pero Hesíodo, en la Teogonía, concluye la historia con el encadenamiento de los titanes y del propio Crono en el Tártaro. Desde ese momento, en una gran parte de la tradición – tanto literaria como astrológica – Saturno va a ser un dios esclavo, patrono de los esclavos. En otra, que parte así mismo de Homero y de Hesíodo (en Trabajos y Días), encontrará la libertad por voθέμενος μεγάροις ἶσον γονίμοισι τίεσκεν. A propósito de los padres adoptivos, a que hace referencian referencia los dos versos últimos de este pasaje, cf. también Dor. 2.28.1, p. 231 Pingree donde Saturno, tanto en los propios domicilios o términos, como en los de Júpiter ἀλλοτρίων τέκνων πατέρας (ibid., p. 357 Pingree); en el mismo texto griego de Doroteo volvemos a encontrar referencias a los padres que exponen a sus hijos: ἐκτιθεμένους τὰ ἑαυτῶν τέκνα καὶ αὖθις ἐπαναλαμβάνοντας. Εl Hermes Latinus, De triginta sex decanis 32.3 (p. 88 Gundel, p. 186 Feraboli) asume esta influencia de Saturno en lugares de Júpiter a propósito de los hijos expósitos: quidam uero et alienorum uirorum patres fiunt uel expositos filios exhibent; qui vero ex eis nati sunt, ab aliis nutriti cognoscuntur et statim reucantur. Las exposiciones (ἐκθέσεις) son parte de las cualidades de Saturno en la descripción de Vett. Val. 1.1.8, al que se atribuyen también por Ps.-Manetón en el pasaje citado supra, vv. 60–63: καὶ δὲ Κρόνου περάτηθεν ἀθρειομένου ὑπὲρ ὥρης, / δαίμονι δ’ ἐν λυγρῷ Μήνης προπάροιθεν ἐούσης, / καὶ κέντρου Τιτῆνος ἀποκλινέος τελέθοντος, / ζωὴν μέν τ’ ἴσχουσ’, ἀτὰρ ἔκθετοι ἐκ πατρὸς οἴκων y en Ps.-Maneth. 4.593–596: ὁππότε δ’ ἂν γενέθλην ἐφέπῃ Κρόνος ὡρονομεύων, / ἐν κακοδαιμοσύνῃ δὲ Σεληναίης φάος ὄφθῃ, / Ἠελίου δ’ ἀκτῖνες ἀποκλίνωσιν Ὀλύμπου, / ἐκθεσίην ἕξουσι, τραφήσονται δ’ ὑπ’ ὀθνείων. 79 Dor. App. 2 A 160. 80 Vett. Val. 1.1.17. 81 En Ptol. tetrab. 4.10.11, la ἐλευθεριότης se encuentra entre los beneficios que reporta Júpiter durante los 12 años que le corresponden en la vida humana. Y junto con Venus, el Sol y la Luna, Júpiter significa, a propósito de los fugitivos, que son hombres libres (Heph. 3.47.82).

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luntad del propio Zeus (o, en variantes posteriores, se escapará y deambulará por la tierra) y reinará en paz y con prosperidad para los hombres. A nosotros aquí lo que nos interesa es la versión de la Teogonía, y, por tanto, sólo el Crono/Saturno esclavo que condiciona el destino de los esclavos. La imagen de este Saturno encadenado en el Tártaro es una lectura astrológica del mito, que encontró su exégesis alegórica en la Antigüedad: Οὐ μὲν ὦν οὐδὲ τὸν Κρόνον Ζεὺς ἔδησεν οὐδὲ ἐς Τάρταρον ἔρριψεν οὐδὲ τὰ ἄλλα ἐμήσατο ὁκόσα ἄνθρωποι νομίζουσιν, ἀλλὰ φέρεται γὰρ ὁ Κρόνος τὴν ἔξω φορὴν πολλὸν ἀπ’ ἡμέων καί οἱ νωθρή τε ἡ κίνησις καὶ οὐ ῥηιδίη τοῖσιν ἀνθρώποισιν ὁρέεσθαι, διὸ δή μιν ἑστάναι λέγουσιν ὅκως πεπεδημένον. τὸ δὲ βάθος τὸ πολλὸν τοῦ ἠέρος Τάρταρος καλέεται 82.

Tal como hizo esta alegoría con el Tártaro, la esclavitud será un sello de identidad en la mayoría de los textos astrológicos referidos al planeta. Allí donde se describe su personalidad, figuran las cadenas, ataduras y prisiones o situaciones de esclavitud83. Sus hijos, cuando Saturno está en un Centro con el Sol y éste en eclipse, vivirán ἐν αἰχμαλωσίαις καὶ συνοχαῖς καὶ δουλείας 84. El esclavo que huya con la Luna en conjunción con Saturno (o también con Marte) volverá a la fuerza y envuelto en odiosas cadenas, según el poeta Máximo85; en cuanto a la suerte del fugitivo, si Saturno está en el MC, ἐς φυλακὴν καὶ δεσμὰ παραδοθήσεται μετὰ ἡμέρας κε´ ἢ ξγ´ 86. Y en cuanto a los objetos perdidos, dependiendo del planeta que ocupe el IC, así será el lugar en el que se encuentre; pues bien, si es Saturno, se encontrará 82 Ps.-Lukian. De astrologia 21: «Pues no, ni Zeus encadenó a Crono ni lo echó al Tártaro ni maquinó lo demás que creen los hombres, sino que, como Saturno sigue la órbita exterior muy lejos de nosotros y su movimiento es lento y no fácil de ver para los hombre, por eso dicen que está parado, como encadenado. Y la inmensa profundidad del aire se llama Tártaro.» Cf. De incred. Excerpta Vaticana 19(18) (Mythographi Graeci 3.2, Leipzig 1902, 97) y Fulgent. 3.1.8. 83 δεσμά […] αἰχμαλωσίας (Vett. Val. 1.1.8), sus hijos αἰχμαλωτίζονται (Vett. Val. 2.17[16].77); εἱργμῶν (Antíoco, CCAG 11.2, p. 109); si es señor de la suerte de la Fortuna y se encuentra en el segundo lugar, ποιεῖ […] δεσμῶν πεῖραν ἐπὶ χρόνον ἱκανὸν λαμβάνοντας, ἕως συμπληρώσωσι τοὺς χρόνους τοῦ ἀστέρος (Vett. Val. 2.15.3); el significado de los términos de Saturno en Géminis, según Critodemo (CCAG 8.1, p. 258) es ὑποταγή, ὀρφανία, δεσμοί, στρατιὰ ἄδοξος, καθαίρεσις ἀξίας. Saturno en oposición con Venus, significa matrimonios con esclavas (Dor. 2.16.70, p. 351 Pingree) y en la duodécima casa (que por él tiene que ver con los esclavos, como leemos, por ejemplo, en Paul. Alex. 24, p. 70 Boer) ἔλειψιν τῶν πατρικῶν δηλοῖ καὶ δούλων χάριν κινδύνους καὶ ἐπιβουλάς (Hermes Trismegisto, apud Rhet. CCAG 8.4, p. 129). 84 Hermes Trismegisto, apud Rhet. CCAG 8.4, p. 134. 85 Max. 397–401: ἀλλ’ ἢν μὲν Φαίνοντι συνῇ κερόεσσα Σελήνη / ἢ φλογερῷ Πυρόεντι, φυγὴν ἀνεμώλιον ἴσχει / δοῦλος ἀνὴρ κενεῇσιν ἐπ’ ἐλπωρῇσι γεγηθώς· / ἦ γὰρ ἂν ἐς δόμον αἶψα λυγρῇ πεπεδημένος ἄτῃ / βαίη ἀναγκαίῃ βεβιημένος ἀλγινοέσσῃ. 86 Τimeo Praxides, CCAG 1, p. 98.

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en casa de un esclavo87. Una derivación de este aspecto de la personalidad de Saturno es su relación general con todo cuanto implique ataduras, incluidas – como dice en su descripción Valente88 – las muertes violentas δι’ ἀγχόνης ἢ δεσμῶν. En suma, la relación de Saturno con el Tártaro no se queda en simple alegoría al estilo de Luciano. Como el Tártaro hesiódico hundido en lo más profundo de la tierra, la nueva morada del dios-planeta se fijó, al menos en una primera etapa de la historia de la carta astral, en el ángulo norte, el que queda en diámetro con el Medio Cielo. Manilio entiende así el IC, cuando se refiere al Occidente como el ángulo por el que el mundo se precipita hacia el Tártaro89 y en la descripción que hace de este centro hay elementos que recuerdan la que nos ofrece Hesíodo del Tártaro; en concreto, su localización en las profundidades del Universo90, que recuerda los datos de theog. 119: Τάρταρά τ’ ἠερόεντα μυχῷ χθονὸς εὐρυοδείης; o la idea de que allí se junta el principio y el final de los astros, el oriente y el occidente91, que alude al lugar donde están las puertas del día y la noche en Hesíodo92; un lugar que, coincidiendo con el esquema de la dodecátropos, el escoliasta del verso antes citado liga a τὰ ὑπόγαια μέρη 93. Proclo, con bastante experiencia en el conocimiento de la astrología, establece con claridad la posición del Tártaro ὑπὸ γῆς por oposición a las islas de los bienaventurados, situadas en el cielo; y no sólo eso, sino que subraya la importancia del Tártaro como δεσμοτήριον τίσεως καὶ δίκης 94. Además, en el norte, el punto cardinal a que corresponde el IC, es donde los antiguos situaban el Κρονία θάλασσα 95, identificado con el Tártaro de Homero96. Aquí tenemos tal vez precedentes míticos que se adecuan al IC, además de los astrológicos, para identificarlo con el agua97. El 87 Dor. 5.35,32: Κρόνου δὲ παρὰ δουλικῷ προσώπῳ. 88 Vett. Val. 1.1.15. 89 2.794 s.: alter ab adversa respondens aetheris ora, / unde fugit mundus praecepsque in Tartara tendit. 90 2.798: ima tenet quartus fundato nobilis orbe. 91 2.799 s.: in quo principium est reditus finisque cadendi / sideribus, pariterque occasus cernit et ortus. 92 Theog. 748–754: ὅθι Νύξ τε καὶ ῾Ημέρη ἆσσον ἰοῦσαι / ἀλλήλας προσέειπον ἀμειβόμεναι μέγαν οὐδὸν / χάλκεον· ἡ μὲν ἔσω καταβήσεται, ἡ δὲ θύραζε / ἔρχεται, οὐδέ ποτ’ ἀμφοτέρας δόμος ἐντὸς ἐέργει, / ἀλλ’ αἰεὶ ἑτέρη γε δόμων ἔκτοσθεν ἐοῦσα / γαῖαν ἐπιτρέφεται, ἡ δ’ αὖ δόμου ἐντὸς ἐοῦσα / μίμνει τὴν αὐτῆς ὤρην ὁδοῦ, ἔστ’ ἂν ἵκηται. 93 Schol. Hes. theog. 119: ἐν <τοῖς> πρώτοις γὰρ Τάρταρα, τὰ ὑπόγαια μέρη, λέγει, τὰ ῥιγηλά, ἀπὸ τοῦ τρόμον ἐμποιεῖν. 94 Prokl. in Plat. remp. vol. 2, 140 Kroll. 95 Cf. Van der Valk (1985) 6. 96 Il. 14.274, 279. 97 Cf. Hübner (2005) 45. Pero no olvidemos también que Hesíodo describe el Tártaro como una región brumosa (theog. 731: ὑπὸ ζόφῳ ἠερόεντι) y sitúa en él las fuentes

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Tártaro, prisión de los titanes, es además descrito como un lugar tenebroso y escondido, donde se encuentran ocultos aquellos98, un rasgo que se ajusta bien tanto al IC (τὸ δ’ ὑπόγειον τὰ λαθραῖα 99), como al planeta Saturno, hipóstasis del dios destronado (deiectus 100) y encerrado allí, según leemos en Manilio a propósito del IC: At, qua subsidit conuerso cardine mundus fundamenta tenens, auersum et suspicit orbem ac media sub nocte iacet, Saturnus in illa parte suas agitat uires, deiectus et ipse imperio quondam mundi solioque deorum, et pater in patrios exercet numina casus fortunamque senum 101.

Su carácter de prisión de Crono pervive incluso cuando ya el planeta ha abandonado esta cuarta casa, obligado por la obsesión geométrica y de oposiciones de los astrólogos102, para reinar en la duodécima, con la que seguirá ejerciendo cierta influencia sobre los esclavos. En efecto, en el mismo texto de Hermes Trismegisto en que se atribuye al IC la posesión de esclavos, la casa doce tiene que ver con éstos103. En fin, la vejez y la muerte son elementos de una u otra forma ligados a esta casa cuarta104. Sin duda las fuentes de Camatero estaban pensando en el Crono hesiódico encerrado en el Tártaro, cuando, a propósito de la oposición de Saturno con el Sol, lo describen como Κρόνος ζόφου δὲ καὶ σκότους πεπλησμένος 105, una descripción que le cuadra perfectamente al Saturno de Manilio colocado

98 99 100 101

102

103 104 105

del ponto y del Océano (theog. 736–738): ῎Ενθα δὲ γῆς δνοφερῆς καὶ Ταρτάρου ἠερόεντος / πόντου τ’ ἀτρυγέτοιο καὶ οὐρανοῦ ἀστερόεντος / ἑξείης πάντων πηγαὶ καὶ πείρατ’ ἔασιν. Theog. 729 s.: ῎Ενθα θεοὶ Τιτῆνες ὑπὸ ζόφῳ ἠερόεντι / κεκρύφαται. Ηübner (2005) 50. Véase para la dicusión sobre este término y su relación con el mito de la sucesión en este pasaje de Manilio, Hübner (1995) 38–39 y 69. Ps.-Maneth. 2.931–935 (trad. esp. Francisco Calero/María José Echarte, Madrid 1996): «En el vértice opuesto, donde el universo se asienta ocupando su base y desde donde contempla la parte trasera del globo, en medio de la noche, en esa morada promueve su influencia Saturno; él, que fue arrojado en cierta ocasión del gobierno del universo y del trono de los dioses, en su calidad de padre ejerce sus poderes sobre los destinos de los padres y la fortuna de los viejos.» Una explicación convincente que tiene en cuenta la doctrina de las suertes, la oposición Sol/Saturno, como antiguo Sol de la noche, la relación Luna/Venus y la influencia del eje Sol-Luna (casas IX-III) en la readaptación del eje Venus-Saturno (casa 5-12) puede leerse en Hübner (1995) 70–73. CCAG 8.3, p. 101 (cf. Hübner 2005, 96 s.). Véase Hübner (2005) 120–128. Johannes Camaterus, De zodiaco 566. Tolomeo (tetrab. 2.9.6) atribuye al planeta (cuando éste tiene la οἰκοδεσποτία) ζόφους.

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en el IC (el Tártaro) en diámetro con Apolo (el Sol), éste en el MC. Y es por eso por lo que al planeta le pertenecen los lugares tenebrosos y oscuros, como leemos en un texto anónimo: Ἀνήκουσιν τῷ Κρόνῳ οἱ ἐρείπιοι τόποι καὶ οἱ ζοφώδεις 106. Pero dejemos a Saturno encadenado en el Tártaro y a Júpiter como rey victorioso del Universo, cubierto de gloria, imponiendo el orden y la justicia y repartiendo a los hombres los beneficios que habitualmente le reconocen los textos astrológicos. Otra historia será el mito positivo sobre Crono, rey de la Edad de Oro, que se impuso en la tradición grecorromana posterior y a la que hay que referir parte de la acción liberadora de Júpiter como muchos de los rasgos positivos con que también cuenta el planeta Saturno. A este episodio de su leyenda se asocian las influencias sobre destierros y viajes al extranjero que, según algunas versiones, reflejan su vagar por la tierra antes de convertirse en rey107. Y en cuanto a otros aspectos de su acción más místicos e intelectuales, tienen que ver con la reinterpretación órfica que, encerrando muchos elementos de la leyenda primigenia que aquí nos ha servido de referencia, confieren al dios ese sesgo filosófico y soñador, encerrado en la torre pindárica y servido por los sacerdotes del mito plutarqueo de Sila, que convierte al planeta en una divinidad oracular y subraya sus perfiles metafísicos.

Bibliografia Barton (1994). – Tamsyn Barton, Ancient Astrolog y (London/New York 1994). Bouché-Leclercq (1899). – Auguste Bouché-Leclercq, L’astrologie grecque (Paris 1899). Campion (2008). – Nicholas Campion, The Dawn of Astrolog y. A Cultural History of Western Astrolog y. The Ancient and Classical Worlds (Cornwall 2008). Eisler (1946). – Robert Eisler, The Royal Art of Astrolog y (London 1946). Faracovi (1999). – Ornella Faracovi, «A proposito di Saturno», Linguaggio astrale 11 (1999) 3–12. Feraboli (²1989). – Simonetta Feraboli, Claudio Tolomeo. Le previsioni astrologiche (Tetrabiblos) (Milano ²1989). Klibanski/Panofsky/Saxl (1991). – Raymond Klibansky/Erwin Panofsky/Fritz Saxl, Saturno y la melancolía, trad. española de Luisa Balseiro (Madrid 1991) (= Saturn and Melancholy. Studies in the History of Natural Philosophy, Religion and Art, London 1964) Hübner (1995). – Wolfgang Hübner, Die Dodekatropos des Manilius (Manil. 2,856–970) (Stuttgart 1995). 106 Anon. de planetarum patrociniss, CCAG 7, p. 96. 107 Paul. Alex. 34, p. 65 Boer: Saturno en el MC significa a veces πολὺν χρόνον ξενιτεύοντας ἢ ἐκτὸς τῆς ἰδίας πόλεως οἰκοῦντας καὶ πλανωμένους ἐπὶ πολὺν χρόνον ποιήσει. Cf. Hermes Latinus, De triginta sex decanis 33.2 (p. 88 Gundel, p. 186 Feraboli), donde se dice que cuando el planeta está en sus lugares (domicilios, decanos y términos) hace peregrinationum et multorum malorum expertos.

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Hübner (1996). – Wolfgang Hübner, «Les divinités planétaires de la dodécatropos», in: Béatrice Bakhouche/Alain Moreau/Jean-Claude Turpin (edd.), Les astres et les mythes, vol. 1 (1996) 307–317. Hübner (1998). – Wolfgang Hübner, «Astrologie et mythologie dans la Tétrabible de Ptolémée d’Alexandrie», in: Gilbert Argoud/Jean-Yve Guillaumin (edd.), Sciences exactes et sciences appliquées à Alexandrie (Saint-Etienne 1998) 325–345. Hübner (2005). – Wolfgang Hübner, Raum, Zeit und soziales Rollenspiel der vier Kardinalpunkte in der antiken Katarchenhoroskopie (München/Leipzig 2005). Pérez Jiménez (1998). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, «Mito y astrología en Grecia: Un viaje con retorno», in: José Luis Calvo Martínez (ed.), Religión, Magia y Mitología en la Antigüedad Clásica (Granada 1998) 137–165. Pérez Jiménez (1999a). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, «El mensajero Hermes y las propiedades astrológicas de su planeta Mercurio», in: Aurelio Pérez Jiménez/Gonzalo Cruz Andreotti (edd.), Aladas Palabras. Correos y Comunicaciones en el Mediterráneo, Ediciones Clásicas (Madrid 1999) 95–122. Pérez Jiménez (1999b). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, «Implicaciones astrológicas del mito de Crono-Saturno», Minerva 13 (1999) 17–44. Pérez Jiménez (2000). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, « PERÌ DEÍPNOY. Referencias astrológicas antiguas a la dieta y la gastronomía», in: Aurelio Pérez Jiménez/Gonzalo Cruz Andreotti (edd.), Dieta Mediterránea. Comidas y Hábitos Alimenticios en las Culturas Mediterráneas (Madrid 2000) 127–160. Pérez Jiménez (2002). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, «Relaciones divinas y asociaciones planetarias: Mito y astrología antigua», in: Jesús Peláez (ed.), El Dios que Hechiza y Encanta. Magia y Astrología en el Mundo Clásico y Helenístico (Córdoba 2002) 249–263. Pérez Jiménez (2007). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, «Hephaestio and the Consecration of Statues», Culture and Cosmos 11 (2007) 111–134. Pérez Jiménez (2008). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, «Saturno, los eunucos y la emasculación de Urano», MHNH 8 (2008) 261–271. Pérez Jiménez (2005). – Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, «El astrólogo, mediador de mediadores. Condicionamientos astrológicos de la adivinación en el mundo grecorromano», in: Luisa Sánchez León (ed.), Mediadores con lo Divino en el Mundo Mediterráneo Antiguo. Actas del Congreso Internacional de Historia de las Religiones, Palma 13–15 (octubre 2005) (en prensa). Van der Valk (1985). – Marchinus Van der Valk, «On the God Cronus», GRBS (1985) 5–11. Versnel (1994). – Hendrik Simon Versnel, Inconsistencies in Greek & Roman Religion. Vol. 2: Transition and Reversal in Myth and Ritual, Studies in Greek and Roman Religion 6.2 (Leiden/New York/Köln 1994). Von Stuckard (2005). – Kocku von Stuckard, Astrología. Una historia desde los inicios hasta nuestros días, trad. esp. de Roberto H. Bernet (Barcelona 2005) (= Geschichte der Astrologie, München 2003).

The Portrait of a Seer. The Framing of Divination Paradigms through Myth in Archaic and Classical Greece emilio suárez de la torre 1. Introduction Divination is a fascinating field of study in every culture, ancient and modern, but in the case of ancient Greece1 it has the added value of being a fundamental pillar of its civilization and, therefore, a decisive key to understand it, as well as a splendid device to analyze many aspects of Greek society. However, it is of great importance to bear in mind that neither ‘divination’ nor ‘seer’ are clear-cut concepts. Moreover, if there is a semantic field where the traditional concepts used to analyze ancient cultures (and nowadays submitted to strong discussion) blur their limits, it is that of divination: religion, magic, rationality vs. irrationality, myth vs. history, and so on, become mere labels scarcely useful for practical aims, almost empty of a real meaning when applied to the vast world of divination. To begin with, this term, corresponding to Greek ‘mantic’, does not merely imply ‘knowledge of the future’, but it was also applied to other operations, such as revelation of hidden things (thanks, of course, to a special power), or to the solution 1

This paper was written in the frame of the Research Project HUM2005-01941 of the Spanish Ministery of Science and Education. Some recent studies have enriched extraordinarily our knowledge of Greek divination; I emphasize the importance of the chapter dedicated by Dillery to the ‘Independent Diviners’ (Dillery 2005) and the monograph written by Flower (2008), with a thorough and clever discussion of the main problems. In this paper I will study the figure of the (so to say) legendary seers, including also in this category some individual representatives of different divination modalities who, according to ancient sources, were endowed with extraordinary powers. In Dillery’s and Flowers’ works, as well as in other older works on seercraft (starting by Bouché-Leclercq ²2003), the ‘historical’ diviners are studied in more or less detail. See also Roth (1982). A general survey of divination in archaic and classical times can be found in Suárez (2005b); on ‘mythical’ seers see Suárez (2007b).

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of an enigma or (most often) to the answer given by gods to men in search of solution to a crucial (personal or collective) situation (travel, marriage, religious matters, political decisions and so on) or simply looking for private reassurance (‘Will I beget children?’). Concerning the role of the seer2, his functions range from the mere use of divination techniques to other religious operations of different kinds and even to prodigious aspects (miraculous cures, for instance), with a very wide scope in his social consideration, depending on the historical context or the social circumstances, not to speak of the ‘magical’ perspective related to the practice of divination. To sum up, from a methodological point of view (and for a correct understanding of facts and a right evaluation of data), it is very important in this case to make use of a strict ‘emic’ approach, in order to avoid a biased appreciation of the information supplied by our sources. Another important preliminary question is the problem of a distinction between ‘mythical’ and ‘historical’ diviners. In fact, and strictly speaking, this distinction could infringe the precaution of maintaining an ‘emic’ perspective. Poets can be liars and write ψεύδεα πολλὰ ἐτύμοισιν ὁμοῖα 3, and therefore they adorned their stories with an excess of imagination, but no Greek would question the ‘historical’ reality of Melampus or Calchas. The existence of important seer-families in the ‘historical’ period shows the inadequacy of such a distinction. Nevertheless, and without violating the methodological procedure outlined above, it would be correct to accept that ancient Greeks acknowledged that the time of the prodigious seers who founded the historical families was over, and that they had become a paradigm to be followed and imitated as far as the actual circumstances allowed it. Moreover, the imaginary of the Greeks has never ceased to create a special category of ‘practitioners of the divine’4, endowed with special powers, among which were those belonging to the vast field of divination. Therefore, in this paper I will try to describe the evolution of the figure of the seer in the archaic and classical periods by emphasizing, when possible, the connections and interactions between the imaginary patterns valid for each phase and the actual practice of divination, though mostly relying on the paradigmatic seers5. In some cases, I will try to point out the origin of the innovations detected in the conception and practice of divination.

2 3 4 5

For a very useful discussion of this problem, see Flower (2008) 72–103. See Od. 19.203 (Ulysses), Hes. theog. 27 (the Muses). I am alluding to the title of the book edited by Dignas/Trampedach (2008). With this term I mean the otherwise called ‘legendary’ seers, but I prefer to avoid this term.

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2. The creation of paradigmatic seers In the only (up to this moment) existing comprehensive study on Ancient divination, Auguste Bouché-Leclercq (²2003) has dedicated four chapters to the “individual seers” (as he calls them): one to the ‘devins’ (diviners), representatives of ‘inductive divination’ (classified as seers of the Heroic Age, mythical seers, and seers of the Historical Age); another to the prophetschresmologues (or intuitive divination); a third one to the Sibyls, and the last one to the exegetai. This classification, though more reasonable than it might seem, entails some difficulties. The most important6 is that, if we interpret it ad pedem litterae, it functions as if there were a “Heroic period”, which was followed by history. Of course, I do not mean that Bouché-Leclercq had such an absurd concept of the history of cultures: it is clear that this classification tries to reflect a sequence from the point of view of the Greeks, who transferred the existence of the ‘mythical’ heroes to very old times, chronologically ordered. But the problem is that we know that there is no such sequence as “first myth, then history” and that myths are creations of a culture along history. Therefore, it is important to take into account – as much as possible – the moments, texts, and contexts which gave birth to those myths and, in the case of the seers, to have a clear idea of the traits of the society that created them. Each of the groups established by Bouché-Leclercq obeys to different models, exigencies, and trends of all kinds (even literary ones), depending on many circumstances. For that reason, I will modify the types of seers according to other criteria and emphasize the possible reasons for the rising of the different models. Finally, there is the problem of the almost simultaneous appearance of epic poetry and seers’ genealogies, which requires some consideration of the interplay between the two aspects. 2.1 The oldest (known) stratum: seers in the epic Seers are always depicted in a very positive light in myth. This is a permanent feature since the times of epic poetry. It is important to underline this fact, because in some historical periods (more intensively after the Peloponnesian war) the image of the ‘historical’ seers will be submitted to serious criticism and divination will be the subject of a strong scepticism7. The figure of the seer in the legends seemingly belonging to ancient strata generates 6 7

Apart from other misguiding use of terms, such as the equation chresmology inspired divination. See Flower (2008) 132–152.

=

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a paradigm aiming at the consolidation of a positive opinion in society, by underlining two main traits: their wide-ranging and portentous capacities and the support received from the gods. Of course, they are contested, criticized, and even scorned by many people (chieftains, citizens, and so on). So, from the very beginning there is a real purpose of emphasizing the positive features. It seems as if there was a deliberate intention of creating a favourable state of opinion, linked to the not less important purpose of consolidating a core of solid beliefs concerning some religious practices. This is the reason why the analysis of the sources allows us to obtain information not only about the practice of divination, but also about important religious issues, and about the mode of configuring a stereotype of the seer valid for subsequent times. It is easy to understand the interest of the later (‘historical’) seers in linking themselves with these paradigmatic seers via the genealogies8. a) A sketch of the mantic art in the Homeric poems Common features As a matter of fact, epic (not only ‘Homeric’) poetry has contributed in a special manner to the configuration not only of the image of the seer but of divination in general. Assuming that Iliad and Odyssey represent our oldest possible testimonies to build up a picture of Greek divination, a comprehensive account of the practices described or alluded to in both poems, as well as of the seers mentioned in them, is a necessary step if we wish to obtain a historical perspective of the question9. However, as in many other features, there are relevant differences between the two poems. It seems that something has changed from one poem to the other, and not only for reasons related to their different themes and structures. In general terms, it seems that the possibility of predictions, the certainty that there is a multiplicity of signals to be interpreted, is even more important than the figure of the diviner. The weight is on the side of communication, rather than on the side of the interpreter. And usually the only prerequisite for the interpreter is a certain amount of nous. The frequent ominous signs found in these poems10 (most of them involving birds) are not always in8 But there were also other ‘individuals’ who did not descend from a ‘mythic’ seer. 9 See Kaufman (1979). 10 They show a very varied typology. For instance, of the 21 signs mentioned in the Iliad “one is a plague, six involve birds, seven are Zeus’ thunder and lightning, one is a shooting star, one is Eris, one is a dusty wind and four are unspecified”, Kaufman (1979) 49–51.

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terpreted by seers. The appearance of an eagle carrying a snake is judged a bad omen by Polydamas, who advises Hector not to fight against the Achaeans beside the ships. He is not properly a seer, as can be deduced from his own last words (“this is what a seer would interpret …”)11. At some given moments the characters of the poems act as seers: Patroclus, when he is dying, utters an actual prophecy, announcing the death of Hector12. Or we find Achilles’ horse in this prophetic function13. Sometimes predictions are given by divine characters, like Proteus, who prophesies the immortal afterlife destiny of Menelaus in the Islands of the Blessed14, or Athena-Mentes, who predicts Odysseus’ return15. Iliad and Odyssey mention also the oracular sanctuaries of Apollo at Delphi and of Zeus at Dodona, but it would be hazardous to infer from those references that the mantic procedure coincides with what is attested for later periods. Gods send also their messages through dreams, and not always to favour a situation, as Agamemnon could experiment: he receives from Zeus a misleading dream16. Dreams have complex signs to be deciphered, and they are often misinterpreted17. But they are deemed substantial in the process of divination and their right interpretation requires a specialist, the oneiropolos. However, in this old phase of divination they are not bond to a particular conception of the human soul, as will be the case later18: they are simply sent by gods as a mere means of communication. Iliad Beyond the common features, there are specificities in both Homeric poems that allow us to postulate that something has changed in the time between the composition of both poems, and the seers of each poem are a substan11 Il. 12.228 f.: ὧδε χ’ ὑποκρίναιτο θεοπρόπος, ὃς σάφα θυμῷ / εἰδείη τεράων καί οἱ πειθοίατο λαοί. See Kaufman (1979) 80. As Trampedach (2008) 216 says, “If Polydamas can play the seer without actually being one, then one quickly gains the impression that in general, no special or secret knowledge is necessary in order to interpret Homeric signs from the gods”. The possession of a reasonable nous and intelligence is decisive: Polydamas is a wise adviser. 12 Il. 16.844–861. Cf. 859, where Hector understands it as a prediction: Πατρόκλεις, τί νύ μοι μαντεύεαι αἰπὺν ὄλεθρον; 13 Il. 19.408–417. 14 Od. 4.426–459; he gave him also information about other nostoi (this implies a parallel between him and the aoidoi …). 15 Od. 1.200–205. 16 Il. 2.8–40. On this particular narrative technique see Morrison (1992). 17 As is the case with Penelope, Od. 20.536–553: she mistrusts the dream of the eagle that kills the geese, as being false (sent by Zeus through the bone gate). 18 Cf. Pindar fr. 131b Maehler (though it is not exempt of hermeneutic problems).

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tial key to make out this difference19. To begin with, there is a great difference between Calchas’ role and that of others, and not only as literary characters, but also in relation to their functions and the exercise of their powers. As Kaufman has observed20, Calchas’ “introduction is longer than that given to any other seer in the Iliad ”21, and for good reasons. Calchas, grand-son of Apollo22, had a decisive role in the success of the expedition to Troy. The description of his qualities23 establishes a paradigm with great influence afterwards, and it deserves some attention, because it mentions a clearly inductive technique (οἰωνοπόλων ὄχ’ ἄριστος) besides a capacity of ‘omnitemporal’ knowledge that seems innate (ὃς ᾔδη τά τ’ ἐόντα τά τ’ ἐσσόμενα πρό τ’ ἐόντα). The latter is immediately confirmed by his revelation of the causes of the plague: he knows that the reason is Apollo’s anger. I want to emphasize that this important scene of the Iliad is a duplication of the traditional scheme of the oracular consultations, perceptible even in the vocabulary. The army is suffering λοιμός and λοιγός 24, and Achilleus proposes consulting the possible professionals of the sacred: the seer, the priest or the specialist in dreams. He displays different alternative explanations for Apollo’s anger, usual in the oracular questions and responses. Then we find the presentation of Calchas, who takes (reasonably) precautions against the reaction of Agamemnon. Achilleus reassures the seer and asks him to tell the prediction he knows (θεοπρόπιον ὅ τι οἶσθα); moreover, he remembers that the seer usually explains to the Achaeans the theopropiai of the god, which he cannot know merely by prayer (εὐχόμενος). And we have finally Calchas’ answer, a very clear oracle. Concerning the interpretation of signs, Odysseus25 describes the decisive prediction given by the seer at Aulis, a complex σῆμα that was perfectly deciphered by Calchas (the term θεοπροπέων describes it again). A series of seers also mentioned in the Iliad share a common trait: despite their powers, their sons die at Troy. Thus, Merops26 is introduced as a seer who περὶ πάντων / ᾔδεε μαντοσύνας, but despite his advice to his sons, Adrestus and Amphius, they went to fight for Troy and died there. On the side of the Achaeans, Polyidus27, the famous Corinthian seer28, had often 19 On the characteristics of each of these seers in relation to the problem of the ‘authority’, see now Trampedach (2008). 20 Kaufman (1979) 32. 21 In the Odyssey, the introduction to Theoclymenus is especially long, but for the particular reasons I indicate below. 22 The genealogy is: Apollo – Thestor – Calchas. 23 Il. 1.68–100. 24 See lines 61 and 67. 25 Il. 2.301–330. 26 Il. 2.831 f. 27 Il. 13.663. 28 Described favourably as γέρων ἀγαθὸς Πολύιδος (666).

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warned his son Euchenor that he would have a terrible choice: either to die at home from a painful sickness or to be killed by the Trojans. Euchenor chose the second alternative. The case of Eurydamas29, introduced as an old ὀνειροπόλος, is somewhat different: he did not interpret his sons’ (Abas and Polyidus) dreams, when they departed for Troy, and they perished. Finally, there is the different case of Ennomus30, a leader of the Mysians, who is described as οἰωνιστής, but whose knowledge cannot prevent him from dying at Troy. In all these examples we must not appreciate a critical opinion on seercraft (perhaps only in the case of Ennomus). I think that there is, on the one side, a feeling of helplessness regarding fate and, on the other (cf. Euchenor), an interest in showing that man has the final possibility of decision, even when confronted with terrible alternatives. But probably the best explanation is that these episodes contribute to reinforce the idea that seers’ advice must not be dismissed. A modest counterpart of Calchas on the Trojan side is Helenus31, who shares with him the formula of introduction: οἰωνοπόλων ὄχ’ ἄριστος 32. Of special importance is the way in which his capacity as a seer is performed33. When Athena and Apollo are discussing about how to stop the war, Helenus perceives their words. The poet explains it as a process of understanding the divine decision through his thymós 34. But Helenus describes it neatly as “to hear the voices of the gods”35. So, we have now the advantage of knowing the source of the information that the poet transforms in a counsel to the Trojans (in contrast to the interpretation of Calchas). Finally, it must be stressed that we do not find in the Iliad any allusion to genealogies of seers. The acquisition or origins of their powers are not elucidated, but it is at least clear that they are not inherited from their ancestors 36. Odyssey In the Odyssey the category of seers has a varied representation. First, the poet of the Odyssey has left us a real gem concerning the role of the seer. The picture of the small kingdoms of the “old times”, seen through the 29 30 31 32 33 34

Il. 5.149. Il. 2.858–860. Cassandra acts not as a seer in the Iliad. Il. 6.76. Il. 7.43–54. Τῶν δὲ Ἕλενος […] σύνθετο θυμῷ / βουλήν, ἥ ῥα θεοῖσιν ἐφήνδανε μητιόων (44 f.). 35 ὧς γὰρ ἐγὼν ὄπ’ ἄκουσα θεῶν αἰειγενετάων. 36 Calchas is no exception: his father is no mantis.

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eyes of the archaic period, includes the use of a new term to describe some important “itinerant workers of the community”, the δημιοεργοί, among whom is the mantis, who can be invited as xenos 37. In this passage the seer is placed at the same level as the healer, the carpenter, and the singer. This is an important change, if compared with his role in the Iliad: they are clearly independent professionals. However, it does not exclude the existence of seers linked to a specific town, members of the local families, endowed with those powers. As a local diviner we find in Ithaca only Halitherses, “who could see forwards and backwards”38. He was an old man, introduced as the only among their coevals acquainted with omens and predictions39. In fact, he is the interpreter of the omen of the eagles fighting40. The language used in his interpretation has some significant traits shared with that of the Delphic oracle41. For instance, to explain that the omen means that the end of the suitors is near, he says that τοῖσιν γὰρ μέγα πῆμα κυλίνδεται 42, and in order to advise them to refrain from their insolence he uses the ‘oracular’ formula τόδε λώϊόν ἐστιν. In a new parallelism with Calchas, he had also announced Odysseus’ return to the suitors: he remembers the exact words of his prediction and regrets that it has been dismissed43. The rest of the seers of the Odyssey do not have a properly ‘professional’ role, and their mentions are bond to different episodes of the action. To one of them, Telemus Eurymides, is attributed a prophecy given a long time ago to Polyphemus, described as παλαίφατα θέσφατα 44, which at that moment had been fulfilled. Teiresias and Theoclymenus deserve special attention. Both incorporate into the narrative of the Odyssey the rich dimensions of the world of divination, using adequate links with other contemporary 37 Od. 17.383–386. 38 Od. 24.451 f., ὁ γὰρ οἶος ὅρα πρόσσω καὶ ὀπίσσω. 39 ὄρνιθας γνῶναι καὶ ἐναίσιμα μυθήσασθαι. Trampedach (2008) 220 f. has perfectly realized that, once again, the seer is authenticated by the poet, but he is not uncontested by the community. 40 Od. 2.146–167. 41 Is it a model, or is it more recent than the Iliad, and there is a contemporary practice of Delphic composition? Anyway, there is an interaction in both senses; the use of oral epic diction by Delphi has been sometimes defended (Fernández Delgado 1986 and 1991, Maurizio 1997), but the transmitted oracles arouse suspicion: see infra, n. 134. 42 Od. 2.164. 43 Od. 2.170–176. 44 The same expression is used by Alcinous at Od. 8.564–569 and 13.172–178, when he remembers the prophecy told to him by his father Nausithous concerning the end of the island of the Phaeacians crashed by a mountain launched by Poseidon, who is angry because they transport the strangers who arrive to the island. The destruction of the island would be simultaneous with the sinking of the ship.

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stories. Of course, the integration of the two seers in the narratives is very different. Teiresias is the protagonist of an isolated episode, though it has a significant value. The seer is not only important as a foreteller of the ensuing adventures of Odysseus, or as a mediator with the world of the dead. He will prophesy even Odysseus’ last days and death. On the other side, Theoclymenus’ genealogy, which the poet evokes in detail, includes one of the episodes of Melampous’ life that, though deprived of the prodigious elements45, functions as a parallel suitable both for Odysseus (victorious return home) and for Telemachus (initiation of the young warrior46), not to mention the impressive effect of the seer’s trustworthiness47 on the audience. A particular difficulty is the interpretation of Theoclymenus ‘vision’ in Book 2048. I do not pretend to reactivate the discussion about the ‘apocalyptic’ value of this scene, but it is important to consider it in the frame of the different interventions of Theoclymenus in the poem. As a seer, he interprets as a positive omen the flight of the falcon holding a dove on the right side of the ship, in the journey with Telemachus from the Peloponnese to Ithaca49. Then, in the presence of Penelope, he announces that Odysseus is preparing the end of the suitors, foretold by the omen seen on the ship and previously explained to Telemachus50. This time, he gives more details and increases the effect of threat against the suitors. Eventually, his utterance before them closes the climax, and the symbolic language he uses increases the effect of the imminent and tragic end.

45 On the narrative evolution of the story, from Homer onwards, see Suárez (1992). 46 On the initiatory features of this adventures see Walcot (1979) and, more in detail, Dowden (1989) 97–115. A different (eschatological) interpretation of the cattle raiding in relation to Pylos (interpreted as “gate of the Underworld”) can be found in Burkert (1979) 86 f. 47 Dillery (2005) 174, with reference to Erbse (1972), is very convincing against the analytic scepticism. 48 Od. 20.351–357: ἆ δειλοί, τί κακὸν τόδε πάσχετε; νυκτὶ μὲν ὑμέων εἰλύαται κεφαλαί τε πρόσωπά τε νέρθε τε γοῦνα, οἰμωγὴ δὲ δέδηε, δεδάκρυνται δὲ παρειαί, αἵματι δ’ ἐρράδαται τοῖχοι καλαί τε μεσόδμαι· εἰδώλων δὲ πλέον πρόθυρον, πλείη δὲ καὶ αὐλή, ἱεμένων Ἐρεβόσδε πρὸς ζόφον· ἠέλιος δὲ οὐρανοῦ ἐξαπόλωλε, κακὴ δ’ ἐπιδέδρομεν ἀχλύς. 49 Od. 15.525–534. 50 Od. 17.152–161.

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b) Other epic traditions. Divination in the ‘Theban cycle’. Late developments It can be said that no epic tradition (or no epic poem) lacks its seer. The Homeric poems are but one example of the multiple possibilities offered to the singers by the recourse to divination. In its own nature, a prediction opens a narrative space that can be filled with a specific action (more or less developed), conditioned by the initial prediction, and that will be closed by the fatidic fulfilment of the oracle. As for the seers, they are specialists in mediation with the divine as well as representatives of substantial aspects of religion, and therefore central figures in moments of crisis; on the other side they allow the poet to build an easy contrast, and sometimes neat opposition51, with those who represent human authority. First, the poems of the so called Epic Cycle, together with those of the pseudo-Hesiodic corpus, develop numerous features of the seers by adapting them to their wide-ranging themes. For instance, whereas Helenus is described in Homer as a seer (this is no late innovation), it seems that his sister Cassandra52, the inspired prophetess in Ancient literature par excellence, does not (clearly) show her mantic qualities before the Cyclic poems53. And this innovation will be decisive not only for the subsequent representation of the heroine and her literary treatment54, but also for the creation of a paradigm of women’s role in divinatory rites55. The fragments of the pseudo-Hesiodic corpus preserve and give narrative and poetic structure to the genealogies of the seers and their achievements. As we will see below, the Melampodidae will be the favourite source of inspiration. The Melampody included a systematic account of the exploits of many seers besides the Melampodidae, such as Calchas and Teiresias. It allows us to detect the progressive consolidation of the popularity of the seers, as well as the efforts of the contemporary seers’ families (and individuals) to gain social prestige and to consolidate their authority. Furthermore, the appearance of new seers (at least not mentioned in precedent legends) provides a hint of the changing situation. So, the victory of Mopsus on Calchas56, an example of a contest between diviners, 51 From the first very confrontation: Calchas vs. Agamemnon, who tries to discredit him. 52 On the characteristics of Cassandra along the history of Greek literature see Neblung (1997) and Mazzoldi (2001), with different perspectives. 53 See Mazzoldi (2001) 118, with a discussion of the different theories. The texts are: Cypria arg.; Il. exc. arg., Il. parv. 15, Nost. 10 Bernabé. 54 Lyric, theatre, Lycophron etc. See the books cited in n. 52. 55 See the central argument of Mazzoldi (on the relation between divination and virginity), and the studies by Crippa (1990, 1998). 56 Hes. fr. 278.

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could symbolize, according to Burkert57, the arrival of a new ‘wave’ of seers from the Orient, though it can also be used to reinforce the authority of the oracular sites located in Asia Minor58. Finally, the connection between these epic traditions and the genealogical concerns coalesce in some of those traditions, probably to give a solid basis for the remodeling both of the oldest mythical figures and of the younger ones. This is, for instance, what happens with the Theban cycle. Theban mythology has a venerable antiquity, perhaps since Mycenaean times59. The poet of the Iliad mentions several times the Argive fight against Thebes60, usually in relation to Diomedes. Even Oedipus’ death is remembered. The list of epic poems belonging to Theban mythology is not short: Oedipodia, Thebais, Amphiaraou exelasis, Epigonoi, Alcmaeonis. In all of them, seers have a decisive role. First, on the Theban side, Teiresias, a very particular figure that accumulates very disparate features, sometimes of a very standard type (ornithomancy, interpreter of Apollonian omens, etc.), although usually he is quite different from the seers’ general picture. He must belong to the oldest strata of Theban mythology. It could be said that he is more than a seer: he is the voice of Theban divination. His longevity (seven generations)61 was necessary to connect him with the vicissitudes of the Theban royal genos. His mother is a Nymph, Chariclo62. The acquisition of powers is quite peculiar too: snakes are involved in it, but not for the usual reason63, and his mantic capacity is Zeus’ gift for his blindness: it is a compensation for the punishment inflicted on him, and therefore, in the end, it is the result of a transgression. Later sources will fuse Delphic, Sibylline and Theban mantic traditions when recounting Teiresias’ offspring64. Thus Diodorus Siculus says that his daughter, Manto, was taken prisoner by the Theban conquerors and sent as an offer to Delphi, where she became an expert composer of oracles and acted as a Sibyl (under the name of Daphne).

57 Burkert (1979) 43–84, (1983). 58 On Mopsus see Baldriga (1984), Metzler (1990), Suárez (2005b) 41 f., Dillery (2005) 176–178 (with reference to the motif of the ‘wisdom contest’ in ancient texts). 59 Nilsson (1935); a series of articles have been dedicated by Prof. Ruipérez to the Mycenaean antiquity of Oedipus’ saga (for which, according to him, the evidence of the name Iocasta would be decisive): they are now collected and revised in Ruipérez (2006). 60 Il. 4.222 f., 370–400; 6.406; 11.285 f.; 14.109–114, 323; 19.99; 23.679. 61 Marcos (2000). 62 Father: Everes, descendant from the Spartoi. 63 This time, the observation of mating snakes is the cause of his change of sex (both, from male to female and the reverse). 64 His daughter, Manto, is included in the genealogy of other seers, as mother of Mopsus or even wife of Alcmaeon. See Lyons (1998).

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On the Argive side the contrast is evident. There is a warrior-seer65, Amphiaraus, belonging to the family of the Melampodidae, whose offspring will continue for many generations the practice of seercraft. His son Amphilochus will enjoy a great celebrity, and his oracle at Mallus in Cilicia will be described by Pausanias as the “truest” in his times66. 2.2 The crystallization of ‘mythical’ genealogies of seers67: The case of the Melampodidae The Homeric poems give us a wide-ranging, but not complete, vision of divination and seers on the oldest chronological level in terms of literature. However, from the more ‘rigid’ Iliad to the colourful Odyssey something has begun to change, as we have remarked. Moreover, although seers are included in the list of demioergoi who can be summoned to a royal house, we have also seen that the treatment of the figure of the seer is now enlarged with the construction of genealogies. This is not, of course, an exclusive phenomenon of divination: the consolidation of the emerging states in Greece and, inside them, the search for traditions configuring not only collective identities, but also those of the different genê, along with a patent interest in justifying the preservation of privileges, leads to this blooming of genealogical ‘trees’ spread in poetic form by rhapsodes, who contribute to the construction of a ‘pre-historic map’ of the Greeks. So, in the period between the second half of the 8th century and the first half (roughly speaking) of the 6th, there are two decisive phenomena involving the development of mantic art, both in the literary tradition about seers and in the actual practice of their craft. Singers will create new poems, like the Melampody 68 (which looks like a “comprehensive history of the seers’ lives”), and seers’ ‘biographies’ will be included in other widespread oral poems such as the Megalai Ehoiai and some others included in the pseudoHesiodic corpus. In the actual practice of seercraft, the spread of mantic 65 Diod. 4.66–67. 66 Paus. 1.34. He also mentions an altar at Athens dedicated to Amphilochus. 67 For reasons of brevity I have chosen the Melampodidae as a paradigmatic family. I omit references to other mantic families with important mythical and historical representatives, such as the Clytiadae, Telliadae and, most especially, Iamidae (see Suarez 2005b). On Iamus see now the interesting article of Flower (2008). 68 Löffler (1963). Anyway, the real contents of this poem, transmitted as a (pseudo-) Hesiodic composition, is a much debated issue. But, even if the fragments included in the Hesiodic corpus belong to a late phase of the epic, the Odysseian passage cited above (Melampous) reveals that something like an “Ur-Melampodie” existed when the Odyssey was composed or, at least, that it was a repertoire-motif of the bards: the Homeric audience was familiarized with the theme.

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techniques from the West (brought by ‘wandering seers’69) will lead to the adoption (or, perhaps, increase) of specialized practices, such as the inspection of entrails, particularly hepatoscopy70. Simultaneously, either through wandering professionals or due to cultural contacts of a wide-ranging class, some medical practices, together with purification procedures, will be adopted and developed by the Greeks. We can find a synthesis of the new trends71 in the profile of the seers belonging to prominent families. Among them, the Melampodidae set the basis for a long-lasting paradigm. In some way the profile of the founder, Melampous72, Amythaon’s son, is perhaps the most complete of all the possible types of ancient seers, but in certain aspects he is not representative of what could be called a ‘pure’ seer: or perhaps we must say that he is representative of a given stratum in the history of seercraft in Greece. In fact, in this case the term ‘seer’ becomes too unsatisfactory. To begin with, some of the most prominent Melampodidae (starting from the founder of the dynasty) belong to royal families and act as warriors in decisive moments. Some of the most prominent actions of Melampous are achieved in the frame of different adventures in which the role of the seer has nothing to do with religious or similar functions. Moreover, these warrior-seers are often involved in dynastic quarrels, not the least because they are members of royal families. They represent then a kind of ‘mythical’ period characterized by the possibility of the concentration of different powers in the same person. In other words, war, divination and/or healing (to mention the main aspects) are not fields that require different ‘specialists’. At least, the simultaneity of mantic, medical and purifying capacities represent the largest display of Apollonian powers. As Parker has observed73, once the μάντις is plainly absorbed by the Apollonian sphere, he can become a ἰατρόμαντις 74. However, it is interesting to observe that in later (‘historical’) times, and perhaps with the exception of the capacity of healing, the situation will not be very different; the seers who accompanied the armies were not exempted from fighting like the other soldiers75.

69 In the sense studied by Burkert (see supra n. 62). 70 This is the most widespread technique in the Ancient World, from Mesopotamia to Etruria. 71 I mean: the sum of old epic stratum + new poetical (genealogical) developments + innovations in the portrait of the seer (whose capacities are now in part increased, in part modified – or even submitted to a process of specialization). 72 See Suárez (1992a), Nogueras (2002). 73 Parker (1983) chapter 7. 74 Cf. Suárez (1992) 8. 75 See chapter 6 of Flower (2008), entitled “A Dangerous Profession”.

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The portrait of Melampous would deserve a thorough treatment76, beyond the limits of this contribution. He is the most complete representative of the paradigmatic seers and the analysis of the evolution in the description of his qualities and adventures is important for the simple reason that it allows us to detect interesting shifts in his presentation. After Homer, there is an important change77. The prodigious qualities become more and more emphasized, beginning with his acquisition of powers. The Pseudo-Hesiodea, the Athenian theatre, Pherecydes, Pseudo-Apollodorus or Eustathius (among other sources)78 show that Melampous’ ‘biography’ has grown across time (or that some details have been modified) and that an Apollonian perspective has more and more enriched the profile of this seer. This is the catalogue of the main episodes fulfilled by the seer (though altering the chronology of sources), presented in abridged manner: acquisition of powers79, the cows of Philacus80, the healing of Iphiclus81, the healing of the Proitids/women 76 See the bibliography cited supra in n. 77 and Dowden (1989) 71–96 (Proitids) and 97–115 Melampous. 77 The evolution is analyzed by Suárez (1992a). 78 These are the main post-Homeric sources: Hes. fr. 37.17; 261; 270–274; Pind. Pae. 4.28–30; Hdt. 9.34; Theophr. h. plant. 10.4; Eudox. fr. 313 f. Lasserre (= Steph. Byz. s. v. ἀζανία); Apollod. 1.9.11; 2.2.2; Diod. 4.68; Paus. 4.36.3; Athen. 11.498; Eust. ad Od. 11.297 f.; Schol. Il. 13.663; Schol. Od. 11.287 (= Pherec. FGrH 3 F 33); Schol. Pind. Nem. 9.30; Schol. Aesch. Sept. 569; Schol. Theocr. Id. 3.43; Schol. Apoll. Rhod. 1.118; Plin. nat. 25.5.21; Prop. 22.3.51–54. 79 According to the Ps.-Apollodorus, Melampous was philtatos to Apollo. Snakes appear when he is sacrificing to the god in the house of Polyphontes (in Ps.-Apollodorus there was a tree and inside it a nest of snakes). The servants kill them, but Melampous rears the young ones. When they grow up, they lick his ears and he understands then the language of birds (Eustathius: all animals). Ps.-Apollodorus adds that he also obtained the art of divination through the inspection of victims, and that, after an encounter with Apollo in the river Alpheius, he became “the best of the seers”: 1.9.11 προσέλαβε δὲ καὶ τὴν διὰ τῶν ἱερῶν μαντικήν, περὶ δὲ τὸν Ἀλφειὸν συντυχὼν Ἀπόλλωνι τὸ λοιπὸν ἄριστος ἦν μάντις. 80 This is the episode remembered by Theoclymenus in the Odyssey, the first exploit not only as a king’s son who shows the solidarity inside the genos, but also as seer and healer (see next episode). He predicts that he will return with the cows in one year, he saves his life (and that of others) thanks to his capacity of understanding the language of animals, and not only birds: in this case they were woodworms. 81 The boy had a kind of child’s trauma: he became impotent when his father put beside him the knife (full of blood) he had used to geld rams. He then cures Iphiclus’ (son of Phylacus) impotence. This exploit entails more than one skill. He sacrifices two bulls and summons the birds. A vulture reveals him the origin of his impotence and the place where the knife that caused it was hidden. The boy is healed with a pharmakon prepared with the rust of the knife (something similar to Telephus’ healing with the rust of Achilles’ spear; the oracle said: ὁ τρώσας ἰάσεται). The fact that the seer summons the birds during a sacrifice fits into the scheme we have

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of Argos and the division of the kingdom of Argos82; Melampous and the introduction of cults in Greece83. Another important mythical Melampodid was Polyidus, in the fourth generation after Melampous 84. We have not so many sources as in the case of Melampous, but the profile resulting from what we know is no less fascinating 85. We have found his name among the seers mentioned in the Iliad. In parallel with the motif of the dismissed advice of the seer in that poem there is the episode of his counsel to Iphitus, Eurytus’ son, to avoid going to Tiryns (he went there and was killed by Heracles) 86. He is a Corinthian seer, but he acts also as a ‘wandering’ seer. His first remarkable exploit took place in Crete, where he could find and resurrect Minos’ son, Glaucus. The story of this exploit (narrated in some detail by Ps.-Apollodorus and Hyginus87), entails a valuable amount of small details that allow us to hint at

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observed above: the frequent appearance of omens in those circumstances (when the ‘communication’ with the gods is active). This is again an illustration of the medical and/or purifying abilities of the mantis. And there are also in this episode many other aspects involving religious practices, political aspects and a good amount of legendary motifs attached to women’s social roles and representations, initiatory rituals and much more. The double alternative in the mythical themes (Dionysus vs. Hera as deity offended, and Proitus’ daughters vs. women of Argos) will not be discussed now. As a consequence of this episode, the kingdom of Argos was divided in three parts and shared by Proitus, Melampous and his brother Bias. On this episode see Dowden (1989) passim and Burkert (²1997) 189–194 (about the Agrionia). At least from the 5th century onwards, Melampous is not only known by episodes related to divination or healing. Herodotus’ picture transforms him into a religious innovator, who introduces in Greece the cult of Dionysus (more exactly his phallic rites: Hdt. 1.49). From Herodotus’ point of view, Dionysus and Dionysism are of Egyptian origin, and would have been imported to Greece by Melampous, but through the mediation of Cadmus and the Thebans. It is possible that this attribution was based on the mention of Melampous in some source of Onomacritus’ circle. The main link of Dionysus with Orphism is the myth of the god’s tearing apart by the Titans, the search for the body and his ‘reconstruction’ by other gods. The supposition that it was of Egyptian origin comes from the parallelism with the myth of Isis and Osiris. See Bernabé (2002a), (2002b); all the orphic texts and testimonia have been superbly edited also by Bernabé (2004). Usually the ἱεροὶ λόγοι are attributed to Orpheus, but Melampous is sometimes mentioned. Subsequently, Hecataeus of Abdera (FGrH 264 F 25) considers Melampous responsible for the introduction of other traditions about Cronus, the Titanomachy and all the πάθη of the gods; eventually Clemens of Alexandria ( protr. 2.13.5) assigns the Demetriac rites to him. Melampous – Clitus – Ceranus – Polyidus. Suárez (1994a). Schol. Od. 21.22. Apollod. 3.2.3; Hyg. fab. 136.

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an old stratum of beliefs in relation to seercraft. Elements like the role of snakes, the reference to honey, disappearance, resurrection, hiding in a cave with a corpse etc. arouse interesting connotations in the religious imaginary of the Greeks. At the same time, this amazing story allows Polyidus to display his multifarious ability as a seer. He overcomes the first test to be accepted as the diviner who could find Glaucus (fallen into a honey-jar): a curious contest based on the capacity of making the best description of a three-coloured cow88, perfectly resolved by Polyidus, who compared it to a mulberry. The seer wins this first ‘linguistic’ contest and then he finds Glaucus dead (but Minos wanted him alive)89. This time, it is the ornithomancy that allows him to find the boy. His last exploit in Crete will be the resurrection of Glaucus, thanks to the (involuntary) help of a snake that had brought to life the other serpent killed by Polyidus when he was shut up with the corpse trying to find a solution. The seer applied to the corpse the same herb that had been used by the serpent and so he brought also Glaucus to life 90. It is difficult to resist the idea that, once again, the story of a seer includes keys that lead us to the world of initiation91, concerning divination and royal families. From this first (apparently) ancient level we pass to a very different illustration of the seers qualities. The source is Pindar92, who relates the intervention of Polyidus in Corinthus as a local diviner who acts as mediator with the gods. Bellerophontes consults him about the manner to tame the horse Pegasus. The seer advises him to sleep in Athena’s temple, who will give him instructions. In fact, during this incubation Athena provides him with the bridle (invented by the goddess for that occasion). Healing and purification are also present in some sources. In a pseudoPlutarchean text 93 we find an episode that shares some traits with the story of the Proitids. This time the protagonist is king Teuthras of Mysia, who killed a wild boar against the will of Artemis, who punished him with the same sicknesses as the Proitids 94. Teuthras was cured by Polyidus, who 88 This cow had been found by the Couretes. 89 The antiquity of this peculiar motive cannot be demonstrated, though Eur. fr. 389b could include an allusion to it. The expression used by Apollodorus (διά τινος μαντείας) could lurk an allusion to ornithomanteia as the instrument to find Glaucus; in Hyg. fab. 136, where Polyidus finds the child with the help of an owl, but there is no mention of the seers’ contest. 90 He teaches him the art of divination, but, at the moment of departure, Glaucus looses his powers after spitting into Polyidus’ mouth (by indication of the seer). 91 See Corsano (1992) 111–134 and Suárez (1994a). 92 Ol. 13.72 ff. 93 De fluviis 21.4.16 94 White leper and madness. The whole story shows contamination with Proitids’ myth.

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erected an altar to the goddess and dedicated to her the golden statue of a wild boar 95. The next Melampodid I will consider is Amphiaraus96. His first mention (genealogy of Theoclymenus)97, despite his brevity, shows an important difference with late traditions: he died at Thebes (that is, in the failed conquest of the town), which means that the legend of his disappearance under earth is a later one. He is an Argive seer, but his most important deeds are almost always linked to the war against Thebes. Additionally he is mentioned as a participant in the funeral games for Pelias98, he was one of Helen’s suitors99 and participated in the Calydon’s boar hunting. Recovering an old paradigm, but simultaneously reflecting the contemporary model, he is a brave warrior who, at the same time, has mantic powers: he even predicts his own end. A secondary development makes of him a healer, without letting aside his mantic capacity (what is perfectly in line with the tradition of the dynasty). In the Athenian sanctuary of Oropus, the evolution of the cult is, on the one side, guided by political aims, and then progressively influenced by the medical cult of Asclepius. As a matter of fact, the oracular consultations progressively disappear. As usual, our sources diverge in their choice of the main aspects of the seer, according to their needs. As I have said, he first appears involved in the dynastic conflicts of the kingdoms of Argos100 and Thebes. He belongs then to a very old epic tradition, sung in the times of Homer and in continuous development across time. Homer introduces him in very positive terms, as a favourite of Zeus and Apollo, who died because of his wife’s treason101. The Thebaid gave details of his brave behaviour during the assault102, and it has 95 On the purification of Alcathous, Paus. 1.43.5. But the problem with the syntax of the text has led also to postulate that the purifier is Melampus. Other sources for Polyidus: Hyginus fab. 49, 136; Ael. nat. 5.2. The three main tragic authors wrote pieces with the Cretan episode as argument: Aeschylus’ Cretan Women, Euripides’ Polyidus, and Sophocles’ Manteis or Polyidus. 96 See now the monograph of Sineux (2007). 97 See above. The passage is Od. 15.243–255. 98 Stesich. 179 PMG. 99 Apollod. 3.129–132. 100 Against Licurgus; this is a very old iconographical motif: see Olmos-Bernabé. 101 Od. 15.244–247: λαοσσόον Ἀμφιάραον, / ὃν περὶ κῆρι φίλει Ζεύς τ’ αἰγίοχος καὶ Ἀπόλλων / παντοίην φιλότητ’(α)· οὐδ’ ἵκετο γήραος οὐδόν, / ἀλλ’ ὄλετ’ ἐν Θήβῃσι γυναίων εἵνεκα δώρων. This is an allusion to Eriphile’s necklace. Later on (lines 252 f.), when he speaks of Polypheides, Theoclymenus says that, after Amphiaraus’ death, Apollo made Polypheides the “best seer” among men. 102 We have in a scholion to Homer a brief account of the episode of Tydeus’ wound (Fr. 9 Bernabé), where Amphiaraus seems to act as a healer who makes recourse to ‘magical’ means (he gives him Melanippus’ brain), though later sources interpret it as an intentioned action to cause Hera’s anger (so Ps.-Apollodorus).

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left for posterity a successful definition of the warrior-seer, imitated (totally or partially) by Ps. Hesiodus103, Aeschylus104 and Pindar (almost literally)105: ἀμφότερον μάντιν τ’ ἀγαθὸν καὶ δουρὶ μάχεσθαι 106. This description will be chosen by a 6th-century diviner for his epitaph107, which confirms the validity of the paradigm. The Theban legend has an important influence on the process of rethinking myths across the 5th century. Pindar (as is normal in a Theban poet convinced of the vicinity of the realms of poetry and prophecy)108 mentions Amphiaraus in some odes. Apart from the passage cited above, where Amphiaraus’ praise is pronounced by Adrastus, the poet knows a different tradition of hostility between both heroes, and he cites a quarrel between them, because the seer had killed Adrastus’ father, and then the Argive hero fled to Sicyon109. The legend of the Epigones appears in Pyth. 8.39–60, with the problematic mention of Alcmeon’s neighbourhood110. However, perhaps the best proof, in a literary text, of Amphiaraus’ paradigmatic and positive consideration is to be found in Athenian drama in general and in Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes in particular. The description of the ‘watchman’ in lines 568–625 of Seven and the answer of Eteocles show a deep respect for the diviner, and they underline his valuable role (as a mediator) and his ‘engagement’ in divine matters. In a certain way these speeches aim at synthesizing Athenian ideal behaviour inside the polis. Seers are negotiators with the divine, and they intrinsically deserve a special respect and consideration. At the same time a reliable seer has very equilibrated phrenes. He is sophronestatos 111. His insults against Tydeus, his words, announcing his own end under the earth, the fact that he has no sign on the shield (because he “does not want to seem the best one, but to be it”), confirm this positive profile: he is the “right man among the wrong ones”, a dikaios surrounded by impious men (597 f.). And I think that it is justified to adduce as a complementary text (among many others possible) the dialogue between

103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

Fr. 25.37 ὅς ῥ’ ἀγαθὸς μὲν ἔην ἀγορῆι, ἀγαθὸς δὲ μάχεσθαι. See below on the Aeschylean mention in Seven. Ol. 6.13: ἀμφότερον μάντιν τ’ ἀγαθὸν καὶ δουρὶ μάχεσθαι. Fr. 10 Bernabé. SEG 16.193(b), ca. 370 BCE. The final word is damaged; the alternatives suggested are μα[χητήν] (Oikonomides) and μά[χεσθαι (Papademetrios). Suárez (1989). Nem. 9.13–15. The ode commemorates a victory in the Sicyonian games. I refer to the commentary of Gentili et al. (1995) 576 f. And see line 593, βαθεῖαν ἄλοκα διὰ φρενὸς καρπούμενος. A synthesis of the theme of the sophrosyne and the meaning of the ‘empty shield’ is found in Euripides’ Phoenician women 1111: ὁ μάντις Ἀμφιάραος, οὐ σημεῖ’ ἔχων ὑβρισμέν’, ἀλλὰ σωφρόνως ἄσημ’ ὅπλα.

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Teiresias and Oedipus112 in Sophocles’ Antigone, in order to gain a concise profile of the seer and his role among the Athenians. Teiresias’ main argument is that the polis enjoyed good times as long as Oedipus followed his (Teiresias’) advice; his speech emphasizes (a) the importance of observing the behaviour of birds and (b) the value of sacrifices and of the examination of the victims during the rite, in order to appreciate adequately the signs sent by the gods: both (Amphiaraus and Teiresias) synthesize the art and function of the seer in the service of the polis, such as they were perceived by the citizens. We could say that Amphiaraus becomes a paradigmatic seer in the 5th century. The legend of his prodigious disappearance (and reappearance as a god) had established the basis for adding to his powers another traditional aspect of the Melampodidae: the power of healing. It is not easy to precise the exact moment when Amphiaraus’ incubatory cult began or where the primitive sanctuary was113. The existence of a Theban sanctuary has been not fully confirmed, though it cannot be discarded, and a Theban origin of the cult would not be out of place114. Anyway, a particular aspect of this cult is that the incubatory sanctuary in historical times was at Oropus, on the border between Boeotia and Attica, and that it has acquired an important political dimension, as is generally accepted115, especially between the 4th and 1st centuries BCE. Among the sources that give us information about this worship, I will centre my attention on the description of Pausanias116, because it contains a valuable reflection on the seers’ typology. After mentioning Oropus as a border town (belonging at that time to the Athenians) and having discussed the reliability of the version of the disappearance of the harma in that place, Pausanias affirms that the Oropians were the first to deem Amphiaraus a god, followed then by the rest of the Greeks. He gives a catalogue of other ‘deified’ heroes and describes the temple, the statue and the altar. The latter is divided into five parts, each one showing a different list of names117. After some information concerning the

112 Soph. Ant. 988 ff. 113 Cf. a good discussion in Schachter (1981) 19–26; but see now a reconsideration of data in Terranova (2008). 114 A possible location has been postulated by Terranova (2008). 115 See the chapter “Le territoire et la frontière” in Sineux (2007) 91–117 and Terranova 2008. 116 Paus. 1.34. 117 1. Heracles, Zeus, and Paean Apollo; 2. Dedicated to heroes and heroines; 3. Hestia, Hermes, Amphiaraos and Amphilochus (because Alcmaeon is excluded and has no timé, for having killed his mother); 4. Aphrodite and Panakeia, Iaso, Health, Athena Paeonia; 5. Nymphs and Pan, the rivers Achelous and Cephisus.

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place and other matters118, he cites Iophon of Cnossus119, one of the exegetai, who preserved a collection of oracles allegedly uttered by Amphiaraus to the army sent against Thebes. This is the well-known passage where he explains the nature of the incubatory process (a parallel to the cult of Asclepius), but he previously makes an assertion that includes a curious description of the different mantic practices. He says that, with the exception of those seers who have experienced the mania sent by Apollo, in ancient times there was no chresmologos: they were experts in dream interpretation, in the observation of birds’ flight and of animals’ entrails. Amphiaraus was especially endowed for the first one. We see in this text that he considers chresmologues as a ‘recent’ phenomenon, which leads us to the next section.

3. Soul, words and writing: oracles, ‘chresmologues’, and new ‘prodigious’ men The history of divination in ancient Greece undergoes two important innovations in its methods in the archaic period (between the 7th and 6th centuries grosso modo): the inspection of entrails and what is traditionally labelled as spirit possession or mantic trance. An ‘oriental’ origin120 has been usually postulated for both modalities. This is true, but it must be stressed that this strong innovative stream coming from the orient has found a very fertile soil in Greece. First, because the Greeks have never neglected the rightness of the different steps and details in every sacrifice or similar operation, and were very attentive to any alteration (of whatever nature, including the victims) of the process; and second, because, as we have seen, there is an abundance of seers’ descriptions in which a special attitude from the part of the seer was required. On the other side, regarding the nature of ‘spirit possession’, it is necessary to underline that this is a wide-ranging concept, used to qualify very different situations: from the concentrated attitude of a singer to the orgiastic frenzy of a maenad121. We have also observed that a strict division between natural and artificial or technical divination is not possible, and that they are but the two sides of the same practice. Nonetheless the most delicate question is whether the adoption of a new type of seercraft 118 For instance: Near the temple is a spring, called “of Amphiaraus”, whose waters are never used neither for sacrifices, nor purifications nor washing hands. Or: If you are finally healed, after having followed the indications of the manteuma (i. e. dream), you must throw a piece of silver and gold inside. 119 He is not known by any other source. 120 See again the references of n. 62. 121 Plato (Phaedr. 244a–245a) gives a well-known classification, which implies the conscience of a multifaceted mania. On the possession of the Pythia see Maurizio (1995).

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is either linked to a new concept of the soul or it is due to other reasons (or even both at the same time). As we will see, an important consequence of the new situation is the birth of new mythical paradigms, endowed with religious authority122, which will support the new trends of this period, in which a new consideration of the nature of the soul has been introduced. Another very important innovation, basic for the understanding of the new situation in the archaic period, is the spreading of writing and the increasing of its use in religious matters123, which leads us to the rising of written oracles and chresmology sensu stricto 124. This is a fascinating theme, involving some important cultural innovations in the Greek world and – in the strict case of divination – with ramifications in two important domains: (a) the relation of oracular centres to oral poetic composition and, secondarily, to its written diffusion; (b) the spread of alternative prophetic types, like Sibyls and the mythical chresmologues. I will focus now on the latter item125. We must differentiate between the Sibyls as prophetesses of oriental origin and the sibylline oracle as circulating utterance attributed to them126. The ancient forebears of the Sibyls in Mesopotamia are well known and offer an interesting paradigm of ecstatic 122 A curious example of fusion of many layers in Delphic mythology is provided by Diodorus 4.66.4–4.67.1: Teiresias’ daughter Manto is captured by the Epigonoi and brought to Delphi, where she wrote oracles and was called Sibyl. 123 On the use of writing in religion see Henrichs (2003). On oracles and writing see the important chapter on ἱεροὶ χρησμοί in Baumgarten (1998) 15–69. I will not develop here the problem of the ‘authenticity’ (from our point of view, of course) of the oracles transmitted as ‘Delphic’. See Suárez (1992b, 1994c, 1995, 2004). 124 See a good discussion of this term in Dillery (2007). However, though sometimes this term is interchangeable with ‘diviner’ or ‘seer’, I am now referring to the proper (etymological) use of the word. On mantic, and especially ‘chresmology’, in Athenian comedy (which is an important source) see Smith (1989) and Suárez (1998b). 125 Where the Pythia came from, is not an easy question to be answered, and the explanation making recourse to the oriental models, though likely, is difficult to concretize in its details. Latte (1949) and Dowden (1979/1980) (to cite a couple of theories) have advanced solutions to the enigma, but not exempt from objections. See Amandry (1950), Roux (1976), Suárez (2005a). Even more difficult it is to determine why Delphi diverges from the rest of oracular Apollinean shrines (not to speak of those of Zeus, like Dodona). See the introductions and commentaries of Parke (1967, 1985) and Parke/Wormell (1956), as well as Fontenrose (1978, 1988). Paradoxically, the Ionian sanctuaries do not follow a common model, at least in late Antiquity, according to Iamblichus (De mysteriis 3.11): the (male) prophet was inspired by water at Claros, the prophetess of Colophon, after some preliminary rites, could be alternatively induced to trance either by a club, or by sitting on an axon or putting her feet into sacred water and damping the clothes’ edge in it. For the Pythia, the means of divine inspiration was the θεῖον πνεῦμα. 126 The bibliography on the Sibyls being quite vast, I refer to the studies of Parke (1988) and the Introduction of Suárez (²2002).

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prophecy diffused through writing127. There is a common typology very persistent across times, since the 2nd millennium BCE to the Alexandrian period128. In fact, the most ancient sibylline centres are placed in the Eastern regions of Greece. However, there is a difficulty concerning the introduction of this mantic type into Greece. We have a gap between the first indications of oracular-sibylline language and the spreading of the first oracles attributed to the Sibyls129. And a second gap between the initial circulation of Sibylline oracles and the historical localization of real Sibyls. In other words, as I have previously sustained, the circulation of Sibylline oracles is older than the appearance of concrete Sibyls in precise locations in the Greek world. The sibylline prophecy is alternatively defined as vaticinium ex eventu, but this is not in any case the viewpoint of the anonymous composer. The aim of these prophecies is to circulate oracles allegedly uttered in immemorial times and usually announcing a catastrophic event. Thus described, it is an old type in Greek poetry. The fall of Troy is twice remembered in the Iliad in a clear sibylline style130. Moreover, in Hesiodic poetry we can find old prophecies, of unknown origin, announcing violent changes in the dynastic succession of the gods, unless some reaction comes from the addressee of the prophecy131. All these instances do not necessarily prove the existence of old sibylline prophecies familiar to the epic poets, but at least points to a possible early crystallization of a ‘sibylline style’ and to the existence of anonymous ‘oracle-mongers’ taking advantage of the epic hexameter and language for their interests. This leads us to the problem of the appearance of the Sibyl. The only uncontested evidence in Greek culture remains Heraclitus, cited by Plutarch132, and his impressive description of a Sibyl133. The date would be ca. 500 BCE. The other possible indication of an even earlier date, a fragment assigned to Eumelus’ Korinthiaka by Barigazzi134, which would be a prophecy uttered by the own Sibyl with reference to the origin of the Isthmian 127 On the origin and spreading of the Sibyl(s) see Suárez (1994, 2001) and Roessli (2004). I have studied in detail the evolution of the Sibyl and sibylline literature in Suárez (²2002) 331–444. 128 I mean from the civilization of Mari to Alexander the Great. 129 I am using the plural intentionally; but see Suárez (1994, 2001). 130 Il. 4.164 f. (Agamemnon to Menelaus) and 6.448 f. (Hector to Andromache): ἔσσεται ἦμαρ ὅτ’ ἄν ποτ’ ὀλώλῃ ῎Ιλιος ἱρή καὶ Πρίαμος καὶ λαὸς ἐϋμμελίω Πριάμοιο. 131 See theog. 5. I have discussed the possible connection with oriental models of these passages and others including the formula βασιληΐδα τιμήν in Suárez (2000a). 132 Heracl. fr. 92 Diels/Kranz, 75 Markovich (Plut. de Pyth. orac. 397 a–b). 133 See Suárez (1994b), (2001), (2007a) 62–67. 134 Barigazzi (1966a), cf. Barigazzi (1966b) 321–325. The fragment has been analyzed in detail in Suárez (1994) 195–197. See also Tortorelli-Ghidini (1998) 249–261.

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games, is problematic, and its authenticity has been disputed135. However, even if composed at a later date, this text might bear witness to an ancient local sibylline tradition136. And this is no insignificant possibility, taking into account the importance of the Corinthians (and more precisely the Bacchiad family), together with the Euboeans, for the Italian colonization. Moreover, the story of this colonization has no shortage of contacts with centres that were decisive in the introduction of the sibylline tradition in Italy. But this could lead us too far137. Beyond the specific problems detected, we can suggest with great probability that in the 6th century BCE, the Sibyl as much as a ‘sibylline’ type of oracle was well known in Greece. At the same time, the Delphic oracle, the activity of which can be traced back to the 8th century, had reached a (more or less) fixed typology in its responses, which were circulating and being zealously conserved in the archives of the towns138. It was a time apt for a new modality of prophecy: chresmolog y. Despite the use of χρησμολόγος as synonym for seer, there can be no doubt that the use of the word is linked either to the composition of oracular texts or to its collection139. It is a wordcompound bond to the birth of a new perspective in the use of divination, aimed at widening its scope and influence. This new situation will remap the panoramic of seercraft, and will multiply the appearance of new types of seers, in which divination is a tool for broadcasting their powers or a complementary gift of their complex personality. Therefore, we will find the term applied to professional seers familiarized with oracular texts140 and, at the same time, a new kind of paradigmatic seer (or similar figure) will appear, through the invention of legendary oracles, whom a whole collection is assigned to. Bakis illustrates this type perfectly well. He is little more than a ‘name’, assigned to a male counterpart of the Sibyl. In fact, it could be said that he is merely an ‘empty’ pseudo-mythical figure, created to support the 135 Parke (1988) 118 f. and Amato (2002) postulate a late date for the fragment (4th century BCE or even later). 136 See also the synchronism made by Saint Jerome-Hier. chron. 2.83 Schöne: cf. T 5 Bernabé, who refers to the partial coincidence with Eus. chron. Ol. 9 (2.80 Schöne, vers. arm.). 137 I refer again to my Introduction in Suárez (²2002) with details. 138 The testimony of Theognis (805–810 West) is decisive. The importance of Delphi and its oracle in Classical Athens has been recently studied by Giuliani (2002) and Bowden (2005). See also Suárez (1998a). 139 By the way: When Iamblichus describes the different instruments of mantic inspiration at Delphi, Colophon and Claros, he uses the name χρησμῳδός for Colophonian priest and the prophetess of the Branchid sanctuary, whereas the Pythia is called a προφῆτις. 140 For instance, Onomacritus is rather known as ‘oracle-monger’ (Shapiro 1990) than as a proper seer (see D’Agostino 2007).

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authority of invented oracular collections, who appears for the first time in the 7th century and reappears in the 6th century in the context of Theban and Messenian history141. Nonetheless, they are not always ‘seers’ in the pure sense of the word. Sometimes they are linked to emergent religious streams, and the attribution of oracle-collections to them is merely an expedient to confer authority to those texts. This is what happens with Orpheus or Musaeus, though they are different in some aspects. Orpheus142 is at the core of a very important religious movement to which he gives his name: he is the mythical founder of this stream, whereas Musaeus is linked to a variety of religious (and especially Athenian143) traditions, Orphism included, as a propagator of those ideas and practices. But what is now important for my argument is the fact that oracle collections were attributed to them that circulated freely and could, despite the efforts made by the political authorities to control them, easily be ‘falsified’144. The shared trait is that both configure a new ‘paradigmatic’ category, partially equivalent to that of the old seers. Significant genealogies are created for them, and they are considered authors of Theogonies, Cosmogonies, and other forms of religious poetry. They form a class of religious authorities with poetical qualities as well as portentous powers. Their prophetical qualities are diffused with the instrument of the written oracle: writing is now a powerful tool, and the possession of these texts reinforces other types of authority145. This model was a great success, and the mantic or oracular power was attributed to other exceptional individuals, characterized by some peculiarities related to a new conception on the soul. This combination of religious authority, mantic powers and (another ‘nouveauté’ ) a capacity of separating their souls from their bodies gives the common profile to Epimenides, Aristeas, Abaris, or Hermotimus. The question of the appearance of the concept of the ‘free soul’ in Greece has been sufficiently discussed, usually linked to the problem of the influence of ‘shamanistic’ concepts146 and is beyond the scope of this paper. But it is important to underline that from the 6th century onwards, the attribution of mantic, cathartic, medical, and related qualities to the same person is a well attested trend in Greek culture 141 More data and bibliography can be found in Suárez (2005). 142 On the evolution of this mythical figure see Graf (²1988). 143 See the ‘appropriation’ of Musaeus by Eumolpidae and Lycomidae. On the characteristics of Athenian ‘orphism’ see Graf (1974). 144 Or perhaps it would be better to say ‘modified’: all of them where a ‘fake’ in a radical sense. 145 See Suárez (2005) for more details. 146 This fascinating theme has elicited eminent studies since the 18th century: see, with very different approaches, Rohde (1897), Dodds (1951), Burkert (1962), Dowden (1979/1980), Bremmer (1983) or Johnston (1999), among others.

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that invades also the field of philosophy and configures the particular ‘biographies’ of Empedocles, Pythagoras and so on, and will be a recurrent feature of Greek culture in later times.

4. Conclusions Since the first literary testimonies, we find in Greek culture a strong tendency to create paradigmatic seers, who impersonate the best professional qualities and are representative of a very respectable type of religious expert. In other words: there is a need of emphasizing the highest level of social acceptance and of personal and religious authority. This profile might reflect a will of counterbalancing the well-attested negative image of the seer in different historical moments and milieux. The main features of the paradigmatic seer evolve across time, fitting the different conceptions regarding the practice of seer craft, the religious and philosophical developments, and the changing social and cultural circumstances. Calchas plays a special role; he is quite representative of the functions of a seer. His portrait is a very impressive one, and establishes a paradigm which will last across centuries for many reasons: the possibility of understanding the will of the gods (thanks to his special nous), the capacity of interpreting signs adequately, and the display of religious authority. Helenus also shows a capacity of understanding (even ‘hearing’) the gods’ will, this time perceived in his thymós. The description of other seers is quite noteworthy too. Some of them experience the impossibility of escaping one’s fate or they foretell their sons’ death. From Iliad to Odyssey, and despite the lesser frequency of diviners in the latter, we have detected some significant innovations. There is a varied typology: the local diviner (Halitherses), skilled in the interpretation of signs; the diviner acting as mediator with the underworld and the dead, predicting the hero’s death (Teiresias); and the itinerant diviner, member of a seers’ family (Theoclymenus). On the other side, regarding the techniques of divination, the interpretation of external signs, such as birds’ flight, dreams or other (more isolated) omens, prevails. It lacks the examination of entrails. However, we have observed that omens can appear during a sacrifice and alter it. In both poems people know the existence of palaiphata thesphata susceptible of accomplishment at a given moment. Generally speaking we could say that prophecies oscillate between interpretations of omens with reference to the present, announcements of future episodes in a person’s life, and evocation of old forgotten prophecies. Therefore all temporal dimensions are displayed: past, present and future. The Odyssey shows that some stories sung by poets about famous seers have begun to be spread, which is confirmed by the rest of the epic poems (Epic Cycle, ps.-Hesiodic poetry). The change is an important one. Seers are

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not only included as characters in a poem, with a more or less decisive role in its plot, but they become the subject of whole songs. This change marks the appearance of a new mode of reinforcing the seers’ authority: their inclusion in a ‘mythical’ genealog y. This is an important innovation, parallel to the consolidation of heroic genealogies. The stories protagonized by these seers include features belonging to different chronological layers, aiming at the consolidation of a definite profile of the seer. Descriptions confirm the portentous powers they have, ranging from the understanding of animals’ language to the possibility of resurrecting people, and including the overcoming of difficult tests. If we sum up the ‘biographies’ of Melampous, Polyidus and Amphiaraus, the portrait is that of a warrior (and member of a royal family), diviner (with manifold skills) and healer, placed under the protection of Apollo. This multifaceted paradigm will function as a “general structure”, from which particular elements can be selected at a given moment and adapted to concrete circumstances. The next step in the evolution of paradigmatic seercraft is linked to two innovations, the first concerning the concept of the soul; the second, the use and expansion of writing in religious matters (coinciding with the emergence of new religious trends). Spirit possession, free soul, and other usual descriptions of the seer’s state at the moment of foretelling or prophesying will be attributed to some of the new representatives of the mantic practice. At the same time, and linked to the precedent fact, the spread of written oracles will contribute to frame a particular paradigm of seer, who authenticates the circulating texts. We have then a (new) threefold paradigmatic typology: the ‘Sybil-Bakis type’, the ‘Musaeus type’ and the ‘Aristeas type’. Despite the efforts to link them all to the sphere of Apollo, they constitute sometimes a kind of alternative oracular model, competing with the oracular shrines. All the described paradigms do not exclude each other. And they coexist with a real, professional and independent practice of divination that sometimes tries to mirror these models, or at least makes use of them to reinforce authority and to counterbalance the scepticism or even the contempt of the people. Finally, in the Hellenistic and, especially, Imperial periods we will find a re-enactment of the old paradigms, adapted to a new kind of religiosity, but rooted in the ancient models. Apollonius of Tyana or Alexander of Abonoutichus are but two sides of the same phenomenon. But this is another story147. 147 As an introduction to theses new models I refer to Sfameni Gasparro (2000), with a splendid bibliography. Finally, I want to mention a particular oracular model: Trophonius. He is not ‘particular’ for the oracular activity, but both for the absence of elements in his ‘biography’ anticipating the activity post mortem and for some traits of the ritual, rich in mystical and initiatory features. But Trophonius has been the subject of decisive research by Pierre Bonnechere (2003) and numerous articles to which I refer the reader.

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Giuliani (2001). – Alessandro Giuliani, La città e l’oracolo. I rapporti tra Atene e Delfi in età arcaica e classica, Vita e Pensiero (Milano 2001). Graf (1974). – Fritz Graf, Eleusis und die orphische Dichtung Athens in vorhellenistischer Zeit, RGVV 33 (Berlin/New York 1974). Graf (1985). – Fritz Graf, Griechische Mythologie. Eine Einführung (München 1985). Graf (²1988). – Fritz Graf, Orpheus: A Poet among Men, in: Jan Bremmer (ed.), Interpretations of Greek Mytholog y (London ²1988) 80–106. Henrichs (2003). – Albert Henrichs, “Inscribed Texts, Ritual Authority, and the Religious Discourse of the Polis”, in: Yunis (2003) 38–58. Johnston (1999). – Sarah Iles Johnston, Restless Dead. Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1999). Kaufman (1979). – Madeleine Saltma Kaufman, Prophecy in Archaic Greek Epic (Diss. State University of New York at Buffalo 1979). Latte (1940), Kurt Latte, “The Coming of the Pythia”, HThR 33 (1940) 9–13. Löffler (1963). – Ingrid Löffler, Die Melampodie. Versuch einer Rekonstruktion des Inhalts (Meisenheim a. G. 1963). Loraux (2004). – Nicole Loraux, Las experiencias de Tiresias. Lo masculino y lo femenino en el mundo griego (Barcelona 2004). Lyons (1998). – Deborah Lyons, “Manto and Manteis: Prophecy in the Myths and Cults of Heroines”, in: Chirassi-Colombo/Seppilli (1998) 227–237. Marcos (2000). – José María Marcos Pérez, “El adivino bisexual que vaticinó a siete generaciones”, in: Actas del X Congreso Español de Estudios Clásicos, vol. 1 (Madrid 2000) 475–483. Maurizio (1995). – Lisa Maurizio, “Anthropology and Spirit Possession: A Reconstruction of the Pythia’s Role at Delphi”, JHS 115 (1995) 69–86. Maurizio (1997). – Lisa Maurizio, “Delphic Oracles as Oral Performances: Authenticity and Historical Evidence”, ClAnt 16 (1997) 308–334. Maurizio (1998). – Lisa Maurizio, “Narrative, Biographical and Ritual Conventions at Delphi”, in: Chirassi Colombo/Seppilli (1998) 133–158. Mazzoldi (2001). – Sabina Mazzoldi, Cassandra, la vergine e l’indovina. Identità di un personaggio da Omero all’Ellenismo (Pisa/Roma) 2001. Metzler (1990). – Dieter Metzler, “Der Seher Mopsos auf den Münzen der Stadt Mallos”, Kernos 3 (1990) 235–250. Meuli (1935). – Karl Meuli, “Scythica”, Hermes 70 (1935) 121–176. Morgan (1990). – Catherine Morgan, Athletes and Oracles. The Transformation of Olympia and Delphi in the 8th Century BC (Cambridge 1990). Morrison (1992). – James Vaugham Morrison, Homeric Misdirection: False Predictions in the ‘Iliad’ (Michigan 1992). Neblung (1997). – Dagmar Neblung, Die Gestalt der Kassandra in der antiken Literatur (Stuttgart/Leipzig 1997). Nilsson (1932). – Martin P. Nilsson, The Mycenaean Origin of Greek Mytholog y (Berkeley 1932). Nogueras (2002). – Montserrat Nogueras, “Questions sobre Melamp”, Itaca 18 (2002) 79–102. Parke (1967). – Herbert William Parke, The Oracles of Zeus. Dodona, Olympia, Ammon (Oxford 1967). Parke (1985). – Herbert William Parke, Oracles of Apollo in Asia Minor (London 1985). Parke (1988). – Herbert William Parke, Sibyls and Sibylline Prophecy in Classical Antiquity, ed. by Brian C. McGing (London 1987).

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Parke/Wormell (1956). – Herbert William/Donald Ernest Wilson Wormell, The Delphic Oracle, vol. I–II (Oxford 1956). Parker (1983). – Robert Parker, Miasma. Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion (Oxford 1983). Roessli (2004). – Jean-Michel Roessli, “Catalogues des Sibylles, recueil(s) de Libri Sibyllini et corpus des Oracula Sibyllina, in: E. Norelli (ed.), Recueils normatifs et canons dans l’Antiquité, Colloque de Genève, 11–12 avril 2002 (Lausanne 2004) 47–68. Rosenberger (2001). – Veit Rosenberger, Griechische Orakel. Eine Kulturgeschichte (Darmstadt 2001). Roth (1982). – Paul Andrew Roth, Mantis: The Nature, Function, and Status of a Greek Prophetic Type (Diss. Bryn Mawr 1982, facs. UMI 1986). Ruipérez (2006). – Martin S. Ruipérez, El mito de Edipo. Lingüística, psicología, folklore (Madrid 2006). Schachter (1981). – Albert Schachter, Cults of Boiotia. 1: Acheloos to Hera (London 1981). Shapiro (1990). – Harvey Alan Shapiro, “Oracle-mongers in Peisistratid Athens”, Kernos 3 (1990) 335–345. Sineux (2007). – Pierre Sineux, Amphiaraos. Guerrier, devin et guérisseur (Paris 2007). Sfameni Gasparro (2002). – Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Oracoli, profeti, Sibille. Rivelazione e salvezza nel mondo antico, Biblioteca di Scienze Religiose 171 (Roma 2002). Sfameni Gasparro (2005). – Giulia Sfameni Gasparro (ed.), Modi di communicazione tra il divino e l’umano, Hiera 7 (Cosenza 2005). Smith (1989). – Nicholas D. Smith, “Diviners and Divination in Aristophanic Comedy”, CA 8 (1989) 140–158. Steiner (1994). – Deborah Tarn Steiner, The Tyrant’s Writ. Myths and Images of Writing in Ancient Greece (Princeton 1994). Suárez (1992a). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Les pouvoirs des devins et les récits mythiques. L’exemple de Mélampous”, LEC 60 (1992) 3–21. Suárez (1992b). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “La autenticidad de los oráculos délficos: cuestiones de método”, Tempus 2 (1992) 5–26. Suárez (1994a). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “El adivino Poliido”, in: Χάρις Διδασκαλίας. Homenaje a Luis Gil (Madrid 1994) 243–267. Suárez (1994b). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Sibylles, mantique inspirée et collections oraculaires”, Kernos 7 (1994) 179–205. Suárez (1994c). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Gli oracoli relativi alla colonizzazione della Sicilia e della Magna Grecia”, QUCC 77 (1994) 7–37. Suárez (1995). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Observaciones sobre el ‘Oráculo délfico’ n. 1 Parke-Wormell (178 Hendess, Q26 Fontenrose, 1 Andersen)”, in: Juan Antonio López Férez (ed.), De Homero a Libanio (Madrid 1995) 9–24. Suárez (1998a). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Les dieux de Delphes et l’histoire du sanctuaire (des origines au IVe siècle av. J.-C.)”, in: Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge (ed.), Les Panthéons des cités: Des origines à la Périégèse de Pausanias, Kernos Suppl. 8 (Liège 1998) 61–89. Suárez (1998b). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Observaciones sobre la presencia de la mántica en la comedia griega”, in: Juan Antonio López Férez (ed.), La comedia griega y su influencia en la literatura española (Madrid 1998) 177–201. Suárez (2000a). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “En torno a la fórmula βασιληΐδα τιμήν y variantes”, in: Actas del X Congreso Español de Estudios Clásicos 1 (Madrid 2000) 631–646.

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Suárez (2000b). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “La Sibila Eritrea: análisis de fuentes hasta el siglo II d. C.”, in: Epieikeia. Homenaje al Prof. Jesús Lens (Granada 2000) 439–467. Suárez (2001). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “De la Sibila a las Sibilas: observaciones obre la constitución de cánones sibilinos”, in: Ramón Teja (ed.), Profecía, magia y adivinación en las religiones antiguas, Fundación Santa María la Real, Centro de Estudios del Románico (Aguilar de Campóo 2001) 49–61. Suárez (²2002). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, Oráculos Sibilinos, in: Alejandro Díez Macho (†)/A. Piñero Sáenz (eds.), Apócrifos del Antiguo Testamento 3 (Madrid ²2002) 329–603. Suárez (2004). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Los oráculos sobre Argos”, in: Paola Angeli Bernardini (ed.), La città di Argo. Mito, storia, tradizioni poetiche, Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Urbino 13–15 Giugno 2002 (Roma 2004) 245–262. Suárez (2005a). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “L’Oracle de Delphes”, in: ThesCR A 3 (2005) 16–31. Suárez (2005b). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Forme e funzioni del fenomeno profetico e divinatorio dalla Grecia classica al periodo tardo-antico”, in: Sfameni Gasparro (2005) 29–106. Suárez (2007a). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Tradizione profetica, composizione poetica e identità nazionale: Asia ed Europa negli Oracoli Sibillini giudaici”, in: Gianpaolo Urso (ed.), Tra Oriente e Occidente. Indigeni, Greci e Romani in Asia Minore, Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Cividale del Friuli (28–30 settembre 2006), Fondazione Nicolò Canussio (Pisa 2007) 61–78. Suárez (2007b). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Los adivinos míticos en la Grecia Antigua”, in: María Luisa Sánchez León (ed.), L’endevinació al món clàssic, Religions del Mon Antic (Palma de Mallorca 2007) 13–50. Suárez (2009). – Emilio Suárez de la Torre, “Oracle et norme religieuse en Grèce ancienne”, in: Pierre Brulé (ed.), La norme en matière religieuse en Grèce ancienne (11e Colloque du CIERGA, Rennes, 12–13 septembre 2007), Kernos Suppl. 21 (Liège 2009) 107–124. Terranova (2008). – Chiara Terranova, “Gli oracoli e il muthos nella Grecia di IV e III secolo a. C. Studi sull’antico culto di Amphiaraos ad Oropos”, SMSR 74 (2008) 159–192. Tortorelli-Ghidini (1998). – Marisa Tortorelli-Ghidini: “Un modelo arcaico di Sibilla”, in: Chirassi-Colombo/Seppilli (1998) 249–261. Trampedach (2008). – Kai Trampedach, “Authority Disputed: The Seer in Homeric Epic”, in: Beate Dignas/Kai Trampedach (eds.), Practitioners of the Divine. Greek Priests and Religious Officials from Homer to Heliodorus (Washington, DC 2008) 207–230. Walcot (1979). – Peter Walcot, “Cattle Raiding, Heroic Tradition, and Ritual: The Greek Evidence”, HR 18 (1979) 326–351. Yunis (2003). – Harvey Yunis (ed.), Written Texts and the Rise of Literate Culture in Ancient Greece (Cambridge/New York 2003).

The Philosopher and the Magician (Porphyry, Vita Plotini 10.1–13). Magic and Sympathy luc brisson

In Chapter 10 of the Life of Plotinus 1, Porphyry narrates three anecdotes2. The first two show the superiority of Plotinus’ soul, and explain the answer he gave to Amelius in the third. – Olympius’ attempt to call down the malevolent influence of the stars upon Plotinus (1–13); – The evocation of Plotinus’ familiar demon by an Egyptian priest in the Iseion of Rome (14–33); – Plotinus’ answer to Amelius, who wanted to take him on a tour of the sanctuaries during the religious festivals (33–38). Although these three anecdotes are linked to one another, I shall only deal with the first one here. From a purely literary viewpoint, the anecdote concerning Olympius of Alexandria seems to be called for by the last words of the chapter: “although he had spent twenty-six years at Rome […] Plotinus never had a single enemy among the politicians.” His only real enemy was to be found among the philosophers. One of those claiming to be philosophers, Olympius of Alexandria, who had been for a short time a pupil of Ammonius, adopted a superior attitude towards Plotinus out of rivalry. This man’s attacks on him went to the point of trying to bring a starstroke3 upon him by magic4. But when he found his attempt recoiling upon himself, he told his intimates that the soul of Plotinus had such great power as to be able to

1 2 3 4

For a plan of this biographical text, see Goulet (1992). For an analysis of the whole chapter, see Brisson (1992), as well as Bonanate (1985), Scazzoso (1950), Taormina (1984), Zintzen (1965). In ancient Greek, ἀστροβολῆσαι. The term is generally used to designate sunstroke. In ancient Greek, μαγεύσας. On the terms μάγος, μαγεία, μαγικός and μαγεύειν, see Graf (1994) 31.

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throw back attacks on him onto those who were seeking to do him harm. Plotinus was aware5 of the attempts and said that his limbs on that occasion were squeezed together6 and his body contracted7 “like a money bag pulled tight”8. Olympius, since he was often rather in danger of suffering something himself than likely to injure Plotinus, ceased his attacks9.

It is impossible to situate this story in time and space. All we know is that Olympius was from Alexandria, the city where Plotinus, like Olympius, studied philosophy under Ammonius between 232 and 243. But nothing proves that the attacks by Olympius, about whom we cannot know whether he was Plotinus’ fellow-student under Ammonius at Alexandria, took place at Alexandria rather than at Rome, where Plotinus resided between 244 and 269. I would tend to opt for the first solution, and think that given the alleged motive, this was indeed an internal rivalry within the School of Ammonius at Alexandria10, not unlike the one that opposed Porphyry to Amelius in the School of Plotinus11. Olympius undertakes to precipitate the influence of the stars upon Plotinus (ἀστροβολῆσαι), through recourse to magical practices. The term ‘magic’ denotes a set of procedures enabling the person who uses them to exercise action at a distance over one or several other persons, by involving superior powers which he has convinced or constrained to act in his favor through incantations, prayers, or ritual acts. At the time, there were any number of bodily lesions and morbid affections for which the stars were made responsible12. It may be the fear inspired by those who used astrology for aggressive ends that explains why Plotinus did not reveal “to anyone where 5 The verb ἀντελαμβάνετο denotes perception, which may be either intelligible or sensible. 6 Plotinus uses the verb συνθλίβειν in the following comparison (Plot. 28[4.4].34. 28–32): “This argument, then, gives powers to the figures and powers to the bodies arranged: since with dancers each hand has a distinct power and so have the other limbs, but the figures also have great power, and then there is a third group of consequentially effective things, the parts of the limbs which are brought into the dance and their constituents, for instance the clenched fingers συνθλιβόμενα of the hand and the muscles and veins which are affected along with them.” 7 Note that in Treatise 28[4.4].40.5 and 13, Plotinus uses the verb ἕλκεσθαι to describe the action of magic. 8 A quotation of an expression used by Aristophanes in his speech in Plat. symp. 190e7–8. 9 Translations of Porphyry and Plotinus are based on those of Armstrong. 10 As seems to be indicated by διὰ φιλοπρωτίαν. It is more natural to seek the first place in the context of a limited group, as with Ammonius at Alexandria. 11 Brisson (1987). 12 Cumont (1937) 172, citing Ptolemy (tetrab. 3.12) and Vettius Valens (anthol. 3.12.146 Pingree).

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he was born, nor his birthday”13. The rest of the anecdote is disconcerting, for it reverses the expected order. Porphyry first describes what Olympius feels, then what Plotinus experiences. This implies that a relation had been established, through magic, between the two men. The quotation from the Symposium is welcome, for it describes a magical phenomenon in a Platonic context. It is possible, but very improbable, that these symptoms refer to the chronic illness from which Plotinus suffered14; it is also hard to interpret this phenomenon as an allegory describing the soul’s imprisonment within the body15. It suffices to note that the aggression Olympius carries out against Plotinus, and which he feels turn against him, is of a purely corporeal nature. This reciprocity felt on the level of the body may seem curious to us, but it goes within saying in Plotinus, for whom magic is explained by sympathy, which takes on meaning only in the cosmological context of Stoicism and Neoplatonism.

The structure of the world The Stoics proposed a grandiose vision of the universe as a divine, living, self-created body, organized according to rational laws and governed in its slightest details by Providence16. At the basis of their cosmology, they placed the following two principles. One has only the capacity of being affected: this is Matter (ὕλη), bereft of all determination, movement, and initiative; the other has the capacity to act, and brings form, quality, and movement to matter. This second principle is ‘Reason’ (λόγος). Nothing in this universe is a ‘this’ or a ‘that’, and nothing can even be called ‘this’ or ‘that’ without the presence of this principle, which is independent of matter. In such a context, λόγος can also receive the name ‘god’, for its action makes it a kind of craftsman of the universe, albeit a craftsman whose art resides in all the productions of nature. By pushing the demand for the indeterminacy of matter to its extreme point, Stoicism found itself forced to recognize in the logos alone the cause of the most elementary physical phenomena, those of the four elements (fire, air, water, earth) and those of the result of the com13 Porph. Vita Plotini 2.37–39. However, according to Porphyry, Plotinus was interested in astrology (15.21–26): “He studied the rules of astronomy, without going very far into the mathematical side, but went more carefully into the methods of the casters of horoscopes. When he had detected the unreliability of their alleged results he did not hesitate to attack many of the statements made in their writings.” 14 See Grmek (1992) 440. 15 Edwards (1991) 480. 16 These few paragraphs on the Stoics are inspired by the presentation given by Brunschwig (1998) 534–548.

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bination of these four elements in sensible particulars. This is why we can speak of Stoic ‘corporealism’ or even ‘materialism’: the action of the logos on matter and bodies remains material and corporeal. The active principle, which the Stoics call logos, also has a physical name: ‘fire’. This is not concrete fire, but a fire that unites within itself all the powers of concrete fire. It is an energy, and the other three elements (air, water, earth) correspond to the three states in which it can be found: gaseous, liquid, or solid. Situating themselves in a tradition they trace back to Hesiod, the Stoics considered that the universe results from a series of transformations of the god who carries out a generation of the world as creative fire. Yet this generation, in the context of an indefinite series of cycles, reveals itself to be inseparable from its destruction in a complete conflagration. The universe then resolves itself into the state from which it had come forth, with each cosmic sequence, moreover, being a mere repetition of each other one. It is always the same ‘seminal or germinative reasons’ (λόγοι σπερματικοί) that are reactualized on each occasion. This fire known as the logos, identified with god, can also be conceived as a fiery breath, the omnipresent πνεῦμα. In all the parts of the world that are penetrated by this πνεῦμα and informed by it, fire, which is hot, is associated with expansion, while air, which is cold, is characterized by contraction. This oscillation, which animates all bodies and ensures their cohesion, is called ‘tension’ (τόνος), a tension that is diversified according to the regions of the universe. It assumes the name of ‘constitution’, of ‘holding’, or of ‘maintenance’ (ἕξις) in inanimate solids, of ‘growth’ (φύσις) in plants and trees, and of ‘soul’ (ψυχή) in living beings17. In any case, its function is to unify all bodies, including and above all that of the universe. In its diachronic aspect, the unity and dynamic cohesion of the world corresponds to Providence, which leads to the famous theory of συμπάθεια. In order to avoid an over-rigorous determinism, the Stoics explained that every event had, not one unique cause, but a multiplicity of causes; yet this merely displaced the problem. Faced by this highly coherent doctrine, Plotinus expressed his loyalty to Plato by articulating his thought around the three ‘hypostases’ known as the One, the Intellect, and Soul as a hypostasis, that is, Soul as isolated from any body. There is nothing corporeal about these hypostases, and they represent the highest levels of reality, which therefore cannot be reduced to the corporeal, as was the case for the Stoics. In order to situate the logos within this structure and to understand its function, we must bring up the subject of the hypostasis of Soul. Together with the question raised by its origin, the question of what distinguishes the 17 SVF 2, no. 1013 = Sextus Empiricus, adv. math. 9.78.

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Soul from the Intelligible implies formidable difficulties. Whereas the Intellect is ‘one and many’, the Soul is ‘many and one’. In the Intellect, all knowledge is simultaneous and immediate, whereas in the Soul there is change from one element to another, since reason moves from premise to conclusion. The Intellect is characterized by eternity, whereas the Soul is associated with time, which is engendered simultaneously with the Soul, a paradoxical situation insofar as the Soul, like the Intellect, is an eternal reality. The Soul contains, in succession and partition, all that is found in a simultaneous and compact way within the Intellect: Plotinus expresses this by speaking of the logoi which are equivalent to the Forms within the Soul. Stated more clearly, these logoi are Forms at the level of the Soul. The Soul depends causally on the Intellect, for the One produces the Soul through the intermediary of the Intellect, since effects are always different from their cause. Similarly, the Intellect, which, in a sense, is responsible for the production of the sensible world, cannot be held responsible for the control the soul exerts over it. At this level, the subject is no longer the Soul considered independently of all bodies, but souls that are in a body: the world soul and the souls of individuals18. For although Plotinus insists on the soul’s unity, the world soul and that of individuals are not portions of the Soul that is situated above them, a point which would be akin to Stoic doctrine; instead, they are reflections of it. The world soul differs from the souls of individuals insofar as the body it produces and animates is better than the human body; above all, it is not subject to the problems that trouble the souls of human beings, and even those of animals, although Plotinus, who believes in reincarnation19, is also interested in this latter kind of souls. Beneath bodies, of which it represents a kind of constitutive foundation, we find matter, which may be thought to emanate from the lower part of the world soul20. If we apply the principle that every soul features two levels, we can say that in the case of the world soul, the level at which it is productive corresponds to Nature, and that its higher level, at which it sets things in order as a function of its contemplation, corresponds to its Providence. As the lower part of the world soul, or its productive part, Nature can be defined as the multiplicity of ‘rational principles’ (logoi) organized into a system. Since Plotinus refuses the intervention of a demiurge who works like a craftsman, he is led to confer upon the Soul that animates the world the role of organizing agent of matter, enabling the manifestation of bodies. He thereby seems to incline towards Stoic corporealism or materialism. However, in order to 18 The souls of the gods, of demons, of men, of animals, and even of plants must also be classified in this group. 19 On this subject, see Deuse (1983). 20 Controversy on this subject persists. O’Brien (1991), (1993); Narbonne (1993) maintains a much more nuanced position.

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avoid falling into an absolute immanence that would deny the separation of the One, the Intellect and the Soul – that is, of the three hypostases – Plotinus takes pains to emphasize the role of the Intellect and the Intelligible. He shows that even the hypostasis Soul, to which the world soul and individual souls are connected, is not the absolute principle, but that it derives from a superior principle, the Intellect; and Intellect can be considered as a demiurge who neither deliberates nor works. The universe is not produced from outside by a craftsman, as if it had been fashioned by the demiurge of the Timaeus, but it is produced from within by that organizing power known as Nature. It is somewhat as if a piece of marble were to give itself the forms of the Venus of Milo21. What, however, is Nature? It is a power that corresponds to the lowest part of the soul of the world, the part that enters into contact with matter. The organization to which it submits matter is the result of the action of the rational principles (logoi) which, within the hypostasis Soul, correspond to the intelligible forms, and are present in the mode of dispersion and not in a state of simultaneity like the intelligible forms in the Intellect. Because the world soul uses these rational principles that are present within it in a mode that is even lower, it is able to organize matter in such a way as to cause all bodies to come into being, both animate bodies – for instance, a horse or a plane tree – and inanimate bodies, such as a stone. In this perspective, we can say that the sensible universe is an image of all the rational principles possessed by the world soul.

Sympathy Only within such a cosmological context can one speak of ‘sympathy’. The term ‘sympathy’ translates the Greek συμπάθεια, and it has as its synonym συμφωνία, harmony. The compound term συμπάθεια indicates that every affect (πάθος) occurring to a body is inseparable (as is indicated by the prefix συν-) from all the affects occurring to other bodies in this world. The philosophical usage of the term at the origin of the notion of ‘sympathy’ is Stoic. The ‘breath’ (πνεῦμα), in a state of tension, is in fact subject to a kind of continuous ‘undulatory’ motion, which implies that every effect felt in one part is felt by the whole. Plotinus rejects this doctrine as such, because he considers that it can only hold true for bodies. He therefore adapts it so that it concerns the soul. Sympathy is then all the more widespread in that the vegetative soul produces and orders all the bodies in the world. In short, sympathy acts only on bodies, all of which depend on one and the same soul. 21 See SVF 2, no. 1044 = Alex. Aphr., mixt., p. 225.18–20 Bruns.

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Since this soul is one, the chain of causes and effects also forms a unique ensemble in which causes and effects interact. Sympathy is thus explained by the fact that in this world, each thing is in relation with all the others. In any case, it is the ‘reasons’ (λόγοι), implanted within matter by the lower part of the soul of the world, that ultimately account for the constitution and organization of the part and of the whole. And as the ‘rational principles’ are the ‘forms’ (εἴδη) at the level of the Soul, it follows that one finds in the sensible world, in an attenuated way to be sure, the unity that characterizes the Intellect in the intelligible world22. In this perspective, we may say not only that all the souls are of the same species (ὁμοειδής)23 but also that all bodies24 are parts of the whole constituted by the world. And if the soul as such is one, the parts of the whole constituted by the world cannot help but interact with each other, since every effect is inseparable from all the others, of which it is the consequence and of which it will become the cause25. In this context, however, a distinction must be made between Providence and destiny26. Divine Providence (which corresponds grosso modo to the activity of the world soul) determines the general framework of becoming, without, however, acting directly in each particular case. It is therefore appropriate to distinguish distant causes and proximate causes. The thief and the murderer are indeed responsible for their acts, and the totality of cosmic causes cannot be convoked to justify what is unacceptable. Even so-called ‘attenuating’ circumstances do not erase the weight of decision. This being the case, Plotinus does not completely give up speaking of destiny, that fatum we think we sense when the unforeseeable that occurs seems to have a certain necessity. The excess of reality proper to what cannot be foreseen and yet nevertheless occurs is not abandoned to the cynical logic of ‘that’s the way things are’. Even though evils do not pertain to the gods, even though man is free, what happens takes its place within the order of the world. According to Plotinus, destiny appears as the last trace of Providence; not a necessitating link as in the case of the cycle of the seasons or the course of the stars, but still a link, such that our acts can, to a certain extent, be foreseen. This is why Plotinus allows a place for astrology and divination.

22 Plotinus uses this argument in Treatise 28, when he maintains that “our universe shares in the higher realities” (chap. 39.5). 23 With Treatise 27. 24 With Treatise 28. 25 This is what Plotinus explains in Treatise 8[4.9].3.1–9. 26 As Treatise 3[3.1] had already indicated.

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Astrology and divination The heavenly bodies and the earth are gods, that is, living beings endowed with a body and a soul. Since their body is indestructible, and they are endowed with an intellect which they always use, they can be said to be gods. Yet since gods are impassible, in the sense that they cannot undergo an affection, they cannot be influenced. This is an important conclusion, for it allows us to specify the question of astrology, that is, of the influence that the stars may have over events that occur on earth. Plotinus accepts that the stars hear our prayers, and that, in a certain sense, they grant them. Just as with divination, however, this acceptance is at the same time a challenge: Plotinus refuses to grant memory to the celestial bodies, and he can only refer their influence to a previous choice, on pain of attributing absurd or bad choices to gods. This means that the celestial bodies do not act as the result of an intention, but in a way that is, so to speak, automatic. In other words, one can understand why a given effect is produced, but one cannot intervene to make it occur or make it be different. One can understand a given disposition of the world, but not intervene upon it. Once again, it is the notion of ‘sympathy’ that plays a crucial role. The stars have an influence on what happens down here, but this influence cannot be programmed, since it is natural. In other words, one can foresee a given event, but not provoke it or deflect it. In this perspective, the only magic there could be would be natural27, since it would be impossible to have an influence on the higher beings.

Magic The question of magic is more complex, because it is no longer a matter of predicting, but of intervening to modify the chain of causes and effects in one way or another. This is where the demons come in28. The demons are not gods like the stars, but they have a body made of air, and are present in the region close to the earth. This seems to be indicated by the following remark: “since all the living beings which are composed of air cannot be objects of sense-perception”29. As Hadot explains in a critical note to his translation, this doctrine takes its place in the tradition of Epinomis 984e5. The demons, made of air, are imperceptible30, but if fire predominates in

27 See Hadot (1982). 28 Treatise 15[3.4] had already expressed an opinion on them, and they are mentioned in Treatise 28[4.4].43. 29 Treatise 38[6.7].11.67 f. 30 Apul. Socr. 11.144.

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them, they can become visible, according to Porphyry31. They are more powerful than men, but their soul contains irrational elements. But demons themselves are capable of being affected in their irrational part; it is not out of place to ascribe memory and sense-perceptions to them and to grant that they are charmed by attractions appropriate to their nature and that those of them who are nearer to the things here below hear the prayers of those who call upon them according to the degree of their concern with things here below. (Treatise 28[4.4].43.13–16).

Magicians, like the Gnostics of whom Plotinus is speaking here, address this kind of incantations to the demons, and can therefore act upon them: For they write magic chants (ἐπαοιδάς), intending to address them to those powers, not only to the soul but to those above it as well, what are they doing except making these powers obey the word and follow spells (γοητείας), charms (θέλξεις) and conjurations (πείσεις), any one of us who is well skilled in the art of saying precisely the right things in the right way, songs (μέλη) and cries (ἤχους) and aspirated and hissing sounds (προσπνεύσεις καὶ σιγμοὺς τῆς φωνῆς) and everything else which their writings say have magical power in the higher world? (Treatise 33[2.9].14.2–7)

An incantation is a magical formula32 pronounced, or rather muttered, several times so that the speaker feels its effect throughout his entire body, and which is intended to call upon occult forces to carry out a specific wish. We note that in the rest of the paragraph, Plotinus mocks the Gnostics, who explain illness by the presence of a demon in the patient’s body, which they can expel by their incantations. But if magicians can expel a demon from a sick body, they can certainly make it enter a body as well, which seems to be what happens in the case of Plotinus.

Resisting the demons Yet how can one resist these demons without becoming a magician oneself ? The answer seems to be found in treatise 15[3.4], On the demon to whom we have been entrusted. In this treatise, Plotinus even adopts a Platonic perspective, like the one found in the Apolog y, the Phaedrus, and especially the Symposium. For Plato, a demon is a divinity of intermediate rank between gods and men, which plays a protective role with regard to the latter. For Plotinus, the soul is its own demon for itself, which complicates matters, since the soul contains several ‘parts’ and moves as it changes levels of reality. The soul of a human being is a mobile, compound reality, not in the sense that it contains parts, but in the sense that it presents itself in several aspects as a function of the ‘place’ in which it is present and the activities it 31 Apud Proclus, in Tim. 2.11.11 Diehl. 32 See Brisson (2000).

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then exercises. By one of its faculties, described as ‘undescended soul’ and corresponding to the intellect (νοῦς), the human soul remains in the intelligible. The ‘descended soul’, which comes to be installed in a body endowed with a vegetative soul (φυτικὴ ψυχή), first associating in the heavens with a vehicle made of fire or air, then, on earth, with a solid body, can rejoin this intelligible realm. The solid body, inhabited by a vegetative soul which comes from the vegetative soul of the world and is first an embryo, receives the descended soul at birth. This is not an inanimate body, but an organism, often designated as a qualified body (τοιόνδε σῶμα). The human soul thus remains attached to the Intellect, and Plotinus calls it ‘divine’, for although it has fallen from the Intellect and traversed the heavens to the earthly body, it is able to return to its source. This soul is what constitutes our ‘self ’, and its behavior determines our destiny. The divine soul is sometimes closer to the intellect, sometimes to the body. This is why intellection is not its only activity, for it can engage in sensation and representation when linked to a body. To speak of individual souls is to speak of souls that are temporarily present in a terrestrial body33. In view of its mobility and its multiple character, the soul does not always exhibit the same kind of union with the body. The soul can be closer to the body or closer to the Intellect, to which it remains attached. When it is closer to the body, it becomes a demon like the malevolent demons whose attacks it must resist, while when it is closer to the Intellect, as is that of the sage, it becomes a god.

The soul of the sage Plotinus is very clear about the way the sage can escape the malevolent powers of Olympius’ magical practices. Only contemplation can oppose this malevolent power, for this activity, by placing the soul in relation to itself, enables it to isolate itself and escape the chain of cause and effects in the world of bodies governed by the lowest part of the world soul, in which all practical activity is carried out34 and which is the domain of sympathy. 33 This association of a soul with a body that corresponds to what is called a living being (ζῷον), is quite naturally called ‘compound’: συναμφότερον and κοινόν (27[4.3].26.1–3) or σύνθετον (39[6.8].2.13). 34 Plot. 28[4.4].43.16–20: “For everything which is directed to something else is enchanted (γοητεύτεται) by something else, for that to which it is directed enchants (γοητεύει) and draws (ἄγει) it; but only that which is self-directed is free from enchantment (ἀγοήτευτον). For this reason all practical action is under enchantment (γεγοήτευται), and the whole life of the practical man: for he is moved to that which charms (θέλγει) him.”

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But how is the sage35 affected by magic36 and drugs?37 He is incapable of being affected in his soul38 by enchantment, and his rational part would not be affected, nor would he change his mind; but he would be affected in whatever part of the irrational in the All there is in him39, or rather this part would be affected; but he will feel no passionate loves provoked by drugs, if falling in love happens when one soul assents to the affection of the other. But, just as the irrational part of him is affected by incantations (ἐπῳδαῖς), so he himself by counter-chants (ἀντᾴδων) and counter-incantations (ἀντεπᾴδων) will dissolve the powers of the other side. But he might suffer death or illnesses of anything bodily from such incantations; for the part of the All (in him) would be affected by another part or by the All, but he himself would be unharmed. (Plot. 28[4.4].43.1–11).

Since Plotinus escapes the spells called down upon him by Olympius and turns them against the latter, it has been inferred that Plotinus practiced magic, if only by reciting incantations to escape attacks and turn them back against the person who launched them40. But this text is clear. Magic only affects the irrational part of the sage, that is, everything in his soul that governs the life of the body. It acts only on this level, whether in attack or in defense, both of which involve songs and incantations. Yet nothing proves that Plotinus needed to have recourse to this practice, for the power of the rational part of his soul was such that it could resist these attacks41, without having recourse to these incantations. Plotinus was a sage, and a sage “is he who acts with the best part of himself ”42, which is the same as to say that “He would not have been a good man if he had not a demon as a partner in his own activity. For intellect is active in the sage. He is, then, himself a demon or on the level of a demon, and his demon is a god”43. This is confirmed by the second anecdote narrated in chapter 10 of the Life of Plotinus. 35 In Greek σπουδαῖος, see the book by Schniewind (2003). 36 In Greek γοητεία, on this term, which comes from γόος, see Graf (1994) 39. 37 This is how I have translated φάρμακα, see also Treatise 46[1.4].5.3. Chapters 43 and 44 of Treatise 28 (4.4) seek to answer this question: how can one escape the influences that sorcerers try to draw down upon us? Only by contemplation, which places us in a relation with ourselves, enables us to escape these influences, which only affect the lowest part of the soul, the vegetative soul it shares with the world. 38 More precisely, using the rational part of the descended soul, as Plotinus will specify in what follows. 39 That is, his vegetative soul, which comes from the lowest part of the soul of the world, or Nature. On the fact that the ἄλογον comes from the world, see supra, chap. 10. 40 Merlan (1953) 343. 41 Armstrong (1955) 74. 42 Treatise 15[3.4].6.1. 43 Treatise 15[3.4]6.1–3. Textual problems.

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Plotinus The goal of this second anecdote is to show that “Plotinus had something more than the others from birth”. When an Egyptian priest tries to evoke Plotinus’ demon in the temple of Isis at Rome, it is a god that appears. This made the priest exclaim: “Happy are you, whose demon is a god and whose companion does not belong to the lower class!” 44 And Porphyry adds: “Thus, having a companion who was among the most divine demons, Plotinus, for his part, constantly raised his divine eyes toward him.”45 Now the god that dwells in Plotinus is his intellect, as Porphyry often implies in the Life of Plotinus, and as he expresses splendidly in this phrase: “When he spoke, the intellect was made manifest, making its light shine on his very face.” 46 We can therefore understand why he replied to his disciple Amelius, who wanted to take him on a tour of the sanctuaries on the occasion of the new moon: “It is up to them (the gods) to come to me, not up to me to go to them.” 47 Because he is a sage, and therefore his soul is a divine demon, or rather a god, Plotinus does not have to visit the gods in their temple, since they are his equals. The soul of a human being, as we have seen, can be closer to the body or closer to the Intellect, to which it remains attached. When it is closer to the body, it becomes a demon like the malevolent demons of the kind whose attacks it must resist, while when it is closer to the Intellect like that of the sage, it becomes a god. This is the case with Plotinus. Sympathy, defined as the generalized interaction of all events in the world, in which body and soul are associated, provides magic with an ideal context in which it can manifest itself. If all events are linked to one another, all that happens can be explained. This, moreover, is the sense in which philosophers such as the Stoics and Neoplatonists interpreted fate, accepting at the same time astrology and divination. But if such is the case, why should we not make the following hypothesis? If all events in the world are connected, a modification concerning one of these events is liable to entail the modification of another event associated with the latter, even if one is separated from the other in time and space. Action at a distance, like that which magic claims to set in motion, thus becomes conceivable. Plotinus lived in a social context in which magic was popular and widely practiced. Immersed in these beliefs, he tried to explain them, and above all to escape the harmful consequences of magical practices that might strike 44 45 46 47

Porph. Vita Plotini 10.23–25. Porph. Vita Plotini 10.28–30. Porph. Vita Plotini 13.5–7. Porph. Vita Plotini 10.35 f.

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him. Because he was a Platonist, considering that the world in which he lived was a mere image of the intelligible realities that pertain to another order of reality, the Intellect, and because he was a sage, he could rise by the higher part of the soul, that is intellect, above the sensible in which magic is practiced, and establish himself in the company of the gods, thus escaping, without the help of magic, the magicians’ charms. (Translated by M. Chase)

Bibliography Armstrong (1955). – Arthur Hillary Armstrong, “Was Plotinus a Magician?”, Phronesis 1 (1955) 73–79 (reprinted in id., Plotinian and Christian Studies, London 1979, no. 6; against Merlan). Bonanate (1985). – Ugo Bonanate, Orme ed enigma nelle filosofia di Plotino, Collana di Filosofia 7 (Milano 1985). Brisson (1987). – Luc Brisson, “Amélius: Sa vie, son œuvre, sa doctrine, son style”, in: ANRW 2.36.2 (1987) 793–860. Brisson (1992). – Luc Brisson, “Plotin et la magie”, in: Luc Brisson et al. (eds.), Porphyre, La Vie de Plotin, vol. 2 (Paris 1992) 465–475. Brisson (2000). – Luc Brisson, “L’incantation de Zalmoxis dans le Charmide (156d– 157c)”, in: Thomas M. Robinson/Luc Brisson (eds.), Plato. Euthydemus, Lysis, Charmides, Proceedings of the V Symposium Platonicum, IPS Series 13 (Sankt Augustin 2000) 278–286. Brunschwig (1997). – Jacques Brunschwig, “Les Stoïciens”, in: Monique Canto-Sperber (ed.), Philosophie Grecque (Paris 1998) 511–562. Cumont (1937). – Franz Cumont, L’Eg ypte des astrologues (Bruxelles 1937). Deuse (1983). – Werner Deuse, Untersuchungen zur mittelplatonischen und neuplatonischen Seelenlehre, Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur 3 (Wiesbaden 1983) Edwards (1991). – Mark Edwards, “Two Episodes in Porphyry’s Life of Plotinus”, Historia 40 (1991) 161–167. Goulet (1992). – Richard Goulet, “Le plan de la Vie de Plotin”, in: Luc Brisson et al. (eds.), Porphyre, La Vie de Plotin, vol. 2 (Paris 1992) 77–85. Graf (1994). – Fritz Graf, La magie dans l’Antiquité gréco-romaine (Paris 1994). Grmek (1992). – Mirko Dražen Grmek, “Les maladies et la mort de Plotin”, in: Luc Brisson et al. (eds.), Porphyre, La Vie de Plotin, vol. 2 (Paris 1992) 335–353. Hadot (1982). – Pierre Hadot, “L’amour magicien. Aux origines de la notion de magia naturalis. Platon, Plotin, Marsile Ficin”, Revue Philosophique de la France et de l’Etranger 172 (1982) 283–292. Merlan (1953). – Philip Merlan, “Plotinus and Magic”, Isis 44 (1953) 341–348. Narbonne (1993). – Jean-Marc Narbonne, Plotin, Les deux matières (Ennéade II 4 [12]), introd., texte grec, trad. et comm., Histoire des Doctrines de l’Antiquité classique 17 (Paris 1993). O’Brien (1991). – Denis O’Brien, Plotinus on the Origin of Matter. An Exercise in the Interpretation of the Enneads, Elenchos Suppl. 22 (Napoli 1991).

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O’Brien (1993). – Denis O’Brien, Théodicée plotinienne et théodicée gnostique, Philosophia antiqua 57 (Leiden 1993). Scazzoso (1950). – Piero Scazzoso, “Il problema della magia nelle Enneadi di Plotino”, Paideia 5 (1950) 209–219. Schniewind (2003). – Alexandrine Schniewind, L’éthique du sage chez Plotin. Le paradigme du ‘spoudaios’ (Paris 2003). Taormina (1984). – Daniela P. Taormina, “Filosofia e magia in Plotino”, in: Samuel Scolnicov et al. (eds.), Momenti e problemi di storia del Platonismo (Catania 1984) 53–83. Zintzen (1965). – Clemens Zintzen, “Die Wertung von Mystik und Magie in der neuplatonischen Philosophie”, RhM 108 (1965) 71–100.

Does Tantalus Drink the Blood, or Not? An Enigmatic Series of Inscribed Hematite Gemstones christopher a. faraone

In the first half of the last century, there was great interest in a pair of large hematite gemstones (see figs. 1 and 2) that depict an armed male figure on the obverse beneath the diminishing edge of an enigmatic command that scholars rendered alternately as “Tantalus-viper, drink blood!” (διψὰς Τάνταλε αἷμα πίε)1 or “Tu as soif, Tantale? Bois du sang!” (διψᾷς Τάνταλε; αἷμα πίε)2.

Fig. 1: After D&D 364 (obverse).

1 2

SMA no. 144. For abbreviations see the list at the end of this study. D&D no. 364. The drawing is after a photograph by Attilio Mastrocinque.

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The triangular shape of the text is produced by writing out the command once and then writing the same command again on the line beneath, but leaving off the first letter. This process is repeated line-by-line until all the letters are gone. In the papyrus handbooks, this special kind of figure is said to be composed in “wing-like fashion” (e. g. PGM 2.2 πτερυγοειδῶς)3. On the reverse side of these gems we find an upright vase or jar set upon a small horned seat or altar and surrounded by a series of magical words, usually Greek transliterations of Hebrew angel-names or divine epithets (figs. 2 and 4). By mid-century scholars had come to a consensus that this vase represented a woman’s womb and that the command to Tantalus on the obverse was designed to stop menorrhea. The vanishing command, in short, somehow forces Tantalus to drink the woman’s blood and thereby cause the visible bleeding to stop4. In the last fifty years, however, seven new examples of this amulet have come to light, which introduce important variations in both the iconography and the inscription, suggesting that now is an appropriate time to revisit the question of precisely how these gems were thought to be effective. This exercise involves, of course, understanding why the mythological figure of Tantalus is invoked: as Festugière suggested many years ago, the command to Tantalus must in some way be ironic, because in the underworld he is completely unable to drink or eat5. We shall see, however, that this may not be the case, because Tantalus in Hades does, in fact, repeatedly cause a stream of water to dry up, simply by trying to drink. Bonner, on the other hand, focused on the diminishing text and claimed that as the text disappears, the bleeding will stop6. This, too, oversimplifies the situation. Although it is true that in magical texts gods and underworld demons are repeatedly commanded to bind, protect, heal, lead, and perform a myriad of other actions, these commands are never made to vanish. What does it mean, then, that the command to Tantalus is stated, but then made to disappear? In what follows, in fact, I shall argue that although the non-vanishing versions of 3

4 5 6

The shape of an isosceles triangle is produced by removing the first and last letter at the same time; the handbooks describe this shape “like a grape-cluster” (PGM 62.82: ὡς βότρυς) or “in the shape of a heart” (PGM 3.70: καρδιοειδῶς). See Brashear (1995) 3433 for more examples and bibliography. Rose (1951), Barb (1952), Bonner (1950) 88 f., Festugière (1961) 288, and Mastrocinque (2000) 137. Festugière (1951) 88 f. Bonner (1950) 88 (“a cure for menorrhagia”), most recently reiterated by Mastrocinque (2000). This is a traditional magical technique for forcing a hostile demon or disease to retreat by making his or her name disappear slowly. See, e. g., Heim (1892) ad no. 97, Dornseiff (²1925) 63–67, Önnerfors 116 f. and Brashear (1995) 3433 for more examples and bibliography. This is, however, the only case that I know of where an entire sentence is made to vanish.

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the command (extant in two Latin recipes and on one Greek gem) clearly command Tantalus to drink in order to bring different kinds of bleeding to a halt, the vanishing versions on these Tantalus amulets seem to have developed as a kind of back formation designed to undo the original purpose of the command and that it does so only in the case of menstrual bleeding, in which bleeding (uniquely) can be either beneficial or pathological, depending on the context: the Tantalus gems surveyed here are, in short, designed to promote menorrhea by undoing the command to Tantalus.

The nine gemstones In this first section I provide detailed descriptions, in many cases based on autopsy, of all nine of the amulets, both the old (nos. 1–2) and the new (3–9), a fitting tribute, I think, to an old friend (and the honoree of this volume), who in his work always displays himself as master of the details, as well as the big picture7: 1) SMA no. 144 (fig. 2)8 Ob: ΔΙΨΑΣ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΕ ΑΙΜΑ ΠΙΕ 9 (Bonner: “warrior (Ares?) dressed in crested helmet, kilted tunic, chlamys, and boots, right hand holding spear upright, left holding shield which rests on ground. Above the spearhead is a stylized thunderbolt.” The warrior’s military cape billows out to the right behind him. The command to Tantalus is reduced entirely, beginning on the left, from the first letter.)

7

8

9

This survey and indeed much of the discussion that follows is indebted to the recent work of Simone Michel, especially her new catalogue of the gems in the British Museum (= BM throughout) and her DMG 294 f. type 28.12a. I am also extremely grateful to my friend Attilio Mastrocinque for allowing me to study his excellent photographs, which will appear in his new edition of all of the gems in the Cabinet des Médailles. This gem is now part of the Seyrig collection (no. 65) in the Cabinet des Médailles in Paris. According to Seyrig’s notes it was purchased in Beirut. I am extremely grateful to Dr. Mathilde Avisseau-Broustet for her help during my visit in September 2008, when I examined this gem and an excellent plaster cast of the following one (the original was away on exhibit in a regional museum). The entire phrase does not fit in the first line, so the final letters (μα πίε) are centered above the first line. At the third line an iota is added to the end of αἷμα, which then persists in all of the repetitions. At line 7 the lambda of Τάνταλε disappears, and seems to reappear after the initial alpha of αἷμα (αλιμαι). After line 9 the iota in πίε disappears.

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Fig. 2: After Seyrig (1934) 3 fig. 3. R: Θαδωα (left) Αδωνοει (top) Σαβαωθ (right) Sun-Symbol Αεηιουω (omega below the epsilon) Crescent Moon (bottom). On base of the altar: Ιαω. (Bonner: “Altar of peculiar form, over which is a uterine symbol, mouth upward. Above it an 8-spoked wheel, at each side a snake, its head near symbol.” The snakes seem to be bearded, as in Egyptian art [see n. 36 below]. The execution of the design and text on the reverse is quite inferior to that on the obverse: the engraving is shallower, more of an outline than a relief, and the letters are more diffidently inscribed and have serifs, whereas those on the obverse do not.)

2) D&D no. 364 (fig. 1) Ob: ΔΙΨΑΣ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΕΜΑ ΠΙΕ 10 (Command is reduced almost entirely, beginning on the left, from the first letter. Ares-figure on the left.) R: Θαδωα (left) Αδωνοει (top) Σαβαω (right) Sun-Symbol Αεηιουω (omega below the iota) Crescent Moon (bottom). On the base of the altar: Ιαω. (Like no. 1, but with a star over the uterine symbol.)

10 In Mastrocinque’s photograph (see fig. 1) there seems to be an iota hovering above the first line between the final alpha of the word for “blood” and the following pi. At the very bottom of the stone, the letters are reduced only to ΙΕ rather than the expected single epsilon.

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3) Auction Catalog for Frank Sternberg AG 24 (Nov. 1990) 73 no. 45911 Ob:

ΕΠΙΕ ΔΙΨΣΤΝΑΛΑΜ ΙΨΣΤΝΑΛΑΜΕΠΙΕ ΨΣΤΝΑΛΑΜΕΠΙΕ ΣΤΝΑΛΑΜΕΠΙΕ ΤΝΑΛΑΜΕΠΙΕ κτλ. 12 (On the lower left side, an armed Ares-figure as in no. 1, but with diamond shape over his head.)

R: (The surface of the reverse is much more worn than the obverse, but one can make out a smaller upright jug – about one third the height of the gem – sitting on a horned alter or seat, which itself sits, uniquely for this series, on a square platform inscribed with a cross and other now illegible letters or lines. The womb itself may be inscribed with the word Ιαω. Snakes hover vertically on either side of the jug with some kind of circular design above it. One can barely make out the remains of letters starting at the bottom left, running over the top of the womb and down the right side.)

11 My description and text are based on Sternberg (1990) pl. 27, on Mastrocinque (2000) 137 f., and on the description of the design in DMG no. 28.12a. Mastrocinque notes that the gem came from the collection of S. Ayvaz, and therefore was probably from the eastern part of the Mediterranean basin. 12 I give here a different text than Mastrocinque for the first few lines. In the second line the scribe crowded the letters ΔΙΨΣ so closely together that Mastrocinque read ΔΝΣ. At the start of the third line an iota is visible followed by another psi that Mastrocinque interpreted collectively as an omega (as he does at the start of line 4 as well). I suggest that in all its iterations four letters are consistently left out: διψ<α>ς Τ<α>ν<τ>αλ<ε> αμε πιε. As in most of the other examples the end of the text of the first line (επιε) is centered above it, to accommodate the curved space at the top of the oval gem. The dimensions of this gem (4.0 × 2.4) make for a narrower oval than usual.

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4) BM no. 383 (fig. 3)13

Fig. 3: BM 383. Ob: ΔΙΨΑΣ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΕΜΑ ΠΙΕ 14 (Command is reduced from the left, but apparently not completely. Ares-figure on the left with nothing over his head.) R: Αδωνοει (top) Θαδωα (right) Σαβαω (left) Αεηιουω (bottom), with the omega above the upsilon. (Schematic drawing of an upright jug or a two-handled amphora balanced on its point – these “handles” are placed in the same position as the snakes in nos. 1 and 2. There are hatch marks around the top and sides of the jug. Here, too, the workmanship is inferior to that on the obverse and the forms of the letters are different.)

13 I am grateful to Dr. Christopher Entwistle, Curator of Late Roman and Byzantine Collections of the British Museum, for his help during my visit in June 2006, when I examined this gem and nos. 5 and 8 below. According to Museum records it was purchased in Cairo; there is a single comment: “Cypriot?” The drawings of the British Museum gems reproduced throughout this study appear by courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum. 14 There is a single epsilon positioned over the middle of the first line (over the second tau of Τάνταλαι) – it apparently did not fit at the end to the first line, which is missing its final epsilon. Michel prints the last line as λαι, but I could see the start of an alpha just before the chip on the line beneath.

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5) BM no. 384 (fig. 4)

Fig. 4: BM 384. Ob: ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ Ε[ΜΑ ΠΙΕ] 15 (Command is probably reduced entirely, beginning on the left. Ares-figure on the left, with spindle-like object overhead. His military cap is billowing behind him) R: Αδ]ωνοει (top) Θαδωα (right) Αεηι]ουω (bottom). (Like the preceding, but the handles are much shorter.)

15 Michel prints Τάνταλα δ[ιψᾷς αἷεμα πίε], but the letters ΑΙΕ are clear on the stone in lines 5 and following, where each line of text drifts further backwards to the left so that the final shape must have been an isosceles triangle, as we will see in no. 9 below. The scribe presumably did this to create a “grape-cluster” shape, instead of a “wing-shape” (see n. 3 above). The hasta of an epsilon seems to be incised above the lambda of Τάνταλαι. Since the scribe in several other examples centered the final letter(s) of the first line above it, and since this is a narrower stone, it seems best to conclude that the full phrase on this stone was Τάνταλ’ αἷε[μα πίε] and that (as in no. 4) the final epsilon could not fit at the end of the first line, and was thus placed above the middle of it.

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6) Michel (1995) 385 fig. 14a and b and (2001) no. 93, plate 16 Ob: ΔΙΨΑΣ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΕΜΑ 16 (Phrase is reduced entirely, beginning on the left, from the first letter. Aresfigure on the left, with diamond-shaped object overhead.) R: Σαβαω (left) Ιαδωνοει (top) Θαδωα (right) and Αεηιουω (bottom)17. (As in nos. 4 f., a schematic drawing of an upright jug or a two-handled amphora balanced on a triangular stand. Dashes on shoulder of the jug and vertical striations on the lower belly. The inscribed names completely surround the jug.)

7) Festugière (1961) 287 f. no. 1 (fig. 5)

Fig. 5: Festugiere (1961) plate I.

16 Michel reports that the whole command is on the stone. In fact, the imperative πίε is missing, perhaps because unlike the other oval stones, this one is nearly circular and thus does not have enough vertical space for the entire phrase to disappear. There is, moreover, a single alpha centered over the middle of the first line (over the nu of Τάνταλε) – apparently it could not fit at the end to the first line, which is missing its final alpha. In the last three lines the letters αιεμα diminishes from both sides, so that the central epsilon is the final letter remaining at the bottom of the stone, rather than the expected alpha. 17 My reading of the four Greek words differs from Michel.

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Ob: ΔΙΨΑΣ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΕΜΑ ΠΙΕ (Entire phrase disappears; Ares on the left with spear pointed down and nothing overhead; military cap billowing behind him) R: Αδωνοει (left) Σαβαω (right) Sun-Symbol Αεηιουω Crescent Moon (bottom) and Ιαω on the base of the jug. Above it the statement: ὁ κύριος ὁ ἀπόκρυφος ἰάσε<ται> τὰ ἀπόκρυφα (“The hidden lord will heal the hidden things”). (As in nos. 1 and 2, the vase is an upright container on a curved or horned stand, with a star over its mouth and bearded snakes on either side with their mouths at the level of the lip.)

8) BM no. 382 (fig. 6)

Fig. 6: BM 382. Ob: ΕΜ]Α ΠΙΕ (The final two words of the command are reduced entirely, beginning on the left, but it is impossible to know precisely how many words preceded them. An ass-headed figure stands on the right with his hands bound behind his back and looking backwards at the command. There is a large upsilon with serifs over his head. The wing-formation is shifted slightly to the left to accommodate him.) R: Σα]βαω (right) Ειη[ (bottom) (Traces of the right edge of the vase.)

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9) Getty Mus. 83.AN.437.50 (fig. 7)18

Fig. 7: Getty Mus. 83.AN.437.50.

Ob: ΔΙΨ]ΑΣ ΤΑΝΤΑ[ΛΑΙ ΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΕΜΑ ΠΙΕ (A naked female lion-headed figure [Lamashtu?] with small breasts and a pronounced navel runs away on the left with her hands bound behind her back, but she has turned her head 180 degrees to look at the receding command. There is a triangle over her head. The vertical line rising from her groin seems to be an accidental gouge.) R: (faint remains of a single circular letter in top right corner.) 18 For a photograph of the obverse see DMG pl. 56.2. This appears to be a fragment of the lower left side of a full amulet that was then reworked into a rough oval for a new setting. An irregular gouge running the length of the right bevel, suggests that the original amulet broke longitudinally on right side, with the result that as many as five Greek letters are lost (the text was probably arranged as an isosceles triangle, not a right triangle as is the case in most of the others.) To recreate a roughly oval shape of the stone, the person who reworked the amulet probably removed part of the top and bottom of the stone as well. Because the back is much more highly polished than the front, it seems that at the time of the reworking the traditional design and inscriptions on the back side of the amulet were removed, except for part of a single and rather deeply carved circular letter in the upper left corner of the gem. If we imagine that the demon was depicted full-length as he is in no. 8, then the stone probably was large enough (originally) to hold the full command. I am extremely grateful to Drs. Ken Lapatin and Geoffrey Walsh of the Getty Villa Museum for arranging for me to see this amulet and helping me understand how the gem had been reworked.

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One persistent feature of these gems is the difference between the execution of the designs and the inscriptions on the two sides. On the obverse the letters are generally inscribed (without serifs) more neatly and deeply, and the design of the Ares figure or the two demons is rendered in relief. On the reverse, however, the letters are inscribed usually (with serifs) in a shallow and irregular manner, and the design of the jug and the snakes is schematic and two-dimensional. These stylistic differences coincide with differences in content: the obverse, which would presumably be visible in a setting, mentions the Greek king Tantalus by name and depicts Ares or an animal-headed demon, whereas the hidden opposite side contains the powerful names of the Jewish god, the seven vowels and the drawing of the upright jug, which seems to stand on a Syrian altar.

The command to Tantalus The disappearing command on the obverse of these gems appears in several variations that are worth noting (the numbers refer to the foregoing list)19: ΔΙΨΑΣ ΔΙΨΑΣ ΔΙΨΣ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΔΙΨΑΣ

ΤΑΝΤΑΛΕ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ ΤΝΑΛ ΕΜΑ ΤΑΝΤΑΛΑΙ

ΑΙΜΑ ΕΜΑ ΑΜΕ ΠΙΕ ΕΜΑ

ΠΙΕ ΠΙΕ ΠΙΕ

(no. 1) (nos. 2, 4, 7, and 9) (no. 3) (no. 5) (no. 6)

Aside from the loss of complete words in the last two cases, a feature that I address below, these versions seem to descend from the same exemplar – indeed, with the exception of the heavily corrupted no. 3, they are identical except for the confusions between alpha, epsilon, and the alpha-iota diphthong. The last three words of this phrase are easily comprehensible as Τάνταλε αἷμα πίε (“Tantalus, drink blood !”), and it is clear that no. 1 preserves the best version of the text20. It also preserves on its reverse the best and clearest image of the uterine jug. The other gems all display the same orthographically confused version: Τάνταλαι ἕμα πίε 21. On the reverse, the gems gener19 I do not include no. 8, because it is too fragmentary to estimate the original size of the stone and thereby reconstruct the length of the inscription, as one can do with nos. 5 and 9. 20 Nonetheless in lines 3 and following there is much confusion in the order of the letters, several of which appear and disappear randomly during the repetitions. 21 Most editors seem to assume that αἷεμα is an odd or later spelling of αἷμα, but there should be no elision before the aspirated first vowel of αἷμα, and I can find no evidence for an epsilon added to the interior of αἷμα in texts of Roman imperial times, for example, in Gignac (1976) or the appendices of the DT, DTA, DMG, SM, or SMA. There are, on the other hand, examples of correct later spellings with the initial diphthong (e. g., στῆσον τὸ αἷμα; DMG 332 no. 52.1a with pl. 79.1) or with

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ally surround the womb/jug and snakes/handles with the same three Jewish names and the vowels, but one (no. 7) adds an intriguing inscription above the womb, ὁ κύριος ὁ ἀπόκρυφος ἰάσε<ται> τὰ ἀπόκρυφα (“The hidden lord will heal the hidden things”); presumably the “hidden things” refers to the womb and its menstrual cycle. Scholars rightly understand the command on the obverse to refer to Tantalus’ famous punishment in the underworld, but it is not entirely clear how this tradition is being invoked. Our earliest extant source is in the famous underworld scene of the Odyssey (11.582–587)22: And I saw Tantalus in bitter torment, standing in a pool, and the water came close to his chin. He was wild with thirst (διψάων), but he had no way to drink; for as often as the old man (ὁ γέρων) stooped down, eager to drink, so often would the water be swallowed up and vanish away (ἀπολέσκετ’ ἀναβροχέν), and at his feet the black earth would appear, for some daimôn would dry it all up (καταζήνασκε).

The famous pool, at least as it is depicted here, seems to dry up in two discrete steps: (1) Tantalus attempts to drink the water, but then (2) the water immediately vanishes and dry ground appears at his feet, thanks to the intervention of an unnamed daimôn. Tantalus is not, then, an obvious person to call upon to drink up the excess blood of the patient, unless, of course, we imagine him to have been released from his toils, or (perhaps more likely) unless we understand that the command to Tantalus to drink, encompasses the whole process, i. e.: “[try to] drink the blood, Tantalus, [so that some god will dry it up].” This is a problem to which we shall return. Modern scholars have wavered between two interpretations of the first five letters that appear in nearly all versions of this inscription: ΔΙΨΑΣ. Seyrig printed δίψας and translated the entire command as “Tantale assoiffé, bois le sang”, suggesting that he understood δίψας to be an adjective or the initial epsilon (a 6th century CE hematite amulet in the Metropolitan Museum of Art that refers to a “flow of blood” and spells it ΕΜΑΤΟΣ; see Tuerck 1999, 25–42), but not with both. In fact Festugière (1961) 287 was undoubtedly correct to divide the letters as Τανταλαι εμα πιε, with the brief comment that epsilon and the alpha-iota diphthong are often interchanged in the Roman period. For the former, see, e. g., καιφαλήν for κεφαλήν (DT 160) or μέλαιον for μέλεον (DT 84a12); for the latter, sometimes with verb endings, e. g., εἶνε for εἶναι (DT 158) or [ἐπικα]λέομε for ἐπικαλοῦμαι (DT 189) and, of course, κέ often for καί. 22 Although there is little agreement as to why precisely Tantalus was punished, subsequent ancient sources tend to use the Odyssey passage as a guide to depicting the underworld scene (the one important variation is that a rock is suspended over his head, like Damocles’ sword, instead of – or in addition to – the retreating food and water. Pausanias (10.39.12) mentions Homer in his description of the scene from Polygnotus’ famous painting in the Cnidian Lesche at Delphi. See Gantz (1993) 531–536.

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participle meaning “thirsty”23. Bonner, on the other hand, accented it differently and thought it was the feminine noun διψάς, a snake whose bite caused legendary thirst in her victims. Therefore he translated the phrase as “Tantalus-viper, drink blood”, and connected this “viper” with the bearded snakes on the reverse of the gem, which seemed to him to be drinking from the uterine symbol24. Independently of one another Festugière, Rose, and Barb (with Delatte and Derchain eventually following suit) all took a third approach, suggesting that the word in question should be rendered διψᾷς, the second-person singular form of the verb διψᾶν, “to thirst”, and punctuating it as a short question followed by a command: “Tu as soif, Tantale? Bois du sang!”25 Their interpretation produces an ironic and quite memorable rhetorical question – of course Tantalus is thirsty! – and to this day it remains the favorite of scholars, albeit most recently with a comma replacing the question mark: “You are thirsty Tantalus, so drink blood!”26 Nonetheless the general approach of Seyrig seems preferable, because it is in line with the simple kinds of commands one generally finds on magical gemstones27. There is, to put it the other way round, no parallel for a rhetorical question followed by a command on a gemstone or amulet. The Odyssey, moreover, the archetype of all descriptions of Tantalus’ punishment, uses the participle διψάων (11.584) to describe him thirsting in Hades. I suggest, therefore, that ΔΙΨΑΣ is most likely some syncopated form of the aorist participle διψ<ήσ>ας (see n. 23) that modifies the name Tantalus and makes reference to his famous thirst, e. g., “O Tantalus, because you thirst, drink (the) blood (of the patient).” It would seem, then, that gemstone no. 1 preserves the best text of the command: δίψας Τάνταλε αἷμα πίε. It has not, I think, been noticed that these words could easily be the first three and a half feet of a dactylic hexameter, a common vehicle for magical incantations in the ancient Greek world28. 23 Seyrig (1934) 3. Since the form and accentuation of δίψας do not accord with any known adjective or participial form of διψᾶν, Festugière (1951) 86 is probably correct to suppose that Seyrig understood it as a syncopated form of διψ<ής>ας. 24 Bonner (1950) 276. The word διψάς, -άδος is used in Greek as the feminine form of the adjective δίψιος, and also as a substantive for “snake” (LSJ s. v.). 25 Festugière (1951) 81, Rose (1951) 60, Barb (1952) 274, and D&D no. 364 ad loc. Ten years later Festugière (1961) 287 n. 2 reaffirmed his reading of διψᾷς, but changed his mind about placing a question mark in the middle of the text, which he replaced with a comma. 26 See, e. g., most recently Michel’s comments in DMG (p. 156) and Mastrocinque (2000) 137. The switch to the comma was instigated by Festugière (see preceding note). 27 E. g., διαφύλασσε (BM 28), πέπτε (BM 180), φύλαξον (BM 290), σταλῆτι (BM 351), οr σῶζε (BM 460). 28 For other examples of metrical incantations (in this case iambic and trochaic) with truncated endings, see Faraone (2009b).

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The images: Triumphant warrior, fugitive demon and womb In all nine examples of this gem, we find an anthropomorphic figure incised in a lower corner under the shrinking edge of the disappearing command: in the first seven examples a warrior armed with helmet and spear and leaning on a shield, usually under a diamond, thunderbolt or stellar symbol; in the remaining two examples (nos. 8 and 9) a bound demon with a horse’s or lion’s head, above which hovers a triangle or an upsilon. Seyrig suggested that the armed figure on these gems was Tantalus himself 29, but the most straightforward interpretation of all these figures and their interchangeability would be that the animal-headed demon is imagined as the cause of the disease, which is shown bound and fleeing, while the unencumbered soldier apparently plays some kind of protective or curative role: he stands confidently with his back to the receding inscription, in some cases apparently with the wind on his face30. A similar warrior stands facing the wind on another pair of hematite gemstones in the British Museum (fig. 8), which depict a military figure in the same pose, accompanied by the inscription: “Ares cut the pain of the liver” (Ἄρης ἔτεμεν τοῦ ἥπατος τὸν πόνον)31.

Fig. 8: BM 385. 29 Seyrig (1934) 4, followed by D&D no. 364 ad loc. Bonner (1950) 88 and Festugière (1951) 86 disagree. The influential Homeric description (quoted earlier) described Tantalus as an old man, which the warrior figure is not. 30 This paragraph is heavily indebted to the excursus of Michel, DMG, pp. 152–154. 31 BM nos. 385 f.; see Michel, DMG, pp. 152 f. and Faraone (2009b) 247 f. for discussion.

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Yet another gemstone shows a similar Ares-figure striding forward with upraised shield and spear, and before his feet a tiny, knee-high demon, who runs away while at the same time looking back at his pursuer. This demon resembles the lion-headed demon on Tantalus gem no. 9, and has a similarly contorted pose32. The Ares figure, then, is probably a positive protective force, whereas the craven animal-headed figures represent a frightened and fleeing demon. The interpretation of the imagery on the reverse of the stone has not raised much controversy, so it can be discussed briefly. We usually find an upright wide-mouthed vessel on a stand surrounded on all four sides by the powerful names and epithets of the Jewish god (Iaô [= Jahweh], Sabaô[th], Adônai), which appear on other amulets concerned with the womb 33, the seven vowels, sometimes preceded by a symbol for the sun and followed by a symbol of the crescent moon, and a fourth name of uncertain meaning that may originally have had, like Sabaô(th), a Semitic ending: Thadôa(th). These names seem to be positioned on all four sides so that they can protect or restrain the womb, like the ouroboros serpent that often appears on uterine amulets 34. On four of these gems (1–3 and 7), we see a pair of snakes, sometimes bearded, hovering at either side of the uterine jug. On the other gems the snakes are less carefully rendered and seem to devolve into handles for the jug. This is probably a later development, since none of the other depictions of the womb on gemstones – for example the popular upside-down type with key – are shown with handles. Bonner thought these snakes were drinking from the upright uterine vessel, but their mouths do not actually touch or stretch over the lip of the jug35. The beard on some of the snakes suggests an Egyptian origin for the iconography and divine status for the snakes36. If this is correct, then the snakes may simply be there to reinforce the sense that we also get from the inscribed names: the uterine vessel is surrounded by powerful deities and perhaps even threatened, much as the evil eye is often depicted surrounded by dangerous animals 37. The horned base upon which the vessel sits has been

32 SMA 54, also illustrated in DMG pl. 56.3. 33 Faraone (2003). On some of the Tantalus gems the name Iaô is written on the base of the pedestal that holds the uterine symbol. 34 Ritner (1984) 219 f. shows that the protective ouroborous serpent is a very old Egyptian device, correcting Bonner SMA no. 144, who calls it a “conventional border”. 35 See, e. g., a similar pair of serpents with a starburst or solar symbol over their heads, but between them stands a pair of facing mummies instead of a jug (De Clerc Collection of the Cabinet des Médailles no. 3472). 36 Guralnick (1974). 37 For examples, see Levi (1941) and Dunbabin/Dickie (1983).

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interpreted by Bonner as a type of Syrian altar and by Barb as a kind of cup or chalice 38.

The Greek tradition of blood staunching amulets Barb saw from the very beginning that these Tantalus gems were part of the same tradition as two amulet recipes preserved in late-Latin medical handbooks39. The first, a cure for nosebleed, requires us to inscribe with the patient’s blood the following charm (in transliterated Greek) on three laurel leaves: Tantale pie, pie Tantale, Tantale pie ! (“Tantalus drink, drink Tantalus, Tantalus drink!”)40. The script is then washed off with leek juice and given to the patient to drink. Here one imagines that by ingesting the command “Drink, Tantalus!” Tantalus will in some way drink the blood from within the body and the exterior bleeding from the nose will stop. The second Latin recipe is designed to stop the flow of blood generally. We are instructed to write the following text on a sheet of papyrus (charta) and then tie it with a thread to the sufferer’s body – around the neck for men and the belly for women41: Sicut terra<m> non tangat, ita sanguen bibe Tantale, Tantale bibe sanguen, bibe Tantale (“Just as [sc. the amulet] does not touch the earth, so drink blood Tantalus! Tantalus drink blood, drink Tantalus!”). Here the charm is translated, rather than transliterated (Greek pie becomes Latin bibe), and Tantalus is explicitly directed to drink blood, whereas in the previous charm he was commanded simply to drink. The first part of this spell is obscure. As in the previous example the famously thirsty Tantalus is encouraged to drink up the blood of the patient so that the hemorrhaging will cease. The persuasive analogy (sicut … ita), however, suggests some unexpected limits to his actions: Tantalus is to drink blood only as long as the amulet does not touch the ground, that is: as long as the amulet is tied to the patient. It would seem, then, that the author of this recipe can imagine a time when the patient would take the amulet off, either at a time when the bleeding has stopped for good and there is no fear of it restarting (e. g. a healed wound or nosebleed) or in the case of the menstrual cycle when there is a need for it to begin again.

38 Bonner, SMA no. 144 ad loc. and Barb (1952). 39 Barb (1952) 271 f. 40 Rose (1894) 276 and Önnerfors (1993) 207 no. 9. The spell is preserved in the socalled Additamenta Pseudo-Theodori. Barb (1952) 272 suggests rightly that the text must have been inscribed in three sections (as punctuated by commas in the translation), one for each of the three laurel leaves. 41 Heim no. 122. I give the improved text of Önnerfors (1993) 207 n. 106.

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Scholars generally agree that the Tantalus gemstones and these two Latin spells all descend from the same Greek tradition and all have the same purpose: to encourage Tantalus to stop the bleeding by drinking the excess blood42. In part this consensus is encouraged by widespread evidence that the ancients believed that the stone from which all of the Tantalus-amulets are carved – hematite, literally “bloodstone” – had natural blood-staunching powers43. Both the general rule (all hematite stones are styptic amulets) and the specific application of it (all the Tantalus amulets are styptic amulets) need to be re-examined. It the first case, hematite had other properties that connected it analogically with blood – especially the fact that some types, when wet and rubbed, produce a blood-colored liquid44. In this case, since the stone seems to bleed itself, it seems entirely plausible that it could also be used in rites that aimed to encourage bleeding. We know, in fact, of at least one magical spell designed to promote uterine bleeding: a fragmentary amulet-recipe from a Roman-era magical handbook (PGM 62.76–106). The rubric and introduction have not survived, but the request to be inscribed on the amulet makes its purpose abundantly clear: “Let the genitals and the womb of her, So-and-so, be open and let her become bloody by night and day.”45 This is, of course, the opposite effect of the alleged goal of the Tantalus gemstones. The papyrus recipe tells us to inscribe this request in lamb’s blood – or perhaps menstrual blood46 – on a small chit (πιττακ[ιδί]ῳ) along with a complicated design, which is centered around a drawing of a cup- or bowl-shaped object, that probably represents an open uterus – that is, one that can bleed freely47. The phrase “in this way shaped like a heart” (οὕτως καρδιοειδῶς) appears over the mouth of the drawing. Although some com42 The Latin recipes undoubtedly preserve a much older Greek practice of using oral incantations to stop bleeding, as for example the incantation that the sons of Autolykos use to stop the bleeding from Odysseus’ wounded thigh (Odyssey 19.455–458); see Renehan (1992) for bibliography and discussion. See below for a hematite gemstone in Perugia that carries the Greek inscription: “Drink Tantalus!” 43 Barb (1952) 279 f. and Hanson (1995) 290 f. 44 Hanson (1995) 290 f., who also notes that in medicine it was usually heated up, pulverized, and then steeped in water or oil, which produced a blood-colored liquid that was given to the patient to drink or rubbed on the skin. See Barb (1969) for detailed discussion. 45 Barb (1959) 368 suggests it was designed to facilitate an abortion by opening up the womb. See Aubert (1989) 428–441 for additional arguments – he goes so far as to suggest that the spell might have been used as a curse against another woman to force her to abort. This is quite plausible, because a boon for one woman (e. g. the return of her normal monthly flows) could easily be a curse for another (e. g. bleeding during a pregnancy). 46 See the revised text of F. A. J. Hoogendijk apud Aubert (1989) 430 n. 14. 47 See, e. g., Preisendanz, PGM ad loc.: “Geöffnete μήτρα?” and Aubert (1989) 429 f.: “a representation of female genitalia or open cervix”.

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mentators understand this to refer to the cup-shaped drawing48, it clearly refers to the disappearing name that precedes, which is created in the usual manner by removing one letter at a time, but then shifted to the right to look like heart-shaped figure (i. e., an isosceles triangle)49. The inscribed papyrus is then to be buried “by the side of a stream”, where presumably the constantly flowing waters will provide yet another model for the flowing of the woman’s uterine blood50. It would seem, then, that not all amulets that concern the uterus and blood are designed to stop bleeding. The Tantalus amulets are, of course, all designed to affect menstrual bleeding, but we should not overlook a traditional ambiguity in the treatment of uterine blood in Greek medicine and magic51. If a person’s nose or wound bleeds, this is always a bad thing and the bleeding must be stopped, but the flow of menstrual blood can, in fact, be both good and bad, depending on the context. If a woman does not want to be pregnant, the disappearance of her menses is a bad sign. But if she is happily pregnant or desires to be so, the appearance of her menses is an alarming or disappointing sign. We see this ambivalence clearly in another genre of uterine amulet, which survives in two different versions, depending on whether the patient wishes the uterus to be open or closed. On these gems, nearly all hematites, the uterus is depicted as an inverted jar (not upright as on the Tantalus gems) with its mouth covered by a key (as in, e. g., BM 352; see fig. 9). Delatte suggested that this key was designed only to close the uterus, either to prevent conception or prevent spontaneous abortion, but Bonner more cautiously maintained that these gems seemed to have a variety of purposes52. 48 Barb (1953) 202 with n. 156 – apparently followed recently by Aubert (1989) 429. 49 The expression καρδιοειδῶς always refers to vanishing names: see footnote 3. On the papyrus, the shortening of the magical name is in fact illustrated in a schematic way, hence the fuller expression οὕτως καρδιοειδῶς. The lacuna at the start of the recipe leaves the exact mechanics of this spell unclear, but since the long heart-shaped disappearing name (αριουαθωρμενερτιουμαιισι) is to be is positioned above the uterine cup and since its first line is slightly longer the opening of the cup, I suspect that it represents a lid or stopper for the cup, which could effectively seal it off if placed upon it. The relative proportion of name and cup are much clearer in the photograph in Aubert (1989) pl. 1 (facing p. 432), than in the text and drawing in PGM. If this suspicion is correct, then as the magic name blocking the entrance to the uterus begins to disappear, the blood can flow freely again from the womb. 50 The Greek is παρὰ ῥοῦν, which J. Scarborough apud GMPT translates as “near sumac”, which is possible, but I follow Preisendanz apud PGM: “neben einem fliessenden Wasser”. Aubert (1989) 433 f., seems to follow Scarborough, but allows for both meanings in the passage. 51 Rightly stressed by Ritner (1984) 213 f., against Barb (1952) 279–281. See also Hanson (1995) 284. 52 Delatte (1914) and Bonner (1950) 87.

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Fig. 9: BM 351.

We now know, in fact, that these charms could be used to open or close the womb and thereby promote or impede bleeding. Ritner points out, for example, that the Egyptian soroor-formula, which appears on some of these gemstones, is also used in spells to open doors and facilitate escape and he shows that when it appears on these uterus-gemstones it aims at opening, not closing, the womb53. He also suggests that the identity of the Egyptian gods who often appear on top of the womb or on the reverse side of the gem could signal different uses: when Seth appears, for instance, the purpose of the gem is probably to open the womb to induce bleeding or an abortion54, but when it is Khnum, either in his traditional, ram-headed form or as the Hellenistic Chnoubis serpent, the goal is to open the womb for childbirth55. A similar argument might be made for a few amulets on which the key to the womb is positioned with its tines reversed (i. e., pointing away from the mouth of the womb), suggesting that the womb is unlocked: on two of them Seth or Anubis appear on the obverse hinting that abortion is the goal56, but on another Chnoubis appears over the womb, suggesting birth57. There is also a 53 Ritner (1984) 218 f. 54 Ritner (1984) 215 f. Behind Seth’s appearance lies the story that he tried to rape Isis when she was pregnant in order to cause her to abort Horus, the son of Seth’s great rival Osiris. The threat of Sethian rape is actually depicted in gems that seem to show a recumbent ithyphallic donkey attempting to penetrate a pregnant or parturient woman; see Barb (1959) and Ritner (1984) 215 n. 49. 55 Ritner (1984) 214 f. and 217. 56 BM 381 and an unpublished hematite in a private collection in Berlin, which is described and discussed by Michel DMG 54.5b, who provides her own photograph in pl. 72.1. 57 BM 381.

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Fig. 10a and b: SGG no. PE 26 (obverse and reverse).

small subset of these gems, in which the jug-like womb is reversed: its mouth points upwards, rather than downwards, and in one case the key is at the back of the womb, not the mouth58. All of these reversals suggest a binary use of these hematite gems to either open or close the womb, depending on the circumstances. It is, of course, beyond the scope of this study to analyze the large corpus of hematite gemstones that depict the uterus and its key, but suffice it to say that despite its natural blood-staunching qualities hematite was used for amulets designed to open and close the womb, to stop and start bleeding, and for other purposes as well, and that their varied iconography and inscriptions can help us fine-tune our understanding of them. Let us return, then, to the Tantalus gems. In the Latin laurel-leaf recipe Tantalus is invoked to drink, in order to stop the bleeding from the patient’s nose. In the case of the Latin instructions for the papyrus amulet, the logic of the simile suggests that it, too, was used to prevent bleeding, because as long as the patient wears the amulet and keeps it from touching the ground, Tantalus is exhorted to drink the blood of the patient. Because of the transliterated Greek in the first recipe (in which the command is washed off and drunk), Barb rightly assumed that these late Latin recipes derived from a Greek original, and, in fact, a recently published hematite gem from Perugia (fig. 10a and b) is inscribed on the reverse with the simple command 58 Wombs with upward mouths: D&D nos. 342 (an Osirian mummy on top of key), 350 (a serpent with solar crown, i. e., Cnoubis on top of key), 362 (the key is below and at the back of the womb), and 363 (it has an inscription: φύλαξον Σελευκίαν [ἀπὸ παντ]ὸς μητρικοῦ [πάθους?]).

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πίε Τάνταλε; on its damaged obverse one can make out three inverted jug-like objects that the editor identifies as a symbolic representation of the womb surrounded by letters59. This gem, in short, seems to be a version of the nine Tantalus gems discussed above, with one important difference: the command to Tantalus does not disappear. If the nine Tantalus gemstones surveyed here had been inscribed just once with the command “Because you are thirsty, Tantalus drink blood!” and not repeated in a disappearing formation, then I would agree that they had the same goal as the two Latin recipes and the gem from Perugia: to stop the bleeding. But since the command disappears in a wing-formation, we have a more complicated case, in which both Tantalus and the command to drink are forced to vanish and the opposite effect is desired: to allow or promote uterine bleeding. The wing-formation, in short, nullifies or reverses the original command to drink, just as in the Latin recipe the efficacy of the same inscribed command (Tantale bibe sanguen) is nullified or reversed by removing the amulet and placing it on the ground. Another possible example of a name vanishing on an amulet concerned with bleeding (albeit one with the reverse goal) is preserved by the late Roman medical writer, Marcellus of Bordeaux60: Write this charm on a clean papyrus and tie it with a linen thread and attach it to him or her around the middle, those who suffer a flow of blood (sanguinis fluxum) from whatever part of the body: sicycuma, cucuma, ucuma, cuma, uma, ma, a.

Heim rightly suggested (ad loc.) that there was a direct connection between the dwindling name and the cessation of bleeding, and that the start of the word sicycuma itself was probably an initial sic, that was part of the instructions in the spell (i. e. “[the word is to be written] in this way”)61. He proposed, therefore, that the disappearing word was simply cucuma 62. I would tentatively suggest, however, that the vanishing word may have originally been cuma (Greek κῦμα), “wave” or “flood”63, and that it refers directly to 59 See Vitellozzi, SGG vol. 2, Pe 26: “raffigurazione simbolica dell’ utero; l’organo è tripartite e termina in tre segmenti filamentosi.” The Greek letters around the mutilated edge are too difficult to make sense of, but presumably recorded the name of some powerful deity or angel, as we find on the back of the nine other Tantalus gems. 60 De med. 10.34 = Heim no. 97. I use the text supplied by Önnerfors (1993) 166 f. 61 In Greek recipes the word οὕτως is used in similar ways; see, e. g., PGM 62.82. 62 He worried rightly that the sequence skipped icucuma, which should logically be the second iteration. He made no attempt to elicit any meaning from the word, but nearly a century later Versnel (1996) 265–267 suggested in passing that cucuma means “cooking pot” (Kochtopf) and that the initial sic may have been the remains of siccus, “dry”. 63 For another example of a Greek word transliterated directly into Latin, see n. 41 for the spell that commands: Tantale pie. The original cuma was probably enlarged when a scribe inserted a linking vowel between the sic and cuma. Note that in the first iteration of this word the vowel is a Y, but then it is changes to a U.

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the pathological condition that the spell seeks to cure, the sanguinis fluxus 64. Here, then, as the word for “flood” diminishes and disappears, so, too, will the flow of blood. This amulet aims, of course, at the cessation of bleeding, not the encouragement of it, but it does illustrate the use of a disappearing word to regulate the flow of blood. I would argue, then, that the disappearing Tantalus-commands work in a similar manner, but for a different purpose: if the command to the thirsty blood-drinking Tantalus gradually vanishes, then he, no longer compelled, will stop trying to drink and the uterus will begin to bleed again. But why on the nine gems under discussion does a full sentence – Tantalus, the blood and the imperative – disappear? In fact, the text of the extant examples varies just enough to suggest that all three parts of the sentence need not disappear and that one or the other would suffice. On one of the broken gemstones (no. 5), for example, the first word of the traditional formula (δίψας) is left off, so that only the three most important words disappear (in corrected orthography): Τάνταλε αἷμα πίε. These are, in fact, the same three words that appear on the Latin papyrus amulet designed to stop bleeding: Tantale bibe sanguen). This Latin recipe, then, and the gem in Perugia both provide us with glimpses of the pre-history of the nine Tantalus-gems, and they suggest that at some time prior to the manufacture of these nine hematite amulets, women and indeed probably men, too, carried amulets that inscribed with simple commands such as “Thirsty Tantalus drink !” or “Drink blood Tantalus !” Such commands are not laid out in wing-formation, and thus the purpose of these amulets is straightforward: to stop or prevent unwanted bleeding. Over time I suggest that this command ultimately was linked with the successful control of all kinds of bleeding. Menorrhea is, however, a unique category of human bleeding: it can be perceived as either healthy or pathological, depending on the context. In the case of a woman who desired regular menstrual flows, I suggest a kind of ritual back-formation: if Tantalus was imagined to be drinking the excess blood of a non-bleeding woman, then it makes sense to reverse the situation by inscribing the original command in wing-formation and thereby destroying it one letter at a time – almost as if one were tearing up the original order to drink. We have already seen, in fact, this idea of reversal or nullification in the stipulation on the Latin papyrus amulet (discussed earlier): “Just as (sc. this amulet) does not touch the ground.” The amulet itself was designed to 64 The equation between κῦμα and fluxus is not exact, but close enough for such charms, as both are concerned with the motion of liquids. Greek κῦμα derives from the verb κύειν, “to swell”, and it refers to a naturally swollen thing like a “wave” or a “billow”; it is also used metaphorically to describe a “flood”, e. g., of men. Latin fluxus, on the other hand, derives from the verb fluere, “to flow, overflow, spread” and is primarily concerned with the motion of liquids.

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prevent bleeding, but this clause shows us that its power could be reversed or undone, if the situation warranted it, for example if a woman wanted her regular menses to return. Such a development in the later evolution of the Tantalus amulets might explain some of the variations and mistakes in the vanishing command on the gems, for it may well be that some scribes, used to inscribing exotic or nonsensical names or words in wing-formation, did not, in fact, understand what they were writing and may have treated the sentence δίψας Τάνταλε αἷμα πίε as if it were a nonsensical magical logos of nineteen letters (διψαστανταλαιεμαπιε), just like the vanishing nomen of twenty-four letters in the PGM 62 recipe (αριουαθωρμενερτιουμαιισι). We can, in fact, see a similar degeneration in the execution of the uterine cup on the reverse, where the bearded serpents on the back of the best executed examples (e. g., nos. 1–3 and 7), one of which preserves the most pristine version of the inscription (no. 1), are treated as cup handles in the more poorly executed gems (e. g., nos. 4–6). Such confusion or degeneration of the exemplar may, in fact, even explain the apparently syncopated form of the first word (δίψας = διψήσας) in all of the versions and the problem of missing words (nos. 5 and 6) or inconsistent spelling (see nos. 9, 16 and 21) on many of them. We might have expected scribes to know better and correct such problems, if they had realized that they were confronted with comprehensible Greek. But this need not have been their expectation. Indeed, the most recently published version of the command (no. 3: ΔΙΨΣΤΝΑΛΑΜΠΙΕ) would not be at all comprehensible if we did not have the eight other gems for comparison. Likewise I suspect that the disappearing word σανταλαλα that shows up twice in a complicated divination spell (PGM 2.5 and 2.66) is, in fact, an even more corrupt version of the command: [δίψα]ς [Τ]άνταλ[ε] αλα(= αι[μ]α) 65. Since out of nearly seventy extant disappearing words and names in Greek magical texts there is no other example of a vanishing phrase or sentence, and since most of the longer words are apparently nonsensical, it is probable that some scribes would not have expected the disappearing letters on the Tantalus-amulet to be sensible Greek, especially after they had suffered 65 In this spell another disappearing word, ακρακαναρβα, is to be used twice in tandem with σανταλαλα, and it, too, seems to be a corrupted and truncated version of the popular palindrome αβλαναθαναλβα. Both of these words, at least as they appear in the papyrus, are unparalleled, which raises the suspicion that they are in fact corrupted versions of better known words or phrases. Their use in PGM 2 seems to be vaguely protective. They are first recited orally in their diminishments in a prayer to Apollo Helios. What they were supposed to accomplish in this prayer is, however, unclear since we lack the start of the recipe. In the second instance, however, the iterations of both disappearing words are to be inscribed on the individual leaves of a laurel bough, which is then woven into a crown and worn by the magician, as he sacrifices and sings a hymn to Apollo.

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the varying degrees of corruption and confusion documented in this essay. The non-vanishing command was, in short, originally comprehensible and used to stop bleeding, as we can see on the Perugia gemstone; the disappearing version of it, on the other hand, was also presumably decipherable, when it was first created as a back-formation that encouraged bleeding, but eventually it came to be treated as if it were a single, nonsensical magical word, whose disappearance would lead to bleeding. We saw this same kind of devolution in the Latin amulet against bleeding that is inscribed with the word sicucuma, a word that probably was equally unrecognizable to its users as an awkward combination (with added medial vowel) of Latin sic and cuma, the transliterated Greek word for “flood”. But hocus-pocus, one of the most famous magical words of medieval Europe, provides the best parallel of a sentence reduced to an incomprehensible word: it is a corrupted form of the liturgy hoc est corpus. Finally, what role does the mythological figure of Tantalus play in our understanding of this series of amulets? Clearly in the Roman period, when these amulets and Latin charms were in use, the focus is on Tantalus as a drinker. But why blood? There are, in fact, hints that in some versions of his myth he killed his own son Pelops, butchered him and served him up to the gods66. The details are sketchy, because Pindar suppresses this version, but there is no evidence that Tantalus himself ever ate the flesh or drank the blood he had prepared, and this would be typical of such myths, like the feast of Thyestes, where the one who tricks another into cannibalism does not himself join in the meal. The trope of poetic justice in the Hellenic underworld suggests, moreover, that he was punished by continual hunger and thirst, because he spectacularly overindulged in these areas. Perhaps there was a (now lost) saying or moral tale about Tantalus the glutton, who would eat or drink anything67. The command, then, is not so much ironic, as Festugière suggested, but cruel-hearted: we command Tantalus to drink, knowing full well that he will not be successful, but his endless attempts to do so periodically dry up the flowing stream that feeds the pool in the underworld. The Homeric scene may, in fact, explain why Tantalus was deemed appropriate to control menorrhea: the stream provides a model for a regular alternation of flow and cessation, one not dissimilar to the healthy menstrual flows of a woman. 66 Gantz (1993) 531–533. 67 Mastrocinque (2000) rightly complicates this discussion when he points out that all of the Tantalus gems with a clear or vague provenience come from the eastern Mediterranean (the Levant, Cyprus, or Egypt); since we are dimly aware of another, non-Peloponnesian Tantalus, who ruled as a king in Anatolia, it is possible that this eastern king was (in an account that failed to survive) a capacious drinker or glutton.

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Abbreviations for corpora of magical texts BM D&D DMG DT DTA GMA GMPT PGM SGD SGG SM SMA

Simone Michel, Die magischen Gemmen im Britischen Museum, vol. 1–2 (London 2001). Armand Delatte/Philippe Derchain, Les intailles magiques gréco-ég yptiennes de la Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris 1964). Simone Michel, Die magischen Gemmen. Eine Studie zu Zauberformeln und magischen Bildern auf geschnittenen Steinen der Antike und Neuzeit (Gießen 1997). Augustus Audollent, Tabellae Defixionum (Paris 1904). Richard Wünsch, Defixionum Tabellae Atticae, Appendix to Inscriptiones Graecae, vol. III (Berlin 1897). Roy Kotansky, Greek Magical Amulets, vol. 1, Papyrologica Coloniensia 22.1 (Opladen 1994). Hans Dieter Betz (ed.), The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation (Chicago 1986). Karl Preisendanz[/Albert Henrichs], Papyri Graecae Magicae: Die griechischen Zauberpapyri, vol. 1–2 (Stuttgart ²1973–1974). David R. Jordan, “A Survey of Greek Defixiones Not Included in the Special Corpora”, GRBS 26 (1985) 151–197. Attilio Mastrocinque (ed.), Sylloge Gemmarum Gnosticarum, Bollettino di Numismatica Monografia 8.2.1–2 (Roma 2003/2008). Robert W. Daniel/Franco Maltomini, Supplementum Magicum, vol. 1–2, Papyrologica Coloniensia 16.1–2 (Opladen 1990/1991). Campbell Bonner, Studies in Magical Amulets Chiefl y Graeco-Eg yptian, University of Michigan Studies, Humanistic Series 4 (Ann Arbor 1950).

Bibliography Aubert (1989). – Jean Jacques Aubert, “Threatened Wombs: Aspects of Ancient Uterine Magic”, GRBS 30 (1989) 421–449. Barb (1952). – Alphonse A. Barb, “Bois du sang, Tantale”, Syria 29 (1952) 271–284. Barb (1953). – Alphonse A. Barb, “Diva Matrix”, JWCI 16 (1953) 193–238. Barb (1959). – Alphonse A. Barb, “Seth or Anubis II”, JWCI 22 (1959) 367–371. Barb (1969). – Alphonse A. Barb, “Lapas Adamas”, Hommages à Marcel Renard, vol. 1, Collection Latomus 101 (Brussels 1969) 66–82. Bonner (1950). – Campbell Bonner, Studies in Magical Amulets Chiefl y Graeco-Eg yptian, University of Michigan Studies, Humanistic Series 4 (Ann Arbor 1950). Brashear (1995). – William M. Brashear, “The Greek Magical Papyri. An Introduction and Survey; Annotated Bibliography”, in: ANRW 2.18.5 (1995) 3380–3684. Delatte (1914). – Armand Delatte, “La clef de la matrice”, Musee Belgé 18 (1914) 75–88. Dornseiff (²1925). – Franz Dornseiff, Das Alphabet in Mystik und Magie (Leipzig ²1925). Dunbabin/Dickie (1983). – Katherine M. C. Dunbabin/Matthew W. Dickie, “Invidia rumpantur pectora: The Iconography of Phthonos/Invidia in Graeco-Roman Art”, JAC 26 (1983) 7–37. Faraone (2003). – Christopher A. Faraone, “New Light on Ancient Greek Exorcisms of the Wandering Womb”, ZPE 144 (2003) 189–197.

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Faraone (2009a). – Christopher A. Faraone, “Kronos and the Titans as Powerful Ancestors. A Case Study of the Greek Gods in Later Magical Spells”, in: Jan N. Bremmer/ Andrew Erskine (eds.), The Gods of Ancient Greece (Edinburgh 2009a). Faraone (2009b). – Christopher A. Faraone, “Stopping Evil, Pain, Anger and Blood: The Ancient Greek Tradition of Protective Iambic Incantations”, GRBS 49 (2009b) 227–256. Festugière (1951). – André-Jean Festugière, “Amulettes magiques a propos d’un ouvrage recent”, CP 46 (1951) 81–92. Festugière (1961). – André-Jean Festugière, “Pierres magiques de la Collection Kofler (Lucerne)”, Mélanges Univ. St. Joseph, Beyrouth 37/17 (1961) 287–293. Gantz (1993). – Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources (Baltimore 1993). Gignac (1976). – Francis Thomas Gignac, A Grammar of the Greek Papyri of the Roman and Byzantine Periods, vol. 1–2 (Milan 1976). Guralnick (1974). – Eleanor Guralnick, “The Chrysapha Relief and Its Connections with Egyptian Art”, JEA 60 (1974) 175–188. Hanson (1995). – Ann Ellis Hanson, “Uterine Amulets and Greek Uterine Medicine”, Medicina nei Secoli 7 (1995) 281–299. Heim (1892). – Richard Heim, Incantamenta Magica Graeca-Latina, Jahrbücher für classische Philologie Suppl. 10 (Leipzig 1892). Levi (1941). – Doro Levi, “The Evil Eye and the Lucky Hunchback”, in: Richard Stillwell (ed.), Antioch on-the-Orontes, vol. 3: The Excavations 1937–39 (Princeton 1941) 220–232. Mastrocinque (2000). – Attilio Mastrocinque, “Studi sulle gemme gnostiche: VIII ‘Beve sangue, Tantalo’ ”, ZPE 130 (2000) 137 f. Michel (1995). – Simone Michel, “Medizinisch-magische Amulettgemmen”, Antike Welt 26 (1995) 379–387. Michel (2001). – Simone Michel, Bunte Steine – Dunkle Bilder: “Magische Gemmen” (Munich 2001). Önnerfors (1993). – Alf Önnerfors, “Magische Formeln im Dienste römischer Medizin”, in: ANRW 2.37.1 (1993) 157–224. Philipp (1986). – Hanna Philipp, Mira et Magica. Gemmen im Äg yptischen Museum der Staatlichen Museen (Mainz am Rhein 1986). Renehan (1992). – Robert Renehan, “The Staunching of Odysseus’ Blood: The Healing Power of Magic”, AJP 113 (1992) 1–4. Ritner (1984). – Robert K. Ritner, “A Uterine Amulet in the Oriental Institute Collection”, JNES 43 (1984) 209–221. Rose, H. J. (1951). – Herbert Jennings Rose, “A Blood-Staunching Amulet”, HTR 44 (1951) 59 f. Rose, V. (1894). – Valentin Rose, Theodorus Priscianus (Leipzig 1894). Seyrig (1934). – Henri Seyrig, “Invidiae Medici: 1. La faim de l’ibis et la soif de Tantale”, Berytus 1 (1934) 1–5. Sternberg (1990). – Frank Sternberg AG, Auktion XXIV am 19. und 20. November 1990 in Zürich (Zurich 1990). Tuerck (1999). – Jacqueline Tuerck, “An Early Byzantine Inscribed Amulet and Its Narratives”, BMGS 23 (1999) 25–42. Versnel (1996). – Hendrik S. Versnel, “Die Poetik der Zaubersprüche”, in: Tilo Schabert/ Remi Brague (eds.), Die Macht des Wortes (Munich 1996) 233–297.

The Laments of Horus in Coptic: Myth, Folklore, and Syncretism in Late Antique Egypt1 david frankfurter

In his 1993 book Greek Mytholog y, Fritz Graf offered two brief but incisive comments on the application of the category ‘myth’ to the Homeric epics. To the extent that the epics contain “tales that are reshaped constantly and passed on within a (poetic) tradition”, they can be said to contain myths. And yet, more trenchantly, Graf declares, “the myth transcends the form it takes in any one text”, implying that the Homeric epics might be said to contain, not myths, but individual expressions or multiforms of myth2. The interpretive distinction between myth and the expressive form of myth has always been particularly vital in the analysis of ancient magical texts, in which Graf has also contributed among the most important works in modern scholarship. Magical texts invoke gods, gods’ relationships, gods’ adventures, and gods’ conflicts and crises, sometimes in direct reflection of ‘myths’ we know from more synthetic ‘mythographic’ collections (Plutarch, Apollodorus) and sometimes with no known archetypes or sources, as if the composer invented the ‘myth’ ad hoc. What then is ‘myth’ that it applies to magical texts? Is the expression of myth in a spell more or less representative than its expression in epic, drama, or ancient mythographer? In gratitude to Fritz Graf ’s methodological inspiration for the history of religions, the following paper addresses the question of the heuristic conceptualization of myth in terms of a particular historical problem, the persistence of Egyptian mythological details in Christian magical spells from the Christian and early Islamic periods.

1

2

Presented at the Coptic Magical Texts Seminar at the 9th International Coptic Congress, Cairo, Egypt 9/2008, thanks to travel funding from the University of New Hampshire Faculty Development Committee and Center for the Humanities. I am grateful to Terry Wilfong and Andromache Karanika for helpful suggestions. Graf (1993) 61.

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Coptic magical spells are fundamentally Christian – from the liturgicallyinspired language they use, to their pantheon of heavenly and demonic figures, to their liberal use of scripture and the cross to condense power into writing. It would be erroneous to imagine that our large corpus of Coptic magical texts represent some heathen substratum in Egyptian Christian society. Indeed, their language and sacred names reflect the writing cultures of monastery and church scribe, and they confirmed for clients the very world of angels and patriarchs, oil and crosses, that the Church sought to project in Egyptian society. And while the spells, constructed in dialogue with the local worlds of clients, suggest a far more complex – and far more active – cosmos than many church leaders sought to instruct as official Christianity, they certainly demonstrate a cultural landscape that was deeply engaged with Christianity, its powers, its beings, and its liturgical life3. It is in this regard that we must confront five Coptic magical texts that deploy stories of the ancient Egyptian gods Horus and Isis to resolve various crises in this world. All five are master spells: that is, they were composed to be read aloud or copied with the name of the client or patient inserted at points where the text has merely the Coptic letters Dina-dina. One spell (Schmidt 1) had been wrapped up in a small bundle, indicating that even such generic spells could be turned into amulets for individuals. Two of these texts, on parchment and apparently by the same hand, belong to the collection of Carl Schmidt (Schmidt 1 and 2) and were first published, with photographs, in the Kropp collection. Crum dates their scribal hand to the 7th century at the earliest4. The two from the Berlin papyrus collection were included by Kropp in translation and then reedited by Walter Beltz5. Their appearance on papyrus and the absence of Arabic names would put the Berlin texts in about the 7th or 8th centuries6. The fifth spell, from a handbook in the Michigan collection dated to the 6th century (Michigan ms. 136), invokes especially Isis and Amun7. The manuscripts are thus dated to a period when native religious cults had altogether declined, when Egyptian popular religion had become largely Christianized, and moreover when the 3 4 5 6 7

On this broad, multiform conception of Christianity see Flint (1991) and Gay (2004), esp. 43 f. Kropp (1930–1931) vol. 1, 11–14, pl. 1 (= ACM 48, 72). On the dating of the hands of Schmidt 1 & 2 see Crum (1931) x–xi. Berlin 5565, ed. Beltz (1983) 61–63 (= ACM 47); Berlin 8313, ed. Beltz (1983) 65–67 (= ACM 49). Erman (1895) 48. On paleography of magical texts: Crum (1931) ix–xii. Michigan ms. 136.5–7, ed. Worrell (1935) 17–37 (= ACM 43). Another spell from the Michigan collection, ms. 4932r, ed. Worrell (1935) 184–187 (= ACM 82), meant for erotic binding, has a very brief historiola: “Oil! Oil! Oil! Holy oil! Oil that flows from under the throne of Yao Sabaoth! Oil with which Isis anointed Osiris’s bone(s)!”

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incursion of Islam may have encouraged a reassertion of Christian ideology. Historians do not envision the era of these manuscripts as awash in persisting ‘paganism’. Indeed, despite their explicit and elaborate references to Isis and Horus, all five texts are so thoroughly Christian – from invoking Christ himself (Berlin 8313) to the apocryphal character Abimelech (Schmidt 1, Berlin 5565)8 – as to fit clearly in the Coptic magical tradition, that is, the corpus of magical handbooks and loose-leaf spells that drew upon the liturgical traditions and mythology of the Christian church.

I. Isis-Horus historiolae in classical spells The remarkable feature of the four main spells (from the Schmidt and Berlin collections), however, lies in the type of references they make to Horus and Isis. These are not grainy approximations of archaic names, buried in strings of voces magicae, but rather traditional historiolae of the divine mother and son (at one point accompanied by Nephthys) that bear a striking resemblance to Egyptian magical spells of the New Kingdom through Late Period – that is, from almost two millennia earlier. The anthology of Egyptian magical spells assembled by J. F. Borghouts offers a convenient gauge of just how common these Isis-Horus historiolae really were in Egyptian ritual texts, from the classical priestly grimoires like P. Leiden I.384 to healing stelae like the Metternich Stela of the Metropolitan Museum9. Most introduce Isis in a state of pitiful lamentation over Horus’s condition – gravely stricken from snake- or scorpion bite, or illness, or injury. A narrative description puts Horus in some intermediary place away from Isis: on a mountain, in a marsh, in the desert. Sometimes Horus himself describes his own suffering, and sometimes Isis’s lament is drawn out in discussion with her sister Nephthys10. 8 The biblical Abimelech appears in Gen. 20.26 only as the king of Gerar, who receives a corrective dream from God about the identity of his concubine. The Abimelech invoked here, from the text 4 Baruch (Paraleipomena Jeremiou; II CE), is “Abimelech the Ethiopian”, a character from ancient Jerusalem, for whose kindnesses to the prophet Jeremiah is allowed to sleep in the countryside for sixty-six years and thus avoid the city’s desecration and Babylonian exile (4 Bar 3.12–22; 5). See Kropp (1930–1931) vol. 3, 101 f. 4 Baruch: ed./tr. Kraft/Putnam (1972); tr. Robinson (1985). 4 Baruch was widely known and translated in eastern Christianity. 9 On healing stelae (cippi), see, on mythology, Moret (1915), Scott (1951), and Jelínková-Reymond (1956); and on the corpus, Kákosy (1987), Sternberg-El Hotabi (1999), and Gasse (2004). 10 Borghouts (1978) ## 7, 26, 34–36, 43–45, 49, 60, 63, 69, 83, 90–97. ## 90–97 come from the Metternich Stela alone, while ## 26, 36, 43, 45, 49, 60, and 63 come from P. Leiden I.348, ed. Borghouts (1971). Cf. also PDM xiv.594–609, 1219–1227.

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The narrative and dialogue culminate in Isis’s promise of a cure for Horus, which is then translated into practical ingredients and gestures in the coda to the spell. Thus through the very recitation of the story and, especially, the dialogue itself, magical powers embedded in the divine family’s resolution of crisis are channelled into this world11. Indeed, we might say that the two main features, both formally and effectively, in the Isis-Horus historiolae are (a) the description of lamentation, as a means of affirming the intensity of crisis, and (b) the dialogue of mother, son, and select others, as a means of revealing the actual words of the gods. For it is the words themselves that were supposed to carry efficacy, as one text declares: The words of Horus ward off death and they restore to life the one with an oppressed throat. […] The words of Horus extinguish the fire; his oral powers heal a poisonous disease. […] The magic of Horus wards off bows and makes arrows miss the mark. The magic of Horus dispels wrath in the heart and soothes […]. The magic of Horus cures one’s disease12.

II. The Coptic Isis-Horus spells The Coptic spells follow these features quite closely. Both Schmidt spells consist largely of dialogue: Hear Horus crying, hear Horus sighing: “I am troubled, melted (?) [ ]13 for seven maidens, from the third hour of the day until the fourth hour of the night. Not one of them sleeps, not one of them dozes.” Isis his mother replied to him within the temple of Habin with her face turned toward the seven maidens (and) seven maidens turned toward her face: “Horus, why are you crying. Horus, why are you sighing?” [And Horus responds,] “Do you wish that I do not cry, do you wish that I not sigh, […]?”14 I am NN [i. e., the client, identifying himself as Horus]. I entered through a door of stone, I exited through a door of iron. I entered with my head down, I exited with my feet down. I found seven maidens who were sitting upon a spring of water. I desired but did not desire. […] I cried, I sighed until the tears of my eyes covered the soles of (my) feet. Isis replied: “What is wrong with you, man, son of Re, who cries and sighs until the tears of your eyes cover the soles of your feet?” [Horus replies:] “Why, Isis, do you not want me to cry? I entered through a door of stone, I exited through a door of iron.” [etc.]15

11 On these verbal/narrative dynamics of spells see Frankfurter (1995), Bozóky (1992), and Olsan (2004). On historiolae in Egyptian spells specifically see Podemann Sørensen (1984) and now Mathieu (2008). 12 Borghouts (1978) # 103 = O. Strassburg H 111, ed. Spiegelberg (1922) 70 f. 13 Cf. line 12: ; from ? See Kropp (1930–1931) vol. 2, 4 n. 14 ACM 48 = Schmidt 1, tr. Kelsey in Meyer/Smith (1994) 94. 15 ACM 72 = Schmidt 2, tr. Kelsey in Meyer/Smith (1994) 152 f.

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The two Berlin spells likewise describe the distress of Horus and of Isis, amplified through depictions of distance (Horus “went upon a mountain,” Berlin 8313b) and through similarly repetitive dialogue or, in Berlin 5565, narrative in the form of declarations: Say [ ]: This is Isis, this is Nephthys, the two sisters, who are troubled within, who grieve within, who have wandered through heaven and earth, who are in the abyss. Say [ ]: Look, Horus the son of Isis was in distress. She is far from him […] , since she turned to the sun, (she) turned to the moon, to confine them (?) in the middle of heaven, to the Pleiades, in the middle of heaven. Isis and Nepthys are the two sisters who are troubled within, who grieve within, who are in the abyss16.

The Michigan spell is entirely in dialogue form: Amun, where are you going, the three of Isis? Today she is in labor, (for) four days of how many. […] It is decreed from the seals [ ] to give birth. Let it happen! You have not found me, you have not found my name, you have not found a little oil for disclosing. […] And you put it against her spine toward the bottom, and you say, “Girl! Girl over there, restore yourself, restore your womb, serve your (♀) child, give milk to Horus your son, through the power of the Lord God.”17

All five spells work freely and creatively within those two formal parameters of dialogue and the depiction of distress and distance, describing Horus as a bird-hunter (Berlin 8313b)18 and an unrequited suitor to “seven maidens , Schmidt 1; , Schmidt 2)”, which is a faint echo of the ( god’s seven scorpion-wives in classical Egyptian spells. Through this creative composition the spells mean to resolve verbally such ailments as sleeplessness, intestinal pain, and erotic longing19. Indeed, their creative scope extends to invocations of Jesus and references to Abimelech, angels, and demons. Thus, along with the names Horus, Isis, Nephthys, Amun, and Thoth and the ritual similarities in the use of dialogue and historiola to motivate magical resolution, we are confronted with a remarkable series of formal similarities across many centuries and the ascendance of a quite exclusivist religious institution. How do we make sense of these similarities? How could Isis and Horus traditions continue into so late a period of Egyptian history? And perhaps more importantly, what do we mean by their ‘continuity’, anyway?

16 ACM 47 = Berlin 5565, tr. Meyer in Meyer/Smith (1994) 93. 17 ACM 43 = Michigan 136, 5 f., tr. Skiles (adjusted) in Meyer/Smith (1994) 85 f. 18 See Kákosy (1961). On other features of the depiction of Horus here see Richter, T. S. (2002) 250–252. 19 Cf. PGM XX (= Suppl. Mag. 2.88). In general on the Seven Maidens see Ritner (1998). On another possible synthesis of such scorpion wives in Egyptian Christian narrative see Frankfurter (1990).

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III. Preliminary considerations: Authenticity Given the long scholarly pursuit of ‘pharaonic survivals’ in the study of Egyptian culture, as well as a ready market for evidence of such survivals, it is always worth interrogating the authenticity of materials like our Coptic spells that would appear to demonstrate the strength of the classical Egyptian past through Christian and Muslim times20. Do these spells indeed represent combinations of Egyptian mythology and Christianity in late antique Egypt? While there is no reason to believe they are forgeries21, might these appearances of Isis and Horus in 6th-/7th-century magical texts constitute an ‘invented tradition’ – the innovation of monastic scribes who were facing the Muslim conquest and trying to establish through literature a ‘Coptic authenticity’, linking their own religious realities to an Egyptian classicism? This seems to have been the case, for example, with medieval Coptic martyrologies, whose narrative reminiscences of Egyptian mythology had once been taken to demonstrate a timeless koptischer Konsens22. Far from representing a continuity of thought from traditional Egyptian religion, such texts were actually composed to create a new history for a struggling and politically anxious Christian community, linking places, heroes, and a revitalized Coptic language. Yet such broad ideological programmes are invisible in the Schmidt and Berlin spells, which are explicitly focused on remedies for concrete crises like sleeplessness rather than the construction of Christian identity. Furthermore, the language and the writing clearly belong to a period earlier than when the martyrologies were edited, the archaisms (like ‘Isis’) both inconsistently spelled and mixed with Greek words23. We seem, therefore, to be dealing with texts that emerged, somehow, from the same social and ritual context as the spells of the Pharaonic era and that must be understood in some kind of lineage with them: textual, institutional, oral-traditional, or professional. What, then, would be the media of transmission?

20 On the Egyptian market for survivals, including forged survivals, see Spanel (2001) and Török (2005) 24–31. 21 The Berlin spells (at least) were purchased in Cairo in 1887 and the Michigan handbook in Medinat al-Fayyum in early 1920s, well before a market for such scholarly fakes – and the studied imitation of the ancient hands – would have commenced. Erman (1895) 50, Worrell (1935) 17. 22 Papaconstantinou (2006). Cf. Baumeister (1972), Schenkel (1972). 23 On deliberate archaisms in Coptic magical texts see Crum (1931) ix. See also Bozóky (2003) 91–98.

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IV. Models for transmission and context In what way would Isis-Horus spells have been preserved? Four models present themselves for the perpetuation and relevance of these gods in narrative form in late antique Egypt. Scenario A: The spells were the institutional compositions of active Isis cults Were there still Isis cults in this period to ‘ground’ the spells in established rituals? Pharaonic-era spells themselves reflected temple environments – including either priestly healers or scribal collectors of folk remedies – and the overall manuals invariably referred to temple traditions about gods24. Even the Greek and Demotic magical papyri reflect priestly environments of the 2nd to 4th centuries CE – priestly environments we can also verify, albeit in diminishing state, from inscriptions, papyri, and literature25. However, there is no evidence for an Isis-Horus ‘cult’ at the time of the Coptic spells. Even the few indications of Isis cults that continue into the 5th century, as at Philae and Menouthis, most often refer to her in exalted – hardly familiar – terms like kyria 26. She gives oracles (Menouthis); she is visible in her processional image (Philae); but these peripheral ritual traditions do not suggest the kinds of scribal enterprises that historically would have been responsible for the composition of such spells27. There could be a link, in the sense that an existing cult of Isis might have inspired a monastic or freelance ritual expert to compose such spells; but without evidence of such a cult as late as the 7th century we cannot depend on this model to explain the spells’ existence. Scenario B: The spells were translated from classical handbooks A similarly difficult hypothesis would be the spells’ translation from ancient texts like those in the classical grimoires. The formal resemblances – dialogue, distress, divine names – are so close that this model has some appeal, and 24 See, e. g., Assmann (1997). 25 See Ritner (1995), and in general on priestly traditions in the Roman period, Frankfurter (1998) 198–256, and Dieleman (2005). 26 Philae: Richter, S. (2002) 133 f.; Menouthis: Zachariah of Mytilene, Vita Severi, Patrologia Orientalis 2.18–21. 27 Isis processions at Philae (early IV CE): Priscus, fr. 27, with Frankfurter (1998) 105 f., 155.

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in fact there are ancient Isis-Horus spells directed (e. g.) towards intestinal pain that could conceivably stand behind a spell like Berlin 8313b28. Yet it is entirely unclear who would have been able to read hieratic or hieroglyphic Egyptian as late as the 6th or 7th centuries. By the 4th century most usable magical texts (and certainly those from which many Coptic spells were translated) circulated in Greek; and across the great corpus of Greek magical papyri those spells that deploy Isis-Horus historiolae are notably rare29. The construction of the Greek magical handbook seems not to have involved healing spells, such as would have invoked these gods, so much as a preference for erotic and revelation spells30. For an era (VI/VII CE) of vastly diminished literacy in earlier Egyptian scripts, the hypothesis that the Michigan, Schmidt, and Berlin spells could have been copied from classical Egyptian texts like the Metternich stela, the Turin Papyrus, or Leiden 348 is therefore quite weak. Even the possibility that Old Coptic could have served as an intermediary stage between New Kingdom spells and Greek or Coptic readers of late antiquity now seems unlikely, as Old Coptic more often translated Greek31. Scenario C: The spells are the innovative compositions of ritual experts and the traditions they transmitted The Christian ritual expert in late antique Egypt exerted considerable creative agency in the composition of spells. This picture arises not only from the corpus of Coptic magical spells, their language and imagery, but also from ethnographic parallels with the Ethiopian dabtara, an ecclesiastical singer who also serves as exorcist, healer, and composer of spells32. That diverse corpus of Coptic handbooks, loose-leaf compendia, and amulets, much like the dabtaras’ own in Ethiopic, points to a sub-culture permeated with Christian apocryphal lore, angelological and demonological traditions, liturgical practices, scriptural acumen, and a profound sensibility for the powers in Christian names and speech. While archaeological provenances for some 28 Borghouts (1978) ## 26, 49 (from P. Leiden I.348). 29 Cf. Greek Isis-Horus spells in PGM XX (= Suppl. Mag. 2.88); XXXVI.141–144 (erotic spell); IV.2376. On the translation of Coptic spells from Greek see Richter, T. S. (2007) 263. 30 The London-Leiden Demotic papyrus (likely translated from Greek) does include some healing spells: PDM xiv.554–626. On the Hellenized, non-medical character of the PGM and PDM see Frankfurter (2000) 175–183, and Dieleman (2005). 31 The relevant example is the Isis historiola for erotic purposes in the IV CE Paris Magical Papyrus (PGM IV.94–153), on which see Satzinger (1994); on the Greek origin of this spell see ibid., 220. On the structure of the spell see Meyer (1985). 32 See Young (1975), Mercier (1979), and Shelemay (1992).

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Coptic magical texts suggest independent monastic experts, the texts – and the world of monks, anyway – reflect considerable exchange and communication among literate experts. Names, lists, ingredients, and spells would, as in the world of the dabtara, have circulated freely among these Christian ritual experts, regardless of occasional edicts against the shifting polemical categories for illegitimate ritual, magia and hik. At the same time, each ritual expert exercised creative agency in his capacity as copyist and collector and in his independent interactions with local clients33. The Christian ritual expert in late antique Egypt, like the dabtara and local representatives of institutional traditions in other historical periods, would compose according to certain traditional fields of verbal power: (i) the general efficacy of word, name, and authoritative command; (ii) the power of institutional language (Latin or Sanskrit in various places and times; biblical or biblical-sounding names); (iii) the power of ‘weird’ or exotic language (the voces magicae of ancient Greek magical texts, as well as names of alien gods); and (iv) the power of the archaic (historically outmoded speech, ancient gods’ names, or echoes of mythology). These verbal fields would be supplemented with writing, materials, and gestures that would reflect the same general sources of magical power. Oil, for example, would conjure institutional authority, while a dead lizard might invite associations with the exotic, the ambiguous, or the dangerous34. It is clear that transmission and performance of spells, even in cases of more literate, monastic ritual experts, would combine textual activities, like the reading and copying of spells or the inscribing of amulets, with oral activities, from the chanting of written spells to the recollection and oral variation of unwritten spells. Indeed, the tracing of individual spells in Europe over multiple manuscripts and many centuries has shown that transmission could often resemble the oral-formulaic composition of historical epics 35. Given that we cannot, ultimately, attribute the textual appearance of the Coptic Isis-Horus spells to literary transmission from ancient temple texts, they should probably be understood in this oral context, whence at some point they shifted to writing. But what kind of oral context did they come from, especially in a Christianized culture? Does the sub-culture of the Christian ritual expert, which certainly continued across generations, alone make a sufficient context to explain the spells’ oral transmission over time?

33 Frankfurter (1998) 257–263, Frankfurter (2001) 497–500, Frankfurter (2003). 34 On the representation of dangerous power in magical assemblage see Frankfurter (2006). 35 Halpern/Foley (1978) and Smallwood (2004).

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Scenario D: Folklore models for transmission and diversification of spells While we cannot deny the ultimate agency of the Christian ritual expert as bricoleur of spells in both oral and written modes, nevertheless spells that so notably diverge from the dominant religious system as these Coptic IsisHorus historiolae must have had a cultural life and transmission beyond the agency of the expert: that is, in folk tradition. But what should be meant by this category? The eclectic applications of Isis-Horus historiolae, both in the Coptic spells and the classical spells, are immediately noticeable: not to conjure theophanies or the gods’ aid but rather to heal burns and fever, intestinal pains, and scorpion stings, and to bring sleep and erotic fulfillment. In general these applications involve domestic contexts and immediate attention rather than the occasional ritual services of temple priests or Christian shrine attendants. In fact, we might venture that the recording of such spells in Egyptian texts – that is, of priestly provenance – and Coptic manuals alike constituted not a prescriptive extension of official cult traditions but rather a descriptive collecting from folk traditions (albeit edited to correspond to priestly or ecclesiastical tradition). The recitation of such stories of Isis and Horus would have been embedded in everyday life more than performed in temple processions36. We should thus imagine these ancient historiolae and their formal features of dialogue and the depiction of distress emerging in connection with critical moments in family life, much as other folk genres, like proverbs, blessings, and protective gestures, emerge according to specific domestic situations. Both their recollection and their variation would be tied to specific social crises 37. Their recitation might indeed have been the responsibility of local ritual experts – more likely ‘wise women’ than temple priests – who would have had the authority and creativity to compose new depictions of Horus’s crises and Isis’s distress according to situation; but as a folklore genre, these blessings would have been fundamentally the memory-store of all38. This model seems still to cover texts from the Greek and Demotic magical papyri (II–IV CE), which stand historically between the Coptic (Christian) spells and the Egyptian manuscripts. In these Greek and Demotic texts we find Isis-Horus historiolae directed to scorpion stings (PDM xiv.594–605) 36 Liturgical chants can themselves be adopted as folk songs: see Humphrey/Laidlaw (2007) 259 f. on Mongolian Buddhist traditions. 37 See esp. Karanika (2007). 38 On ‘wise women’ in NK Egypt, see Borghouts (1982) 25–27. In general on wise women and similar local ritual experts see Gordon (1999) 182 f., Frankfurter (2002), esp. 161–163, with bibliography.

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and fever (PDM xiv.1219–27; PGM XX.4–12). Of course, the folkloric context clearly covers their 6th/8th-century Coptic multiforms, the topic of this paper, which concern intestinal pain (Berlin 8313b), sleep (Schmidt 1; Berlin 5565), procreative fertility (Michigan 136), and erotic desire in a formulation somehow related to the sleep spells (Schmidt 2). The applications of the historiolae in the Coptic spells, that is, continue to be mundane, quite removed from the elaborate empowerment spells that also occupy the corpus of Coptic magical texts39. But what may be most significant for the reconstruction of performative context and transmission are the sleep spells, for their repetitive, even strophic structure (which Kropp highlighted in his Coptic edition of Schmidt 1) points us to the folklore genre of the lullaby. What do we know about lullabies? Deriving from intimately domestic, oral contexts, their efficacy comes first from their simple rhythmic, rhyming, and vocalic features, which for many cultures would be imbued with magical efficacy no less than any other crisis-averting, rhythmic charm40. But there are also thematic features typical to lullabies: images of gentle rocking, promises of gifts and happy destiny, but also abandonment, falling, and even babies’ death, reflecting the thin and perilous line traditional societies experience between infant sleep and infant death. And it is in the construction and transmission of these themes that myths about divine children and mothers could be maintained over many generations in lullaby form, linked to, yet basically independent of, existing cults to those divinities41. In her remarkable study of Baby and Child Heroes in Ancient Greece Corinne Pache relates a cluster of tragic narratives of murdered and lost children to certain regional cults in ancient Greece that specialized in maternal and infantile health and protection. The tragic narratives (often depicting deaths alongside – or at the hands of – the mother) functioned as myths sanctioning the protective powers of the cult. In one particular case, the myth of baby Opheltes, killed by a serpent, the main features of the narrative seem to have extended beyond iconography, dance, and poetry to folk lullabies that invoked Opheltes as the child who did not wake up42. In Pache’s analysis such folk genres functioned in dialectic with the historical cults that arose to address child-loss with ritual space and performance. The folk genres were not predicated upon the cults and may in some cases even have led to the cults’ establishment. And likewise in Egypt, I would propose, Isis-Horus historiolae did not migrate or degenerate from cultic recitative 39 Cf. ACM 113–120, 132–134. 40 Waern (1960); Del Giudice (1988). Cf. Karanika (2007) on the magical potential of any song embedded in action. 41 In general see Brakely (1949). Cf. Del Giudice (1988) 282 on images of Mary and infant Jesus as paradigms for the lullaby singer and real child. 42 Pache (2004) 95–134, esp. 107–111.

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to folk lullaby but, rather, had always been used as lullabies, just as they had sprung to people’s lips in cases of scorpion-stings, intestinal and head pains, and other bodily – especially children’s – ailments. These expressions of myth had always had a life outside the temples, embedded in people’s quotidian activities, informing their very experience of these crises. “Lullabies”, asserted the folklorist Theresa Brakely in 1949, “are perhaps the most likely to survive of any type of folk song, for as long as babies cry and the voice of the mother will quiet them, such tunes and words will be handed down or continue to come into being.”43 What then of the erotic application of the historiola in Schmidt 2? In fact, many lullabies do carry erotic elements, partly because the genre has often provided the singer with a venue for reverie, and partly because the lullaby and its imagery slip easily into love songs and laments44. So it may be that the very magic – the verbal efficacy – that had traditionally imbued Horus’s lament about the seven divine maidens’ indifference in its capacity as lullaby (Schmidt 1; Berlin 5565) was easily redirected to the overcoming of a real woman’s indifference. Thus an historiola commonly invoked for lullaby and healing could serve the erotic binding of a woman with minimal adjustment45.

V. Conclusions: The transmission and diversification of Isis-Horus historiolae The evidence of these texts and their milieu of transmission indicates that, from the beginning, the classical Isis-Horus spells from Egyptian papyri and stelae reflected the official mythology of the temple only partially. They are more properly regarded as assembled from certain basic features: the image of the lamenting, maternal Isis; the image of the suffering, abandoned Horus; and narration through dialogue, emphasizing the power in divinities’ spoken words. While temple craftsmen translated these features into efficacious visual formats, like the Horus cippi, these features amounted to folklore motifs of great flexibility and utility in a variety of oral genres (not just lullabies), depending as they did on projections of natural human empathy

43 Brakely (1949) 654. 44 See Del Giudice (1988) 279 f. 45 Schmidt 2 concludes with images of successful erotic binding analogized to the copulation of dogs and pigs, reflecting a broader verbal motif in classical and Coptic Egyptian erotic binding spells, the series of natural similes – to cows, horses, dogs, etc. – to construct verbal potency. Cf. Borghouts (1978) # 1; PGM XIV.1029–1034; ACM ## 73, 79, 167, with Frankfurter (2001) 480–497.

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and of the efficacy of everyday speech46. It is these very features that are still maintained in the few examples of the historiola in Demotic Egyptian and Greek from the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE. In one spell from the LondonLeiden Demotic magical papyrus the problem of headache is tackled with the same efficacious elements: Horus alone and suffering; dialogue as the unpacking of potency: Horus […] went up the mountain at midday during the season of inundation, mounted on a white horse […] on a black horse, the papyrus rolls […] being on (?) Him, those of the Great of Five in his breast. He found all the gods seated in the place of judgment, eating [of the produce] of the Nile, my great one. Said they, “Horus, come and eat! Horus, come! Are you going to eat?” He said, “Go away from me! I have no [way] to eat. My head hurts; my body hurts. A fever has taken hold of me; a south wind has seized me. Does Isis [stop] making magic? Does Nephthys stop curing?” […] until they remove the fever from the head of the son of Isis, from the head of NN, whom NN bore47.

The version in the Greek Philinna Papyrus has been rendered metrical and its explicitly Egyptian features rendered abstract (PGM XX.4–12 = Suppl. Mag. 2.88): [The most majestic goddess’ child] was set Aflame as an initiate – and on The highest mountain peak was set aflame – And fire did greedily gulp] seven springs Of wolves, seven of bears, seven of lions, But seven dark-eyed maidens with dark urns Drew water and becalmed the restless fire.

But as abstract as it appears in this Hellenized variation, the reference to the Isis-Horus tradition (child ‘burning’ on a mountain; seven maidens) would have been both clear and effective48. The cultural assimilation of Christianity during the 4th and 5th centuries would not, of course, have eliminated the use of such stories and charms in everyday culture, even if it brought new ones (and new media for healing, for example). Indeed, we might imagine that the persistence of Isis cults at Menouthis and Philae – and undoubtedly elsewhere – through the 5th century would itself have grounded or legitimized a larger, popular folklore of Isis, Horus, and other gods – a folklore that was embedded in domestic life through situations like healing and husbandry, and that was recalled situationally in songs and rhythmic charms like lullabies. 46 Compare the modern Egyptian Arabic love spell that invokes a vague narrative of a child’s abandonment and reuniting with its mother, discussed by Fodor (1992) – although Fodor’s link to Isis-Horus mythology is somewhat stretched. 47 PDM xiv.1219–1227, tr. J. Johnson in Betz (1986) 250 f. Cf. PDM xiv.594–605. 48 Koenen (1962); Ritner (1998). Cf. Faraone (1995).

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It is from this folklore that the Coptic spells must be drawn. Their intended functions certainly assume contexts of quotidian crisis: sleep, intestinal pain, and childbirth; and their formal features, especially dialogue, follow closely their classical prototypes. Indeed, in postulating the lullaby as the oral Vorlage to Schmidt 1, Berlin 5565, and Schmidt 2, we can appreciate the oral formulaic nature of their recitation in a particular situation. Michigan 136, too, invites a context of oral recitation, but in this case a different one: charm-songs pertaining to maternity and childbirth in one case (with Isis and Horus), and to the fertility of cattle in the other: Cow, cow of Amun, mother of the cattle, they have drawn near you. In the morning you must go forth to feed (them). They have drawn near you. In the evening you must come in to let them drink. […] Let every cow and every domestic animal receive its offspring. For Yao Sabaoth has spoken. Go north of Abydos, go south of Thinis, until you find these two brothers calling and running north, and you run after them, and they run south. Then say, Express the thoughts of your heart(s), that every domestic animal may receive its offspring!49

This unusual spell obviously circulated as a herding song or blessing before its collection and editing in a codex of Coptic spells. In this sense the Isis-Horus historiolae are not in any way ‘pagan survivals’ in the sense of official religious or cultic traditions that persist in spite of, or in ignorance of, Christian teaching. Rather, they reflect the embeddedness of mythic narrative in local, quotidian life, especially to resolve crises, from pain to fussy babies, through the magic of recitation. As the cattle-song above indicates, with its inclusion of “Yao Sabaoth” as divine speaker, all these popular songs gained Christianizing accretions through their centralization among ritual experts, then (and above all) with their writing and collection. The Michigan childbirth spell with Amun and Isis concludes: “give milk to Horus your son, through the power of the Lord God ].”50 Schmidt 1 and Berlin 5565 conclude with [ an apocryphal story of Abimelech’s long sleep; while Berlin 8313b improvises on the magical dialogue form to include a series of emissary daimones named Agrippas, concluding with the declaration, “The Lord Jesus is the one who grants healing [ ]”51. Berlin 8313a, which 49 Michigan 136.6, tr. Skiles (adjusted) in Meyer/Smith (1994) 86 f. 50 Michigan 136.6, ll. 83 f., ed. Worrell (1935) 21. 51 Berlin 8313v, l. 7, ed. Beltz (1983) 67. The spell’s depiction of Isis handling an oven draws on Roman-era alchemical lore: Richter, T. S. (2007).

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precedes the latter on the same papyrus, represents an altogether Christian historiola, telling of Jesus’s encounter with a doe52. Such stories were not the exclusive innovations of ritual experts but came about in the quotidian oral culture around the ritual expert. The creative hand of the ritual expert – monk, scribe, holy man – would thus lie most clearly in the addition of liturgical elements (as in Berlin 8313a) or other such Christian details that indicate his institutional affiliation, expertise, and interest in cosmic secrets and hierarchies. Yet, in the case of the more traditional historiolae, these additions do not so much render the spells ‘orthodox’ as compound their efficacy with new authoritative names and stories, even (in the case of Berlin 8313b) revitalizing the traditional stories with the addition of new characters drawn from the Christian pantheon of spirit-names rather than the replacement of Isis and Horus.

VI. Afterword: Myth in life The life-context of these spells before their transcription and editing, their larger evocation of archaic narratives inscribed on papyrus and stone in pharaonic Egypt, and yet their historical appearance long after the decline of Egyptian temples all bring us to the problem of myth as a descriptive category. Can these historiolae be considered myths, or mythic, or the derivation or recrudescence of myths? What is myth, then, that it can persist despite prevailing – and hostile – ideologies like Christianity? If myth, as scholars now regard it, signifies neither simple folktale nor libretto for ceremony, then how is it sustained in cultural memory over the longue durée – through what kinds of situations, social interactions, and gestures? And can we ever speak of a myth in its basic or original form? By not beginning this investigation with a reified ‘myth’ of Isis and Horus and instead focusing on verbal motifs and magical texts on their own terms, we have been able to move deductively into oral milieux and situations in which a type of story (or heroic characters) might come to mind and then be deployed as potent speech. Indeed, these would be situations characterized by the prominent use of charms and spells: healing and protection, crisis and desire. To the extent that ‘myth’ has relevance to this performative domain, it must be regarded as a heuristic category for the components of – in the words of Marcel Détienne – “the story transmitted by memory, a story whose narrative form was left to the discretion and talent of each

52 Jacques van der Vliet has shown me the unpublished text of P. Naqloun 78/93, in which the subject (“NN”) encounters first “Hot Wind” and then Jesus, who verbally resolves the crisis.

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narrator”, and not for some master narrative, some “contrived writing, which masks the incoherence of traditions sustained through memory by imparting a factitious order of mythographical classifications”53. Like the myths of murdered children that Corinne Pache has traced to maternal protection cults in ancient Greece but that were sustained in lullabies, tales, oblique dramatic references, and the very anxiety of mothers with their newborns, the Isis-Horus ‘myth’ lived in the domestic world and its story and charm traditions. In each case, ancient Greece and Egypt, the myth might, at some periods, coalesce in written form through institutional mediation, and might become the memory-specialty of some local ritual expert known for her potent speech. But it might likewise emerge as herding song, literary contrivance, or written love spell54. ‘Myth’ is thus properly used as an abstract category for the cultural ‘source’ that we hypothesize for similar materials in diverse folklore genres – the scholar’s explanatory convenience. It is a flexible framework for ad hoc narration, not an archetype. And it is in this abstract form that we can speak of myth living on beyond religious institutions and ritual centers, into new world-views, pantheons, and situations.

Bibliography ACM. – See Meyer/Smith (1994). Assmann (1997). – Jan Assmann, “Magic and Theology in Ancient Egypt”, in: Peter Schäfer/Hans G. Kippenberg (eds.), Envisioning Magic: A Princeton Seminar and Symposium, Numen Suppl. 75 (Leiden 1997) 1–18. Baumeister (1972). – Theofried Baumeister, Martyr Invictus: Der Märtyrer als Sinnbild der Erlösung in der Legende und im Kult der frühen koptischen Kirche, Forschungen zur Volkskunde 46 (Münster 1972). Beltz (1983). – Walter Beltz, “Die koptischen Zauberpapyri der Papyrus-Sammlung der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin”, Archiv für Papyrusforschung 29 (1983) 59–86. Betz (1986). – Hans Dieter Betz, The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation (Chicago/London 1986). Borghouts (1971). – Joris Frans Borghouts, The Magical Texts of Papyrus Leiden I 348, OMRO 51 (Leiden 1971). Borghouts (1978). – Joris Frans Borghouts, Ancient Eg yptian Magical Texts, Nisaba 9 (Leiden 1978) Borghouts (1982). – Joris Frans Borghouts, “Divine Intervention in Ancient Egypt and Its Manifestation (b3w)”, in: Robert Johannes Demarée/Jacobus Johannes Janssen (eds.), Gleanings from Deir El-Medina (Leiden 1982) 1–90.

53 Détienne (1991) 10. 54 These observations continue a line of thinking first laid out in Frankfurter (1995) 472–474.

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Bozóky (1992). – Edina Bozóky, “Mythic Mediation in Healing Incantations”, in: Sheila Campbell/Bert Hall/David Klausner (eds.), Health, Disease and Healing in Medieval Culture (New York 1992) 84–92. Bozóky (2003). – Edina Bozóky, Charmes et prières apotropaïques, Typologie des sources du moyen âge occidental 86 (Turnhout 2003). Brakely (1949). – Theresa C. Brakely, “Lullaby”, in: Maria Leach (ed.), Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mytholog y, and Legend (New York 1972 [1949]) 653 f. Crum (1931). – Walter Ewing Crum, “Foreword”, in: Kropp (1930–1931) vol. 1, ix–xii. Del Giudice (1988). – Luisa Del Giudice, “Ninna-nanna-nonsense? Fears, Dreams, and Falling in the Italian Lullaby”, Oral Tradition 3 (1988) 270–293. Détienne (1991). – Marcel Détienne, “Myth and Writing: The Mythographers”, in: Yves Bonnefoy/Wendy Doniger (eds.), Mythologies (Chicago/London 1991) vol. 1, 10 f. Dieleman (2005). – Jacco Dieleman, Priests, Tongues, and Rites: The London-Leiden Manuscripts and Translation in Eg yptian Ritual (100–300 CE), RGRW 153 (Leiden 2005). Erman (1895). – Adolf Erman, “Heidnisches bei den Kopten”, ZÄS 33 (1895) 47–51. Faraone (1995). – Christopher A. Faraone, “The Mystodokos and the Dark-Eyed Maidens: Multicultural Influences on a Late-Hellenistic Incantation”, in: Meyer/ Mirecki (1995) 297–333. Flint (1991). – Valerie I. J. Flint, The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe (Princeton 1991). Fodor (1992). – Sándor Fodor, “Traces of the Isis Cult in an Arabic Love Spell from Egypt”, in: Ulrich Luft (ed.), The Intellectual Heritage of Eg ypt: Studies Presented to László Kákosy, Studia Aegyptiaca 14 (Budapest 1992) 171–186. Frankfurter (1990). – David Frankfurter, “Tabitha in the Apocalypse of Elijah”, JTS 41 (1990) 13–25. Frankfurter (1995). – David Frankfurter, “Narrating Power: The Theory and Practice of the Magical Historiola in Ritual Spells”, in: Meyer/Mirecki (1995) 451–470. Frankfurter (1998). – David Frankfurter, Religion in Roman Eg ypt: Assimilation and Resistance (Princeton 1998). Frankfurter (2000). – David Frankfurter, “The Consequences of Hellenism in Late Antique Egypt”, ARG 2 (2000) 162–194. Frankfurter (2001). – David Frankfurter, “The Perils of Love: Magic and Counter-Magic in Coptic Egypt”, Journal of the History of Sexuality 10 (2001) 480–500. Frankfurter (2002). – David Frankfurter, “Dynamics of Ritual Expertise in Antiquity and Beyond: Towards a New Taxonomy of ‘Magicians’ ”, in: Mirecki/Meyer (2002) 159–178. Frankfurter (2003). – David Frankfurter, “Syncretism and the Holy Man in Late Antique Egypt”, Journal of Early Christian Studies 11 (2003) 339–385. Frankfurter (2006). – David Frankfurter, “Fetus Magic and Sorcery Fears in Roman Egypt”, GRBS 46 (2006) 37–62. Gasse (2004). – Annie Gasse, Les stèles d’Horus sur les crocodiles (Paris 2004). Gay (2004). – David Elton Gay, “On the Christianity of the Incantations”, in: Roper (2004) 32–46. Gordon (1999). – Richard Gordon, “Imagining Greek and Roman Magic”, in: Bengt Ankarloo/Stuart Clark (eds.), Witchcraft and Magic in Europe: Ancient Greece and Rome (Philadelphia 1999) 159–275. Graf (1993). – Fritz Graf, Greek Mytholog y: An Introduction, tr. Thomas Marier (Baltimore/London 1993).

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Halpern/Foley (1978). – Barbara Kerewsky Halpern/John Miles Foley, “The Power of the Word: Healing Charms as an Oral Genre”, Journal of American Folklore 91 (1978) 903–924. Humphrey/Laidlaw (2007). – Caroline Humphrey/James Laidlaw, “Sacrifice and Ritualization”, in: Evangelos Kyriakidis (ed.), The Archaeolog y of Ritual (Los Angeles 2007) 255–276. Jelínková-Reymond (1956). – Eva Jelínková-Reymond, Les inscriptions de la statue guérisseuse de Djed-Her-le-Sauveur (Cairo 1956). Kákosy (1961). – László Kákosy, “Remarks on the Interpretation of a Coptic Magical Text”, Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 13 (1961) 325–328. Kákosy (1987). – László Kákosy, “Some Problems of the Magical Healing Statues”, in: Alessandro Roccati/Alberto Siliotti (eds.), La magia in Egitto ai tempi dei Faraoni (Milano 1987) 171–186. Karanika (2007). – Andromache Karanika, “Folk Songs as Ritual Acts: The Case of Work-Songs”, in: Maryline Parca/Angeliki Tzanetou (eds.), Finding Persephone: Women’s Rituals in the Ancient Mediterranean (Bloomington 2007) 137–153. Koenen (1962). – Ludwig Koenen, “Der brennende Horosknabe: Zu einem Zauberspruche des Philinna-Papyrus”, Chronique d’Eg ypte 37 (1962) 167–174. Kraft/Putnam (1972). – Robert A. Kraft/Ann-Elizabeth Putnam, Paraleipomena Jeremiou (Missoula 1972). Kropp (1930–1931). – Angelicus M. Kropp, Ausgewählte koptische Zaubertexte, vol. 1–3 (Bruxelles 1930–1931). Mathieu (2008). – Bernard Mathieu, “Cuisine sans sel: Une interprétation de l’ostracon magique O. DeM 1640”, Göttinger Miszellen 218 (2008) 63–69. Mercier (1979). – Jacques Mercier, Ethiopian Magical Scrolls, tr. Richard Pevear (New York 1979). Meyer (1985). – Marvin W. Meyer, “The Love Spell of PGM IV.94–153: Introduction and Structure”, in: Tito Orlandi/Frederick Wisse (eds.), Acts of the Second International Congress of Coptic Study (Rome 1985) 193–201. Meyer/Mirecki (1995). – Marvin W. Meyer/Paul Mirecki (eds.), Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, RGRW 129 (Leiden 1995). Meyer/Smith (1994) – Marvin Meyer/Richard Smith (eds.), Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power (San Francisco 1994). Mirecki/Meyer (2002). – Paul Mirecki/Marvin Meyer (eds.), Magic and Ritual in the Ancient World, RGRW 141 (Leiden 2002). Moret (1915). – Alexandre Moret, “Horus sauveur”, RHR 72 (1915) 213–287. Olsan (2004). – Lea Olsan, “Charms in Medieval Memory”, in: Roper (2004) 59–88. Pache (2004). – Corinne Ondine Pache, Baby and Child Heroes in Ancient Greece (Urbana/ Chicago 2004). Papaconstantinou (2006). – Arietta Papaconstantinou, “Historiography, Hagiography, and the Making of the Coptic ‘Church of the Martyrs’ in Early Islamic Egypt”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 60 (2006) 65–86. PDM. – Papyri Demoticae Magicae, in: Betz (1986). Podemann Sørensen (1984). – Jørgen Podemann Sørensen, “The Argument in Ancient Egyptian Magical Formulae”, Acta Orientalia 45 (1984) 5–19. Richter, S. (2002). – Siegfried G. Richter, Studien zur Christianisierung Nubiens (Wiesbaden 2002). Richter, T. S. (2002). – Tonio Sebastian Richter, “Miscellanea Magica”, JEA 88 (2002) 247–252.

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Richter, T. S. (2007). – Tonio Sebastian Richter, “Miscellanea Magica III”, JEA 93 (2007) 259–263. Ritner (1995). – Robert K. Ritner, “Egyptian Magical Practice under the Roman Empire: The Demotic Spells and Their Religious Context”, in: ANRW 2.18.5 (1995) 3333–3379. Ritner (1998). – Robert K. Ritner, “The Wives of Horus and the Philinna Papyrus (PGM XX)”, in: Willy Clarysse/Antoon Schoors/Harco Willems (eds.), Eg yptian Religion: The Last Thousand Years, OLA 85 (Leuven 1998) 1027–1041. Robinson (1985). – Stephen Edward Robinson, “4 Baruch”, in: James H. Charlesworth (ed.), Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (Garden City 1985) vol. 2, 413–425. Roper (2004). – Jonathan Roper (ed.), Charms and Charming in Europe (New York 2004). Satzinger (1994). – Helmut Satzinger, “An Old Coptic Text Reconsidered: PGM 94 ff ”, in: S. Giversen/M. Krause/P. Nagel (eds.), Coptolog y: Past, Present, and Future. Studies in Honour of Rodolphe Kasser, OLA 61 (Leuven 1994) 213–224. Schenkel 1977. – Wolfgang Schenkel, Kultmythos und Märtyrerlegende: Zur Kontinuität des äg yptischen Denkens, Göttinger Orientforschung 5 (Wiesbaden 1977). Shelemay (1992). – Kay Kaufman Shelemay, “The Musician and Transmission of Religious Tradition: The Multiple Roles of the Ethiopian Dabtara”, Journal of Religion in Africa 22 (1992) 242–260. Smallwood (2004). – T. M. Smallwood, “The Transmission of Charms in English, Medieval and Modern”, in: Roper (2004) 11–31. Spanel (2001). – Donald Spanel, “Two Groups of ‘Coptic’ Sculpture and Relief in the Brooklyn Museum of Art”, Journal of the American Research Center in Eg ypt 38 (2001) 89–113. Spiegelberg (1922). – Wilhelm Spiegelberg, “Horus als Arzt”, ZÄS 57 (1922) 70 f. Sternberg-El Hotabi (1999). – Heike Sternberg-El Hotabi, Untersuchungen zur Überlieferungsgeschichte der Horusstelen, vol. 1–2, Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 62 (Wiesbaden 1999). Suppl. Mag. – Robert W. Daniel/Franco Maltomini, Supplementum Magicum, vol. 1–2, Papyrologica Coloniensia 16.1–2 (Opladen 1990/1991). Török (2005). – László Török, Transfigurations of Hellenism: Aspects of Late Antique Art in Eg ypt, AD 250–700, Probleme der Ägyptologie 23 (Leiden 2005). Waern (1960). – Ingrid Waern, “Greek Lullabies”, Eranos 58 (1960) 1–8. Worrell (1935). – William Hoyt Worrell, “Coptic Magical and Medical Texts”, Orientalia 4 (1935) 1–37, 184–194. Young (1975). – Allan Young, “Magic as a ‘Quasi-Profession’: The Organization of Magic and Magical Healing Among Amhara”, Ethnolog y 14 (1975) 245–265.

Orte

Gentrifying Genealogy: On the Genesis of the Athenian Autochthony Myth josine h. blok

By the ancient myth of autochthony, we mean the belief current among numerous Greek and non-Greek peoples that they were autochthones: that they were the first humans to inhabit their part of the earth and that they had lived there ever since. As a statement about the past, this belief served first and foremost to substantiate social or political interests in the present. At Athens, the meaning of being autochthôn changed over time; in this process, voices of different groups who had a stake in the myth can be discerned. New light is shed on the development of the myth of Athenian autochthony by the connection between mythical identity and public cults. It is a great pleasure to present this essay with warm congratulations to Fritz Graf, whose work on Greek myth and religion has been a source of inspiration for so many years.

What does autochthôn mean? The first extant instances of the lexeme αὐτόχθων applied to peoples occur in Herodotus’ historical-ethnographical writings1. Seven peoples inhabit the Peloponnese, he informs us, two of whom, the Arcadians and the Cynourii, are autochthones, still living where they lived as of old. The Cynourii are the only ones to consider themselves Ionians (Hdt. 8.73). Of the peoples in Libya two are autochthones, the Libyans and the Aethiopians, whereas the Phoenicians and Greeks are immigrants (Hdt. 4.197.7). Libya itself is named after Libya, who was an autochthôn woman according to many Greeks, whereas Asia is named after Prometheus’ wife (Hdt. 4.45.12). In Ionia, the 1

In what follows, I will transliterate autochthôn without translating it, also in quotes of translations by others who render it as “born from the earth”; spelling of Greek names observes familiarity rather than consistency. Stephen Lambert kindly read the draft of this article critically.

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Carians are autochthones, as they have never migrated (Hdt. 1.171), and the same holds for the Caunians in Crete (Hdt. 1.171) and the Boudini in Scythia (Hdt. 4.109). Thucydides tells the same about the Sicani, autochthones in Sicily (Hdt. 6.2.3)2. By labelling a group or an individual autochthones, both authors clearly mean that they were the first human beings to inhabit that spot of the earth, had never migrated and had always lived there3. The opposite of αὐτόχθονες are ἐπήλυδες, immigrants, who have come from elsewhere to settle. Indicating the background of the inhabitants of a place, autochthon versus migrant are descriptive labels used frequently by a range of ancient authors of the classical era for a variety of peoples4. When a people declared themselves to be autochthones, this implied that a core of the population had remained the same over time and was now represented by its living members, who could assert their autochthôn identity and uphold any interests based on this view of the past. The compound autochthôn consists of the noun χθών (earth), which has a poetic ring, with the prefix αὐτο- (‘same, self ’), a combination with a range of potential meanings. In his analysis of this combination, Vincent Rosivach prefers αὐτο- in the sense of “having the same … as another”, and hence autochthôn to mean “always having the same land”, implying common territorial origins fostering equality as a democratic value5. No traces of such equality are found in texts about other autochthôn peoples, however; the Thebans, for instance, had a longstanding tradition of oligarchies. Professing origins harking back to the earliest times and exclusion of later arrivals from the original core group, autochthony is rather a quality of the happy few6. When the autochthones, be they a small or a larger group, claim to be ipso facto 2 3 4

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Similarly, Diod. 5.6.1 (after Timaeus); I could not consult Morales (2004). Cf. Harpocr., Suda s. v. αὐτόχθονες. Hellanicus of Lesbos FGrH 4 F 161 = Harpocr. Suda s. v. αὐτόχθονες = Hellanicus FGrH 323a F 27: autochthôn peoples are the Athenians, Arcadians, Aeginetai, and Thebans. Scylax (ed. GGM, Müller) 47: “some peoples on Crete came from other parts of Hellas, but some were autochthones”; 103: on Cyprus a. o. the Amathes are autochthones. Ephorus FGrH 70 F 18c: Arcadians; F 31b: Parnasians on the Parnassos; F 145: Crete was named after Cretes, who being autochthôn was the king. Andron of Halicarnassus FGrH 10 F 16a = Strab. 10.4.6: On Crete the Eteocretai and the Cydones are autochthones, the others migrants (ἐπήλυδες) from Thessalia. Cf. Hall (1997) 19–33, on ethnic identity created in opposition to other ethnic identities. On ‘born from the earth’, a 4th-century expansion of the meaning of autochthôn, see below; cf. Rosivach (1987) 298–301; Hall (1997) 54. On Athenian autochthony as foundation of democratic equality supported by the Cleisthenic phylai, Montanari (1981); but on inequality in the phylai, see below. Loraux (1986; 1993; 2000) notices the “aristocratic” values of autochthony but supposes that democracy hides these values; Thomas (1989) 213–221, rightly points out (n. 67) that this aristocratic vocabulary is applied to democracy. Thomas (1989) 213–221.

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equals, this imagined equality can hide internal differences, as Nicole Loraux has eloquently argued7. If the epithet evokes a sense of equal sharing in its 4th-century uses8, the first extant occurrence of αὐτόχθων in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon of 458 suggests a different meaning. When the prefix αὐτο- refers to a thing that is a natural extension of something else or to the closeness of two elements9, the epithet evokes an idea of immutability, of being rooted in the earth. In this sense Aeschylus used it in what may be its original coinage, considering the playwright’s well-known propensity for new, expressive adjectives. In the opening scene of the play, the herald describes the ruin brought by Paris upon his own city: πανώλεθρον αὐτόχθονον πατρῷον ἔθρισεν δόμον; “Cast in a suit for rapine and for theft as well, he has lost the plunder and has razed in utter destruction his father’s house and the very place thereof ”, as H. W. Smyth translates the passage10. The adjective patrôios does not merely refer to one’s father, however, but rather to one’s fathers, that is the ancestral tradition and heritage passed down over many generations. Autochthôn here evokes the foundations of Troy, built by the gods on the very spot that Paris should have respected and protected. In sum, the prevalent meaning of αὐτόχθων captures existence on this location from the very beginning. Once the word had been created, it could be applied in other contexts, such as to peoples’ origins, as Herodotus and Thucydides were soon to do. Being the first is not only descriptive, but can also convey particular values. In ancient Greece, the first person to do something or to be somewhere (archêgetês) was considered to have infused his presence into the place or action, making it his own and thus a thing to be transmitted to his descendants. When conceived as such a first event, the past was not merely what had happened (long) before, but first and foremost a prefiguration of the present. Claims in the present would carry more weight if one could prove to be the legitimate descendant and heir of the first person to have this privilege. Stories about autochthony and other myths about origins thus 7 See above, n. 5. 8 Noticed e. g. in Lexici Seguiriani Synagoge (Lexica Graeca Minora, ed. K. Latte/H. Erbse, Hildesheim 1965) s. v. αυτόχθων: τῆς αὐτῆς πόλεως. 9 Rosivach (1987) 299: section C: Hes. op. 433: <ἄροτρον> αὐτόγυον ‘with a natural γύης branching from the stock’; Aesch. Choeph. 163: βέλη αὐτόκωπα ‘weapons with their own handles’; D: family relations, αὐτοκασίγνητος ‘one’s very own brother/ sister’. 10 Aesch. Ag. 536 (transl. H. W. Smyth, Loeb). This case would meet Rosivach’s expectation (1987) 299: “it seems probable that the source of the word was Attic, and one might hazard a guess that it was Attic drama which was responsible for its popularization.” Hesiod calling Pelasgos αὐτόχθων (Hes. fr. 110 Most = 160 MW) is not a quote but a paraphrase in Apollod. 2.1.1 and 3.8.1, hence not an earlier occurrence.

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can be understood as belonging to the wider category of myths of descent and mythical genealogy, featuring peoples, families and individuals as representatives of social and cultural identities that mattered to the narrator’s time and place. Jonathan Hall has convincingly argued that the main interest of these stories was the creation of an ethnic identity that suited the needs of the present, particularly claims to territory and citizenship11. In such a context, the label autochthôn was not so much a historical-ethnographical description, but rather a political value-term, evoking the (mythical) past as a justified cause of contemporary ambitions. Autochthony therefore was a suitable theme in political and epideictic oratory, as Aristotle observed in the Rhetoric: “Noble birth (eugeneia), in the case of a nation or a state, means that its members or inhabitants are autochthones or of long standing; that its first members were famous as leaders.”12 The first case of such a political use is to be found again in Herodotus. Before the battle of Salamis, he tells us, the Greeks quarrelled about who among them were most entitled to leadership of the navy. The Athenians claimed pride of place, saying (Hdt. 7.161): “we are the oldest people, as we are the only ones of the Greeks who never migrated.”13 Herodotus does not use the word autochthones here but clearly does mean it. The argument of the Athenians would be especially effective against their chief competitors, the Syracusans, descendants of colonists and hence migrants into the region they now inhabited. The direct speech of the Athenians in this passage points to the author of the Histories as the origin of these words14, suggesting that the idea of the Athenians’ identity as autochthones was current in the 430s. This date is confirmed by two passages in Thucydides. Describing the early history of Greece, Thucydides states that Attica had known few migrations due to the poverty of the soil (Thuc. 1.2.5 f.)15. As a result – in the words Thucydides attributes to Pericles in the Funeral Oration (Thuc. 2.36.1) – the Athenians lived in Attica from the earliest times and consequently grew

11 Hall (1997); also Kühr (2006) 15–52; on the sown men, 109–113. 12 Aristot. rhet. 1.5.5; 1360b30–3 (trans. J. H. Freese, Loeb). 13 Hdt. 7.161: ἀρχαιότατον μὲν ἔθνος παρεχόμενοι, μοῦνοι δὲ ἐόντες οὐ μετανάσται Ἑλλήνων. 14 De Bakker (2007). 15 Thuc. 1.2.5 f: “Attica […] was free from internal quarrels from the earliest times by reason of the thinness of its soil, and therefore was inhabited by the same people always (ἄνθρωποι ᾤκουν οἱ αὐτοὶ αἰεί). […] it was owing to these migrations (elsewhere) that the other parts of Hellas did not increase in the same way as Attica; for the most influential men of the other parts of Hellas, when they were driven out of their own countries by war or sedition, resorted to Athens as being a firmly settled community, and, becoming citizens, from the earliest times made the city still greater.” (transl. C. F. Smith, Loeb).

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strong16. It is remarkable that both historians apply the word autochthôn to other peoples but not to the Athenians17, yet conveying the very message the word carries. A possible reason for this avoidance will discussed later on. Beside the implicit reference in Pericles’ epitaphios, the 5th century offers no extant instances of epideictic oratory drawing on the theme of autochthony18. Pericles too, in Thucydides’ account, did not build his evocation of Athens’ value on its mythical origins, but on its civic virtue. In the second half of the 5th century, however, orators presumably drew on the theme frequently, giving the artificial word autochthôn a wider currency. This can be inferred from its frequent use by Herodotus – emphatically not applied to Athenians – and especially from the way in which Aristophanes holds up a distorting mirror of the Athenians’ being autochthones, for instance in Wasps of 422: (Chorus leader:) Spectators, if any of you has noticed our appearance and sees our wasp waists, and wonders what’s the point of our stingers, I can easily edify him, ‘be he ever so unversed before’. We who sport this kind of rump are the only truly indigenous native Athenians, a most virile breed (Ἀττικοὶ μόνοι δικαίως ἐγγενεῖς αὐτόχθονες, ἀνδρικώτατον γένος) and one that very substantially aided this city in battle (= Salamis)19.

The passage seems to reflect appeals to courage due to autochthony in a comic mode, as does a comparable scene in Lysistrata (411)20. The evocation of ‘aristocratic’ qualities inherent in autochthony was now applied to all citizens, obliging them to aretê and andreia 21. In the 4th century, Athenian orators frequently drew on Athens’ autochthony as a source of civic virtue to live up to. Xenophon, however, did not think it inappropriate to have the Arcadians, equally famous for being autochthones, voice exactly the same feelings as were common in Athenian rhetoric, lifting the spirits among them in a situation of distress in 363: 16 Thuc. 2.36.1: “For this land of ours, in which the same people never ceased to dwell (αἰεὶ οἰκοῦντες) in an unbroken line of successive generations, they (the ancestors) by their valour transmitted to our times a free state.” (transl. C. F. Smith, Loeb). 17 Except Hdt. 9.73.11 on an individual: Titacus, an autochthon inhabitant of Aphidna, who informed the Dioskouri where Theseus and Peirithous had hidden Helena; compare Photius s. v. ἀμήτορος: “Aphidnos, son of Earth who has no mother”, rendering the autochthôn as earthborn. 18 Pace Loraux (1986) and Detienne (2001/2002), who unfoundedly assume that all epitaphioi of the 5th century treated the same themes as some of the 4th century did, and in the same way, taking autochthôn always to mean ‘earthborn’ (see also below). 19 Aristoph. Vesp. 1071–1078 (transl. J. Henderson, Loeb). 20 Aristoph. Lys. 1082–1084 (transl. J. Henderson, Loeb) where the Athenians can no longer conceal their sexual desire: “Look, now I see these native sons (τούσδε τοὺς αὐτόχθονας) holding their cloaks away from their bellies too, like men wrestling!” 21 See also Loraux, above n. 5 and 7.

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Now, however, there appeared a certain Lycomedes of Mantinea, a man inferior to none in birth, foremost in wealth, and ambitious besides, and filled the Arcadians with self-confidence, saying that it was to them alone that Peloponnesus was a fatherland, since they were the only autochthonous stock that dwelt therein, and that the Arcadian people was the most numerous of all the Greek peoples22.

Clearly, Xenophon did not expect his readers to see anything incongruent in several Greek peoples claiming that they alone of all the neighbouring Greeks were autochthones. The evidence so far suggests that autochthony myths were invoked in oratory to sustain an identity which was politically meaningful to one’s own community first of all, but also suitable to impress the outside world.

Autochthony and descent The grammarian Apollodorus of Athens (2nd century BC) thought the Athenians were called autochthones because they were the first to work the land (χθών), that is the earth (γῆ), when it was empty23. Usually, however, the fact of autochthony is not explained: it just exists to explain something else24. Archaic and classical sources reflect an abundance of stories of descent as components of social identity. The focus of such stories is firmly on heroes, heroines and royal families, with a people joining them somehow at some point, and the order in which the protagonists appear in mythical chronology clearly suits the aspirations of the present25. In genealogical myths, all connections are represented as kinship relations: descent from parents means inheriting their material property (land) and immaterial qualities (being, character, skills, knowledge). Siblings share this inheritance equally, each acquiring the part (klêros) he or she is destined to have26. This idea of inheritance is essential: physical descent from the parents/predecessor is the prevalent mode in mythical stories, but not indispensable. Vocabulary of descent also captured relationships maintained over time in cases in which the ‘heirs’ had a common stake in privileges or property devolved upon them from an archetypal predecessor who was not considered a literal (physical) ancestor. 22 Xen. Hell. 7.1.23 (transl. C. L. Brownson, Loeb); cf. Demosth. or. 19.261 (343): “[the Arcadians] who ought to pride themselves as highly as you upon their independence – for you and they are the only autochthôn peoples in Greece”. 23 Apollodoros (FGrH 244 F 106) Peri Theôn; Harpocr. s. v. αὐτόχθονες. 24 Harpocr. s. v. αὐτόχθονες continues: “but others say that they were not immigrants”; this is a tautology. 25 On descent stories of Greek peoples, Hall (1997); of aristocratic families in Athens, Thomas (1989). 26 On Greek inheritance patterns, Patterson (1998), Cox (1998); reflected in myth Berman (2007) 128–133; in genealogical myths Thomas (1989) 173–195; claims to land in genealogical myths, Malkin (1994).

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Genos and its cognates included a wide range of meanings, expressing one’s belonging to a group and claims to inheritance as part of one’s identity, in which the implication of physical descent is essentially ambiguous27. A good example of this vocabulary of descent, that I label ‘metaphorical’, are the Homeridai who perpetuated Homer’s poetic legacy without claiming to be his physical descendants. In the narrative process of identity formation, genealogical myths show the role of autochthones – whether called so or not – as the founders of the present stakeholders in an inheritance representing claims to territory and excellence. Autochthôn was not the same as born from the earth (γηγενής or χθόνιος)28. To have one’s origins in the earth was not an unambiguous asset, as exemplified by numerous unattractive creatures that emerged in this way: the Gigantes who were justly destroyed by Olympian Zeus29, or the warriors springing from the earth after Kadmos had sown dragon’s teeth, who had to be killed before Thebes could be founded in earnest30. Some earthborn creatures fulfil a more positive role, however. Many myths of origins of Greek ethnê begin with a figure who made the earth or river from which she had sprung inhabitable for humans; if this figure is male, females arrive on the scene to guarantee offspring31. After this earthborn or river-born beginning, a change in characters is needed to prepare the settlement of a coherent human population with a socio-cultural identity and/or the foundation of a city. This stage can take the shape of a rupture, for instance the arrival of a culture-hero from elsewhere to found a city32. A more gradual transformation takes place when the earthborn creates offspring with a human who just happens to be there. Many stories simply take the existence of humans at some early point in time for granted, humans who could well come to be called autochthôn, as they were indeed the very first 27 See clearly and concisely Patterson (1998) 48–50, 87. 28 See also Rosivach (1987) 296. 29 Hes. theog. 697: Τιτῆνας χθονίους; metaphorical use: Aristoph. Ran. 825: γηγενεῖ φυσήματι (“with his gigantic blast”); comic reversal: Aristoph. Av. 824: “It is the Plain of Phlegra, where the Gods outshot the Earthborn (τοὺς γηγενεῖς) at bragging!” 30 Eur. Bacch. 538–541 χθόνιος; 264 γηγενής; cf. Pherecydes FGrH 3 F 22a–b. Invective use: Aristoph. Nub. 853 (423): “Is this the kind of ingenuity you’ve learned in your recent sojourn παρὰ τοὺς γηγενεῖς = with that scum of the earth?” (transl. J. Henderson, Loeb). 31 Paus. 3.1.1: Lelex, earthborn first king of Laconia; Paus. 7.2.5: Anax, earthborn king of Miletus; Paus. 8.1.4 quoting archaic poet Asios: Pelasgos, earthborn first inhabitant of Arcadia; on the distinction created between Arcadians and other Greeks in archaic and classical myths, Nielsen (2002) 6–72. Rivers, like earth, source of life: Parker (2005) 430. 32 On such stories, Blok (1996) 86–90 with bibl.; Hall (1997) 55; Malkin (1994) 98–111.

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to inhabit the area. A crucial role falls to the women (daughters of kings) who become the mothers of children of (semi-)divine fathers33 or fulfil the role of the uxorilocal princess around whose hearth the newly-created kingdom can develop34. Embodying the human family representing human society, these women form an indispensable link between (semi-)divine and human existence. In Attica, for instance, according to some accounts, the first earthborn was Ogygos, after him came a deluge, then an autochthôn Actaios, whose daughter Agraulos married the (second) earthborn Cecrops, who was succeeded by their son, the autochthôn Cranaos – here, another deluge is occasionally inserted – and finally Erichthonios, another earthborn, appeared; after him, the inhabitants are all humans and so are their kings35. The repeating sequence is obviously the result of fitting various accounts into one, comprehensive genealogy36. Likewise, the ‘first’ and ‘very first’ human kings of Athens could swap places and even multiply37. The Argive genealogies show a similar expansion in later generations and fewer earthborn figures at the beginning: Phoroneus, the first human, was the son of Inachos, a river who was the son of Oceanos and Thetys, and (a princess?) Melia38. All genealogies next feature Phoroneus’ daughter Niobe, who had a son, Argos, with Zeus; some add autochthôn Pelasgos as a second son39. Aeschylus added another gêgenês, Palaichthôn (= ‘ancient land’), as a forebear of Pelasgos into Argive genealogy40. In sum, genealogical myths often postulate earthborn beginnings and autochthôn humans side by side or the one following the other, with or without (kin)relations between them, until at some point the lines may – but do not necessarily – merge. In Athenian genealogical myths, the heros Erechtheus played a prominent role, but neither his earthborn beginnings nor his relations with human 33 See e. g. the 6th-century Catalogue of women (Ps.-Hesiod) and the overviews in prose made by Hecataeus of Miletus (FGrH 1 F 13–35); compare Creousa, below. Similar roles of local nymphs/princesses in founding stories of apoikiai, hiding the violence of settlement, Dougherty (1993). 34 Hall (1997) 89 for cases of uxorilocality in Argive myths; compare Praxithea, below. 35 Hellanicus of Lesbos FGrH 323a F 10; Philochoros FGrH 328 F 92 (Ogygos an autochthôn); Apollod. 3.14. 36 Duplication is often the result of turning oral accounts into written overviews; cf. Henige (1974). 37 Cf. Parker (1987). 38 See Acusilaos of Argos FGrH 2 F 23a–b; 25a–b; on the Argive genealogies, Hall (1997) 67–107, showing five different genealogies with varying positions of Phoroneus in the stemma; the stemmata (81–85) quadruple in size. 39 Hes. fr. 110 Most (= 160 MW). 40 Aesch. Suppl. 250 f. (ca. 463): Pelasgos: “I am Pelasgos, offspring of Palaichthon whom the earth brought forth (τοῦ γηγενοῦς), the archêgetês of this land.”

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society are clear or consistent 41. The Catalogue in the Iliad 2.546–548 mentions “the men who held Athens, the strong-founded citadel, the demos of great-hearted Erechtheus, whom once Athena tended after the grain-giving fields had born him, and established him to be in Athens in her own rich temple”42. The passage testifies to the strong bond between Erechtheus, here as an earth-born creature, Athena and the people of Athens. Herodotus, too, knew Erechtheus to be gêgenês (Hdt. 8.55), perhaps echoing the Iliad, where also his cult on the Akropolis with an annual sacrifice is mentioned43. The Odyssey (Hom. Od. 7.81) portrays Athena going to Athens and entering the house of Erechtheus, a scene evoking Erechtheus in his role of king-hero, who became popular in Athenian drama and visual arts of the 5th century. Several figures of this mythological complex were depicted in Athenian art since the early 6th century, such as a black-figure fragment of the 580s showing Cecrops with his daughters and vase scenes with Aglauros, Herse and Pandrosos, his daughters to whom Athena had entrusted the care of baby Erichthonios, on their own44. Erechtheus is represented perhaps for the first time ca. 510–500 in black-figure scenes, as the founder of the chariot-races in the Panathenaia45. Founding the festival itself was later attributed to Erichthonios, who at some point emerged as Erechtheus’ earthborn alter ego 46. In visual art, birth from the earth is typical of the child Erichthonios, whereas Erechtheus figures as an adult king, once present at Erichthonios’ birth, elsewhere among the hero-kings of Athens or as a father witnessing the abduction of his daughters47. Scenes with the birth of Erichthonios are certainly identified from around 500–480 in black-figure and 470–460 in red-figure 41 Kron (1976) 32–39; Miller (1983); Parker (1987); Rosivach (1987); Kearns (1989) 110–133, 160. 42 Transl. R. Lattimore, slightly modified; 6th-century interpolation of the lines into the Homeric text possible but not plausible considering the antiquity of his cult on the Akropolis, Kron (1976) 32–37, Kearns (1989) 110–115. 43 Hom. Il. 2.550 f.: of bulls and rams; IG II² 1357 = Sacrificial Calendar of Athens, face A, l. 3 (Lambert (2002): a lamb; cf. Kron (1976) 40–55. 44 Kron (1981) no. 1; 4. Shapiro (1998), fig. 1 Athens, Nat. Museum, Akropolis 585a. 45 Evidence Kron (1976) 74–77; in art Kron (1988) no. 49 f. 46 Founding of Panathenaia: Kearns (1989) 161; earliest attested stories about Erichthonios as son of Hephaistos and Earth in Pindar and an epic Danaïs: Hellanicus FGrH 323a F 27 = Harpocr. s. v. αὐτόχθονες. Hephaistos’ pursuit of Athena is attested ca. 460 on a red-figure amphora: Shapiro (1998) 138, fig. 7, n. 53. 47 Kron (1988) no. 1 (abf); 3, 4 (arf); no. 7 (ca. 440–430) Erechtheus witnessing Erichthonios’ birth, inscription a. o. ΕΡΙΧΘΟΝΙΟΣ; ΕΡΕΧΘΕΥΣ; no. 9a (third quarter 5th century) ΕΡΥΧΘ[ΟΝΙΟΣ]. Erechtheus among hero-kings and phyle-heroes: no. 78–80; Erechtheus as father of daughters: no. 55 f., 58–62, e. g. of Oreithyia, abducted by Boreas; by the time of Phanodemos FGrH 325 F 4 (Phot., Suda s. v. Παρθένοι) his daughters are six in number. Shapiro (1998) 133 on the representation of Erichthonios as a child; on his cult, Baudy (1992).

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vase paintings, showing Athena, Hephaistos, Cecrops (often with a snakeshaped body) and Gê in various combinations. His name is also attested in the late 5th century as Erychthonios, with the stem ἐρύομαι meaning “the one who protects the land” reminiscent of his kinsman Erysichthôn48. Such visual representations cannot be read unambiguously as allusions to the autochthony of all Athenians49, but they show how strongly ‘historical’ myths were connected to the cultic traditions of Athens. The myths about the early Athenian kings, notably Erechtheus and Cecrops who, as phyle-heroes, had conferred their heritage to the Athenian people, came under permanent (re)construction in the 5th century. Pindar in Isth. 2 (ca. 470) refers to the Athenians as Erechtheidai, without implying physical descent50, and the latter is even less likely in Pyth. 7.10 (486 BC) where Ἐρεχθέος ἀστοί refers to the Alkmaeonidai. ‘Erechtheidai’ thus seems to indicate the Athenians as ‘the people of Erechtheus’, the metaphorical heirs of the heros taking care of his cult or following his rule as a king, reminiscent of the Homeric passages, rather than as ‘real’ descendants51. The ambiguity of descent vocabulary prevails in most cases where the Athenians are addressed or described as Erechtheidai, whether in a serious way or mockingly52. The παῖδες Ἡφαίστου who built the road for Apollo leading to Delphi, mentioned in the Pythia’s opening speech in Aeschylus’ Eumenides (458), could be the Athenians when interpreted as referring to Erichthonios, son of Hephaistos and Gê. Yet this reading, too, is neither unequivocally clear nor compelling: ‘child’ (παῖς) comprises a similar ambiguity as the suffix -idai concerning (physical) descent and (metaphorical) dependence53. 48 Parker (1987) 210; Skempis (2008); for Erychthonios, LIMC 9a (see n. 47). 49 Shapiro (1998) 139. 50 Pind. I. 2.19 f.: καὶ τόθι κλειναῖς <τ’> Ἐρεχθειδᾶν χαρίτεσσιν ἀραρώς / ταῖς λιπαραῖς ἐν Ἀθάναις “and when he (Xenokrates of Akragas) gained the glorious favor of the Erechtheidai in shining Athens, he had no cause to blame the chariot-preserving hand” (transl. W. H. Race, Loeb); Pindar rather seems to refer to Erechtheus as archêgetês of the Panathenaic chariot-races . 51 Also in Soph. Ai. 201 f.: ναὸς ἀρωγοὶ τῆς Αἴαντος, γενεᾶς χθονίων ἀπ’ Ἐρεχθειδᾶν, “Crew of the ship of Ajax, descendants of the underworld Erechtheidai”. The play, like the Iliad, portrays Ajax and his men as Salaminians (cf. Kearns 1989, 141); if thus not originally Athenians, the (metaphorical) descent of Ajax’ men from Erechtheus seals the 6th-century incorporation of Salamis in Attica by projecting this connection, institutionally confirmed in the Athenian phyle Aiantis and encapsulated in the genealogical myths of the Philaidai (Thomas 1989, 161–165) into the past. On the date, Garvie (1998) 8: “nothing contradicts a date in the 440s, but certainty is impossible.” 52 Serious: Eur. Med. 824; Hipp. 151; Suppl. 387, 681, 702; Herc. 1166; Ion 24, 1056, 1060; Phoen. 852; mockingly: Aristoph. Equ. 1015, 1030 (424). 53 Aesch. Eum. 13; cf. Amelesagoras FGrH 330 F 1. Schol. ad loc.: “the Athenians”, hence also in comm. ad loc. Sommerstein (1990); Collard (2002); Parker (2005) 86 in

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So far, we have seen two narratives of mythical origins in Athens. One, going back beyond the 6th century, claims a close connection between the Athenians and the hero Erechtheus, who had earthborn origins in some traditions but became increasingly prominent as a human king of Attica. And one which claims the Athenians to be autochthones, that is the first human inhabitants of Attica who never migrated; this idea cannot be dated with certainty before the 430s but may have been around then for some time. Both narratives seem to have been separate strands, as was usual in such myths of ethnic and kingship genealogy. In the 4th century, however, epideictic and political oratory shows, beside instances of the traditional idea of autochthony, a new version which combines both strands into autochthonesbecause-born-from-the earth54. Although autochthôn is, as we just saw, distinct from gêgenês, the meaning of the prefix auto- is ambiguous and allows a subtle change from ‘belonging to the earth’ into ‘rooted in the earth’ and hence ‘springing from it’. The value of Athens’ connections with Erechtheus may have stimulated this change, as Vincent Rosivach has argued. The first datable signs of this merging appear in the last decades of the 5th century, in Euripides’ Erechtheus of the late 420s or slightly later, and Ion of ca. 410. In Erechtheus the protagonist is king of Athens and married to Praxithea, daughter of rivergod Cephisos55. When an invading army of Thracians led by Eumolpos, a son of Poseidon, threatens to take Athens, one of the daughters of Erechtheus and Praxithea voluntarily fulfils an oracle to sacrifice herself to save the city and her sisters follow her example. Praxithea professes her willingness to sacrifice her daughter because of the high value she accords the city, stating “we are an autochthonous people, not introduced from elsewhere”56. In the ensuing battle, Erechtheus slays Eumolpos, Poseidon kills Erechtheus and strikes him deep into the earth57,

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context of Pythaïs. Doubt about “Athenians”: Verrall (1908): the servants (not sons or children) of Hephaistos, “Athenians” as in schol. “artificial and unnecessary”. Podlecki (1989) ad loc.: “craftsmen”. Perhaps the Cabiri, children of Cabiro, daughter of Proteus, and Hephaistos (Strab. 10.3.21; Pherecydes FGrH 3 F 48). A passage in Lys. 2.17: “[the ancestors] had not been collected, like most peoples, from every quarter, and had not settled in a foreign land after driving out its people, but being autochthones they had gained the same land as mother and fatherland.” (αὐτόχθονες ὄντες τὴν αὐτὴν ἐκέκτηντο μητέρα καὶ πατρίδα) is ambiguous, referring to the earth either as a ‘literal’ mother or as an equivalent of πατρίς, μητρίς being very rare. Unambiguous: Demosth. or. 60.4; Hyp. or. fun. 7; Isocr. 12.124–126 (Panath.); 4.24 f. (Paneg.); unambiguous but ironical, autochthony as ‘noble lie’: Plat. rep. 414 f.; Men. 237a–238b, with Saxonhouse (1986) 258. On the play, its themes and date, Collard/Cropp/Lee (1995) 148–155. Eur. fr. 360.7 f. (ed. Collard/Cropp/Lee = Lycurg. Leocr. 100): ᾗ πρῶτα μὲν λεὼς οὐκ ἐπακτὸς ἄλλοθεν, αὐτόχθονες δ’ ἔφυμεν. Eur. fr. 370.59 f. (ed. Collard/Cropp/Lee): κατὰ χθονὸς κρύψας Ἐρεχθέα.

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but Athens is saved. The play ends with Athena founding cults and priesthoods: the girls will be worshipped as the Hyakinthides58, Erechtheus will receive a sanctuary and cult as Poseidon Erechtheus, Praxithea is to be the first priestess of Athena Polias – both cults the province of the genos Eteoboutadai – and Eumolpos will be the ancestor of the genos Eumolpidai, who provided important priests for the Mysteries at Eleusis, notably the hierophant. The reign of the Erechtheidai is continued by an adopted son. Although the fragmented state of the text prevents certainty on the play’s depiction of Erechtheus’ origins, he acts as a human king who is heroïsed after his death and now resides in the earth. Praxithea represents riverborn beginnings. The plot transforms the protagonists into the archêgetai of the most prominent genê serving the most prominent Athenian public cults, creating a connection between the semi-divine early kings and presentday human society. In this process, Praxithea plays a pivotal role, merging her ‘chthonic’ origins with the Athenian community of autochthôn humans (“we are an autochthonous people”) and safekeeping continuity of the royal household. A similar role falls in Ion to Creousa, the human daughter of king Erechtheus, descendant of earthborn (γηγενής) Erichthonios, who was raped by Apollo and hid the child Ion in a cave. Her husband, the Dorian Xouthos, and she have no children and the couple turns to the sanctuary in Delphi for help. Intervention by the oracle first makes Xouthos accept Ion as his own, next reveals the true relations between mother and son, unknown to Xouthos. As a result of Apollo’s schemes, Ion is accepted as a citizen of Athens because his mother is Athenian. In the finale, Athena creates citizen identities by descent: Ion, as a descendant of Erechtheus, will be the legitimate king of Athens and will have four sons, who will give their names to the four (pre-Cleisthenic) tribes Geleontes, Hopletes, Argades, and Aigikores who inhabit Athena’s land59. Their descendants will go to Ionia, whereas Creousa and Xouthos will have two sons, Doros and Achaios. In Ion, the transformation of earthborn origin into human society revolves around Creousa as a mother, the physical and ideological core of the human (Athenian) household. The Athenians and Ionians are descendants of Apollo, the patron deity of the Ionian phratries, and Creousa60, and share her earthborn beginnings with the Dorians and Achaians. 58 On their cult, Kearns (1989) 201 f.; Parker (2005) 399, 446. 59 ἐπώνυμοι γῆς κἀπιφυλίων χθονὸς λαῶν ἔσονται; cf. Hdt. 5.66. On Athens’ changing attitudes towards an Ionian identity in the 6th–5th century, Hall (1997) 51–56. Ἐρεχθεῖδαι refers to the Athenians in Eur. Ion 20–26, but in 1057–1060 only to the kings. 60 The Ionians shared the phratries-festival Apatouria, but Ion had no cultic role in the festival; Kearns (1989) 109; Lambert (1998) ch. 4; Parker (2005) 458–461.

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In both plays but most markedly in Ion, Euripides treats the Athenian claim of autochthony with deep irony and calls the exclusion of others from the autochthôn population into question. In both plays the phrase “an immigrant is a citizen in name, but not in his actions” captures a policy which is detrimental to the city61. In Erechtheus, Praxithea loses all that is her own and the royal house is continued through an adopted son; Ion shows that the myth of autochthony is no more than a noble lie62.

Cult and identity Although the presentist purposes of genealogical myths make a search for historical data as the origin of such stories quite pointless, it is nevertheless worthwhile to confront the Athenian autochthony myth with historical reality for a moment. It was widely known in classical Athens that in the 6th century many craftsmen and mercenaries had come to Attica from elsewhere, that Solon’s laws had encouraged granting citizenship to these immigrants and that after the diapsephismos following on the fall of the Peisistratidai again people of non-Athenian descent had been made citizens and included in Cleisthenes’ political organisation63. In the aristocratic elite, it was not unusual to marry non-Athenians and these families maintained strong family memories closely interwoven with Athenian public life; no matter how they manipulated their genealogies, they did not hide the non-Athenian origins of their families or of individual members64. Until Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451/450, children of such unions were considered Athenian citizens65. On a mythical level, stories abounded about refugees who received a safe home at Athens after a troublesome life elsewhere, the memory of which was kept alive by enactment in Athenian drama. In sum, historical memory could hardly envisage that the Athenian people did not include immigrants; this may have been the reason for the remarkable reluctance of Herodotus and Thucydides to call the Athenians autochthones 66. There was little ground, 61 Eur. fr. 360.12 f.; Ion 668–675. Ion to be excluded from Athenian society due to alleged non-Athenian birth, Eur. Ion 589–675. 62 Saxonhouse (1986) convincingly shows Euripides’ ironic treatment of the autochthony theme as a noble lie (see above, n. 54) and his portrayal of women’s crucial role as mothers in Ion. 63 Comp. Thuc. 1.2.5 f. (n. 15); on citizenship procedures involved in this process, Lambert (²1998) 261–267. 64 Thomas (1989) ch. 2, 3 and 5. 65 Intermarriage with non-Athenians was possible, but perhaps not very frequent, Blok (2009b). 66 Compare Herodotus’ irony (1.144–147) about the mixed composition of the Ionians who prided themselves on their purity of descent.

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then, for an Athenain claim to be autochthones, unless one were to imagine that a core group of the population had indeed always lived in Attica, embodying continuity over time; it has to be a core group in the sense that the persons involved could represent the identity of Athens in a meaningful way. This Athenian identity was expressed and maintained in the polis’ cults67: being a citizen was in fact defined as membership of the community realised by participation in its hiera kai hosia68. Besides cults of polis-subgroups composed along lines of age, sex, affiliation or local habitat, some cults and festivals included all Athenians as active participants or as involved audience69. Considering that Athens as a human community could only prosper owing to its exchange of benefits with the gods, that in fact the community owed its very existence to the covenant their ancestors had once made with the gods, those who perpetuated this covenant over time by acting as representatives of the community in cult could be regarded as embodying and sustaining its life and identity70. Until the mid-5th century, the priesthoods in all public cults were filled by members of the genê, groups of families who enjoyed the privilege of their cultic office as the heritage of their genos’ archêgetês71. Nearly fifty of such genê are known, and several more of which the identity is uncertain, all supplying priests and priestesses to public cults of varying size and prominence72. Since much of the extant evidence dates to the classical era and later, it is often impossible to assess the antiquity of the genealogical myths of the genê and of the aitia of the cultic functions they explain. The historical veracity of such stories is immaterial; what mattered was a successful claim to being heirs of an archêgetês. Bearing this in mind, we can discern a coherent pattern of evidence showing that, notwithstanding differences in social status, all genê traced their antecedents to the very beginnings of Athens. A few examples will illustrate the pattern, in which ‘descent’ must 67 Comprehensive discussion of Athenian cults in Parker (2005). 68 On this vast subject Connor (1988), Sourvinou-Inwood (1990), Georgoudi (1998), Blok (2007); Blok (2010). 69 Polis sub-groups defined by cult: Sourvinou-Inwood (1990), Georgoudi (1998), Parker (2005), Blok (2009a); all Athenians Brulé (1996); differently Maurizio (1998); involved audience: Jameson (1999). 70 Serving public cults was one of many forms of Greek priesthood; for the variety, Henrichs (2008); Chaniotis (2008); priestesses of public cults, Connelly (2007). 71 Hesych. s. v. γεννῆται· οἱ τοῦ αὐτοῦ γένους μετέχοντες καὶ ἄνωθεν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς σχόντες κοινὰ ἱερά. οἱ δὲ ὁμογάλακτας καὶ φράτορας συγγενεῖς τοὺς γεννήτας. “Gennêtai: those who are members of the same genos and have from the very beginning held cults in common. Others call the gennêtai homogalaktes and related phrateres.” Cf. Suda, s. v. γεννῆται. On the composition of the genē: Bourriot (1976) vol. 1, 1216–1234; Parker (1996) 60–62; Lambert (1999); Smith (2006) 114 ff. 72 Parker (1996) 56–66 and appendix 2.

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be understood primarily as ‘being heirs of ’73. The Erysichthonidai claimed descent from Erysichthon, a son of Cecrops whose tomb was in Prasiai74, and provided the priest of Apollo on Delos. The Euenoridai had a cultic function in relation to Aglauros and perhaps Athena’s vestments. Their own descent myth is unknown, but in Plato’s Atlantis-story mirroring Athens a certain Euenor figures as autochthôn of Atlantis whose daughter had descendants with Poseidon; clearly Plato expected his audience to associate the name of the genos with autochthony75. The Lykomidai were descendants of Lykos, a son of king Pandion and reputed founder of the Lykeion; the genos served the Mysteries at Phlya76. The Phytalidai (whose name recalls growth) supplied a priestess of Demeter77. They descended from Phytalos, who, having entertained Demeter, received a fig-plant from her. Moreover, the Phytalidai purified Theseus after he killed Sinis; as a reward, they were to offer Theseus a sacrifice, paid by the (descendants of) the families who had sent children to Minos78. When Cimon of Lakiadai brought Theseus’ bones back from Skyros in the 470s, he inaugurated a sacrifice to Theseus at public costs to be performed by the Phytalidai; the tomb of his deme’s eponymous hero Lakios was close to Phytalos’ tomb and the sanctuary of Demeter and Kore79. The Bouzygai performed the sacred ploughing each year below the Akropolis; their name (oxen-yokers) clearly referred to their function, but was taken to indicate descent of Bouzyges who had been the first to yoke the oxen to use for agriculture80. The same process is testified in the case of the Kerykes, a prominent genos supplying the herald (keryx) and dadouchos at the Eleusinian Mysteries, and whose name referred to their function but was later taken to show descent from Keryx, a son of Hermes and a daughter of Cecrops or a son of Eumolpos, the acclaimed forebear of the Eumolpidai81. The cases of the Bouzygai and Kerykes illustrate that metaphorical descent and physical descent as conceptions of entitlement to inheritance were 73 On the mythical founders of genê, Parker (1996) appendix 2 and Lambert (2010). 74 Paus. 1.31.2; 3.14.2; see also above. 75 For the Eunoridai, Malachou (2008), with Lambert (2008); Euenor: Plat. Crit. 113c–d. 76 For the complicated dossier of Lykos, Kearns (1989) 182; on the Lykomidai, Parker (1996) 305. 77 Parker (1996) 169, 318. 78 Plut. Thes. 12, 23.5. 79 Paus. 1.37.2; Kearns (1989) 180. 80 No worship of Bouzyges is known, but his plough was dedicated on the Akropolis (Schol. Aeschin. 2.78); for more details Kearns (1989) 152. 81 Keryx: son of Pandrosos, daughter of Cecrops, and Hermes (Androtion FGrH 324 F 1); or Aglauros and Hermes (according to the Kerykes) or descendant of Eumolpos (Andron FGrH 10 F 13; Paus. 1.38.3).

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not essentially different, but also that inheritance due to physical descent was preferred over metaphorical inheritance and that in due course stories were adapted to fit this preference. The structure of genê is compatible with this pattern: each family of a genos claimed to be the heir of the archêgetês, but the genos families were not really related to each other82, nor did they – as far as the evidence allows us to see – marry preferably only other gennêtai (of any genos) in the classical era83. The members of a genos family were, of course, relatives and of a special quality, as we shall shortly see. The most illustrious genos were arguably the Eteoboutadai, consisting of two branches, one providing the priestess of Athena Polias, the other among others the priest of Poseidon Erechtheus. The relationship between the two branches in the classical era is rather opaque, but together they were in charge of the central cults of the most central sacred area of Athens, the Akropolis. Priestess and priest acted together in the festival of the Skira, but the main cultic role of the Eteoboutadai was that of the priestess of Athenia Polias in the Panathenaia, the festival of all Athenians in which Erechtheus was marginally involved84. They claimed descent from Boutês, who, according to an early source (Hes. fr. 169 Most), was a son of Poseidon, but according to the Eteoboutadai in the late 4th century a descendant of Erechtheus, son of Gê and Hephaistos ([Plut.] mor. 843e). By the time the so-called Library of Apollodoros had been composed, the (dis)entangled stories – compare the duplication model discussed above – made Boutês the brother of Erechtheus, with Boutês getting the priesthoods of Poseidon and Athena, and Erechtheus the kingship when they divided the heritage of their father king Pandion, the son of Erichthonios, son of Gê and Hephaistos, and Praxithea85. Boutês had an altar of his own in the Erechtheion, next to Poseidon and Hephaistos, with one of the Eteoboutadai probably serving 82 As captured in the Suda, s. v. γεννηταί· οὐχ οἱ ἐκ γένους καὶ ἀφ’ αἵματος προσήκοντες, ἀλλὰ οἱ ἐκ τῶν γενῶν τῶν συννενεμημένων εἰς τὰς φρατρίας· οὗτοι δέ εἰσι καθάπερ οἱ δημόται καὶ φράτορες, νόμῳ τινὶ ἔχοντες κοινωνίαν. “Gennêtai: those who are of one genos do not also belong by blood relationship, but they are from the genê partitioned over the phratries. These people are just like the demesmen and phrateres, in that they form a group in the context of some traditional law.” Photius s. v. γεννῆται adds that Isaeus (7.13) nevertheless called the gennêtai ἁπλῶς ἐξ αἵματος συγγενεῖς “simply related by blood”; this refers to kinship within a genos family, for the context see below. 83 E. g. among the Kerykes: Hipponikos, the son of Kallias ‘Lakkoploutos’ was the former husband of Perikles’ first wife; she was not a Kerykes herself, being of Alkmaionid descent (Plut. Per. 24.5); cf. Bicknell (1972) 77–83. Kallias had been married to Elpinike, daughter of Miltiades and sister of Cimon (Plut. Cim. 4). 84 Role of Erechtheus in Panathenaia: Brulé (1996). 85 Apollod. 3.14.6–15.1; compare above, Praxithea not as mother but as wife of Erechtheus.

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as priest86. Disregarding diverging details, all Eteoboutad descent stories emphasise descent from Gê (Earth) at some point and locate the genos at the heart of Athenian polis religion from the earliest days of Athenian existence. Presumably their name was Boutadai, but had changed into Eteo-(‘real, true’) Boutadai to distinguish the gennêtai with a superior move from the Cleisthenic deme Boutadai87. With regard to the autochthony theme, some aspects of genos traditions deserve special attention: the endogamy of the gennêtai and their claims to antiquity and continuity. I will start with endogamy. Genos priesthoods were held for life and eligibility for office depended on birth in a genos family, eligibility being a part of the family inheritance (klêros). Because the genos inheritance could devolve to female heirs who would bring their klêros into the oikos into which they married, or the klêros would go to maternal collaterals in absence of any paternal kin88, a case can be made that, also before Pericles’ Citizenship Law of 451/450, genos members were obliged to marry only born Athenians, who were also legal descendants (heirs) of the same ancestors who had entered the covenant of the polis with the gods89. The importance attached to inheritance rights of female gennêtai was presumably particularly influential in genê with female priesthoods, but in fact the necessity of having offspring of the right gender for the priesthood and of Athenian descent on both sides must have made all genê deeply conscious of their genealogy90. The hypothesis that descent from two Athenian parents was a requirement for eligibility for priesthood and the reason for the endogamy of the genê, is corroborated by other evidence. A certain Euxitheos, defending his citizen birth in the late 340s in an appeal to the court, pointed to his eugeneia as a gennêtês, which had made him eligible for a priesthood and secured his pure 86 Paus. 1.26.5; IG II² 5166; Lambert (2009). 87 As explained by lexicographers: Harpocr. s. v. Βούτης: οὕτος ἔσχε τὴν ἱερωσύνην· καὶ οἱ ἀπὸ τούτου Βουτάδαι· καὶ Ἐτεοβουτάδαι οἱ ἀπόγονοι τοῦ Βούτου· τ ὸ γ ὰ ρ ἐ τ ε ὸ ν ἀ λ η θ έ ς . Ὅμηρος “εἰ ἐτεὸν σός εἰμί.” Lex. Patm. (Lexica Graeca Minora, ed. K. Latte/H. Erbse) s. v. Ἐτεοβουτάδαι: γένος Ἀθήνησιν ἱερόν, κ α ὶ ὄ ν τ ω ς Ἀ τ τ ι κ ὸ ν κ α ὶ γ ν ή σ ι ο ν , ἐξ οὑ ἐγίνοντο τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς αἱ ἱέρειαι. Emphasis added. From the mid-5th century onward, the branch of the Athena Polias priestess was represented in a family from Bate, not Boutadai like the Poseidon branch, the causes of which we can only speculate about. 88 For the system of inheritance at Athens, Patterson (1998) 83–100. 89 For the full argument of this case, Blok (2009b). 90 Eligibility for office of priestess of Athena Polias of Penteteris, daughter of Hierokles of Phlya, and Theodote, daughter of Polyoktos of Amphitrope (both late 3rd century) was based on descent from a common ancestor, Drakontides of Bate (mid 5th century), who was five to seven generations away from these women. The genealogical lists of the other Eteoboutad branch, as represented in [Plut.] Lyc. 843a–c, covered at least four centuries. On the composition of these families, Blok/ Lambert (2009).

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Athenian descent from two Athenian parents91. Apollodoros made this requirement the cornerstone of his attack on the metic Neaira targeting her alleged daughter Phano for having broken the rules when acting as basilinna in the Anthesteria92. Reminding his audience of the ancient nomoi inscribed on a stele in the sanctuary of Dionysos in Limnais, he cast the requirement of eugeneia for those who were to perform the most sacred rites of the polis in terms of autochthony. To underline his argument, he referred to a decree of 427 granting citizenship to the Plataians, which explicitly debarred the naturalised Plataian-Athenians from priestly offices belonging to the genê, to the archonship, and perhaps to priesthood in general, but allowed these offices to their descendants93. The continuous line of pure Athenian descent the genê could boast owing to their endogamy long before Pericles’ Law and which allegedly secured the transfer of the heritage from the archêgetês to the present gennêtai, presumably accounts for the epithet ἰθαγενής that the genê acquired at some point. Hesychius added this epithet to many genê in his lexicon, apparently not consistently, yet systematically enough to see that it was considered a specific quality of the Athenian genê 94. The epithet was known throughout antiquity since Homer (Od. 14.203) but it was not very common; the interest of lexicographers in explaining its usage suggests it had an antiquarian ring. Ithagenês meant ‘of true, straight descent’, indicating legitimate birth in the case of individuals and autochthony when used for peoples as congruent meanings95. While in Athens before Pericles’ Law, membership of the 91 Demosth. or. 57; other cases showing that being a gennêtês ensured acceptance in a phratry and was regarded as proof of legitimate descent in Athenian trials: Is. 7.15– 17; Ps.-Demosth. or. 59.59–61; And. 1.125–127; see also Lambert (1998) ch. 2. 92 Apollod. Neaira 74–76 (= Ps.-Demosth. or. 59.74–76). Moreover, her marriage to the Archon Basileus had to be her first marriage, a requirement also to be met by the women responsible for the cult of Athena Pallenis (Athen. 6.235a, with Schlaifer [1943]). 93 Apollod. Neaira 104 (= Ps.-Demosth. or. 59.104): μετεῖναι αὐτοῖς ὧνπερ Ἀθηναίοις μέτεστι πάντων, καὶ ἱερῶν καὶ ὁσίων, πλὴν εἴ τις ἱερωσύνη ἢ τελετή ἐστιν ἐκ γένους, μηδὲ ἐξεῖναι μηδενὶ αὐτῶν τῶν ἐννέα ἀρχόντων λαχεῖν [μηδὲ ἱερωσύνης μηδεμιᾶς], τοῖς δ’ ἐκ τούτων, [ἂν ὦσιν ἐξ ἀστῆς γυναικὸς καὶ ἐγγυητῆς κατὰ τὸν νόμον.] with Osborne (1982–1983) vol. 2, 11 f.; vol. 4, 176–181; Kapparis (1995); Blok/Lambert (2009); Blok (2009b), on text composition, authenticity and social context. These conditions had to be explicated in the decree since all Athenians were descendants of two Athenian parents and eligible for priestly office in principle a generation after Pericles’ Citizenship Law; see below. 94 Parker (1996) 284 f. 95 Legitimate birth: ἰθαγενής versus born from a concubine: Hom. Od. 14.203; Hesych., Phot. ἰθαγενής αὐτόχθων. γνήσιος; ἰθαγενέεσσι· γνησίοις τέκνοις καὶ καθαροῖς, οὐκ ἐκ παλλακίδος. ἰθαγενής versus ἐπήλυδες: Hdt. 6.54; Hellanicus FGrH 4 F 79a; Strab. 7.7.8: Diog. Laert. 1.22; Hesych. αὐθιγενής· αὐτόχθων γνήσιος. αὐθιγενές· ἐγγενές,

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citizen body could be transferred in the male line only to legitimate children, legitimacy required a ‘pledged’ union between the families of husband and wife. ‘True descent’, however, required and emphasised legitimate descent through mothers of the same citizen group96. This condition fits the endogamy rules of the Athenian genê proposed here. When the epithet was attached to the genê precisely we cannot say, but, comparing it with the name of the Eteoboutadai, conceivably ithagenês highlighted the claims to uninterrupted, purely Athenian descent of the genê vis-à-vis the other Athenians who could pretend to be ‘pure’ after Pericles’ Law but could never vouchsafe that they really were of Athenian descent right from the beginning. The other aspect of genos traditions relevant here is their antiquity and continuity. Among the cults served by the genê, quite a number were devoted to divinities specifically benefitting the growth of crops, cattle or children, and to the ancient heroes and heroines of Attika97. Since the genê could also point to ancient tombs and sanctuaries of their archêgetai and performed sacred duties that were ancestral (patrôia) by definition and publicly recognised as family privileges, they could sustain such claims more compellingly than other Athenians. While many Eupatrid families could boast an ancient, high-quality founder but usually left the connection between this ancestor and recent generations in the dark98, the genê were perhaps vague about their founder but could substantiate continuity within their families because of the presumed uninterrupted transfer of inherited office over generations. ἐπίγονον. ἐπήλυδας· νεωστὶ ἐλθόντας ἐξ ἑτέρας γῆς. ἐπιλεκτούς. ἢ οὐκ ἰθαγενεῖς. Springing straight from: Hdt. 2.17.24; Aristot. meteor. 364a16; Plut. mor. 991E; also in medical lit. Relevance to genê: Lex. Patm. s. v. Ἐτεοβουτάδαι: γένος Ἀθήνησιν ἱερόν, καὶ ὄντως Ἀττικὸν καὶ γνήσιον. (cf. n. 87). 96 Poll. 3.21: καὶ γνήσιος μὲν ὁ ἐκ γυναικὸς ἀστῆς καὶ γαμετῆς – ὁ δ’ αὐτὸς καὶ ἰθαγενής – νόθος δ’ ὁ ἐκ ξένης ἢ παλλακίδος· ὑπ’ ἐνίων δὲ καλεῖται μητρόξενος. Cf. Aristoph. Gramm., Nomina aetatum (fragmenta) 277.14–17 Ὅμηρος τοὺς γνησίους υἱοὺς καὶ ἠθαγενεῖς (l. ἰθαγενεῖς) ὀνομάζει· τοὺς νόθους Ῥόδιοι, μακροξένους (l. ματροξένους) ὠνόμαζον· σκότιοι δέ, οἱ λάθρα γεγονότες. At Athens, legitimacy and citizenship were probably made mutually dependent by Solon (Lape 2002/2003) and were confirmed in phratries (Lambert 1998); until Pericles’ Citizenship Law, legitimate descent from one Athenian parent sufficed. Compare above, descent from divine father with human mother as condition of membership of human community in myth. 97 Beside examples in the main text: Amynandridai: priest of Cecrops (Parker 1996, 285 f.); Bouzygai: sacred ploughing; Charidai: supplied priest of Cranaos (Paus. 1.31.3); Euenoridai: cultic role for Aglauros; Eumolpidai: descent from Eumolpos, ancient king (Hom. h. 2.154, 476) or son of Poseidon (see above); Coneidai: descent from Coneides, paidagogos of Theseus (Plut. Thes. 4); Pyrrakidai: descent from Pyrrhakos, descendant of Erysichthon (Hesych.); Salaminioi: priestesses of Athena Skiras, Aglauros, Pandrosos and Kourotrophos; etc. etc. 98 Thomas (1989) 155–161.

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The antiquity and purity of their Athenian descent thus distinguished the genê not only from the dêmos but also from many Eupatrid families99. In this sense, the genê constituted an elite, as Stephen Lambert argues, conceived in terms of birth only, regardless of wealth or political power100. If this reconstruction of the privileged status of genê is valid, it would explain several developments in Athenian priesthood. The Athenaion Politeia (21.6) tells us that Cleisthenes created the new political structures including all citizens, old and new, but left the genê, phratries and priesthoods the traditional way (kata ta patria). Yet occasionally, new priesthoods had to be created. We just saw that when the cult for Theseus was instituted in the 470s, its priesthood was granted to the Phytalidai. Of the Cleisthenic tribes instituted in 508/507, some of the eponymous heroes already had cults but others apparently didn’t; moreover, all cults of the eponymoi obtained a new public function. Although the evidence is thin, it seems that those genê who already served one of these hero cults continued to provide the priest, even if they did not belong to this tribe themselves101. Against the background of the evidence so far, it seems that when new cults were inaugurated the priesthoods were allotted among Athenians who were of unquestionably pure (double) Athenian descent – in casu the gennêtai among the relevant group. In this respect, an inequality persisted among the Athenians based on birth alone. This inequality was only removed with the introduction of Pericles’ Citizenship Law, which raised the dêmos to the same eugeneia as the genê and effectively opened the priesthood to all Athenians now that they were of Athenian descent on both sides102. After Pericles’ Law, new priesthoods could be allotted among all Athenians, beginning with the priestess of Athena Nike, who was selected from all Athenian women103.

99 Beside their marriages with non-Athenians in historical times, e. g. the Alkmaionidai (Paus. 2.18.8 f.) and the Peisistratidai (Hdt. 5.65.3) traced their origins to Pylos, as did Melanthos, one of the early Athenian kings (Rhodes 1981, 79, 186 f.); on the Salaminian origins of the Philaidai, see n. 51. 100 Lambert (2010); the Gephyraioi, who with allegedly non-Attic origins (Hdt. 5.57– 61) were the exception proving the rule, were probably excluded from certain priesthoods and had a position of their own in the network of Attic cults, Lambert (1998) 53, n. 120, cf. Parker (1996) 288 f. 101 The priesthoods of Erechtheïs, Hippothontis and Cecropis were held by men of other than the relevant tribes and apparently were traditional genos priesthoods; see Schlaifer (1940) 251–257; Kearns (1989) 173; Aleshire (1994) 331 f.; Parker (1996) 285 f., 293. 102 Blok (2009b). 103 The date is contested: mid-420s, Mattingly (2000); early 440s, Lougovaya-Ast (2006).

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The autochthony myth: a new view Autochthony myths served the creation of an identity that first and foremost was culturally and politically meaningful to the people itself. Until the middle of the 5th century, there is no clear evidence that the Athenians consistently thought of themselves as autochthones, meaning the first to have lived in Attica and have done so continuously and exclusively, nor that there was much reason for them to think so. The idea of Athenian autochthony circulates visibly in the 430s, but may have begun somewhat earlier than our first written evidence. In few respects, the Athenian claim seems different from that of other (Greek) peoples who asserted to be autochthonous, and we can speculate whether the Athenian variety would stand out in any way if the Aiginetai, Thebans, Arcadians et alii had created and left as many written records of their oratory as the Athenians. Now that we do have this Athenocentric record, however, the Athenians appear to have brought the message of their autochthony, once they had conceived the idea, across with a confidence and insistence that seem more than average. Before the myth of autochthony emerged, the Athenians considered themselves the ‘descendants’ of the heros Erechtheus; this was an important part of their identity as a people owing to Erechtheus’ exclusive ties with Athena on the one hand, and with Athens and Attica on the other, unlike Herakles and even Theseus. Yet there is no conclusive evidence that they regarded themselves as ‘real’ descendants of Erechtheus in any way, let alone as born from the earth themselves, rather than as the heirs of his cult on the Akropolis until the late 5th century. The genealogy of Athenian kings ended more or less in mid-air, as such genealogies usually did. The single dotted line from Erechtheus to the present terminated most conspicuously in his cult inaugurated by Boutes and now served by Boutes’ ‘true’ descendants, the Eteoboutadai. They and all other genê embodied persuasive claims to autochthony among the Athenians due to their alleged ancient, unbroken and pure descent, connected with their privilege of holding public priesthoods. The prestige of the genê seems to have been a major motive for Pericles to issue his Citizenship Law, raising the dêmos to the same level of eugeneia as the genê. After Perikles’ Citizenship Law, the Athenians could imagine in due course that they all were of just as pure descent as the genê and were all now similarly entitled to serve as priests and priestesses. Around a decade after Pericles’ Citizenship Law, the first certain indications emerge that the Athenians as a people claimed to be autochthones. Euripides’ tragedies Erechtheus and Ion, although acknowledging its problematic aspects, not only reflect increasing interest in the autochthony myth but presumably contributed to its impact. Erechtheus (420s) portrays the simultaneous origins of the Eteoboutadai and Eumolpidai and of the kingship of Athens; Ion (410) represents the ancient Athenian tribes as real descendants through Creousa of earth-born

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Erichthonios. In the 4th century, the theme of autochthony – now meaning either ‘original inhabitants’ or ‘earth-born’ or both – was elaborated in political and epideictic oratory, notably in the epitaphioi and the political treatises of Isocrates. By the later 4th century, the Athenians believed that in days of yore all Athenians were gennêtai, as the Athenaion Politeia shows104: Aristotle says [in book one of the Athenaion Politeia] that the whole Athenian population was divided into farmers and craftsmen, and that they consisted of four phylai; each of the phylai was divided into three parts, which they called trittyes and phratries, and each of those had thirty genê, and each genos was composed of thirty men. Those who thus belonged to the genê they called gennêtai. […] from among whom the priesthoods for each were drawn by lot, like Eumolpidai and Kerykes and Eteoboutadai …

A century after Pericles’ Law, the genealogical myths of the genê had been successfully transferred to and appropriated by the Athenian dêmos in its entirety; being an exclusive elite had become a quality of all citizens. Among the Athenians, however, the genê remained more equal than others: they were ithageneis since the beginning of the city.

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Kron (1988). – Uta Kron, “Erechtheus”, in: LIMC 4 (1988) 923–951. Kühr (2006). – Angela Kühr, Als Kadmos nach Boiotien kam. Polis und Ethnos im Spiegel thebanischer Gründungsmythen (Stuttgart 2006). Lambert (1998). – Stephen D. Lambert, The Phratries of Attica (Ann Arbor 1998). Lambert (1999). – Stephen D. Lambert, “The Attic genos”, CQ, n. s. 49 (1999) 484–489. Lambert (2002). – Stephen D. Lambert, “The Sacrificial Calendar of Athens”, BSA 97 (2002) 353–399. Lambert (2008). – Stephen D. Lambert, “Aglauros, the Euenoridai and the Autochthon of Atlantis”, ZPE 167 (2008) 22–26. Lambert (2009). – Stephen D. Lambert, “The Priesthoods of the Eteoboutadai”, in: Festschrift John K. Davies (forthc.). Lambert (2010). – Stephen D. Lambert, “Aristocracy and the Attic genos: A Mythological Perspective”, in: Nick Fisher/Hans van Wees (eds.), Aristocracy, Elites and Social Mobility in Ancient Societies (forthc.); http://www.lamp.ac.uk/ric/workin_papers. Lape (2002/2003). – Susan Lape, “Solon and the Institution of the ‘Democratic’ Family Form”, CJ 98 (2002/2003) 117–139. Loraux (1986). – Nicole Loraux, The Invention of Athens. The Funeral Oration in the Classical City (Cambridge, Mass. 1986). Loraux (1993). – Nicole Loraux, The Children of Athena: Athenian Ideas about Citizenship and the Division between the Sexes (Princeton 1993). Loraux (2000). – Nicole Loraux, Born of the Earth. Myth and Politics in Athens (Ithaca/ London 2000). Lougovaya-Ast (2006). – Julia Lougovaya-Ast, “Myrrhine, the First Priestess of Athena Nike”, Phoenix 60 (2006) 211–225. Malachou (2008). – G. E. Malachou, “Nea attiki epigraphi”, in: Angelos P. Matthaiou/ Irene Polinskaja (eds.), Mikros Hieromnêmôn. Meleitis eis mnêmên Michael H. Jameson (Athens 2008) 103–115. Malkin (1994). – Irad Malkin, Myth and Territory in the Spartan Mediterranean (Cambridge 1994). Mattingly (2000). – Harold B. Mattingly, “The Athena Nike Dossier: IG I³ 35/36 and 64 A–B”, CQ 50 (2000) 604–606. Maurizio (1998). – Lisa Maurizio, “The Panathenaeic Procession: Athens’ Participatory Democracy on Display?”, in: Boedeker/Raaflaub (1998) 297–317. Miller (1983). – Michael James Miller, The Athenian Autochthonous Heroes from the Classical to the Hellenistic Period (Cambridge, Mass. 1983). Montanari (1981). – Enrico Montanari, Il mito dell’ autoctonia: linee di una dinamica miticopolitica ateniense (Rome 1981). Morales (2004). – K. Morales, “ ‘Et in Arcadia ego’: Understanding Autochthony, Geography and the Other in Herodotus”, AH 34 (2004) 22–37. Nielsen (2002). – Thomas Heine Nielsen, Arkadia and Its Poleis in the Archaic and Classical Periods (Gottingen 2002). Osborne (1982–1983). – Michael J. Osborne, Naturalization in Athens (Brussels 1982– 1983). Parker (1987). – Robert Parker, “Myths of Early Athens”, in: Jan Bremmer (ed.), Interpretations of Greek Mytholog y (London 1987) 187–214. Parker (1996). – Robert Parker, Athenian Religion. A History (Oxford 1996). Parker (2005). – Robert Parker, Polytheism and Society at Athens (Oxford 2005). Patterson (1998). – Cynthia B. Patterson, The Family in Greek History (Cambridge, Mass./ London 1998).

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Podlecki (1989). – Aeschylus, Eumenides; ed. with an introd., transl. and comment. by Anthony J. Podlecki (Warminster 1989). Rhodes (1981). – Peter John Rhodes, A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia (Oxford 1981). Rosivach (1987). – Vincent Rosivach, “Autochthony and the Athenians”, CQ, n. s. 37 (1987) 294–305. Saxonhouse (1986). – Arlene W. Saxonhouse, “Myths and the Origins of Cities: Reflections on the Autochthony Theme in Euripides’ Ion”, in: J. Peter Euben (ed.), Greek Tragedy and Political Theory (Berkeley 1986) 252–273. Schlaifer (1940). – R. Schlaifer, “Notes on Athenian Public Cults”, HSCP 51 (1940) 241–260. Schlaifer (1943). – R. Schlaifer, “The Cult of Athena Pallenis (Athenaeus VI 234–235)”, HSCP 54 (1943) 35–67. Shapiro (1998). – Harvey Alan Shapiro, “Autochthony and the Visual Arts in 5th-Century Athens”, in: Boedeker/Raaflaub (1998) 127–151. Skempis (2008). – Marios Skempis, “Ery-chthonios: Etymological Wordplay in Callimachus Hec. fr. 70.9 H.”, Hermes 136 (2008) 143–152. Smith (2006). – Christopher John Smith, The Roman Clan: The Gens from Ancient Ideolog y to Modern Anthropolog y (Cambridge 2006). Sommerstein (1990). – Alan H. Sommerstein (ed.), Aeschylus, Eumenides (Cambridge 1990). Sourvinou-Inwood (1990). – Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, “What is Polis Religion?”, in: Oswyn Murray/Simon Price (eds.), The Greek City. From Homer to Alexander (Oxford 1990) 295–322. Thomas (1989). – Rosalind Thomas, Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens (Cambridge 1989). Verrall (1908). – The “Eumenides” of Aeschylus, with an introd., commentary, and transl. by Arthur W. Verrall (London 1908).

Récits étiologiques argiens du temps des hommes marcel piérart Introduction Parmi les récits qui circulaient à Argos, l’histoire de Télésilla a fasciné tant les auteurs anciens que les chercheurs modernes. F. Graf a dit l’essentiel de ce qu’il y avait à dire sur les rites d’inversion que cette légende était censée fonder1. Elle apparaît ainsi comme la variante argienne historicisée du mythème étiologique d’un rite d’inversion dont on a des parallèles précis à Tégée (légende de Marpessa Choiro expliquant la fondation des Gynaikothoinia) et à Sparte (culte d’Aphrodite Enoplios). Ces légendes ont en commun de mettre en scène des femmes et des divinités guerrières, dans des conflits qui opposent Sparte à des cités voisines: Messène, Tégée, Argos, ce qui n’est peut-être pas un hasard. Surtout, elles sont situées dans le temps des hommes, selon l’expression d’Hérodote2, ce qui n’est pas souvent le cas des mythes étiologiques grecs3. C’est cet aspect des choses que je voudrais essayer d’approfondir dans cette contribution en replaçant l’exploit de Télésilla dans la série des récits de fondation argiens qui étaient censés se dérouler dans les temps historiques.

La bataille des champions Le plus ancien de ces récits concerne la bataille qui opposa Argiens et Spartiates pour la possession de la Thyréatide4. Dans un premier temps, chacun des deux peuples confia à 300 des siens le soin de défendre leurs prétentions. 1 2 3 4

Cf. Graf (1984), avec la bibliographie antérieure. Parmi les études récentes, on retiendra Valdés Guía (2005). Hdt. 3,122,2: τῆς δὲ ἀνθρωπηίης γενεῆς. Paus. 3,3,6: ἐπὶ τῶν ἡρώων καλουμένων. Hdt. 1,82. Cf. Dillery (1996).

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Deux Argiens et un Spartiate survécurent, mais les parties revendiquant toutes deux la victoire, une bataille s’engagea dont les Lacédémoniens sortirent vainqueurs. L’épisode, célèbre dans l’Antiquité, est souvent mentionné dans les textes. Hérodote paraît être la source écrite ultime des variantes littéraires du récit que nous possédons5. Tout paraît indiquer qu’il l’a recueilli à Argos même. Il présente comme allant de soi le point de vue des Argiens. Les Spartiates leur avaient enlevé ce territoire (ἀποτεμνόμενοι ἔσχον); en droit toute la région jusqu’au cap Malée, y compris l’île de Cythère et les autres îles, appartenait à Argos. Il présente aussi le grief des Argiens comme permanent, symbolisé par des usages cosmétiques qui sont censés en perpétuer le souvenir6: Depuis ce jour les Argiens ont coupé leurs cheveux, qu’ils portaient obligatoirement longs jusqu’alors. Par une loi renforcée d’imprécations, ils ont interdit à quiconque, à Argos, de se laisser pousser les cheveux et à leurs femmes de porter des ornements d’or tant que Thyréa ne serait pas reconquise. Les Lacédémoniens ont fait, eux, la loi contraire: ils portaient les cheveux courts, mais depuis cette époque, ils les laissent pousser.

Les Spartiates portaient les cheveux longs. Plutarque, qui se réfère explicitement à notre passage d’Hérodote pour en contester la portée, attribue cet usage à Lycurgue7. Se raser la tête (κατακειράμενοι τὰς κεφαλάς), interdire aux femmes de porter de l’or (χρυσοφορήσειν) sont des signes de deuil8. La douleur ressentie à Argos après la défaite de Thyréa a paru fournir un contexte approprié pour expliquer des usages cosmétiques différents à Argos et à Sparte9. Un autre logos d’Hérodote fait du conflit qui opposa Argiens et Eginètes aux Athéniens dans l’affaire des statues de Damia et Auxésia l’origine de coutumes vestimentaires différentes (la longueur des agrafes) chez les femmes d’Argos et d’Egine, d’une part, celles d’Athènes de l’autre10. La 5 Cela n’exclut pas le développement de variantes locales: d’après Hérodote, Othryadas, le seul des champions spartiates à avoir survécu, se donna la mort pour échapper à la honte d’un retour à Sparte. Pausanias 2,20,7 a vu au théâtre d’Argos une sculpture montrant Périlaos, fils d’Alkénor, en train de tuer Othryadas. Alkénor est l’un des héros argiens qui avaient survécu à la bataille des champions. 6 Hdt. 1,82,7 sq. (trad. A. Barguet modifiée). 7 Hdt. 7,208; Xen. Lak. pol. 11,3; Plut. Lys. 1. 8 Plut. Lys. 1; Cass. Dio 18,17 (mesures prises par les Romains après la défaite de Cannes). 9 C’est le point de vue des Argiens. Rien n’indique que les Spartiates l’aient partagé: nous ignorons totalement la manière dont ils expliquaient la prise de la Thyréatide et les rites qu’ils accomplissaient en souvenir de cet exploit et l’on simplifierait beaucoup la question des Gymnopédies et des Parparonia en supposant qu’ils avaient leur propre version des faits. Sur les Parparonia, cf. Nafissi (1991) 303–309; Dillery (1996) 232–234. 10 Hdt. 5,88.

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façon de se vêtir, de se coiffer permet de reconnaître les peuples et de les distinguer les uns des autres. Souvenir commun d’un désastre militaire, la bataille des Champions est devenue pour les Argiens un mythe identitaire11, il n’a donné lieu – à Argos – qu’à des manifestations, réelles ou prétendues, du deuil qui les accablait. Ces récits étiologiques sont entachés de légende12, mais un passage de Thucydide montre qu’ils pouvaient n’être pas sans influence sur les choix politiques que l’on faisait. Lorsque la trêve de 30 ans vint à échéance, en 421, les Argiens mirent à nouveau sur le tapis la question de la récupération de la Thyréatide (Cynourie)13: Arrivés à Sparte [été 420], les ambassadeurs argiens engagèrent les négociations avec les Lacédémoniens et s’enquirent des conditions auxquelles un traité pourrait être conclu entre les deux cités. Ils demandèrent d’abord que le différend qui les opposait à Sparte au sujet de la Cynourie fût soumis à l’arbitrage soit d’une cité, soit d’un particulier. (A la limite des deux pays, elle contient les cités de Thyréa et d’Anthéné. Ce sont les Lacédémoniens qui l’exploitent.) Mais les Lacédémoniens refusèrent de discuter de cette question et déclarèrent que si les Argiens acceptaient de traiter aux mêmes conditions que précédemment, ils étaient prêts à s’entendre avec eux. Les ambassadeurs argiens les amenèrent toutefois à souscrire aux conditions suivantes: pour le moment, on conclurait un traité de 50 ans, mais chacune des deux parties se réserverait le droit, sauf en cas d’épidémie et de guerre à Lacédémone ou à Argos, de lancer un défi à l’autre, afin de régler le sort de la Cynourie par une bataille, comme cela s’était fait jadis lorsque les deux camps s’étaient l’un et l’autre attribué la victoire. Il serait alors interdit de poursuivre l’adversaire au-delà des frontières de l’Argolide ou de la Laconie. Les Lacédémoniens estimèrent tout d’abord que cette clause était absurde, mais finalement, voulant à tout prix établir de bonnes relations avec Argos, ils en passèrent par ce qui leur était demandé et l’on procéda à la rédaction du traité.

Aux yeux des Spartiates, comme aux nôtres, les propositions des Argiens paraissaient d’un autre âge. Peut-être ces derniers ont-ils pensé que si les Spartiates les acceptaient, le corps d’élite des Mille, qu’ils entraînaient aux frais de l’Etat à cette époque pourrait l’emporter14.

11 Cf. Piérart (2004). 12 Cf. Brelich (1961) 22–34, Robertson (1992) 179–207, Dillery (1996) 222–227. La question de l’historicité de la conquête de la Thyréatide n’a pas à nous retenir ici: pour les Argiens qui s’entretenaient avec Hérodote, il s’agissait de faits avérés. 13 Thuk. 5,41 (trad. D. Roussel modifiée pour l’orthographe de Cynourie; j’ai ajouté le texte entre parenthèses, supprimé par le traducteur.) 14 Vide infra.

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Télésilla sur les remparts L’histoire de la bataille de Sépeia se lit déjà chez Hérodote15. Celle de la conduite héroïque des femmes d’Argos sous le commandement de la poétesse Télésilla n’est connue que par des sources beaucoup plus tardives. Les deux récits principaux que nous possédons, celui de Plutarque et celui de Pausanias, sont assez différents l’un de l’autre. Pausanias rapporte l’histoire à l’occasion de sa visite du sanctuaire d’Aphrodite. On y voyait un relief représentant la poétesse, des livres éparpillés à ses pieds, s’apprêtant à coiffer le casque symbolisant ses exploits guerriers. Dans cette version des événements, Télésilla fait monter les vieillards et les enfants sur le rempart, arme et range en ordre de bataille les femmes dans la fleur de l’âge. Finalement l’affrontement n’aura pas lieu, les Spartiates ayant préféré se retirer. Le Périégète conclut son récit en citant, d’après Hérodote, les vers de l’oracle commun aux Argiens et aux Milésiens qui, d’après lui, annonçaient l’événement: Auparavant déjà, la Pythie avait annoncé ce combat et Hérodote, qu’il en ait ou non compris le sens, a rapporté l’oracle (τοῦτον προεσήμηνεν ἡ Πυθία, καὶ τὸ λόγιον εἴτε ἄλλως εἴτε καὶ ὡς συνεὶς ἐδήλωσεν Ἡρόδοτος): mais quand la femelle aura vaincu le mâle, l’aura chassé et conquis gloire dans Argos, alors elle sera cause que bien des Argiennes se déchireront les joues. Telles étaient les paroles de l’oracle relatives à l’exploit des femmes.

Wilamowitz et d’autres historiens ont admis que l’histoire de Télésilla contenait un fonds de vérité, mais cette idée n’a jamais fait l’unanimité16. Selon une indication incontrôlable d’Eusèbe, la poétesse aurait eu son floruit en 451/0, une date qui aurait au moins le mérite d’expliquer le silence d’Hérodote17. J’imagine qu’Hérodote, qui ne cachait pas son admiration pour Artémisia, aurait raconté l’édifiante histoire de Télésilla, s’il l’avait connue18. Ceux qui lui ont raconté l’oracle ‹épicène› ne l’ont pas mis en rapport avec cette histoire, ni d’ailleurs avec aucune attaque de Cléomène contre la ville d’Argos proprement dite, puisque, dans cette version des faits, le roi y renonça finalement. Beaucoup de commentateurs voient dans les premiers vers de l’oracle l’origine de la légende de Télésilla19. Je le pense aussi. On estime en général que cet épisode est la réponse que les Argiens ont trouvée pour lui donner 15 Hdt. 6,76–83; Plut. mor. 245C–F; Paus. 2,20,8–10. Cf. Piérart (2003), Scott (2005). 16 Pour l’historicité: Wilamowitz (1900) 76–80, Tomlinson (1970) 94, Hendriks (1982) 29–34. Contre: Bury (1902) 20, Jacoby, FGrH 310 F 6 comm., cf. n. 91 [t. 2 p. 28], Wörrle (1964) 106 n. 20, Roobaert (1985) 43 n. 231. 17 Euseb. chron. 112 Helm (451 aCn). 18 Cf. Hdt. 7,99; 8,87–93,1. 19 Par ex. FGrH 310 F 6 comm. (p. 46), Stadter (1965).

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un sens. Il permet de rendre compte en effet de la victoire de la femelle sur le mâle, comme Pausanias le souligne d’ailleurs explicitement. Dans cette version de la légende de Télésilla, l’exploit est inscrit dans le contexte de la bataille d’hoplites classique entre phalanges opposées, où les hommes se rangent en ordre serré, chargent, tuent et meurent. Télésilla a aligné ses troupes en ordre de bataille du côté où l’ennemi devait arriver. Logiquement, à l’approche des soldats, les femmes auraient dû se débander. Or, – «contrairement à leur nature» aurait dit Thucydide20 – les femmes supportent les cris des ennemis et s’apprêtent à recevoir le choc21. C’est à ce moment-là que les Spartiates ont décidé de se retirer. Après le choc, il eût été trop tard. Le refus des Spartiates d’affronter les femmes permet de l’insérer de manière plausible dans la tradition hérodotéenne de l’abandon de Cléomène22. Pausanias, d’un bout à l’autre du récit, a son Hérodote en tête. Il résume d’après lui les trois étapes successives de l’affaire de Sépeia: la bataille, la ruse pour faire sortir les Argiens du bois sacré, enfin l’incendie fatal. A la visite de l’Héraion, qu’il passe complètement sous silence, il substitue la marche sur Argos et la résistance de Télésilla. S’il s’écarte finalement de sa source, c’est qu’elle lui paraît fournir une meilleure explication de l’oracle épicène. Pausanias ne fait de ce récit l’aition d’aucune fête et ne connaît, comme dédicace, que le relief exposé dans le sanctuaire d’Aphrodite. Le récit de Plutarque, qui s’appuie certainement sur des sources argiennes23, ne fait pas allusion à l’oracle, mais signale des affrontements sanglants, en ville, où l’autre roi, Démarate, réussit à pénétrer, ainsi qu’entre les troupes de Cléomène et celles de Télésilla. Par là s’expliquent les rites et les dédicaces fondés à la suite de ces événements: La ville ayant été sauvée ainsi, celles des femmes qui étaient mortes au combat furent ensevelies sur la route qui conduit à la campagne d’Argos et les survivantes reçurent le droit d’ériger en souvenir de leur bravoure la statue (?) d’Enyalios. Le combat eut lieu d’après certains le sept, selon d’autres le premier du mois qu’on appelle aujourd’hui quatrième, mais qui se nommait autrefois Hermaios chez les Argiens. C’est le jour où maintenant encore on fête les Hybristika, une fête au cours de laquelle les femmes revêtent les tuniques et les manteaux des hommes, les hommes, les robes et les voiles des femmes. Pour parer au manque d’hommes, ce n’est pas aux esclaves, comme le prétend Hérodote, qu’ils unirent leurs femmes, mais aux meilleurs des périèques faits 20 Cf. Thuk. 3,74,1 (Corcyre). Sur les cris poussés en l’honneur d’Enyalios, cf. Lonis (1979) 119–120, Pirenne-Delforge (1994) 159. 21 Cf. Hanson (1989) 96–106. 22 Hdt. 6,82,2: il aurait été dissuadé par un présage de prendre la ville d’Argos alors qu’il sacrifiait à l’Héraion. 23 Il cite Socrate d’Argos (FGrH 310 F 6), selon qui Démarate avait pénétré dans la ville et s’était emparé du Pamphyliakon. Les femmes le repoussèrent.

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citoyens24. Elles paraissaient leur manquer de respect et les considérer avec mépris dans leurs relations conjugales vu qu’ils étaient inférieurs. Aussi établit-on l’usage que les femmes mariées devaient dormir près de leur mari en portant une barbe.

F. Graf ne se prononce pas sur le nom de la divinité qui patronait la fête des Hybristika 25. V. Pirenne-Delforge suggère le couple Vénus-Arès/Enyalios, bien qu’elle ne se prononce pas sur le nom précis de la divinité de la fureur guerrière au culte de laquelle participaient les femmes d’Argos26. Grâce à l’exploit de Télésilla, Arès ne compte-t-il pas parmi les dieux des femmes à Argos27 et la stèle représentant la poétesse n’était-elle pas dans le sanctuaire d’Aphrodite?28 La fête des Hybristika ne fut pas la seule conséquence de l’exploit de Télésilla et de ses compagnes. Deux ‹ lieux de mémoire › viennent s’y ajouter. On montrait, «sur la route de l’Argeia» – donc hors de la ville, mais dans quelle direction? – le tombeau des femmes qui étaient mortes au combat. Les survivantes reçurent l’autorisation de fonder un culte d’Enyalios (ἱδρύσασθαι τὸν Ἐνυάλιον)»29. L’expression, assez rare, renforcée par l’emploi de l’article, provient sans doute de la source de Plutarque. On sait par les inscriptions que le dieu de la guerre était honoré à Argos sous le nom d’Enyalios30. C’est à lui que la dédicace passait pour avoir été faite. Nous n’en saurons pas davantage: ni Plutarque ni Pausanias n’ont prétendu être exhaustifs. Dans la tradition telle que la rapporte Plutarque, l’exploit imaginaire de Télésilla n’était pas entièrement dépourvu de parallèles réalistes. Sur le bouclier d’Achille, les femmes, les jeunes enfants et les vieillards debout sur les remparts les défendent, pendant que les hommes 24 Cette variante de la tradition avait déjà cours au IVe siècle: Aristot. pol. 1303a8: τῶν περιοίκων τινάς. Hérodote n’écrivait pas que les Argiennes ont épousés des esclaves, mais qu’«Argos perdit tellement d’hommes que les esclaves, devenus les maîtres de la ville, prirent les magistratures et gouvernèrent jusqu’au jour où les fils des citoyens tués arrivèrent à l’âge d’homme» (Hdt. 6,83, trad. Barguet légèrement modifiée). Ces derniers auraient alors chassé les esclaves, qui se seraient emparés de Tirynthe, où ils se maintinrent un certain temps. Sur la question des esclaves, cf. Piérart (1997) 328 sq. 25 Graf (1984) 249 sq. 26 Pirenne-Delforge (1994) 154–160. 27 Cf. Lukian. amor. 30. 28 Paus. 2,20,8. 29 Wilamowitz (1900) 79 et Vollgraff (1934) 151 n. 8 pensent à un temple; Graf (1984) 249, comme beaucoup d’autres commentateurs, penche pour une statue. 30 Le culte est attesté depuis l’époque archaïque (SEG 11,327). Un temple d’Enyalios, toujours en activité quand Pyrrhos attaqua Argos, a été découvert près de Mycènes (SEG 23,186.187). Pausanias (2,25,1) a vu, sur la route de Mantinée un temple double, qui contenait des statues d’Aphrodite et d’Arès, qui auraient été dédiées par Polynice.

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s’en vont combattre dehors31. Les textes historiques mentionnent plus d’une fois la lutte que les femmes mènent du haut des toits en lançant tuiles et pierres sur les assaillants32. C’est moins le fait de garnir les remparts qui constituait en soi un exploit que celui de revêtir les armes des hommes et de prendre leur place après l’anéantissement de l’infanterie argienne. S’il existe des parallèles à la bataille rangée décrite par Pausanias, il faut les chercher dans l’épopée. Le geste héroïque de Télésilla et de ses compagnes fait d’elles de nouvelles Amazones et surtout de nouvelles Danaïdes. Le rapprochement a été fait par Clément d’Alexandrie, dans les Stromates: on lui doit d’ailleurs les seuls vers conservés du poème archaïque qui chantait leurs exploits33. On dit que les femmes d’Argos, sous la conduite de la poétesse Télésilla, mirent en fuite, à leur simple vue, les Spartiates, pourtant vaillants à la guerre, confisquant à leur profit l’audace face à la mort. L’auteur de la Danaïde dit la même chose des filles de Danaos: Et voici qu’alors s’armaient à la hâte les filles de Danaos En avant du fleuve au beau cours, du Seigneur Nil.

Le mythe de Danaos et de ses filles était très populaire à Argos34. Il est possible que des péripéties de la geste des Danaïdes qui nous échappent aient servi de modèle à l’exploit de Télésilla.

L’aveuglement de Bryas Sur l’agora d’Argos, il y avait, du temps de Pausanias, une statue de marbre blanc attribuée au sculpteur Polyclète. Elle représentait Zeus Meilichios assis35. Voici ce que le Périégète a appris à son sujet36: Comme de part et d’autre [i. e. entre Lacédémoniens et Argiens] la haine en était arrivée à son comble, les Argiens décidèrent d’entretenir une troupe d’élite (λογάδας) de mille hommes, auxquels on désigna pour chef Bryas d’Argos qui, entre autres violences commises envers les gens du peuple, avait déshonoré une jeune fille pendant qu’on la conduisait chez son fiancé, en neutralisant ceux qui l’amenaient. La nuit venue, dès que la jeune fille eut observé que Bryas était endormi, elle l’aveugle; au point du jour, on la découvre, elle va se réfugier comme suppliante auprès du peuple. Comme on n’avait pas laissé aux Mille le soin de la châtier, et que dès lors les deux partis avaient été poussés à livrer bataille, ce sont les gens du parti populaire 31 32 33 34 35 36

Hom. Il. 18,514 sq. Cf. Hornblower, S. (1991) 241 sq., avec bibliographie; Barry (1996). Clem. Al. strom. 4,19,120,3 sq. (Danais, fr. 1 Bernabé). Cf. Piérart (1998). Paus. 2,20,1. Paus. 2,20,2 (trad. M. Casevitz). L’emploi de ἐπυνθανόμην ne permet pas de dire si sa source est écrite ou orale.

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qui l’emportent et, une fois vainqueurs, sous l’empire de la colère, ils ne laissèrent vivant aucun de leurs adversaires. Par la suite ils introduisirent des rites de purification pour avoir versé le sang indigène (ἐπηγάγοντο καθάρσια ὡς ἐπὶ αἵματι ἐμφυλίῳ), et en particulier ils consacrèrent une statue de Zeus Meilichios.

Le contexte dans lequel ce récit est censé s’inscrire est connu par Thucydide et Diodore de Sicile, qui suit Ephore. Dans le courant du Ve siècle, sans doute dès avant la guerre du Péloponnèse, la démocratie argienne avait constitué un corps d’élite de 1000 hommes, entraînés aux frais de l’Etat37. Ils se distinguèrent à la bataille de Mantinée, dont ils se tirèrent avec les honneurs et des pertes minimes. La défaite obligea cependant Argos à s’allier à Sparte. Les Lacédémoniens en profitèrent pour abattre le régime démocratique avec l’appui de 1000 Argiens recrutés au nom de l’alliance toute fraîche (hiver 418/417)38. S’agissait-il des Mille? Thucydide ne le dit pas, mais dès le IVe siècle la tradition, dans et hors d’Argos, le prétendra. Aristote les appelle γνώριμοι 39. Dès l’été suivant, cependant, la démocratie fut restaurée à la suite d’un combat qui opposa les démocrates aux oligarques40. La dédicace d’une statue à Zeus Meilichios s’inscrit naturellement dans le contexte des rites de purifications accomplis après un bain de sang comme celui de 418/417 41. Il n’y a donc pas lieu de douter a priori de l’information de Pausanias, bien que les commentateurs de Pausanias aient hésité sur l’identité du sculpteur qui l’a réalisée. L’histoire de Bryas apparaît ainsi comme l’aition que Pausanias a pu recueillir au sujet de l’offrande d’une statue qu’il a vue et qui fut érigée dans des circonstances que nous pouvons reconstituer grâce à des sources dont la plus ancienne remonte à l’époque des événements. Bryas est un nom attesté à Argos et ailleurs et ce personnage a peut-être existé42. Toutefois l’historicité du récit de son aveuglement a été contestée, à juste titre, par les historiens et les commentateurs, parce qu’il s’harmonise mal avec le compte rendu de Thucydide et à cause de son caractère romancé. Dans le récit recueilli par Pausanias, le peuple, sous le coup de la colère, fit périr les Mille jusqu’au dernier. Thucydide rapporte les choses autrement. 37 Cf. Thuk. 5,67,2: Ἀργείων οἱ χίλιοι λογάδες, οἱ ἐκ πολλοῦ ἄσκησιν τῶν ἐς τὸν πόλεμον δημοσίᾳ παρεῖχε. Diod. 12,75,7. Diodore date la création du corps d’élite de 421, mais ἐκ πολλοῦ indique qu’on n’avait pas attendu la fin de la trêve de 30 ans pour créer le bataillon des Mille. Cf. Piérart (2004). 38 Cf. Thuk. 5,81,2. 39 Aristot. pol. 1304b25. Cf. Diod. 12,75,7. Sur le putsch de 418/417, cf. Gehrke (1985) 26–31. 40 Thuk. 5,82 [été 417]. 41 Cf. au sein d’une abondante bibliographie Burkert (1985) 201. Dans l’affaire du skytalismos (vide infra), la tradition rapporte qu’en entendant la nouvelle du massacre, les Athéniens auraient ordonné des purifications: Plut. mor. 814B. 42 Cf. LGPN 3.A s. v.

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La victoire de Sparte avait invité les adversaires du régime démocratique à se dévoiler et les Argiens ne furent pas tendres avec eux: ceux des oligarques qui purent s’enfuir trouvèrent refuge à Phlionte, qu’Argos attaqua régulièrement par la suite43. Après la signature d’un nouveau pacte avec Athènes, 300 suspects furent déportés dans les îles. Les Athéniens devaient les livrer par la suite aux Argiens pour qu’ils les fassent périr44. D’autres purges eurent lieu. Ornéai, qui avait compté jusque là parmi les alliés d’Argos, fut détruite, parce que les Lacédémoniens y avaient installé leurs partisans45. D’après Thucydide, en 417, les démocrates attendirent le moment où les Lacédémoniens célébraient les Gymnopédies pour attaquer les oligarques. Dans le récit de Pausanias, la colère du peuple éclate à propos d’un acte précis, imprévisible, l’outrage commis par le chef des Mille envers une jeune fille du peuple. Les traités de politique insistaient sur le fait que des révolutions pouvaient avoir pour origine des différends privés et, parmi les exemples donnés, les affaires de famille occupent une place non négligeable46. De ce point de vue, nous resterions encore dans les limites du vraisemblable. Les traits qui l’enjolivent sont beaucoup plus suspects. Arrachée à son fiancé le soir même de ses noces, la jeune héroïne de l’histoire est contrainte de s’offrir au chef des Mille, mais la nuit même de ces noces forcées, elle réitère l’exploit des filles de Danaos, à un détail près: elle se contente d’aveugler son compagnon au lieu de lui couper la tête. Dans une étude récente47, P. Sauzeau a émis l’hypothèse que le conte de Bryas s’inscrit dans une tradition très ancienne interprétée dans un sens démocratique. Les λογάδες y «apparaissent comme des troupes de jeunes guerriers incontrôlables, arrogants, hubristiques, tentés par la violence déréglée, par le combat rusé. […] Ils s’identifient ainsi à des groupes mythiques, euxmêmes ‘reflet’ d’institutions archaïques, confréries de jeunes ou de guerriers initiés aux mystères inquiétants de la guerre.»48 Sauzeau rapproche Βρύας de βύας, le hibou, dont le nom est parfois déformé en βρύας dans nos sources, ce qui expliquerait l’aveuglement du guerrier d’élite, en fait un guerrier-hibou, par cette nouvelle «Danaïde» restée pour nous anonyme49. Les effets de la colère du peuple contre les Mille, dans le récit de l’aveuglement de Bryas, sont décrits comme un acte unique, qui fait plutôt penser 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

Thuk. 5,115,1 [été 416]; 116,1 [hiver 416/5]; 6,105,3 [été 414]. Thuk. 5,84,1 [été 416]; 6,61,3 [été 415]. Thuk. 6,7,1 sq. [hiver 416–415]. Cf. Aristot. pol. 1303b17 sq.; Plut. mor. 824F–G. Sauzeau (2008). Sauzeau (2008) 2 sq. Bechtel, HPN et Chantraine, expliquent le nom par βρύω, «déborder, foisonner, se gonfler».

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à la violence extrême qui éclatera lors de l’affaire du skytalismos, en 370/6950: le souvenir de ce second épisode sanglant a pu influencer le premier51. Nous manquons peut-être d’arguments pour faire de ce récit un mythe archaïque passé dans l’histoire, mais il n’est pas douteux que son auteur s’est inspiré du mythe des Danaïdes. L’aition, ainsi recomposé, tout en contenant l’événement dans des limites plausibles – la dédicace d’une statue dans le cadre des purifications rendues nécessaires à la suite des émeutes sanglantes provoquées par le viol d’une fille du peuple par le chef de la faction au pouvoir –, introduisait dans l’histoire la part de merveilleux52 propre à charmer ceux qui l’écoutaient.

La mort de Pyrrhos On peut ajouter à la liste l’épisode de la mort de Pyrrhos à Argos, tel que les Argiens en gardaient le souvenir à l’époque de la visite de Pausanias. En 272 avant J.-C., Phyrrhos l’Epirote se trouvait dans les parages de Sparte, où il tentait de ramener Cléonymos, un aventurier de sang royal, lorsqu’il reçut un appel d’Argos. C’est là qu’Antigone Gonatas, qui voulait porter secours à Sparte, le rencontra. D’après le récit de Plutarque, venant de Sparte par la Cynourie, Pyrrhos pénétra dans la plaine d’Argos par le Sud et établit son camp dans les environs de Nauplie, alors que les troupes d’Antigone occupaient les hauteurs dominant la plaine au Nord. La nuit, les partisans de Pyrrhos ouvrirent à ses Gaulois la porte de Diampérès, mais, à cause du bruit qu’ont fait les éléphants, l’alerte fut donnée et les Argiens se réfugièrent sur les hauteurs au-dessus du théâtre. A l’aube, Pyrrhos pénétra en ville par la porte de la Cylarabis. Refoulé de l’agora, il fut obligé de battre en retraite au milieu de la plus grande confusion. Il périt dans un combat de rue, tout près du tombeau de Licymnios, frappé à la tête par une tuile lancée d’un toit par une vieille femme53. Au cours de son itinéraire argien, Pausanias explique54: L’édifice de marbre blanc qui se trouve juste au milieu de l’agora n’est pas un trophée de la victoire sur Pyrrhos l’Epirote, comme le prétendent les Argiens, mais on pourrait démontrer que, sa dépouille ayant été incinérée à cet endroit, il s’agit 50 Diod. 15,57,3–58. Cf. Gehrke (1985) 31–33. 51 Lors de l’affaire du skytalismos, le peuple, excité par les démagogues finit par étendre sa vengeance à toute la classe des possédants: plus de 1200 citoyens furent mis à mort (Diod. 15,58,3). On notera que les manuscrits hésitent sur le chiffre πλειόνων ἢ χιλίων καὶ διακοσίων, πλειόνων ἢ χιλίων, πλειόνων ἢ χιλίων καὶ ἑξακοσίων. Plut. mor. 814B, donne le chiffre de 1500. N’aurait-on pas pu confondre, à un moment donné, les deux événements? 52 Cf. Thuk. 1,21,1: τὸ μυθῶδες. 53 Plut. Pyrrh. 32–34. Cf. Piérart (1990a). 54 Paus. 2,21,4.

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là d’un mémorial, sur lequel sont représentés, parmi les armes qu’utilisait Pyrrhos pour le combat, les éléphants. Cet édifice a été érigé à l’endroit du bûcher; les ossements de Pyrrhos sont déposés dans le sanctuaire de Déméter, près de l’endroit où il trouva sa fin, comme je l’ai montré dans l’Atthis. A l’entrée de ce sanctuaire de Déméter, on peut voir un bouclier de bronze de Pyrrhos suspendu au dessus de la porte.

Voici le récit qu’avait fait auparavant le Périégète55: Comme Antigone se préparait à mener son armée d’Argos en Laconie, Pyrrhos était déjà arrivé à Argos. Il remporte un nouveau succès et poursuit les fuyards jusque dans la ville. Pyrrhos alors se trouva isolé et le voici blessé à la tête. C’est, dit-on, une tuile lancée par une femme qui le tua. Les Argiens, eux, prétendent que la meurtrière n’était pas une femme, mais Déméter qui avait pris l’apparence d’une femme. Voilà ce que disent les Argiens pour la mort de Pyrrhos, ce qu’a dit aussi dans un poème épique Lykéas, l’interprète des traditions locales. Et chez eux, en vertu de l’oracle du dieu, l’endroit où Pyrrhos trouva la mort est consacré à Déméter. C’est la qu’est situé le tombeau de Pyrrhos.

«A Argos», écrit Plutarque, «deux factions divisaient la cité: celle d’Aristeas et celle d’Aristippos. Comme Aristippos passait pour être l’ami d’Antigone, Aristéas le prévint en appelant Pyrrhos à Argos.»56 Aristippos pourrait être le fils de cet Aristomachos qui, selon une reconstitution brillante d’Adolf Wilhelm, aida les Athéniens, en 301 ou un peu auparavant, à rétablir leur autorité sur le Pirée et les Longs Murs57. Il dut bien exercer quelque pouvoir personnel, peut-être dès 272: ses descendants, qui portaient alternativement les noms d’Aristomachos et d’Aristippos, sont les tyrans d’Argos dont Polybe nous a conservé le souvenir58. Dès lors tout s’éclaire. Les récits historiques, le mémorial en marbre blanc orné de ces éléphants qui durent frapper considérablement l’imagination des Argiens, la consécration du sanctuaire de Déméter, avec la caution d’un oracle qu’il ne fallut même pas chercher à Delphes, puisque les Argiens possédaient le leur sur les flancs de la Deiras59, tout cela forme un ensemble cohérent. Le parti promacédonien sut exploiter habilement l’impression que l’attaque nocturne de Pyrrhos avait faite sur les esprits60. Pausanias conclut l’ex-cursus qu’il consacre à l’Epirote au premier livre de la Périégèse par la réflexion suivante61: 55 56 57 58 59 60

Paus. 1,13,7 sq. (trad. J. Pouilloux). Plut. Pyrrh. 32. Wilhelm (1974). Sur ces tyrans, cf. Wilhelm (1909) 110–112. Cf. M. Piérart (1990b). Cf. M. Piérart (1990a). Il semble qu’Antigone Gonatas ait eu pour politique de favoriser l’installation dans le Péloponnèse de tyrans qui lui étaient favorables, mais la chronologie de cette politique fait problème. 61 Paus. 1,13,9 (trad. J. Pouilloux).

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Pour moi je reste interdit en voyant que ces membres de cette famille dite des Eacides sont morts de même façon par le fait d’un dieu […]. Il y a pourtant une version différente, comme Hiéronymos de Cardia l’a racontée dans ses écrits: quand on vit à la cour d’un roi, il faut nécessairement écrire l’histoire pour l’agrément de celui-ci.

Plutarque fournit le récit le plus détaillé de ces événements. Il décrit longuement les combats de rue où les femmes, les enfants et les vieillards durent prendre une part active. Hiéronymos de Cardia faisait sûrement partie des auteurs dont il s’est servi, mais il fit aussi la part belle, comme je me suis efforcé de le montrer, à des sources locales dont il est, en dernier ressort, tributaire: ainsi s’explique la grande précision des détails topographiques que le texte contient62. Plutarque accepte la version selon laquelle l’Epirote est assommé par une tuile lancée d’un toit par une vieille femme, mais il se garde bien de reconnaître en elle la déesse ! Des travaux des érudits locaux, Pausanias n’en nomme qu’un seul: Lycéas, auquel il se réfère à quelques reprises. La piété du Périégète est bien connue: l’oracle, en ordonnant l’érection du sanctuaire, garantissait la version des Argiens. La liste des épiphanies divines à l’époque historique est longue63. A Argos même, à la fin du IVe siècle, un thiase honorait le souvenir de la nuit où Apollon avait chassé d’Argos le frère de Cassandre, Pleistarchos et sa garnison64. Apollon est la divinité poliade et son intervention ne saurait surprendre. «La piété envers ces dieux n’est pas routine», disait L. Robert65, en commentant une autre épiphanie célèbre, «mais appel au secours pour la survie et la conservation. Il en sera ainsi jusqu’à la fin du monde antique: Athéna Promachos apparaîtra sur les remparts d’Athènes assiégée par Alaric.» Il reste que l’apparition de Déméter garde quelque chose d’étrange. Quand Pyrrhos guerroyait en Italie, à Locres, ses troupes avaient pillé un sanctuaire de Perséphone, ce qui suffirait à justifier le μήνιμα de la déesse66. Peutêtre l’intervention de Déméter s’explique-t-elle par la popularité croissante de son culte à l’époque hellénistique, parce qu’on se trouve dans un quartier d’habitations, où Déméter, déguisée en vieille femme, était chez elle?67 62 63 64 65 66

Piérart (1990a); Hornblower, J. (1981) 70–74, 248. On en trouvera un grand nombre dans Roussel (1931). Cf. Prittchett (1979) 11–46. Cf. Piérart (1987). Robert (1989) 716. Dion. Hal. ant. 20,9. Je n’en ai pas fait état parce que ni Plutarque ni Pausanias, que ce genre d’événements fascinait, n’y font allusion. 67 Le fait même qu’il s’agisse de Déméter plaide en faveur d’une origine populaire de cette tradition: les tenants du pouvoir auraient fait intervenir Apollon. La croyance que Déméter était intervenue en personne pour hâter la fin de Pyrrhos a dû se répandre très vite à Argos.

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Conclusions Ces récits se rapportent tous à des événements que les Argiens considéraient comme historiques, même si l’on pouvait discuter tel ou tel détail. Une analyse approfondie exigerait qu’on élargisse l’examen à d’autres cités. Je crois cependant qu’on peut tirer, dès à présent, quelques conclusions: elles portent sur les limites dans lesquelles est contenue l’imagination des auteurs de ces récits, les modèles dont ils ont pu s’inspirer, les structures mentales qui en gouvernent l’élaboration. 1. Toutes les fondations portent sur des coutumes vestimentaires, des usages de deuil ou l’érection d’un temple, d’une statue, d’un autel. Ce sont des faits et gestes qui appartiennent au quotidien des Grecs. Parmi les récits étiologiques qu’on vient de passer en revue, c’est le dernier qui, en dépit des apparences, fait le moins de problème: la croyance dans les apparitions divines étant largement répandue dans le monde grec, même parmi les intellectuels, la version des faits que retient Pausanias reste parfaitement plausible. Dans l’émotion qui a suivi l’attaque de l’Epirote, le bruit a pu se répandre assez vite qu’il était mort frappé par une tuile lancée d’un toit par une vieille femme et que celle-ci n’était autre que Déméter. Le parti pro-macédonien, avec à sa tête Aristippos, qui s’est emparé du pouvoir à ce moment-là, a fait ériger un trophée monumental sur l’agora et consacré à Déméter, le long de la rue menant à la porte de Cylarabis, un sanctuaire. Nous ne sortons pas non plus de l’histoire avec l’érection sur l’agora d’une statue en marbre de Zeus Meilichios, due au ciseau d’un des Polyclète, qui s’inscrit parmi les καθάρσια accomplis à la suite d’un bain de sang, la révolution de 418/417 d’après Pausanias. Mais l’aition qui l’explique est peu crédible. 2. Si les auteurs de ces récits entendent les maintenir dans des limites raisonnables, ils ne s’interdisent pas de les enjoliver, ἐπὶ τὸ μεῖζον κοσμοῦντες, comme disait Thucydide68. Le récit de l’aveuglement de Bryas relève clairement de la pseudo-histoire, soit qu’on y décèle un mythe archaïque passé dans l’histoire, soit qu’il s’agisse simplement d’une affabulation dont le souvenir de la geste des Danaïdes a fourni le modèle. C’est la même épopée, si l’on suit Clément d’Alexandrie, qui a servi de modèle à l’exploit des femmes d’Argos qu’évoque Pausanias à propos du relief représentant Télésilla qu’il a vu dans le sanctuaire d’Aphrodite. Les récits pseudo-historiques, lorsqu’ils franchissent, pensons-nous, les bornes de la vraisemblance, ne font souvent que transposer dans le passé des hommes des modèles épiques. 3. Mais les épopées ne véhiculent pas uniquement des ἔργα μεγάλα τε καὶ θωμαστά selon l’expression d’Hérodote69 à l’aune desquels on pouvait mesurer les faits et gestes des hommes, quitte à les inventer, s’ils n’étaient 68 Thuk.1,21,1. 69 Hdt. 1,1.

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pas assez beaux. Les mythes fournissaient aussi des cadres de pensée à travers lesquels on pouvait tenter de comprendre les événements humains. Si, comme je le pense, le mythe des Danaïdes se déroulait à l’origine sur le modèle des fêtes de Nouvel An suivant une phase de dissolution ou de récession au chaos primitif, on comprend mieux le schéma qui est à l’œuvre dans la geste de Télésilla70. Il ne faut pas perdre de vue la dimension apocalyptique que représentaient aux yeux des anciens des évocations comme celles d’un gouvernement des esclaves ou de leur union avec des femmes libres71. La bataille de Sépeia et l’anéantissement de l’armée argienne a été vécue à Argos comme un traumatisme profond, dont la cité n’a pu se relever qu’au prix de changements institutionnels radicaux. Les bouleversements profonds qu’a connus Argos après l’expédition de Cléomène pouvaient apparaître à un esprit religieux comme un retour au chaos originel. La reconquête, une génération plus tard, du territoire argien et l’instauration d’un régime démocratique impliquant l’incorporation, dans le corps des citoyens d’éléments nouveaux était une vraie renaissance. Les structures mentales que Lévi-Strauss appelle mythèmes et Mircea Eliade archétypes peuvent ainsi permettre de comprendre les événements historiques. Sans l’oracle épicène, l’histoire de Télésilla – une femme qui faisait métier d’homme – n’aurait sans doute jamais vu le jour. Cette légende a été construite sur le modèle du mythe de Danaos et de ses filles, qui a beaucoup inspiré les démocrates argiens. Elle a pu être imaginée parce qu’elle permettait de donner tout leur sens à la plus grande catastrophe dont les Argiens gardaient le souvenir ainsi qu’aux changements politiques profonds qui allaient marquer le début de la renaissance de leur cité. La charge émotive que ces événements contenaient conduisit naturellement à y chercher l’origine des rites d’inversion que l’on continuait de pratiquer à Argos du temps de la démocratie et qui ne pouvaient trouver d’explication satisfaisante que dans des situations extrêmes où les rôles des sexes (épisode de Télésilla) ou des classes sociales (interregnum servile) étaient échangés.

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Scott (2005). – Lionel Scott, Historical Commentary on Herodotus Book 6, Mnemosyne 268 (Leiden 2005). Stadter (1965). – Philip A. Stadter, Plutarch’s Historical Methods. An Analysis of the Mulierum Virtutes (Cambridge, Mass. 1965). Tomlinson (1972). – Richard A. Tomlinson, Argos and the Argolid from the End of the Bronze Age to the Roman Occupation (London 1972). Valdés Guía (2005). – Miriam Valdés Guía, «La batalla de Sepea y las Hybristika: culto, mito y ciudadanía en la sociedad argiva», Gerión 23 (2005) 101–114. Vollgraff (1934). – Wilhelm Vollgraff, «Une offrande à Enyalios», BCH 58 (1934) 138–156. Wilamowitz (1900). – Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, Die Textgeschichte der griechischen Lyriker (Berlin 1900). Wilhelm (1909). – Adolf Wilhelm, Beiträge zur griechischen Inschriftenkunde (Wien 1909). Wilhelm (1974). – Adolf Wilhelm, Akademieschriften, vol. 1 (Leipzig 1974) 475–494. Wörrle (1964). – Michaël Wörrle, Untersuchungen zur Verfassungsgeschichte von Argos im 5. Jahrhundert vor Christus (Stuttgart 1964).

Zeus’ Own Country: Cult and Myth in the Pride of Halicarnassus jan n. bremmer

In the summer of 1975 I attended a conference on the history of religion in Lancaster in the United Kingdom. Among the participants I noted a certain Fritz Graf, whom I identified as the author of a book on Orpheus which Mnemosyne had just asked me to review1. I introduced myself, and we have been friends ever since. It was our great fortune to start at a time when Walter Burkert and Jean-Pierre Vernant with his Parisian équipe were busily renovating the study of Greek religion. Fritz has played an important role in this process with his many books and articles. As he has become of late Director of Ohio State’s Center for Epigraphical and Palaeographical Studies, I would like to offer him some thoughts on a recently discovered inscription in which cult and myth, subjects dear to his heart, still pose some interesting questions: The Pride of Halicarnassus. This inscription was discovered on an ancient wall on the east slope of the promontory of Kaplan Kalesi or Salmakis in Bodrum in 1995 and published with commendable speed by Signe Isager. It is written in the form of an elegy, a genre that was also used for longer songs about local history2. The poem has since received important commentaries from Isager herself, Hugh Lloyd-Jones, Giovanni Battista d’Alessio, the late Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, Renaud Gagné, and others3. These contributions have elucidated many aspects of the poem, but it may still be possible to add some new thoughts. I will follow the order of the inscription in the translation of Lloyd-Jones, if occasionally adapted.

1 2 3

Bremmer (1974), review of Graf (1974). Bowie (1986); Aloni (2001) 89 f. See particularly Isager (1998); Lloyd-Jones (1999a), (1999b); D’Alessio (2004); Sourvinou-Inwood (2004); Gagné (2006).

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1. Aphrodite Schoinitis (1–4) Tell me, Schoinitis, dear tamer of [mortals]4, you, Kypris, who brings close to us Desires scented with myrrh, what is it that brings honour to Halicarnassus? For I have never been told this. What words does she utter when she proudly boasts?

The text starts with the request to Aphrodite to relate to us the great deeds of Halicarnassus, which is rather unusual, as we would have expected the Muses or Apollo in that position. Moreover, Aphrodite’s epithet Schoinitis, “She of the Reeds”, is very rare. Lycophron (832) knew an (Aphrodite) Schoinitis, which the scholiast explains as “Aphrodite in Samos”. Slings detects here the influence of the school of Euphorion with its preference for names ending on -itês or -itis 5, but we also find a similarly formed epithet of Aphrodite, Doritis, on Samos (Paus. 1.1.3), which was not that far from Halicarnassus. In addition, Aphrodite was worshipped in Samos as Aphrodite “In the Reeds” and “In the marsh”, a cult founded by Athenian courtesans during Pericles’ 440/439 siege of Samos, as the local historian Alexis (FGrH 539 F 1) relates. These parallels suggest that the poet was inspired by the Samian cult of Aphrodite. Reeds must have been present along the coast of Caria, as there was a sinus Schoenus, “Reed Gulf ”, near the Carian city of Hyla6. This means that the epithet had a topographical significance, just like Aphrodite’s Samian epithet “In the Reeds” and her epithet en kêpois in Athens7. We simply do not know if Schoinitis was an invention of our poet or a rare local epithet. Yet it seems important to note that the epithet, which introduces the goddess in the poem, had a local significance. That is perhaps also what we should expect in our poem. Its main focus is Halicarnassus with its cults and literary luminaries. It would be somewhat out of place to start here with a general Aphrodite. Only after this local reference is Aphrodite invoked as Kypris, exactly in the same position as in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, which was fairly popular in Hellenistic times. One may wonder if Aphrodite’s function as tamer is not also derived from the Homeric Hymn, where the theme occurs several times8. In our poem, the name Aphrodite does not occur, and this is also typically Hellenistic: Apollonius uses only Kypris9. 4 5 6 7 8 9

I follow here the suggestion βροτοίσιν by Simon Slings (2002) 12 n. 4, which is independently also suggested by D’Alessio (2004) 44. Slings (2002) 6 f. Pomponius Mela 1.84; Plin. nat. 5.104. Pirenne-Delforge (1994) 48–66. Hom. h. Aphrod. 3, 17, 251 with Faulkner ad loc.; Pironti (2007) 48 f. Faulkner (2008) 50 f. (Hellenistic popularity), 75 (name of goddess).

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2. Zeus and the Kouretes (5–14) She brought forth an illustrious crop of earth-born (gêgeneôn) men, to sit beside (parhedron) mighty Zeus Akraios, who first in secret placed the new-born child of Rhea, Zeus, beneath the hollow ridge, fostering (atitallomenoi) him in the chamber (adytoisin) of Gaia, when Kronos of the crooked counsels had failed to get him into the depths beneath his throat in time. And Father Zeus made the sons of Gaia honoured priests (orgeiônas), who are the servants (prospoloi) of his ineffable house (arrhêtôn domôn). Nor was the reward they got from Zeus one of ingratitude, for they got good things in return for their good deeds.

The enumeration of gods and heroes starts with Zeus, who seems to have been the most important god of Caria and whose origin must predate the coming of the Greeks10. Yet here too the poet starts with mentioning Zeus Akraios, the local Zeus and probably the most important god of the city, whose name is attested in several inscriptions11. Akraios refers to Zeus in his function as god of mountains and mountaintops, which was a pan-Hellenic quality of his12. As an epithet of Zeus, Akraios can be found in several cities of Caria13. It seems that the poet in this section offers information about the present cultic situation but also tries to appropriate the pan-Hellenic myth of the birth of Zeus. However, his elusive language, so typical of Alexandrian poetry, makes it somewhat difficult to disentangle cult from myth. The latter is the easiest to distinguish in this section. The birth of Zeus was traditionally located on Crete14, as we already find in Hesiod’s Theogony (477–484). Yet Hesiod does not yet connect the Kouretes with Zeus15, which may have been too local a myth for him. In fact, it is rather striking how late we hear about Kouretes on Crete, whose presence does not occur before Euripides’ works, throughout which the Kouretes appear several times. Whereas in his Cretans (F 472.14 Kannicht) they only dance with the Mountain Mother, they are connected with the raising of Zeus on Crete in the Hypsipyle (F 752g.23 f. Kannicht) and the Bacchae (120–122). The early 4thcentury (?) pseudepigraphical mythographer Epimenides, whose work we see only through the prism of Diodorus Siculus, already seems to have mentioned their protective role (F 4 Fowler = Diod. 5.65). But his combining 10 11 12 13 14 15

Schaefer (1912). Laumonier (1958) 628–635. Graf (1985) 37–39, 202 f.; Parker (1996) 29–33. Schwabl (1972) 265 f.; add SEG 46.1405 (Herakleia under Latmos). For all testimonies see Margherita Guarducci on IC 3.ii.2. Note that Fritz Graf has written several times about the historical and mythical Kouretes: (1985) 417; (1999); (2002) 239 and (2003) 247–250.

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of Kouretes with Korybantes (T 1 Fowler) suggests Euripidean and/or, perhaps, late 5th-century ritual developments in which the Kouretes seem to have become combined with the Korybantes, who originally came from Asia Minor16. We do not find a more detailed account before Callimachus’ Hymn to Zeus (52–54), but the myth’s local origin is guaranteed by the famous hymn of Palaikastro on Zeus and the Kouretes, the text of which seems to go back to the 4th century BC17. On a ritual level, the Kouretes were groups of young men on the brink of adulthood, as Hermann Usener first saw in 1894, but their once widespread associations had survived only in marginal areas of the Greek world, such as Acarnania, Messene and Aetolia18. Yet the connection of the term “Kouretes” with the process of coming of age was still felt in the Hellenistic period (re. the Greek-Egyptian term mallokourêtes)19. An interesting detail given by Diodorus (5.65: Epimenides?) is that there were nine Kouretes, a number confirmed by the fact that Orphics called the number nine Kourêtis (OF 701 Bernabé). The number clearly is an old feature that must go back to a historical reality, as we already see many groups of nine warriors in the Iliad20. Another interesting detail of the Kouretes that is supplied by both Diodorus (5.65) and Strabo (10.3.19) – thus eventually going back to Apollodorus (Jacoby on FGrH 468 F 1) – is their qualification “earth-born”, which recurs in our inscription (5). This qualification firmly ties them to Crete. In his description of the role of the Kouretes, our poet partially follows Hesiod. This is especially clear from the term atitallomenoi (8), which alludes to Theogony (480). Lloyd-Jones translates it as “caring”, but that is not precise enough. The verb is almost always used for raising a child that is not one’s own and refers to the practice of fostering21. Is it chance that we find the noun atitaltas, “fosterer”, (IC 4.15 a-b 1) only on Crete? Our poet also derives the role of Gaia (9) from the Theogony (479); however, the place where Zeus is cared for, the adyta of Gaia, is an interesting variation of Hesiod’s “hidden places of the holy earth” (theog. 483).

16 The best discussion of the Korybantes is Graf (1985) 319–332; see also Lindner (1997). 17 For text, translation and commentary see Furley/Bremer (2001) vol. 1, 67–76; vol. 2, 1–20. For a full enumeration of the Cretan worship of the Kouretes see Sporn (2002) 389. 18 Usener (1913) 188–191; Jeanmaire (1939). 19 P. Oxy. 24.2407, cf. Legras (1993). 20 Hom. Il. 5.519–560; 7.161; 8.273–279; 9.299–305; 13.90–94, 125–135, 690–700, 790–802; 14.442–522; many more, also Irish, passages in Singor (1988) 18–34. 21 See Faulkner on Hom. h. Aphrod. 114 f. The objections of Beekes (1976) 60 f. (“Appendix: Gr. Atitallō”) are not convincing. For fostering see most recently Bremmer (1999).

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But what is the status of the Kouretes in our inscription? The poet calls them agakleas orgeiônas (11), parhedron (6) and prospoloi (12). Regarding the first term, Lloyd-Jones has rightly drawn attention to Antimachus of Colophon’s †γενεᾷ Καβάρνους θῆκεν ἀγακλέας ὀργειῶνας (fr. 67 Wyss/ West = 78 Matthews), which our poet evidently alludes to. In this passage ὀργειῶνας clearly refers to “priests”, as we know that the priests of Demeter on Paros were called Kabarnoi22. Yet normally orgeones are not priests, but members of a private cultic organisation devoted to the worship of a god or a hero23. Although we may translate the term as “priests”, following Lloyd-Jones, we should not push its poetic usage as a precise description of a religious function. This is also illustrated by the presence of two other qualifications of the Kouretes. Their crop is called a parhedros of Zeus (6). Lloyd-Jones translates this position with “to lodge beside”, but that does not really do justice to its meaning. To be a parhedros clearly is to be in a privileged position. This becomes clear from Apollonius of Rhodes’ description of Titias and Kyllenos, who alone are called parhedroi of Meter Dindymia of the many Cretan (!) Idaean Dactyloi (1.1126–1129). Other privileged parhedroi are Hermes of Aphrodite (I. Knidos 21.1), Nemesis of Dike24, and a deceased of Death (MAMA 9.547). The Kouretes are also “prospoloi of his ineffable house”. We may wonder whether the poet did not choose the term on purpose, as the Kouretes are actually said by Eustathius (Il. 2.788) to be ἐν Κρήτῃ πρόπολοι Διός, “servants of Zeus on Crete” and by Strabo (10.3.19) to be πρόπολοι θεῶν, “servants of the gods”, in his excursus on the Kouretes. It may well be that the poet found this expression in earlier poetry, the more so as prospolos, unlike propolos, does not seem to occur in prose before the turn of the Christian era. In any case, the conclusion of our discussion must be that the Kouretes are not so much priests as close companions of Zeus. The question, then, is: do we find them elsewhere in that position in Asia Minor? Kouretes were not only well known as religious functionaries (not priests) in Ephesos25, but were also the subject of worship in several cities, notably in Termessos (TAM 3.194) and in Miletus, where we even find priestesses of the Kouretes in Roman times26. Whereas in these cities they are worshipped as a group alone, we find the Kouretes combined with Zeus Kretagenes in

22 23 24 25 26

Aesch. F 144 Radt; Hesych. κ 8 Latte. Parker (1996) 109–111, 333, 337–340; Arnaoutoglou (2003). Milet I 9, no. 365, a variation of Plat. leg. 717d3: Δίκης Νέμεσις ἄγγελος. Cf. Graf (1999); Bremmer (2008b) 50–52 (“The Kouretes”). I. Didyma 182, 239, 388, 486 (?), cf. Van Bremen (1996) 93; for a male priest see I. Didyma 579.

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neighbouring Mylasa, Olymos and Amyzon27, and, in turn, with Basileus in Priene28. In Caria, however, their number had been reduced from nine to three: Labrandos, Panamoros and (S)Palaxos29. The first two clearly derived from the important Carian cults of Zeus Labraundos and Zeus Panamaros. The latter may have been connected with Aphrodisias where a coin has been found with Zeus Spaloxos, although an altar for Zeus Spaloxios has also been found elsewhere30. The Kouretes, then, had been thoroughly appropriated by the Carians, but Halicarnassus took one step further. It not only appropriated the figures of the Kouretes but even their role in the birth of Zeus: Halicarnassus was promoting itself as Zeus’ own country! In this, the Halicarnassians were not unique: we find Zeus’ birth with the Kouretes not only on the frieze of Hecate’s temple at Lagina31, but the birth of Zeus and the Kouretes were also claimed by Sardis (Eumelus F 10 Fowler = Lyd. mens. 4.71), which shows that the process of appropriation had already started in the classical era. As Gagné saw32, the expression arrhêtôn domôn (12), clearly refers to a kind of mystery cult. In this connection we have to come back to the term adytoisin (9), which we already mentioned. Lloyd-Jones translates it as “shrine”, but that is only partially correct33. An adyton could be either a separate chamber in temples of Artemis34, or an underground room, as in sanctuaries of Athena (Paus. 7.27.2), Asclepius, Trophonios35, Isis (Paus. 10.32.18), Glykon (Lucian. Alex. 19) or even Dionysos (Paus. 10.33.11). It is not surprising, therefore, that the lexicographers define adyton as “cave or the hidden part of the temple”36. Now in the cases of Asclepius and Trophonius, the initiation into their cults carry strong overtones of the Mysteries, as Pierre Bonnechere has persuasively argued37, and both cults had an adyton, as we have seen. In Sardis, “mystai and therapeutai of Zeus” had access to his adyton (Herrmann 1996). It seems not improbable that there was a similar group of worshippers in Halicarnassus with privileged access to the adyton of Zeus’ 27 I. Mylasa 102, 107, 806 (Olymos). Zeus Kretagenes without Kouretes: I. Amyzon (ed. L. Robert) 14 f. 28 I. Priene 186. I. Chios *1 is probably part of the same complex, cf. Graf (1985) 118–120. 29 Etym. m. s. v. Εὕδωνος. 30 Schwabl (1972) 360; add now SEG 33.857. 31 Schober (1933); Junghölter (1989). 32 Gagné (2006) 11 f. 33 Cf. Hollinshead (1999); Pirenne-Delforge (2008) 171 f. 34 Cole (2004) 200. 35 Asclepius: IG IV(2) 1.128.30 (Isyllus); SEG 47.1403, cf. Melfi (2007). Trophonios: Paus. 4.16.7; Etym. gen. β 220. 36 Hesych. α 1221 Latte; Phot. α 397 Theod.; Suda α 542 Adler; Etym. m. s. v. Ἀδύτῳ. 37 Bonnechere (2003a) and (2003b) passim.

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local temple. Unfortunately, we do not know anything at all about the actual ritual, but the fact that the Kouretes received ἐσθλά (14) in return for their good deeds strongly suggests that this would have also been the promised reward for the local initiates and worshippers of Zeus.

3. Salmakis and Hermaphroditos (15–22) She (Halicarnassus) settled the rock dear to the gods by the celebrated sweet stream of Salmakis38, and she dwells in the desirable home of the nymph, who once took our boy in her delightful arms and reared Hermaphroditos the all-excellent, he who invented marriage and was the first to bind couples by law. And she herself beneath the holy waters in the cave that she pours forth makes gentle the savage minds of men.

After Zeus and the Kouretes, the author rather abruptly shifts to the myth of Salmakis and Hermaphroditos. The episode starts with an interesting statement about the colonisation of Halicarnassus. According to the poet, Halicarnassus originated on the rock Salmakis (16 f.). This characterisation of Salmakis as a rock must be correct, as Vitruvius (2.8.11, 13) locates the spring of Salmakis close by the temple of Hermes and Aphrodite, which, according to him, was situated on the western promontory, although no trace of it has been found39. From an early Halicarnassian inscription we know that in the middle of the 5th century BC the city still consisted of two communities, Greeks and men of Salmakis40. It seems reasonable to infer that the latter were Carians, the more so as the spring is associated with Greeks and Carians by Vitruvius (2.8.12). In addition, Salmakis probably is a name with an Anatolian component. In his new Lycian dictionary, under the heading salma-, Neumann compares two names found in inscriptions: Pone-selmos and Selma-moas41. He suggests an etymological connection with Luwian zalma-, an element of Luwian names (Huhha-zalma-, Tarhuntazalma-), which should indeed give salma- in Lycian and Carian. Unfortunately, the meaning of this zalma- is not assured42, and the present fragmentary state 38 For the first two lines I follow the translation of D’Alessio (2004) 47. 39 Vitr. 2.8.11, 13; similarly, Arr. an. 1.23.4: τὴν Σαλμακίδα, ἄκραν οὕτω καλουμένην; Hornblower (1982) 303. 40 Meiggs/Lewis (1988) 32, cf. Gschnitzer (1961); Hornblower (1982) 85 f. who in n. 62 wrongly compares Steph. Byz. s. v. Salmakis as proof of its Carian nature. 41 Neumann (2007) 309 f. Poneselmos: TAM 2.3. 1207, cf. Zgusta (1964) 436 at § 1288-4. Selmamoas: SEG 53.1715, cf. Zgusta (1964) 451 f. at §§ 1358-4,5 and 1360-1,2 n. 15; for Pisidian Salmon add SEG 53.1603. 42 For a possible explanation see Melchert (1988) 241–243.

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of our Carian knowledge does not allow us to make any progress at this point43. In any case, the poem situates the Greek colonisation in genuinely Carian area, of which the original inhabitants are nowhere mentioned. In the description of the myth, three aspects stand out: first, Salmakis reared Hermaphroditos; second, the latter invented marriage in the proper, legal manner; and, third, Salmakis civilizes wild people. In short, both Salmakis and Hermaphroditos seem to be very respectable, civilizing divinities, thus fitting the beginning of our poem where Aphrodite is invoked in a civilizing capacity. This is too nice to be true, and it clearly is not true, as we will see shortly. But how should we approach this myth? The most ambitious attempt to reconstruct a full myth of Salmakis and Hermaphroditos has been attempted by Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood. Her contribution aimed “to set the parameters for the reconstruction of the Halikarnassian myth of Hermaphroditos and Salmakis refracted in our poem”, as well as it attempted “to reconstruct the meanings which this myth had in the eyes of the ancient Halikarnassians”44. Both attempts are elaborated in a powerful manner and are once again testimony to the great loss the study of Greek religion has suffered with her death. Yet both are also mistaken, in my view45. To start with, reconstructions based on the complete absence of evidence are rarely convincing. In this case the reader would almost forget that we have no information at all about the Halicarnassian myth as reconstructed by Sourvinou-Inwood, let alone that we have any information about the meaning(s) attached to it. Her procedure is strongly reminiscent of New Testament scholars who confidently reconstruct the prime source of the synoptic Gospels, Q(uelle), and then proceed with reconstructing the congregation behind this imaginary Gospel. It is clear that we inevitably move on mythological quicksand in this manner. This is also clear from the fact that Sourvinou-Inwood does not pose the question of the chronology of the myth or the problem of the nature of the source of the “original” myth. How old is the myth of Hermaphroditos and Salmakis? And how was it related – in a poem, local mythography, a prose tale, or orally by priests? The latter question is irresolvable at present. The former, on the other hand, can be answered to some extent. The first time that Hermaphroditos, with the spelling Hermaphrôd[i]tos, is found in Athens is as the subject of a private votive relief that probably has to be dated to the early 4th century BC46; here he seems to have been adapted from the Cypriot Aphroditos, who is mentioned in Athenian com-

43 44 45 46

I am most grateful to Alwin Kloekhorst for linguistic advice at this point. Sourvinou-Inwood (2004) 64, 69, respectively. Mutatis mutandis, this is also true for the ritual speculations of Ragone (2001). See now the discussion of the chronology and text in SEG 40.195bis.

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edy from the later 5th century BC onwards47. We find Hermaphroditos next in Theophrastus’ Characters (16.4), which brings us to the last two decades of the 4th century48. Around the same time, we also find his first figurine49. The work of Cypriot Clearchus (fr. 86 Wehrli²), which also mentions him, cannot be exactly dated, but might be a bit later. In the first half of the 3rd century, Hermaphroditos seems to have advanced in status. He is now the subject of ridicule by the comicus Posidippus (F 12 PCG). Hermaphroditos is also mentioned in a list of deities (EV 18) on a domestic altar in Cos, which brings us geographically very close to Halicarnassus, and he is interpreted as Priapus by the Lycian geographer Mnaseas (Schol. Lucian. dial. deor. 23). In the second quarter of the 2nd century BC his statue apparently stood in an Athenian gymnasium (SEG 26.139.54), and around the same time he was introduced by Titinius (fr. 112 Ribbeck) on the Roman stage, possibly from Posidippus (Gellius 2.23.1). It is not until Diodorus Siculus (4.6.5) that we hear that, according to some mythographers, he is the son of Hermes and Aphrodite. In none of these passages is there even a hint of Halicarnassus. To postulate with Sourvinou-Inwood that Hermaphroditos was created in Halicarnassus in, presumably, the 5th century is therefore totally unpersuasive. It seems safer to accept that, like Attis, he was created in Athens at the time that “foreign gods” started to be worshipped in Athens50. What about the nymph Salmakis? She is not mentioned in our sources before our poem but also only rarely afterwards, and then only in Latin literature. Her spring is almost certainly mentioned by Ennius, whose allusive line, Salmacida spolia sine sudore et sanguine, that is, “spoils without any real masculine exploits”, is elucidated by other Greek and Roman sources51. The oldest of these is Vitruvius, probably followed shortly after by Strabo and Verrius Flaccus. Sourvinou-Inwood declares these to be “non Halikarnassian myths and accounts”52, but that is a curious argument. As we can easily see from Vitruvius’ description of Halicarnassus and its Mausoleum, Vitruvius had visited Halicarnassus53. He, therefore, is a first-hand witness of what priests or guides or loitering natives were telling foreigners. His information that the Halicarnassians believed the water of the spring of Salmakis to have an effeminizing effect on men confirms Ennius and is also mentioned by 47 Aristoph. F 325 PCG; Pherecrates F 184 PCG; Apollophanes F 6 PCG; Philochoros FGrH 328 F 184. 48 See Diggle (2003) 27–37, whose discussion of Hermaphroditus (366–368) is neither complete nor up-to-date as regards the editions of the inscriptions. 49 Ajootian (1990) no. 36. 50 Parker (1996) 345. For the creation of Attis see Bremmer (2008a) 267–302. 51 Ennius, trag. 347 Jocelyn, cf. Lloyd-Jones (1999b). 52 Sourvinou-Inwood (2004) 62. 53 Hornblower (1982) 231.

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Strabo, who seems to have visited the city as well, although his account of Halicarnassus contains a lacuna54. Vitruvius’ further information that the water also made men lewd is confirmed by Festus (p. 439.10 Lindsay), who brings us down to the time of Verrius Flaccus. This contemporary of Ovid must have had other material at his disposal, since he is the only one to call Salmakis the daughter of Heaven (Caelum) and Earth (Terra). From this evidence, I conclude that there was a tradition about the effeminizing effect of the spring of Salmakis that went back to the 3rd century BC at least. Now what about Hermaphroditos and Salmakis? It is only Ovid who gives us a fairly extensive description of their relationship in his Metamorphoses 55. According to Ovid, Hermaphroditos was a son of Hermes and Aphrodite and had a face which recalled both his parents. He was raised by Nymphs, whose kourotrophic activities are well established56, on Mount Ida, clearly the mountain range in the Troad. At age fifteen, he left the Nymphs and started to wander in western Asia Minor until he reached the spring of Salmakis. She was a nymph who rejected hunting and running. Instead she frequently bathed and beautified herself, thus rejecting the normal “manly” activities of the Nymphs – a subtle reference to the effeminizing qualities of the spring! Moreover, she frequently liked to pick flowers, and it was while picking that she saw Hermaphroditos whom optavit habere (4.316). In Greek literature, references to the gathering or picking of flowers in meadows virtually always occur in a context where a girl leaves her virginity behind in order to enter the state of marriage57. Rhodian girls on the brink of marriage were even called anthestrides 58; and young female protagonists in novels are twice called Antheia59. Ovid thus skilfully reverses a traditional motif. At first, however, Hermaphroditos rejected her, but when he dived naked into the water, the Nymph could not contain herself and grabbed him. As a result the two were merged into one, and Hermaphroditos beseeched his parents to the effect that every man who immersed himself into the spring would become a semivir (4.386), a wish they then granted. In Ovid’s version, therefore, the myth became an aetiological tale of the qualities traditionally ascribed to the spring. 54 See the new edition of Radt on Strab. 14.2.16. 55 Ov. met. 4.285–388, cf. most recently Robinson (1999); Keith (1999); Murgatroyd (2000). 56 See now Larson (2001) index s. v. nurses, nymphs as. 57 Bremer (1975), with the additions by Simon Slings, in Bremer et al. (1987) 45; Sourvinou-Inwood (1991) 175; Cairns (1997). 58 Blinkenberg (1939) 96–118 at 110, no. 11; see also Hesych. α 5127; Bekker (1814) 215.16. 59 In Xenophon’s Ephesiaca and in the so-called Antheia fragment, which has been most recently edited by Stephens/Winkler (1995) 277–288.

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The motif of the Nymph whose love is resisted by a young man is typically Hellenistic60. Given the chronology of Hermaphroditos, there is, then, every reason to believe that Ovid used a version that was composed in Hellenistic times. In no way does our tradition warrant Sourvinou-Inwood’s speculations about “the Halicarnassian myth” and its “meanings”. It is true that Vitruvius (2.8.12) mentions another tale about bandit Carians gradually becoming introduced in Graecorum consuetudinem et suavitatem through the qualities of the water of the spring. But this cannot be very early either, as the early Carians would hardly have told such a tale about themselves in the heart of their own quarter. In the end, everything in the episode of our poem points to a relatively late version that adapted a local legend about dangerous water of a spring into an uplifting, civilizing tale of which the Halicarnassians could be proud and need not feel ashamed.

4. Bellerophon and Pedasa (23–26) And Pallas brought the tamer, moving in the sky, of the winged Pegasus, a noble settler, when she there trod in the tracks of Bellerophontes and fixed the boundaries of the land of Pedasa.

From the main cults we now shift to the colonisers of Halicarnassus. Somewhat surprisingly, the next section is a valuable piece of evidence regarding the local Hellenistic situation. Pedasa is an old place name, which already had certain renown in the time of Homer, as he frequently makes use of the city for names in his epic, be they warriors (Pedaios: Il. 5.69; Pedasos: 6.21 f.), a horse (14.152–154, 467: a variation of Pegasus?) or cities (6.35; 9.152, 294; 20.92; 21.87). We also find a city named Pedasos in the Cypria (F 27 B = 21 D) as the town of origin of Briseïs, which suggests Lesbos, an island with demonstrable Hittite traditions61. In historical times cities with the name Pedasa/Pidasa were only found on the mainland in Caria62, but the alternation in their spelling must be old, as it can already be seen in cuneiform sources: Petassa and Pitassa63. The best-known communities are those bordering Miletus and Halicarnassus. The latter is already mentioned by Herodotus (1.175), a local source, and was identified on the ground by the Scottish Privatgelehrter William R. Paton (1857–1921) as the 60 61 62 63

Larson (2001) 69. Bremmer (2008a) 317. Ruge (1937). Zgusta (1984) 489; Adiego (2007) 336 f., who connects the place name with Greek πέδον.

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site at Gökçler, whereas J. M. Cook identified the former as Cerd Osman kalesi. Louis Robert, who confirmed the identifications, also noted that the spelling of the city in Milesian inscriptions always is Pidasa, which comes closer to Hittite Pitassa, whereas on a coin the inhabitants call themselves Pedaseis64. Herodotus (1.175), too, calls the Halicarnassian community Pedasos. This variation begs the question of whether the spelling was influenced by epic names. The Halicarnassian Pedasa disappeared as an independent community through the synoikism by Mausolus, yet it remained populated in Hellenistic times, as pottery evidence shows65. Its mention in our poem demonstrates that it had maintained a certain level of importance, which we will discuss shortly. But why is Bellerophon mentioned? Homer tells us that the hero had rejected the overtures of the wife of King Proitos, who had given him asylum. When this “desperate housewife” denounced him before her husband, the latter sent him to his father-in-law, the king of Lycia, with a letter containing “many life-destroying things” (Il. 4.152–210), the only Homeric reference to writing. Homer’s version of the myth contains two motifs which most likely derive from the Near East, since both occur in the Old Testament: the Potiphar episode from the story of Joseph (Genesis 39) and the fateful letter David sent to his chief-of-staff to get rid of Uriah the Hittite, the man whose wife, Bathsheba, he wanted to marry (2 Samuel 11 f.)66. Another motif in Bellerophon’s myth, which derives from the Near East, is the “fireblowing” Chimaera, the monster that he had already killed in the Iliad (6.183; Pind. O. 13.90)67. We do not know how Homer found these motifs, but it is notable that precisely the name of this hero’s horse, Pegasus, recalls that of the Luwian weather-god Pihaššašši68. Although associated with Lycia at an early stage of his myth, Bellerophon was appropriated fairly soon by the Carians as well. The circa 5th-century Kean historian Xenomedes (FGrH 442 F 3) relates that Bellerophon had married the daughter of the Carian dynast Amisodaros, clearly a variation of the young hero’s marriage to the daughter of the Lycian king (Il. 6.192). Such marriages were not uncommon in early Greece. We find it in the cases of Tydeus (Il. 6.121; Pherecydes F 122 Fowler); of Odysseus, when Alcinous 64 Robert (1978) 490–500 (“Une monnaie de Pédasa-Pidasa”). For Paton, see Kirstein (2008). 65 Callisthenes FGrH 124 F 25; Plin. nat. 5.107, cf. Hornblower (1982) 92 (pottery). 66 Frei (1993). For Bellerophon see also the interesting observations by Gernet (2004) 63–68. 67 On Bellerophon and the Chimaera, see Schmitt (1966); Lochin (1994). For the expression “fire blowing”, see Blanc (2006). 68 Hutter (1995) 79–97; Adiego (2007) 337 (etymology). Did the related Carian name Pigassôs (SEG 36.982B) perhaps lead to the Greek Pegasus?

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offers him a daughter in marriage to detain him (Od. 7.313)69; and of Phrixus, who received Chalciope, the daughter of King Aietes, as his wife after he had given the Golden Fleece to her father (Apollod. 1.9.1). The “Carian” quality of Bellerophon is reflected in various ways. Thus Bargylia was named after a comrade of Bellerophon, who had been killed by Pegasus, whereas Hydissos had been founded by the homonymous son of Bellerophon, as is also confirmed by the images of Bellerophon and Pegasus on its local coins. In fact, Pegasus with or without Bellerophon frequently occurs on Carian coins, and from the 5th century BC onwards he is already present on coins of Halicarnassus70. It is not surprising, then, that Bellerophon is also found in Halicarnassian myth. As regards Athena, her connection with Pegasus is not to be found before Pindar (O. 13.63–92), and it is improbable that her mention in our poem derives from him. On the contrary, Herodotus (1.175; 8.104 with Angus Bowie ad loc.) already tells us that Athena was the most important goddess of Pedasa, who grew a beard every time the community was threatened from outside. We find here the same play on biological markers as in the myth of Hermaphroditos. Was this sexual reversal perhaps a survival of Anatolian religion, where manipulating gender roles was not unusual, as the ubiquitous occurrence of eunuch priests suggests?71 However this may be, we also recognize Athena from a local Hellenistic inscription that thrice mentions a tithe for her72. Aristotle (mir. 844a34–b8) relates that there was a (annual?) procession from Pedasa to the sanctuary of Zeus73, evidently Zeus Akraios, the one we have already met in our poem. Such a centripetal procession presupposes the synoikism of Mausolus and may be seen as one of the means of drawing Pedasa within the orbit of Halicarnassus74. In fact, Athena was not only the most important divinity of Milesian Pidasa75, but also the most important divinity of the community, widely worshipped as such in Caria and adjacent Ionia76. Undoubtedly, there is an epichoric divinity behind her, but, until now, attempts at identification have not been successful.

69 Scheid-Tissinier (1994) 110–114. 70 Steph. Byz. s. v. Barg ylia = B 40 Billerbeck; Steph. Byz. s. v. Hydissos, cf. Laumonier (1958) 188 (Hydissos), 205 f. (P. and B. on Carian coins); add SEG 53.1194 (B. and Aphrodisias). 71 Bremmer (2008a) 288 f. and (2008b) 38–42 (“The Megabyxos”). 72 CIG 2660, cf. Robert (1940) 440 n. 5. 73 Aristot. mir. 844a34–b8, cf. Gagné (2006) 12 f. 74 For such processions, see Graf (1996). In general, see True (2004). 75 Aulock (1975). 76 Laumonier (1958) 544, index s. v. Athéna.

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5. Kranaos, Endymion and Anthes (27–32) Yes indeed, even the mighty strength of Kranaos settled noble sons of Kekrops in the land of holy Salmakis. And the valiant hero Endymion with his regal spear brought choice men from the land of Apis. [And Anthes from Troezen, Poseid]on’s son, was fa]ther of the Antheadai

Moving from the more famous mythological figures, we now go to the lesser gods. Despite the fact that the expression “mighty strength of Kranaos” is of a type that eventually goes back to Indo-European times77, Kranaos himself was a very shadowy figure, one of the first Athenian kings, who was located at the time of Deukalion and the Flood78. Kranaa was an old name for Athens, as was Kranaoi for the Athenians (Bowie on Hdt 8.44.2), but that is as far as it goes. Can it be that somebody connected him to Pedasa because of his Lacedaemonian wife Pedias (Apollod. 3.14.5)? In any case, as the Athenians were rather reluctant to acknowledge kinship with other cities79, the tie with Athens seems to be a Halicarnassian invention rather than the other way round. We can come further with Endymion, an intriguing figure, whose secrets are not easily revealed. Our oldest source is Hesiod’s Catalogue (fr. 10a.58–64 MW = 10.58–64 Most) which tells us that he was the son of Aethlios and Calyce, but the father of Aetolus and grandfather of Calydon: “he was his own dispenser of death and old age” (62). The latter detail must be old, since it clearly intrigued the earliest generations of Greek poets and mythographers80. Similarly ancient must be his attempt to rape Hera (Hes. fr. 260 MW = 198 Most). Endymion’s love for Selene was already sung by Sappho (199 Voigt; Epimenides F 12 Fowler)81, and we do not hear more about Selene until Apollonius of Rhodes (4.54–66)82. Endymion’s ever lasting sleep, however, is already mentioned by Likymnios (PMG 771) and Aristotle (eth. Nic. 1178b20). For our poem, most of this earlier mythology is not immediately relevant. Our main question is why the author wants to incorporate Endymion into the early colonisers and why he mentions the land of Apis. Let us start 77 78 79 80 81

García Ramón (2006). Kearns (1989) 179. Jones (1999) 44. Pisander FGrH 16 F 7; Acusilaus F 36 Fowler; Pherecydes F 121 Fowler. Page (1955) 273 also compares Alcaeus F 317 Voigt, but this is persuasively refuted by Liberman (1999) 137 f., 232 f. Endymion’s love for Selene is the only aspect of his myth to attract the artists: Gabelmann (1986). 82 Jackson (2006).

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with the second question. Sensu stricto, Apis or Apia is a name for Argos in poetry, but according to Istros (FGrH 334 F 39b) it could also mean the Peloponnese as a whole, a clear extension of the earlier usage, as Apis was the son of Argive Phoroneus, who was killed by Endymion’s son Aetolus83. The myth of Aetolus still suggests a close connection of Endymion with Aetolia84, but Aethlios, Endymion’s father, was the ancestor of the Eleans and the founder of the Olympic Games85, a role also ascribed to Endymion in later times (Paus. 5.8.1), although Ibycus (F 284 Davies) already calls him king of Elis. In fact, the Eleans even claimed to have Endymion’s grave (Paus. 5.1.5). His Peloponnesian origin, then, seems well established, which raises the question: why would Halicarnassus claim Endymion? The answer seems pretty clear. If Endymion was geneologically connected with Aetolus and Aetolia since the time of Hesiod, we see a sudden change in the 3rd century BC when a variety of sources call Endymion a Carian or connect him with Herakleia under Latmos. The sources include the grammarian Aristophanes of Byzantium (PCG on Aristoph. F 937 Dub.), Theocritus (20.39), and Apollonius of Rhodes (4.57 f.)86. Wilamowitz already noted that the Carian origin must have been the original, as his grave was clearly attested in Caria, whereas Endymion did not have a cult on the mainland87. Moreover, as Laumonier noted, his name can hardly be separated from other Anatolian names, such as Didyma and Dindymene88, to which we may perhaps add the Lycian name Endyomis (TAM 1.32). Finally, the myth of a goddess who falls in love with a shepherd can be parallelled in Anatolia89, as the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite shows90. We must accept that Endymion’s name travelled from East to West in the Archaic Age, just like those of Pelops and Tantalus, which means that Lesbos may well have been the missing link91. And it will have been its prominent position in Herakleia under Latmos that induced our poet to draw Endymion also into the Halicarnassian orbit.

83 Apia: Aesch. Suppl. 260–270; Strab. 8.6.9; Steph. Byz. s. v. Apia = A 357 Billerbeck. Apis: Daimachus FGrH 65 F 1; Rhianos FGrH 265 F 1; Apollod. 1.57. 84 Note also Ephoros FGrH 70 F 122a; Nicander FGrH 271–272 F 6a. 85 Genealogies: West (1985) 53, 60 n. 67. Olympic Games: Etym. gen. α 137; Etym. m. 25. 86 Later: Zenob. 3.76; Nonn. Dion. 4.195 f.; Schol. Lucian. 42.35. 87 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1931) 116 n. 2. 88 Laumonier (1958) 548 n. 3; Zgusta (1984) 162. 89 Endymion as shepherd: Palaephatus 38; Nonn. Dion. 7.239, 15.284; Schol. Lucian. 42.35. 90 For its northern Anatolian origin, see Faulkner (2008) 49 f. The parallel did not escape the ancients: Anth. Gr. 16.337. 91 Cf. Bremmer (2008a) 317.

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The last coloniser about whom we have enough text left to say something is Anthes. He is just as shadowy a figure as Kranaos, and his role in the Halicarnassian colonisation is hopelessly vague. Michael Jameson (2004) has assembled the scant evidence regarding Anthes himself and the Antheadai, the Halicarnassian family that claimed him as their ancestor. From this dossier, it is clear that Troizen was already considered to be the Halicarnassian metropolis at the beginning of the 3rd century BC (IG 4.750.27 f.). This makes it probable that the tradition of Anthes extended back into the classical era, as there was little help to expect from Troizen in the bellicose post-Alexander era. Indeed, Herodotus (7.99.3) already mentions the “ Troizenian connection”. The collective memory of the connection must have been kept alive by the Antheadai, one of the most prestigious families in the city (Steph. Byz. s. v. Athênai = A 80 Billerbeck), who, presumably, derived social capital from their origin: they were, so to speak, a Halicarnassian “Mayflower family”. They occupied one of the most important priesthoods of Halicarnassus, that of Poseidon Isthmios (SIG³ 1020). But were they perhaps also an originally royal family? Jameson cites Parthenius 14, which starts as follows: “From Halicarnassus a boy from the royal house, Antheus, was a hostage at the court of Phobius, one of the Neleids, the then ruler of Miletus.” Now Parthenius’ latest editor, the learned Jane Lightfoot, has emended Halicarnassus to Assessus, her argument being that Halicarnassus is irrelevant to a story about Miletus and Assessus92. I am not sure if this is right. First, Assessus was pretty small – Lightfoot herself calls it a Milesian dependency – and hardly a city with a royal family. Second, we know very little about the relations between Miletus and Halicarnassus. Lack of evidence here should make us hesitant to emend. Third, it is clear not only that Parthenius composed his story from different sources – perhaps Aristotle, the Milesian writers, or even the infamous Milesian Tales93 – but also that the story had travelled outside Asia Minor, as it had become the subject of a poem by Alexander of Aetolia (fr. 3 Powell), who, to judge by the surviving text quoted by Parthenius, carefully avoided locating the story in a specific place. In short, this piece of fiction can perhaps not be used as evidence for the historical reality of Halicarnassus, but it should perhaps also not be denied to the city. Unfortunately, the text becomes largely illegible at this point. In the next lines we may have the name [Rhadaman]thys (33) and certainly find the one of Ariadne (37), but there is not enough text left for a viable analysis.

92 Lightfoot (1999) 457 f.; add Laumonier (1958) 544 f. 93 For this genre, see most recently Harrison (1998).

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Conclusion When reviewing the poem, we see that Zeus and the Kouretes occupy 10 lines, Salmakis and Hermaphroditos 8, and Bellerophon 4, whereas Kranaos, Endymion and Anthes each have only 2 lines. The inscription thus furnishes an interesting taxonomy of local religious and mythological lore. The most important god of the city clearly receives the most attention, shortly followed by what probably was the city’s most famous local myth in Hellenistic times. After the gods, we next come to the colonisers. Pride of place is given to Bellerophon and Athena, who fix the boundaries, whereas Kranaos, Endymion and Anthes each stand for a section of the colonising population. At the same time, we also see that the poet lays claim to important mythological figures, such as Endymion, who probably did not belong to traditional Halicarnassian mythology. It is clear that, in this text, the poet does not only give a simple recording of the local collective memory, but also stakes out new claims in the mythological landscape. We, therefore, have to be careful with using him for the reconstruction of local history. Finally, it is interesting to see that much attention is given to Salmakis and the “land of Pedasa”. Both these areas were clearly Carian and must have long remained so. Yet in our poem the word “Carian” is painstakingly avoided, and the Carians have been carefully and completely written out of their local history94. Gagné suggests that the active memory to the Hecatomnid dynasty would have faded at the time of our inscription, but that probably goes too far: Vitruvius (2.8.10 f.) could still see Mausolus’ palace standing in full glory. The reason for the damnatio memoriae of the Carians must lie in the changing political situation. In the new Roman world of which Halicarnassus had become a part after the death of Attalus III, there was no more use for historical niceties. The Romans would be impressed only by Greek myth and literature, not by a Carian past, and that is why our author tries to present the historical and literary past of his city in as bright a light as he is able, even if, in the end95, his own poetical talent was not quite up to the task96.

94 This is well elaborated by Gagné (2006) 19–25. 95 The Roman background is noted by Slings (2002), who also remarks on the poet’s limited talent. 96 I am most grateful to Suzanne Lye for kindly and skilfully correcting my English.

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Jones (1999). – Christopher Jones, Kinship Diplomacy in the Ancient World (Cambridge, Mass. 1999). Junghölter (1989). – Ulrich Junghölter, Zur Komposition der Lagina-Friese und zur Deutung des Nord-Frieses (Frankfurt a. M. 1989). Kearns (1989). – Emily Kearns, The Heroes of Attica (London 1989). Keith (1999). – Alison Keith, “Versions of Epic Masculinity in Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’ ”, in: Philip Hardie et al. (eds.), Ovidian Transformations (Cambridge 1999) 214–239. Kirstein (2008). – Robert Kirstein, “ ‘Wie gewinnt man ein Urteil über Homer?’ Ein Brief von U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff an W. R. Paton”, in: Stephan Heilen et al. (eds.), In Pursuit of Wissenschaft. Festschrift für William M. Calder III zum 75. Geburtstag (Hildesheim 2008) 223–263. Larson (2001). – Jenny Larson, Greek Nymphs (Oxford 2001). Laumonier (1958). – Alfred Laumonier, Les cultes indigènes en Carie (Paris 1958). Legras (1993). – Bernard Legras, “Mallokouria et mallocourètes. Un rite de passage dans l’Egypte romaine”, Cahiers du Centre G. Glotz 4 (1993) 113–127. Liberman (1999). – Gauthier Liberman, Alcée: Fragments, vol. 2 (Paris 1999). Lightfoot (1999). – Jane Lightfoot, Parthenius of Nicaea. The Poetical Fragments and the “Erotikà pathémata” (Oxford 1999). Lindner (1997). – Ruth Lindner, “Kouretes, Korybantes”, in: LIMC 8.1 (1997) 736–741. Lloyd-Jones (1999a). – Hugh Lloyd-Jones, “The Pride of Halicarnassus”, ZPE 124 (1999) 1–24. Lloyd-Jones (1999b). – Hugh Lloyd-Jones, “Corrigenda and Addenda”, ZPE 127 (1999) 63–65. Lochin (1994). – Catherine Lochin, “Pegasos”, in: LIMC 7.1 (1994) 214–230. Meiggs/Lewis (1988). – Russell Meiggs/David Lewis (eds.), A Selection of Greek Historical Inscriptions to the End of the 5th Century BC (Oxford 1988). Melchert (1988). – H. Craig Melchert, “Luvian Lexical Notes”, Hist. Sprachf. 101 (1988) 211–243. Melfi (2007). – Milena Melfi, Il santuario di Asclepio a Lebena (Athens 2007). Murgatroyd (2000). – Paul Murgatroyd, “Plotting in Ovidian Rape Narratives”, Eranos 98 (2000) 75–92. Neumann (2007). – Günther Neumann, Glossar des Lykischen (Wiesbaden 2007). Page (1955). – Denys Page, Sappho and Alcaeus (Oxford 1955). Parker (1996). – Robert Parker, Athenian Religion (Oxford 1996). Pirenne-Delforge (1994). – Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, L’Aphrodite grecque (Liège 1994). Pirenne-Delforge (2008). – Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, “Le lexique des lieux de culte dans la Périégèse de Pausanias”, Archiv für Religionsgeschichte 10 (2008) 143–178. Pironti (2007). – Gabriella Pironti, Entre ciel et guerre. Figures d’Aphrodite en Grèce ancienne (Liège 2007). Ragone (2001). – Giuseppe Ragone, “L’iscrizione di Kaplan Kalesi et la leggenda afrodisia di Salmacide”, Studi Ellenistici 13 (2001) 75–119. Robert (1940). – Louis Robert, Etudes Anatoliennes (Paris 1940). Robert (1978). – Louis Robert, “Documents d’Asie Mineure”, BCH 102 (1978) 395–543. Robinson (1999). – Matthew Robinson, “Salmacis and Hermaphroditus: When Two Become One”, CQ 49 (1999) 216–223. Ruge (1937). – Walter Ruge, “Pedasa”, in: RE 19 (1937) 25–30. Schaefer (1912). – Joannes Schaefer, De Jove apud Cares culto (Diss. Halle 1912). Scheid-Tissinier (1994). – Eveline Scheid-Tissinier, Les usages du don chez Homère (Nancy 1994).

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Schmitt (1966). – Marilyn Schmitt, “Bellerophon and the Chimaera in Archaic Greek Art”, AJA 70 (1966) 341–347. Schober (1933). – Arnold Schober, Der Fries des Hekateions von Lagina (Vienna 1933). Schwabl (1972). – Hans Schwabl, “Zeus I. Epiklesen”, in: RE 10A (1972) 253–376. Singor (1988). – Henk Singor, Oorsprong en betekenis van de hoplietenphalanx in het archaische Griekenland (Diss. Leiden 1988). Slings (2002). – Simon Slings, “Kleine stad in de grote wereld. Een pas ontdekte poëtische inscriptie uit Halikarnassos”, Hermeneus 74 (2002) 2–13. Sourvinou-Inwood (1991). – Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, ‘Reading’ Greek Culture (Oxford 1991). Sourvinou-Inwood (2004). – Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, “Hermaphroditos and Salmakis: The Voice of Halikarnassos”, in: Isager/Pedersen (2004) 59–84. Sporn (2002). – Katja Sporn, Heiligtümer und Kulte Kretas in klassischer und hellenistischer Zeit (Heidelberg 2002). Stephens/Winkler (1995). – Susan Stephens/Jack Winkler, Ancient Greek Novels: The Fragments (Princeton 1995). True (2004). – Marion True et al., “Greek Processions”, in: ThesCR A 1 (2004) 1–20. Usener (1913). – Hermann Usener, Kleine Schriften, vol. 4 (Leipzig/Berlin 1913). West (1985). – Martin West, The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women (Oxford 1985). Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1931). – Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Der Glaube der Hellenen, vol. 1 (Berlin 1931). Zgusta (1964). – Ladislav Zgusta, Kleinasiatische Personennamen (Prague 1964). Zgusta (1984). – Ladislav Zgusta, Kleinasiatische Ortsnamen (Heidelberg 1984).

Myths and Contexts in Aphrodisias angelos chaniotis

‘Myths and contexts’ is an appropriate way to describe Fritz Graf ’s approach to Greek mythology. In his introduction to Greek mythology he has illuminated the intellectual and cultural contexts of the study of ancient myth from the early modern period to our own day; in the same book he has discussed the variety of contexts in which myths were narrated, performed, and alluded to in the Greek world; and in his books and articles he has often addressed the complex relationships between myths and religious rituals. Instead of presenting any new insights into the interpretation of myths, in this contribution I give an account of the unanswered questions, which have emerged from my encounter with mythological narratives and allusions in Aphrodisias1.

1. An imaginary walk in Aphrodisias Sometime in the late 3rd or early 2nd century BCE a small settlement developed near a sanctuary of Aphrodite in the Maeander valley. Its original name must have been Nineuda, and its patron god was Zeus Nineudios2. He was worshipped together with a goddess associated with the Greek Aphrodite3. At some point in the 2nd century BCE (c. 188 BCE?), this settlement acquired the status of a polis. We do not know when it was renamed Aphrodisias, but its promotion to a polis provides a probable context4. The renaming was the result of a conscious decision, as we may infer from 1 2 3 4

I would like to thank Professor R. R. R. Smith (Lincoln College, Oxford) for useful suggestions and Aneurin Ellis-Evans (Balliol College, Oxford) for correcting the English text. On Zeus Nineudios see Laumonier (1958) 480; Robert (1966) 394; Chaniotis (2004) 392 f. On the cult of Aphrodite of Aphrodisias see more recently Brody (2001) and (2007). On the early history of Aphrodisias see Chaniotis (2009b) (with the sources). On the name see Chaniotis (2003) 71. On the archaeological evidence see Ratté (2008).

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Fig. 1: Aphrodisias: the city plan.

the choice of a rather artificial name: not Aphrodision (‘the sanctuary of Aphrodite’), as we would expect, but Aphrodisias (‘the city of Aphrodite’). Sometime in the 2nd century Aphrodisias joined the neighbouring town of Plarasa in a community with a single citizenship: “the people (demos) of the Plarasans and Aphrodisians.” Due to the prominence of the sanctuary of Aphrodite, but also thanks to its alliance with Rome, this community flourished. Aphrodisias was a free and autonomous city, an ally of the Romans, not subject to tribute and to the authority of a provincial governor5. During the reign of Augustus Aphrodisias entirely absorbed Plarasa, and from then on it was known only under the name of Aphrodisias. In the mid-3rd century CE Aphrodisias formally became part of the Roman Empire as the capital of the province of Caria et Phrygia and later of Caria 6. A visitor of Aphrodisias in the mid-3rd century CE would not have failed to notice the ubiquitous presence of mythological images and allusions. 5 6

On the status of Aphrodisias see Reynolds (1982); cf. Chaniotis (2003b) and (2005). Roueché (1989) xix.

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Entering the city from the Antiochean Gate in the north-west he may have chosen to move to the city’s centre, walking along one of the north-south avenues (fig. 1). In the southwest corner of the South Agora he would have visited a civil basilica, built during Domitian’s reign and decorated with mythological reliefs connected with well-known myths (Leda, young Herakles, Fig. 2: Aphrodisias: the mythological reliefs of the civil basilica (representations of legendary founders):

a) Semiramis and Gordi(o)s.

b) Bellerophon, Pegasus, and Apollo.

c) Ninos.

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Fig. 3: Aphrodisias: reconstruction of the Sebasteieon.

Fig. 4: Aphrodisias: partial anastylosis of the east part of the South Portico. On the first storey mythological panels (from left) with representations of the birth of Eros, the flight of Aeneas from Troy, and Poseidon with a male figure.

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the Korybantes) but also with local foundation legends (Ninos, Semiramis, Gordios, Bellerophon; fig. 2)7. Moving from the basilica to the South Agora and walking along the portico of the early Imperial period, which we know today as the ‘portico of Tiberius’, our imaginary visitor may have wondered, as modern scholars do, whether the masks with Phrygian caps that decorated it represented Trojans8. A relatively recent building, of the late 2nd century CE, perhaps in the area of the South or North Agora, was decorated with panels representing mythological scenes – Greeks fighting against Amazons, probably at Ephesos, Greeks fighting against Centaurs, and gods fighting against the Giants. If an enigmatic pastoral scene in these panels had attracted the attention of the visitor, someone would have explained to him what it represented – perhaps Endymion, Ganymedes, Anchises, or an unknown local hero9. Mythological allusions were also present on the coins that exchanged hands in the stores sheltered by the shady porticos of the South Agora10. Reaching the east Gate of the Agora, our visitor would have had to decide whether to move southwards to the theatre, where tragedies with mythological themes were shown11, Homeristai re-enacted Homeric battle scenes12, and pantomimes performed with their dance scenes inspired by the myths of Dionysos, Attis, Hermes, Herakles and other gods and heroes13, or to turn left to walk along the main avenue, which leads from the Agoras to the Temple of Aphrodite. If he had chosen this option, a monumental Propylon on his right would have invited him to enter one of the most luxurious building complexes in Asia Minor, constructed in its present form during the reign of Claudius and Nero: the Sebasteion (fig. 3)14. A broad avenue flanked by three-storey porticos led to the temple of the emperors standing on a podium. 190 relief panels, with cult scenes, themes connected with Roman and Greek mythology, and allegorical representations referring to the first Roman emperors, their victories, and the extension of Roman power, decorated the porticos (fig. 4). Provided he had good eyes and education, he would 7 On the basilica and its date, see Yildirim (2008). On the sculptural decoration, see Yildirim (2004). 8 De Chaisemartin (1997) and (2001). More oriental figures decorated the peristasis of the temple of Aphrodite. 9 Linant de Bellefonds (1996). These reliefs were found re-used in a fountain (Nymphaion) at the south end of the agora (c. 450 CE). 10 McDonald (1992) 32 f. (the dead tree, probably associated with a foundation legend). 11 On performances of tragedies at Aphrodisias, see Roueché (1993) 166–174, nos. 51–53; cf. 223–227, no. 88 iii. 12 Roueché (1993) 22. 13 The masks that decorate the propylon of the Sebasteion are probably masks of pantomimes alluding to these myths: Jory (2002). 14 Reynolds (1980); Smith (1987), (1988), (1990), and (2000).

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Fig. 5: Aphrodisias: relief panel from the Sebasteion (South Portico) depicting Aeneas’ flight from Troy.

have recognized among the 45 myth panels Aeneas’ flight from Ilion (fig. 5), Leda and the Swan, the rearing of Dionysos, Demeter and Triptolemos, Bellerophon and Pegasos, Orestes at Delphi, Meleager and the boar, Achilles and Penthesilea, the rape of Kassandra, Centaurs, Lapiths, and several myths of Herakles, but also Romulus and Remus with the She-wolf. Near the Sebasteion he would have seen statues of the ancestors of the Roman imperial house: Aphrodite, the ancestor of the divine emperors, and Aeneas, son of Anchises15. Several members of the elite were given by their parents the name of Rome’s founder, and the statue of one of them, Flavius Aelius Aineas, Dionysos’ priest (fig. 6), may have stood near a shrine of Dionysos16. Aineas was also the second name of Zenon, a victorious boy wrestler, and of Septimius Chares17. 15 Reynolds (1986) 111 f. SEG XXXVI 968: Ἀφροδίτην Προμήτορα θεῶν Σεβαστῶν; SEG XXXVI 969: Αἰνή[αν] Ἀνχί[σου]. 16 Unpublished inscription found in 2001. 17 Zenon: MAMA VIII 513; Roueché (1993) 210–212, no. 78. Septimius Chares: MAMA VIII 514. Another Chares Aineas (an ancestor of Septimius Chares) in CIG 2837b.

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Fig. 6: Aphrodisias: honorary inscription for Aineias, priest of Dionysos.

Continuing his walk, our visitor would have stood in front of a statue of Bellerophon, dedicated by the people to the founder of their city18. Another statue group showed a famous scene of the epic cycle: Troilos, the young Trojan prince, riding on his horse, was being attacked by Achilles; an inscription explained the scene19: “The people (have set up) Troilos, the horse, and Achilles.” Our visitor would have been reminded again of Aphrodite’s Trojan connection, her love of Anchises, and the birth of Aeneas. Overwhelmed by all these mythological allusions, our visitor may have been somewhat surprised that the image of the goddess, to whom Aphrodisias owed its name, was decorated with figures that generally allude to her properties (the Graces, Selene, Helios, Triton, Erotes), but to none of her myths20. If our visitor had left the city to continue his journey to Tabai or Hierapolis in the east, he would have walked through the cemeteries of Aphrodisias. Here, too, he would have encountered mythological images decorating some of the more luxurious marble sarcophagi placed on platforms21. But if our visitor had cared to look at some of the more conservative funerary 18 Smith (1996) 56: Βελλεροφόντ[ην] κτίστην, ὁ δῆμ[ος]. On the significance of Bellerophon in Lykian and Carian foundation legends see Jones (1999) 128 and 139–143. 19 MAMA VIII 415; Robert (1965) 126 f. These statues, originally made in the early Imperial period, were set up in the civil basilica around 360 CE (or later), probably in connection with refurbishment organised by the governor Flavius Constantius. 20 Brody (2007) 86–93. 21 Koch/Sichtermann (1982) 495 f., 527–531.

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monuments and posthumous honorary statues and read their inscriptions, he would have observed that they were telling a quite different story than the one alluded to by the images in the city. They referred to the occupants of these graves as descendants of the men who had jointly built (synktizein) the community, the city, the fatherland (demos, polis, patris) 22. Our visitor would have shared our ignorance as to whether the event, to which these texts refer, was the establishment of Aphrodisias as an independent polis in the early 2nd century BCE or the creation of a federation with the neighbouring city of Plarasa, but he must have realised that these ‘founders’ were not Bellerophon and Ninos. Aphrodisias was a city in which myths were also the subject of oral and written narratives and performances. The Karika of the local historian Apollonios, one of the sources of Stephanos of Byzantion on Carian matters23, contained narratives of myths, certainly of foundation legends, perhaps also of other myths. According to Suidas24, Apollonios, high priest (of the imperial cult) and historian, was the author of three works: Carian Tales, Concerning Tralleis, and Concerning Orpheus and his Teletai. We know of a man by this name, who served as high priest in the late 2nd or early 3rd century CE: Tiberius Claudius Apollonios Aurelianos25. He also served as priest of Dionysos, and this may indirectly support a tentative identification with the local historian, who was obviously interested in religious matters. Although Stephanos of Byzantion does not mention which sources he used concerning the names of Aphrodisias, there can be little doubt that it was Apollonios. According to Stephanos, the early names of Aphrodisias (in chronological sequence?) were “the city of the Leleges” (Lelegon polis), “Great City” (Megale polis), and “Ninoe, from Ninos”26. The foundation legend of Ninos, known from the basilica reliefs, was, therefore, narrated in the Karika. At least in the late Hellenistic period the study of Homeric poetry, and so also the study of mythology, was part of the educational programme in the gymnasion of Aphrodisias. The funerary epigram for a certain Epikrates (c. 100 BCE) lists what the young man had left behind when he died before his time: musical instruments, weapons, horses, and Homeric songs27. The poems of the local poet Caius Iulius Longianus (early 2nd century CE) must have treated inter alia mythological subjects. Longianus is known to 22 Reynolds (1982) 1 and 164 f.; Chaniotis (2004) 382. See below. 23 FGrH 740 F 1–16. 24 FGrH 740 T 1 (Suidas s. v. Apollonios): Ἀπολλώνιος Ἀφροδισιεύς· ἀρχιερεὺς καὶ ἱστορικός· γέγραφε Καρικά· Περὶ Τράλλεων· Περὶ Ὀρφέως καὶ τῶν τελετῶν αὐτοῦ. 25 MAMA VIII 454. 26 Steph. Byz. s. v. Ninoe. 27 Chaniotis (2009a): ἁ κόνις δὲ [λ]είπεται καὶ βάρβιτ’ ἀκλόνητα, ταί θ’ Ὁμηρικαὶ καὶ ξυστά etc.

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have given readings in Halikarnassos, where his bronze statues were set up in the sanctuary of the Muses and in the gymnasion, next to the statue of Herodotos. When the authorities of Halikarnassos designated Aphrodisias as a “kin” (syngenes), they had very specific foundation legends in mind, most probably the foundation of both cities by Bellerophon28. Myths were alluded to in hymns, and although we know nothing about local myths concerning Aphrodite in Aphrodisias, rituals, such as the anthephoria 29, and cult practices, such as the protection of doves in Aphrodite’s sanctuary30, may have been explained by aetiological myths. Semiramis, who is represented in the reliefs of the basilica, is known to have been miraculously nurtured by doves and later, upon her death, to have been transformed into a dove31. And I can hardly imagine that the pre-Hellenic cults, such as that of Zeus of Nineuda (Zeus Nineudios) and the ‘Virgin of Plyara’ (Kore Plyaris) 32, and the traditional Carian cult of Pluton33 were devoid of local myths. Louis Robert’s studies of the coinage of the cities of Asia Minor have shown the ubiquity of such local myths, which often puzzle us34.

2. In search of contexts Aphrodisias, not unlike other cities in the Roman East, was a city full of mythical references. Textual representations of myths were to be found in a variety of contexts: in the gymnasion, in public lectures and epideictic orations, in theatrical performances, in hymns, in orations in the assembly and the council, in the speeches of envoys. Unfortunately, most of these oral references to myths have left hardly any trace, and none of the Carian Tales (Karika) has survived35.

28 MAMA VIII 418; Roueché (1993) 223–227, no. 88. 29 The anthephoria may be inferred from the office of the anthephoros, which is mentioned in inscriptions of the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE: CIG 2821; MAMA VIII 514, 516; Reinach (1906) 136 f., no. 69. 30 MAMA VIII 411; Reynolds (1982) 172 f., no. 46. 31 Diod. 2.4.4–6 and 2.20.2. 32 On Zeus Nineudios see n. 2. The epithet of Kore Plyaris (mentioned in an unpublished inscription) derives from the pre-Hellenic place name Plyara; see Drew-Bear (1972) 435. 33 The cult of Pluton was very popular in Caria (especially in Nysa); see Laumonier (1966) 507 f.; Robert (1987) 22–35. In Aphrodisias it is attested in an unpublished inscription (found in 2008). 34 E. g., Robert (1975) and (1980); cf. Weiss (1990) and (2004). 35 For Karika/Peri Karias see FGrH 739–742. Foundation myths were an important subject matter in these works. See, e. g., FGrH 740 F 2–4, 6, 8–9.

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Time has been more kind to images. Although visual narratives of myths are more difficult to interpret than texts, in many cases we know what they represented: the deeds of Herakles; the adventures of Aeneas; the killing of Troilos; battles between Greeks and Amazons; Achilles and Penthesileia; Pegasus and Bellerophon; etc. In some cases we know why a theme was chosen to be represented: Aeneas flight from Ilion with his father Anchises was certainly chosen as a theme of the reliefs of the Sebasteion because Aphrodite was at the same time his mother and the civic goddess of Aphrodisias. The foundation legends in the Sebasteion manifested the city’s claim to great antiquity. The battles between Greeks and barbarians were probably inspired by the recent Parthian wars. Sometimes we know who the men and women were who paid for the images: two families were responsible for the construction of the Sebasteion and its decoration36; the general Artemidoros Pedisas was the sponsor of a group of statues of Hermes, Aphrodite, and two torch-bearing Erotes37; several women belonging to elite families dedicated the statues of the Caryatids in front of the Hadrianic baths38. And sometimes we even know the images which inspired the artists. Philostratos describes in his Imagines a painting with Herakles and Antaios, which must have been very similar in composition to a scene represented in one of the panels in the Sebasteion39. Encouraged by such knowledge, fragmentary as it may be, scholars, who have studied images and narratives of myths in their local setting, have attempted to reconstruct their original contexts and meanings. Occasionally, the evidence is quite compelling. R. R. R. Smith has shown that the mythological representations in the Sebasteion (or at least most of them) reflect a loose iconographical programme40, and he is certainly right in his assumption that this programme should be placed in the context of the Julio-Claudian dynasty and the perception of Imperial power at Aphrodisias: This was an international koine of myth, with accompanying images in the arts, that was part of the basic cultural minimum for educated Greeks and Romans under the empire. The Sebasteion south portico gives an unusually large selection from this repertoire in a unified context. Its purpose here is to evoke, through a series of its familiar and authorized images, the world of Greek culture and religion, into which the Roman emperors are to be incorporated in the upper storey41. 36 Smith (1988) 51. 37 MAMA VIII 448; Chaniotis (2008b) 73 f. 38 They are known from the unpublished notebooks of André Boulanger, which are currently under study by Charlotte Roueché. Two of these inscriptions were rediscovered in 2003 and 2004. 39 Smith (2000). Cf. Smith (1990) 92, on Roman models for the representation of simulacra gentium in the Sebasteion. 40 Esp. Smith (1987), (1988), and (1990). 41 Smith (1987) 97. Cf. Smith (1990) 95.

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The reliefs were clearly designed as much more than simple decoration; they did not, however, constitute a body of propaganda. It is true that for any visitors who cared to pause to recognize the subjects and have the inscriptions read to them, there was something to take in about the Greek past, the city of Aphrodisias, and the family of Augustus. But there was, as we have seen, no tight coherent programme that fits all the panels and which urges a unitary doctrine on the viewer. Instead, the relief panels as a whole present a detailed and broadly expressed view of the fortunate position of the Greek world under Roman imperial rule, such as we have nowhere else42. The South Portico used myth to evoke its civilized (Greek) centre. More significant is the relation, within the South Portico, of the myths to the imperial scenes in the register above. This is one of the most striking features of the complex – the juxtaposition of Greek myth and Roman emperors. Its purpose was to show imperial rule within a Greek perspective, and, at the east end, within a more specifically Aphrodisian perspective. […] Greeks wanted a version that reconciled imperial rule with their culture. […] The myth panels portray Greek culture as both the forerunner and the natural background of imperial rule. The clear implication is that Greeks are not conquered subjects, like the Piroustae, but partners in the empire43. The relief of Herakles and Antaios, like its neighbouring mythological reliefs in the façade of the South Building, was neither mere ornament […] nor again a pointed allegory. It might be better characterized as meaningful decoration. That is, merely because the root purpose of the reliefs in their context was to decorate and ennoble the building in which they were displayed, it does not entail that they were devoid of further meaning. They were both decorative and meaningful. The Herakles relief was an element of a larger whole designed to evoke the power and presence of the heroes of the Hellenic past who preceded the emperors and in comparison with whom the emperors’ power might best be described for a local audience44.

Of course, some of the representations may appear obscure to us, but they were not to those who had commissioned them. And the oral or written exegesis, which undoubtedly existed (orations, hymns, lectures, histories), explained the details to those who may have been puzzled. The primary intentions of the reliefs in the civil basilica are also quite evident. In a period in which the cities of the Roman East were preoccupied with their origins and exploited old traditions or a newly invented past in order to construct a local identity, to support claims on privileges and honours, and to enhance relations of kinship and affection with other communities45, the foundation legends that decorated the civil basilica provided the 42 43 44 45

Smith (1987) 138. Smith (1990) 100. Smith (2000) 307. On the competition among the cities of Asia Minor see Heller (2006a). On the importance of mythical founders see Weiss (1984), Strubbe (1984–1986), Scheer (1993), Lindner (1994), Di Segni (1997), Price (2005), Lafond (2005), Heller (2006b). On the motif of kinship see Jones (1999).

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Aphrodisians with a mythical past that every respectable city in Asia Minor would have envied46. As in the case of the Sebasteion, the general ‘message’ is quite clear even though many details are obscure. We know next to nothing about the stories narrated in connection with these foundation legends, other than that they included references to oracles and omens as well as to the foundation of sanctuaries47. If we can make some sense of these reliefs, it is primarily thanks to legends inscribed next to some of the major figures: Ninos, Bellerephontes, Pegasus, Apollo, Gordios, Semiramis. Apollo would have easily been recognizable on the basis of the standard iconography, and we do not need a legend to understand that the group consisting of a man and a winged horse must be Bellerophon and Pegasus. But who would have imagined that the veiled female figure is Semiramis, queen of Assyria, that the cuirassed figure performing a libation near her is Gordios, the son (or the father?) of the legendary king of Phrygia, Midas, and that a man with a long sceptre in a sacrificial scene is Ninos, king of Asia and husband of Semiramis?48 If we cannot identify the cuirassed figure next to Ninos it is exactly because it lacks a legend. But we have no clue whatsoever about the identity of a peasant tending a donkey. The Aphrodisians must have known and the foreign visitors may have asked an exegete or consulted Apollonios’ Carian Tales. A plausible historical context has also been suggested for the third large mythological group, the reliefs from the Agora Gate. These reliefs “may have carried a political meaning, intended to glorify imperial victories”49. Fights between Greeks and representatives of barbarity and chaos (Amazons, Centaurs) and the battle between the gods and the Giants had been used in a similar a way in the past to commemorate victories over barbarians (the Persians, the Galatians), e. g. on the Athenian Acropolis and at Pergamon. The Classical Greeks had recognized an analogy between the Persian Wars and the battles against the Amazons and the Centaurs, and the Parthian Wars of the late Antonine period were perceived as a repetition of the Persian Wars50. These reliefs, too, confront us with riddles. A pastoral scene on a panel hardly fits into the aforementioned general pattern; if it does not represent Endymion, Ganymede, or Anchises, it may refer to an unknown local (or Carian) hero51. 46 Yildirim (2004). 47 Yildirim (2004) 28–30, on these motifs on the basilica reliefs. 48 On these representations see Yildirim (2004) 25–31. On the unresolved problems of the identity of Gordi(o)s see Yildirim (2004) 26 n. 11 (with the earlier bibliography). 49 Linant de Bellefonds (1996) 186. 50 See e. g. Lucian’s ironical remarks on a contemporary historian’s imitation of Herodotus (How to Write History 18). 51 Linant de Bellefonds (1996).

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3. From intentions to tensions Far from whishing to challenge any of the aforementioned interpretations, which are very plausible, I would like to point to the tensions that may have existed both at the time, when these images were created, and in later periods. Mythical narratives, whether textual or visual, are a form of ‘cultural memory’52, constructed and contested. A myth or a version of a myth is very often contrasted to another mythical narrative. In the early 2nd century BCE a Chian benefactor dedicated to Dea Roma a monument of unknown nature (reliefs?, paintings?, a narrative?), which represented “the birth of the founder of Rome, Romulus and his brother Remus. According to this [account] it occurred that [lacuna]; this [account] should justly be regarded as true.”53 Naturally, the truth of this version presupposes the fallacy of other narratives. When in the Hellenistic period young men sung in the sanctuary of Zeus at Palaikastro a hymn that located the nourishing of the divine child in east Crete (“for here it was that with their shields the Kouretes received you”), the emphasis is on “here”, meaning “not in any other place”; this hymn contested alternative versions of Zeus’ myth, which are in fact attested in this period. In the 3rd century CE Callimachus contended that baby Zeus was brought to the mountain of Ida (central Crete), and in the late 2nd century CE another poet at Halikarnassos proudly explained that his city, “brought forth a grand crop of Earth-born men, assistants of mighty Zeus of the Height. It was they who first under a hollowed crest placed Zeus, newborn, the son of Rhea, so that he was hidden, and who fostered him in the innermost recesses of Earth, when Kronos crooked of counsel was too late to place him far down in his throat” (translated by Signe Isager)54. Some of the obscure representations in the Sebasteion presuppose known stories, some of them local in origin55, which had been the result of selection. When the sponsor of the Agora Gate reliefs (a benefactor, the demos?) commissioned the representation of the Amazonomachy, he selected a version which clearly located this episode at Ephesos, as we may infer from the presence of Dionysos in this scene, and associated the battle 52 For my understanding of this term see Chaniotis (2005) 214–216 and (2009a). 53 SEG XXX 1073 lines 25–29: ἀνάθημα τῆι Ῥώμηι ἀπὸ δραχμῶν Ἀλεξ[ανδρείων χιλίων, ἱστορίαμ / πραγματείαμ / ἄγαλμα? πε]ριέχον τῆς γενέσεως τοῦ κτίστου τῆς Ῥώ[μης Ῥωμύλου καὶ τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ] αὐτοῦ Ῥέμου· καθ’ ἣν συμβέβηκεν αὐτοὺ[ς –], ἣ καὶ ἀληθὴς δικαίως ἄν νομίζοιτ’ εἶναι. 54 Palaikastro: Furley/Bremer (2001) I 68–75, II 1–20. Kall. h. 1.42–54; on the geographical references in this passage see Chaniotis (1992) 75–79 and 88. Halikarnassos: SEG XLVIII 1330; cf. most recently Isager/Pedersen (2004). 55 Smith (1990) 97 and 100.

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against the Amazons with myths surrounding the foundation of Ephesos56. I assume that this was a conscious choice and, therefore, means the rejection of other alternatives. An allusion to Ephesos may have added a different touch to this part of the ensemble, stressing the close relationship of affection between Aphrodisias and Ephesos57. Such a representation could be viewed in different ways by different audiences: the citizen of Aphrodisias, the Ephesian envoy, the foreign visitor. Although we may be sure that the presentation of a mythological narrative, especially in public space – in a lecture, in a hymn, as a monument – was subject to discussions, this discourse is exactly what in most cases escapes us. In the case of the Agora Gate reliefs, for instance, the Parthian Wars present a very probable historical context. But the glorification of the military exploits of the emperors is one of several plausible meanings. We cannot exclude the possibility that Aphrodisians had fought in these wars58, and such a monument had a specific significance for them or their families. It is far from inconceivable that the orations, which certainly accompanied the inauguration of the monument decorated with these reliefs, not only glorified the Roman emperors but also reminded one that Aphrodisias had already fought against the Parthians (the troops of Labienus in c. 40 BCE) and emphasised the status of Aphrodisias as a loyal ally of the Romans. When in the mid-3rd century CE Aphrodisias was still praised as a loyal ally of the Romans, it was possibly a commemoration of more recent services than those rendered by the Aphrodisians in the late Republic59. These scenarios, nothing more than exercises in imagination, hopefully make clear my point: at Aphrodisias, we know absolutely nothing about any negotiations that may have taken place between sponsor and artist. We know absolutely nothing about the discussions in the council and the assembly concerning the dedication of a mythological image by ‘the demos’. A dedica56 Linant de Bellefonds (1996) 175–177 (with reference to Plut. qu. Gr. 56). 57 This relationship is mentioned in the honorary decree of Ephesos for an athlete from Aphrodisias. See Jones (1981) 116: “and whereas it [Ephesos] allots a particular degree of inclination to goodwill to the most illustrious city of Aphrodisias, with which it is on terms tending to the interchange of affection”; republished by Roueché (1993) 202–206, no. 72. 58 A certain Philadelphos, known from a funerary epigram of the late 2nd century CE, was probably a soldier, who died far away from Aphrodisias: Petrovic (2009). Considering the date, he may have served on the Parthian front. Cf. the epitaph of a veteran of Legio Prima Parthica Severiana Antoniniana, who served at Singara on the Tigris (MAMA VIII 522; SEG XXXV 1084). 59 Reynolds (1982) 140–143, no. 25, l. 9 (250 CE): διὰ τὴν πρὸς Ῥωμαίους οἰκειότητά τε καὶ πίστιν. Thanks to a new epigraphic find we now know that Roman army was present in Aphrodisias in the early 3rd century CE. An inscription found in 2006 mentions a κατὰ τόπον ἑκατόνταρχος (centurio regionarius?).

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tion by ‘the demos’ was a dedication paid for by public funds, consequently subject to proposal, approval, and control. We only know of successful proposals; we know nothing about those which failed to win the approval of the council or the assembly. When Octavian demanded the return to Aphrodisias of a golden statuette of Eros, dedicated to Aphrodite by Caesar and taken by Labienus to Ephesos as war booty, he observed60: “In any case Eros is not a suitable offering when given to Artemis.” How many times a mythological theme may have been rejected as inappropriate we simply do not know, but there is little doubt that such discussions did take place. And more importantly, we know hardly anything of how contemporary and later viewers responded to mythological images and what audiences there were for mythological narratives. We do know with what acclamations the Aphrodisians greeted the reconstruction of a stoa by Albinus in the late fifth or early 6th century CE61: Up with the builder of the stoa! […] Your buildings are an eternal reminder, Albinus, you who love to build. […] Up with Albinus, the builder of this work also! You have disregarded wealth and obtained glory, Albinus clarissimus. […] With your buildings you have made the city brilliant, Albinus, lover of your country.

We know, too, that when the city wall was constructed in the mid-4th century CE someone exclaimed (and wrote on the wall) “up-right!” (orthon). And we know also with what acclamations the supporters of the circus factions cheered on the charioteers. But how did the Aphrodisians react when the Sebasteion or the civil basilica were inaugurated? Statues were often subject to comments and interpretations by the viewers. In Hellenistic Klazomenai (or Erythrai), the supporters of an oligarchic regime had a sword removed from a statue of the tyrannicide Philitos, “believing that his posture was directed against them”62. The epigram on the base of a statue of Iulius Licus Pilius Euarestos, sponsor of contests in Oinoanda (244 CE), clearly expresses the opposition between the intention of the statue – to inspire emulation – and what it might actually provoke – ironic remarks and envy63: “Give up your carping criticism, you all who are in thrall to dread envy, and gaze at my statue with eyes of imitation” (translated by M. W. Dickie). How were the sculptures of the Sebasteion received? R. R. R. Smith (see above) has plausibly suggested that the iconographical programme of the Sebasteion connected the Roman emperors with the Olympian pantheon and with Greek mythology, stressed the significance of 60 61 62 63

Reynolds (1982) 102, no. 12, l. 18. Roueché (1989) 126–129, no. 83. IEry 503. SEG XLIV 1182 B 21 f.: τοιγὰρ μῶμον ἀνέντες ὅσοι φθόνον αἰνὸν ἔχου̣σ̣[ιν] μειμηλοῖς ὄσσοις εἰσίδετ’ εἰκόν’ ἐμήν; Hall/Milner (1994) 24–26; Dickie (2003).

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Hellenic culture, and displayed Greek paideia. This interpretation is based on the well founded assumption that the members of the elite, who are behind this iconographical programme, wished to display a Hellenic identity. Can we be certain that all the citizens of Aphrodisias were conscious of or willing to accept such an identity? And assuming that this was indeed the case in the mid-1st century CE, did such an identity remain uncontested? A closer look at the origins of Aphrodisias may alert us as regards any assumptions of homogeneity: all the local inscriptions are in Greek (except for a few Latin legal documents), but the population was of diverse origins: Greek military settlers (Macedonians and Rhodians, among others), Iranian soldiers, Carian indigenous inhabitants, probably also Jews, and possibly Roman immigrants64. We know nothing about the process which ultimately led to the Hellenic identity displayed by the Aphrodisians from the 1st century BCE onwards. In the Republican period the Aphrodisians participated in the ‘assembly of the Greeks’ of Asia65, and their ‘Greekness’ is explicitly mentioned in a letter of Hadrian (119 CE)66. Bellerophon, one of the mythical founders of Aphrodisias, was a Greek hero with Lycian and Carian connections. And yet, from the late 1st century CE at the latest, the memory of a pre-Hellenic past was quite prominent. We do not know the narratives surrounding the images of Gordios, Semiramis, and Ninos in the civil basilica, but these legendary founders were certainly non-Hellenic figures associated with Aphrodisias’ origins. Apollonios of Aphrodisias referred to Aphrodisias as a city of Leleges (see n. 26). An oracle, allegedly given to Sulla and quoted by Appian in the mid-2nd century CE, designated Aphrodisias as a city of Carians67. The phenomenon of multiple identities is not at all unusual68, and on the basis of a study of Aelius Aristides and Pausanias, Christopher Jones has demonstrated that in the Roman East a Hellenic identity could co-exist with a regional, ‘barbarian’ one69. The elite of Aphrodisias exploited mythological 64 Macedonian and Rhodian names: Chaniotis (2009b). Carian names: Blümel (1992). Iranian names: Robert (1983) 505–509; Chaniotis (2009b). Jews in Caria: Trebilco (1991) 5–7; at Aphrodisias: Chaniotis (2002). A Lydian inscription is much older than the foundation of Aphrodisias (4th century BCE or earlier): Carruba (1970). 65 Reynolds (1982) 26–32, no. 5. 66 SEG L 1096 lines 6–8: [συγχωρῶ ὑμεῖν εἰ μὲν Ἕλλην, Ἀφρο]δεισιεὺς φύσει v ἢ τῶν παρ’ ὑμεῖν πολει[τευομένων, ἐγκαλεῖται ὑφ’ Ἕ]λ̣ληνος Ἀφροδεισιέως, κατὰ τοὺς ὑμετέρους [νόμους καὶ παρ’ ὑμεῖν καθί]σ̣τασθαι τὰς δίκας; Reynolds (2000). 67 App. civ. 1.97: περιμήκετον ἄστυ Καρῶν, οἳ ναίουσιν ἐπώνυμον ἐξ Ἀφροδίτης. This metrical oracle is of unknown origin (ἔστι δ’ ὅπου καὶ χρησμὸς αὐτῷ δοθείς), but it requested dedications to be sent to Delphi. I suspect that it is not authentic, but a historiographical forgery of the Imperial period. 68 E. g. Williamson (2005). 69 Jones (2004).

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themes in order to display at times a Hellenic or a Carian identity responding to the relations of their city to others: to Rome as her ally, to other Greek cities as their peer, to Carian cities as their metropolis.

4. Changing memories An interesting evolution can also be observed in the way the Aphrodisians perceived and remembered the history of their city. A large number of honorary inscriptions and epitaphs for members of the elite use the same theme: they were descendants of the men who had jointly built (synktizein) the community, the city, the fatherland (demos, polis, patris) 70. It is not clear whether this is a reference to the original foundation of Aphrodisias in the early 2nd century BCE, to the creation of a joint community with Plarasa in the 2nd century BCE, or perhaps even to the rebuilding of Aphrodisias in the 1st century BCE. In the late Hellenistic period, when these families were publicly declaring the foundation of Aphrodisias as the work of their ancestors, they were not contrasting their historical version of the city’s past to an alternative mythological version; they were referring to an undeniable fact that was part of the civic collective memory. In the entire extant documentation about the self-representation of the city of Plarasa/Aphrodisias and its diplomatic contacts in the late Republic there is not a single reference or even allusion to a mythological past or to mythological kinship. Recent military exploits and the loyalty towards Rome were the predominant theme71. Although the neighbouring city of Gordiou Teichos probably already had an eponymous hero72, there is no such evidence for Aphrodisias. When in the mid-1st century BCE Hermogenes was designated as, “a man who has as his ancestors men among the greatest and among those who together built the community” – the earliest attestation of this expression –73, his family’s tradition had no competition. More than three centuries later, when we find a similar formulation in the honorary inscription for a woman who was raised to the rank of a matrona stolata by Severus Alexander74, the significance of this claim had changed dramatically. From the late 1st century CE (at the latest) Aphrodisias had at least two much earlier founders: Bellerophon and Ninos. Multiple founders are not unusual; Aeneas and Romulus are not the only examples. No matter how the ‘founders’ kin’ responded to 70 Reynolds (1982) 1 and 164 f.; Chaniotis (2004) 382. 71 Chaniotis (2003) 74–77. 72 Robert (1937) 552–555, identified a warrior on the Hellenistic coinage of Gordiou Teichos as Gordios, the eponymous hero. 73 Chaniotis (2004) 378–386, no. 1; SEG LIV 1020. 74 MAMA VIII 514.

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the claim made by texts and images that the founders of Aphrodisias were not their ancestors but a Greek hero and an Assyrian king, the new mythological versions of the origins of Aphrodisias had automatically placed the role of the historical founders in a different perspective. This newly constructed tradition probably did not undermine their claim on leadership; instead it symbolically placed their ancestors on the same level as the legendary founders, making them the last in a sequence of ktistai. The new construction of a mythological past must have transformed the use and perception of the traditional formula, “the ancestors, who have jointly built the city”. Changes and tensions can also be observed in the use by the Aphrodisians of the myth of Aeneas and the foundation of Rome. As early as the 2nd century BCE this myth was exploited by Greek cities in order to demonstrate either their kinship (Ilion) or their relationship to the Romans75. The myth must have been known in Aphrodisias at the latest during the Mithridatic Wars, when Sulla dedicated a golden crown and a double axe to Aphrodite76; Iulius Caesar, a descendant of Aeneas, followed Sulla’s example, dedicating a statue of Eros (see n. 60). These are dedications of Romans to their ancestor, Aphrodite. Until Augustus’ reign none of the documents originating in the authorities of Aphrodisias makes any reference to the relationship of the local goddess to the founder of Rome. I have suggested three possible explanations for this remarkable absence of religious themes in the negotiations between Plarasa/Aphrodisias and Rome in the late Republic and the interest, instead, in military exploits and loyalty77. First, the community known to us as “the people of Plarasa and Aphrodisias” was not yet exclusively the “city of Aphrodite”. Secondly, Aphrodisias was not the only city in Asia Minor with an important sanctuary of Aphrodite; if the Plarasans/Aphrodisians had exploited the theme of their mythological relationship in order to strengthen their relations with Rome, they would have placed themselves on the same level as many other Greek communities. They exploited specific military achievements exactly because these differentiated them from other Greek cities. Thirdly, in a period of crisis, the addressees of their diplomacy, the Roman authorities, were more interested in pragmatic arguments. Plarasa/Aphrodisias adapted its diplomacy and selfrepresentation to the priorities of the Romans. The significance of Aeneas’ myth changed after the establishment of the Principate. Now the local goddess was the ancestor of the imperial house. This kinship between the founder of Rome and the goddess to whom 75 Ilion: Jones (2001) 181. Cities with important sanctuaries of Aphrodite: Chaniotis (2003) 76. 76 App. civ. 1.97. Cf. de Chaisemartin (2001) 151 f. 77 Chaniotis (2003) 74–77 (with references to the sources).

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Aphrodisias owed its names was naturally exploited by the Aphrodisians. From the 1st century onwards Aphrodite of Aphrodisias received honorary attributes and epithets that pointed to this fact: she was the ancestor of the divine emperors78. Aphrodisias was not the only city with an important sanctuary of Aphrodite, but it was the only city named after Aphrodite79. It has sometimes been assumed that the Aphrodisians used this in order to present themselves as relatives of the Romans80. Although the motif of kinship (syngeneia) is well attested81 and it was, for instance, used in the contacts between Aphrodisias and Halikarnassos (see n. 28), there is no evidence for its application in the relations between Aphrodisias and Rome82. We may infer the type of relationship which the Aphrodisian elite wished to establish between Aphrodisias and Rome from the letters of Roman emperors in the late 2nd and 3rd centuries CE. They adopted formulations originally contained in the letters of Aphrodisias, to which the emperors responded, and, therefore, they reveal how the Aphrodisians themselves wanted to represent their city. In a letter of Traianus Decius and Herennius Etruscus (250 CE) this relationship is described as intimate friendship83: “It was to be expected, both because of the goddess for whom your city is named and because of your friendship/intimacy (oikeiotes) with the Romans and loyalty to them, that you rejoiced at the establishment of our kingship.” This definition of the relationship between Aphrodisias and Rome was a conscious choice, which gave the Aphrodisians a privileged position as compared to competitors for privileges. A comparison between Aphrodisias and other cities is indeed explicitly made in a letter of Septimius Severus and Caracalla (198 CE)84: “you are closer to the rule of the Romans than others because of the goddess, who leads your city.” The part played by Aphrodite in the myth of Aeneas created the image of a family with implicit hierarchical relationships: between a goddess and a mortal; between a mother and a son. Projected onto the relationship between Aphrodisias and the Roman emperors this myth could not possibly make the Aphrodisians kin of the Romans or 78 SEG XXXVI 968 (1st century CE): Ἀφροδίτη Προμήτωρ θεῶν Σεβαστῶν. SEG XXX 1246 (1st century CE): Θεὰ Ἀφροδίτη Γενέτειρα; SEG XXX 1247 (102 CE): Προμήτωρ Ἀφροδίτη. 79 Reynolds (1982) 140–143, no. 25, l. 8: διὰ τὴν ἐπώνυμον τῆς πόλεως θεόν. 80 Robert (1966) 416, n. 1; cf. Reynolds (1982) 4; de Chaisemartin (1997) 44 f. and (2001) 156–158. 81 E. g. Jones (1999). 82 Jones (1999) 101–104 and (2001). Cf. Chaniotis (2003) 74 and 77–79. 83 Reynolds (1982) 140–143, no. 25, lines 8–10: εἰκὸς ἦν ὑμᾶς καὶ διὰ τὴν ἐπώνυμον τῆς πόλεως θεὸν καὶ διὰ τὴν πρὸς Ῥωμαίους οἰκειότητά τε καὶ πίστιν ἡσθῆναι μὲν ἐπὶ τῇ καταστάσει τῆς βασιλείας τῆς ἡμετέρας. 84 Reynolds (1982) 127–129, no. 18, line 4: τῇ Ῥωμαίων ἀρχῇ μᾶλλον ἄλλων προσήκοντας διὰ τὴν προκαθημένην τῆς πόλεως ὑμ[ῶν θεῶν]. Cf. Jones (1999) 103.

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the Roman emperors; but it could oblige the Roman emperors to treat the goddess of Aphrodisias with the affectionate respect that their ancestor (prometor) deserved. That Aphrodisias became the ancestor of the imperial house in the late 1st century BCE may have affected the sympolity of Plarasa and Aphrodisias in a very fundamental way. It may be the reason why Plarasa, originally the senior partner in this sympolity, disappeared from the picture in the 1st century CE and the “demos of the Plarasans and Aphrodisians” became the “demos of the Aphrodisians”. We cannot identify the agents of this development. It may have been Caius Iulius Zoilos, Augustus’ freedman and benefactor of Aphrodisias, a man who took pride in having occupied Aphrodite’s priesthood for life and – more importantly – having connected the cult of Aphrodite with that of Eleutheria, the personification of Freedom85. It could have been the initiative of the same members of the elite, who were responsible for the construction and decoration of the Sebasteion. Is it to be taken for granted that the disappearance of Plarasa and the Plarasans was greeted enthusiastically by all Plarasans? The new exclusive emphasis on Aphrodisias, her cult, and her mythological relationship to Rome may have provoked tension also in the religious life of this community. As we may infer from local coinage, in the Hellenistic period the Carian Zeus, locally worshipped as Zeus Nineudios, was at least as prominent as Aphrodite (see n. 2). However, in the Imperial period the elite reserved for him only a peripheral part in Aphrodisian self-representation, promoting instead the cult of Aphrodite and making her the leader of the community and the primary recipient of public dedications by the demos and dedications by magistrates86. Only the representation of Ninos, the mythological founder of Ninoe/Nineuda, together with Zeus’ eagle on a panel of the basilica reliefs reflected the original significance of the local god, whose epithet derived from Aphrodisias’ original name (NineudaNineudios). Dedications made to Zeus Nineudios by representatives of the lower social strata87 suggest a certain tension between the cultic traditions of part of the population and the elite’s conscious promotion of Aphrodite and her mythological connection with Aeneas.

85 On Zoilos see Robert (1966) 414–432; Reynolds (1979) and (1982) 156–164; Smith (1993). On the joint priesthood of Aphrodite and Eleutheria see more recently Chaniotis (2004) 393–395. 86 Chaniotis (2003) 77 f. 87 The dedication of a smith: Chaniotis (2004) 392 f., no. 11 (SEG LIV 1037); the dedication of a woman without a patronymic (unpublished, found in 2006): Μελιτίνη ὑπὲρ ΕΕ[c. 5]χίου̣ τοῦ / υἱοῦ Διὶ Νινε̣ [υδίῳ κατ’ εὐχ ]ήν.

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5. Changing views Finally, a tension exists between the meaning a mythological image had (or was intended to have) and the way it was viewed in later times. Let us take the representation of Bellerophon and Pegasus in the Sebasteion (mid1st century CE). Knowing that Bellerophon was regarded as a founder of Aphrodisias, we are tempted to see here an early allusion to the foundation legend of Aphrodisias, half a century earlier than the reliefs of the civil basilica (late 1st century CE). This is certainly possible, but far from certain. In the Sebasteion, Bellerophon appears among other well-known heroes of Greek mythology with no apparent – or very remote – connections with Aphrodisias: Achilles, Meleagros, Herakles, and Telephos. On the contrary, in the civil basilica he appears among figures with an evident role in the foundation legends of this region: Ninos and Gordios. It is, therefore, possible that, when the Sebasteion reliefs were made, Bellerophon was still viewed as a Hellenic hero and not as the local ktistes he was yet to become. Bellerophon’s significance changed again in the mid-3rd century, when Aphrodisias was not only one of the oldest cities of Caria, but its capital. Bellerophon provided the proof of her antiquity. Interestingly, the reliefs of the civil basilica originally lacked explanatory legends. As we may infer from the letterforms, these inscriptions were added in the 3rd century CE (or later). Aphrodisias’ promotion to the status of capital is a possible explanation for this addition. The inscriptions clarified Aphrodisias’ foundation legends to visitors from other cities of the province. The best example for a radical transformation of mythological images is provided by their treatment after the establishment of Christianity88. In some cases they were symbolically interpreted89, in others they were respected for their decorative aspect. As R. R. R. Smith has observed90 in the mythological images in the Sebasteion, only representations with a very clear cultic significance were destroyed, but not as victims of the uncontrolled attacks of a Christian mob; the removal of elements, which could not be tolerated by Christianity, was carefully executed. A similar procedure has been observed in inscriptions. In an epigram for an athlete only the words that alluded to cults (Zeus, Pythia, Olympia) were erased91, and similarly, the name ‘Aphrodisias’ was very cautiously carved out in some public inscriptions92. Such interventions required planning and selection; they were the result of discussions. 88 89 90 91 92

Bowersock (2006). E. g. Agosti (2004). Smith (forthcoming). Jones (1981) 126 f. Roueché (2007) 187–189.

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The mythological reliefs from the Agora Gate were treated in a different way. Dismantled from their original setting, they were used to decorate a fountain in the Agora Gate in the mid-5th century93. The construction of the fountain, probably also its decoration, was sponsored by Flavius Ampelius, for whom Pythiodoros (an educated Christian, a late pagan?) composed the following epigram94: To Ampelius, learned in law, sweet father of his motherland, we Nymphs are grateful, because he gave wonder and splendid beauty to (this) place of palms, so that anyone who, among our waters, turns his glance around, may always sing the praise both of him, and of the place, and of the Nymphs as well. Pythiodoros, the orator from Tralleis, wrote this.

In a period of clear opposition between Christians and pagans at Aphrodisias95, this epigram was certainly read in different ways by a member of the late pagan community of Aphrodisias, a Christian priest, or an educated Christian, willing to symbolically interpret the reference to the Nymphs and to admire the beauty of the images.

Bibliography Agosti (2004). – Gianfranco Agosti, “Due note sulla convenienza di Omero”, in: Arnaldo Marcone (ed.), Società e cultura in età tardoantica. Atti dell’incontro di studi, Udine 29–30 maggio 2003 (Florence 2004) 38–57. Blümel (1992). – Wolfgang Blümel, “Einheimische Personennamen in griechischen Inschriften aus Karien”, Epigraphica Anatolica 20 (1992) 7–33. Bowersock (2006). – Glen W. Bowersock, Mosaics as History: The Near East from Late Antiquity to Islam (Cambridge, Mass. 2006). Brody (2001). – Lisa Brody, “The Cult of Aphrodite at Aphrodisias in Caria”, Kernos 14 (2001) 93–109. Brody (2007). – Lisa Brody, The Aphrodite of Aphrodisias, Aphrodisias 3 (Mainz 2007). Carruba (1970). – Onofrio Carbura, “A Lydian Inscription from Aphrodisias in Caria”, JHS 90 (1970) 195 f. Chaniotis (1992). – Angelos Chaniotis, “Amnisos in den schriftlichen Quellen”, in: Jörg Schäfer (ed.), Amnisos nach den archäologischen, topographischen, historischen und epigraphischen Zeugnissen des Altertums und der Neuzeit (Berlin 1992) 51–127. Chaniotis (2002). – Angelos Chaniotis, “The Jews of Aphrodisias. New Evidence and Old Problems”, Scripta Classica Israelica 21 (2002) 209–242. Chaniotis (2003a). – Angelos Chaniotis, “Vom Erlebnis zum Mythos. Identitätskonstruktionen im kaiserzeitlichen Aphrodisias”, in: Elmar Schwertheim/Engelbert Winter (eds.), Stadt und Stadtentwicklung in Kleinasien (Bonn 2003) 69–84. 93 Linant de Bellefonds (1996) 186. 94 Roueché (1989) 68–71, no. 38 (translated by Charlotte Roueché, modified). On Ampelius, see Roueché (1989) 75–80, nos. 42–44. 95 Chaniotis (2008a).

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Chaniotis (2003b). – Angelos Chaniotis, “The Perception of Imperial Power in Aphrodisias: The Epigraphic Evidence”, in: Lukas de Blois et al. (eds.), The Representation and Perception of Roman Imperial Power. Proceedings of the Third Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Roman Empire, 200 BC – AD 476), Rome, March 20–23, 2002 (Amsterdam 2003) 250–260. Chaniotis (2004). – Angelos Chaniotis, “New Inscriptions from Aphrodisias (1995– 2001)”, AJA 108 (2004) 377–416. Chaniotis (2005). – Angelos Chaniotis, “Macht und Volk in den kaiserzeitlichen Inschriften von Aphrodisias”, in Gianpaolo Urso (ed.), Popolo e potere nel mondo antico (Pisa 2005) 47–61. Chaniotis (2008a). – Angelos Chaniotis, “The Conversion of the Temple of Aphrodite at Aphrodisias in Context”, in Johannes Hahn et al. (eds.), From Temple to Church: Destruction and Renewal of Local Cultic Topography in Late Antiquity, Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 163 (Leiden 2008) 243–273. Chaniotis (2008b). – Angelos Chaniotis, “Twelve Buildings in Search of a Location. Known and Unknown Buildings in Inscriptions of Aphrodisias”, in: Christopher Ratté/R. R. R. Smith (eds.), Aphrodisias Papers. Vol. 4: New Research on the City and Its Monuments, JRA Suppl. 70 (Portsmouth 2008) 61–78. Chaniotis (2009a). – Angelos Chaniotis, “Lament for a Young Man. A New Epigram from Aphrodisias”, in: Ángel Martínez Fernández (ed.), Estudios de Epigrafía Griega (La Laguna 2009) forthcoming. Chaniotis (2009b). – Angelos Chaniotis, “New Evidence from Aphrodisias Concerning the Rhodian Occupation of Karia and the Early History of Aphrodisias”, in: Riet van Bremen/Jan-Mathieu Carbon (eds.), Hellenistic Caria (Bordeaux 2009) forthcoming. de Chaisemartin (1997). – Nathalie de Chaisemartin, “Afrodisia, Roma e i Troiani”, Antiquità Classica 49 (1997) 29–46. de Chaisemartin (2001). – Nathalie de Chaisemartin, “Tradition locale et intégration dans l’Empire romain d’une cité carienne: la sémantique des frises à girlandes sur les monuments du centre civique d’Aphrodisias”, in: Michel Molin et al. (eds.), Images et représentations du pouvoir et de l’ordre social dans l’Antiquité. Actes du colloque, Angers, 28–29 mai 1999 (Paris 2001) 147–158. Dickie (2003). – Matthew W. Dickie, “The Topic of Envy and Emulation in an Agonistic Inscription from Oenoanda”, in: Eric Csapo/Margaret Miller (eds.), Poetry, Theory, Praxis. The Social Life of Myth, Word, and Image in Ancient Greece. Essays in Honour of William J. Slater (Oxford 2003) 232–246. Di Segni (1997). – Leah Di Segni, “A Dated Inscription from Beth Shean and the Cult of Dionysos Ktistes in Roman Scythopolis”, Scripta Classica Israelica 16 (1997) 139–161. Drew-Bear (1972). – Thomas Drew-Bear, “Deux décrets Héllenistiques d’Asie Mineure”, BCH 96 (1972) 435–471. Erim/Reynolds (1989). – Kenan Erim/Joyce Reynolds, “Sculptors at Aphrodisias in the Inscriptions of the City”, in: Nezih Basgelen/Mihin Lugal (eds.), Festschrift für Jale Inan (Istanbul 1989) 517–538. Furley/Bremer (2001). – William D. Furley/Jan M. Bremer, Greek Hymns (Tübingen 2001). Hall/Milner (1994). – Alan Hall/Nicholas Milner, “Education and Athletics. Documents Illustrating the Festivals of Oenoanda”, in: David French (ed.), Studies in the History and Topography of Lycia and Pisidia in Memoriam A. S. Hall, British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, Monograph 19 (London 1994) 7–47.

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Heller (2006a). – Anna Heller, ‘Les bêtises des Grecs’. Confl its et rivalités entre cités d’Asie et de Bithynie à l’époque romaine (129 a. C.–235 p. C.) (Bordeaux 2006). Heller (2006b). – Anna Heller, “ Ἀρχαιότης et εὐγένεια. Le thème des origines dans les cités d’Asie Mineure à l’époque impériale”, Ktèma 31 (2006) 97–108. Isager/Pedersen (2004). – Signe Isager/Poul Pedersen (eds.), The Salmakis Inscription and Hellenistic Halikarnassos (Odense 2004). Jones (1981). – Christopher P. Jones, “Two Inscriptions from Aphrodisias”, HSPh 85 (1981) 107–129. Jones (1999). – Christopher P. Jones, Kinship Diplomacy in the Ancient World (Cambridge, Mass./London 1999). Jones (2001). – Christopher P. Jones, “Diplomatie et liens de parenté: Ilion, Aphrodisias et Rome”, in: Valérie Fromentin/Sophie Gotteland (eds.), Origines Gentium (Bordeaux 2001) 179–186. Jones (2004). – Christopher P. Jones, “Multiple Identities in the Age of the Second Sophistic”, in: Barbara Borg (ed.), Paideia. The World of the Second Sophistic (Berlin/ New York 2004) 13–21. Koch/Sichtermann (1982). – Guntram Koch/Hellmut Sichtermann, Römische Sarkophage (München 1982). Jory (2002). – John Jory, “The Masks on the Propylon of the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias”, in: Pat Easterling/Edith Hall (eds.), Greek and Roman Actors: Aspects of an Ancient Profession (Cambridge 2002) 238–253. Lafond (2005). – Yves Lafond, “Le myth, référence identitaire pour les cités grecques d’époque impériale. L’exemple du Péloponnèse”, Kernos 18 (2005) 329–346. Laumonier (1958). – Alfred Laumonier, Les cultes indigènes en Carie (Paris 1958). Linant de Bellefonds (1996). – Pascale Linant de Bellefonds, “The Mythological Reliefs from the Agora Gate”, in: Charlotte Roueché/R. R. R. Smith (eds.), Aphrodisias Papers. Vol. 3: The Setting and Quarries, Mythological and Other Sculptural Decoration, Architectural Development, Portico of Tiberius, and Tetrapylon (Ann Arbor 1996) 174–186. Lindner (1994). – Ruth Lindner, Mythos und Identität. Studien zur Selbstdarstellung kleinasiatischer Städte in der römischen Kaiserzeit (Stuttgart 1994). MacDonald (1992). – David J. MacDonald, The Coinage of Aphrodisias (London 1992). Petrovic (2009). – Andrej Petrovic, “Sepulchral Epigram for Philadelphos (a Fallen Soldier?)”, Mnemosyne 62 (2009) forthcoming. Price (2005). – Simon Price, “Local Mythologies in the Greek East”, in: Christopher Howgego/Volker Heuchert/Andrew Burnett (eds.), Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces (Oxford 2005). Ratté (2008). – Christopher Ratté, “The Founding of Aphrodisias”, in: Christopher Ratté/R. R. R. Smith (eds.), Aphrodisias Papers. Vol. 4: New Research on the City and Its Monuments, JRA Suppl. 70 (Portsmouth 2008) 7–36. Reinach (1906). – Théodore Reinach, “Inscriptions d’Aphrodisias”, REG 19 (1906) 79–150, 205–298. Reynolds (1979). – Joyce Reynolds, “Zoilos, the Epigraphic Evidence”, in: Andreas Alföldi (ed.), Aion in Merida und Aphrodisias, Madrider Beiträge 6 (Mainz 1979) 35–40. Reynolds (1980). – Joyce Reynolds, “The Origins and Beginnings of the Imperial Cult at Aphrodisias”, PCPhS 206 (1980) 70–84. Reynolds (1982). – Joyce Reynolds, Aphrodisias and Rome (London 1982). Reynolds (1986). – Joyce Reynolds, “Further Information on the Imperial Cult at Aphrodisias”, in: Festschrift D. M. Pippidi, Studii Clasice 24 (Bucharest 1986) 101–117.

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Robert (1937). – Louis Robert, Etudes anatoliennes. Recherches sur les inscriptions grecques de l’Asie Mineure (Paris 1937). Robert (1965). – Louis Robert, D’Aphrodisias à la Lycaonie. Compte rendu du volume VIII des Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, Hellenica 13 (Paris 1965). Robert (1966). – Louis Robert, “Inscriptions d’Aphrodisias”, AC 35 (1966) 377–423. Robert (1975). – Louis Robert, “Nonnos et les monnaies d’Akmonia de Phrygie”, Journal des Savants (1975) 153–192. Robert (1980). – Louis Robert, A travers l’Asie Mineure: Poètes et prosateurs, monnaies grecques, voyageurs et géographie (Paris 1980). Robert (1983). – Louis Robert, “Documents d’Asie Mineure”, BCH 107 (1983) 479–599. Robert (1987). – Louis Robert, Documents d’Asie Mineure (Paris 1987). Roueché (1989). – Charlotte Roueché, Aphrodisias in Late Antiquity (London 1989). Roueché (1993). – Charlotte Roueché, Performers and Partisans at Aphrodisias (London 1993). Roueché (2007). – Charlotte Roueché, “From Aphrodisias to Stauropolis”, in: John Drinkwater/Benet R. S. Salway (eds.), Wolf Liebeschuetz Refl ected. Essays Presented by Colleagues, Friends, and Pupils, Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies, Suppl. 91 (London 2007) 183–192. Scheer (1993). – Tanja S. Scheer, Mythische Vorväter. Zur Bedeutung griechischer Heroenmythen im Selbstverständnis kleinasiatischer Städte (München 1993). Smith (1987). – R. R. R. Smith, “The Imperial Reliefs from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias”, JRS 77 (1987) 88–138. Smith (1988). – R. R. R. Smith, “Simulacra gentium: The Ethne from the Sebasteion at Aphrodisias”, JRS 78 (1988) 50–77. Smith (1989). – R. R. R. Smith, “Le Sébasteion et son décor sculpté”, Les Dossiers d’Archéologie 139 (1989) 46–59. Smith (1990). – R. R. R. Smith, “Myth and Allegory in the Sebasteion”, in: Charlotte Roueché/Kenan T. Erim (eds.), Aphrodisias Papers. Vol. [1]: Recent Work on Architecture and Sculpture (Ann Arbor 1990) 89–100. Smith (1993). – R. R. R. Smith, Aphrodisias I: The Monument of C. Julius Zoilos (Mainz 1993). Smith (1996). – R. R. R. Smith, “Archaeological Research at Aphrodisias 1989–1992”, in: Charlotte Roueché/R. R. R. Smith (eds.), Aphrodisias Papers. Vol. 3: The Setting and Quarries, Mythological and Other Sculptural Decoration, Architectural Development, Portico of Tiberius, and Tetrapylon (Ann Arbor 1996) 10–72. Smith (2000). – R. R. R. Smith, “Herakles and Antaios at Aphrodisias in Caria”, in Gocha R. Tsetskhladze et al. (eds.), Periplous. Papers on Classical Art and Archaeolog y Presented to Sir John Boardman (London 2000) 298–308. Smith (forthcoming). – R. R. R. Smith, “Defacing the Gods at Aphrodisias”, in: Beate Dignas/R. R. R. Smith (eds.), Creating the Present: Historical and Religious Memory in the Ancient World. Essays in Honour of Simon Price (Oxford). Strubbe (1984–1986). – Johan H. M. Strubbe, “Gründer kleinasiatischer Städte: Fiktion und Realität”, AncSoc 15–17 (1984–1986) 253–304. Trebilco (1991). – Paul R. Trebilco, Jewish Communities in Asia Minor (Cambridge 1991). Weiss (1984). – Peter Weiss, “Lebendiger Mythos. Gründerheroen und städtische Gründungstraditionen im griechisch-römischen Osten”, WJA 10 (1984) 179–208. Weiss (1990). – Peter Weiss, “Mythen, Dichter und Münzen von Lykaonien”, Chiron 20 (1990) 221–237.

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Weiss (1995). – Peter Weiss, “Götter, Städte und Gelehrte. Lydiaka und ‘Patria’ um Sardes und den Tmolos”, in: Elmar Schwertheim (ed.), Forschungen in Lydien (Bonn 1995) 85–109. Weiss (1996). – Peter Weiss, “Alexandria Troas: Griechische Traditionen und Mythen in einer römischen Colonia”, in: Elmar Schwertheim/Hans Wiegartz (eds.), Die Troas. Neue Forschungen zu Neandria und Alexandria Troas II (Bonn 1996) 157–173. Weiss (2004). – Peter Weiss, “Städtische Münzprägung und zweite Sophistik”, in: Barbara Borg (ed.), Paideia. The World of the Second Sophistic (Berlin/New York 2004) 179–200. Williamson (2005). – George Williamson, “Aspects of Identity”, in: Christopher Howgego/ Volker Heuchert/Andrew Burnett (eds.), Coinage and Identity in the Roman Provinces (Oxford 2005) 19–27. Yildirim (2004). – Bahadir Yildirm, “Identities and Empire. Local Mythology and the Self-Representation of Aphrodisias”, in: Barbara Borg (ed.), Paideia. The World of the Second Sophistic (Berlin/New York 2004) 23–52. Yildirim (2008). – Bahadir Yildirm, “The Date of the Reliefs from the Colonnades of the Civil Basilica”, in: Christopher Ratté/R. R. R. Smith (eds.), Aphrodisias Papers. Vol. 4: New Research on the City and Its Monuments, JRA Suppl. 70 (Portsmouth 2008) 107–129.

Copyright Fig. 1–5 Fig. 6

© Aphrodisias Archive, Institute of Fine Arts, New York University. Photograph of the author.

Sacred Precinct: Cattle, Hunted Animals, Slaves, Women attilio mastrocinque

A few years ago Fritz Graf 1 dealt with the problem of sacred groves and underlined that every generalization can produce errors. He limited his research to the single problem of the Apollinean groves in Asia Minor and concluded that each of them had to be examined in its own specific context. Here I gladly present this study to him on a question which had scarcely been dealt with before, that of animal behaviour in the sacred groves. My concern will be the rules which governed human behaviour inside versus outside the sacred boundaries and relations between animals and humans in the sacred areas. I will also deal with the behaviour of women in the sacred areas, and their rituals and mythology in relation to the behaviour of animals. “Groves” (nemus, alsos …) is indeed a frequently used term in this context, even though sacred spaces require in many cases other words, such as glades (lucus), pasturages, gardens and so on. Sacred spaces hospitable to cattle were defined as pasturages, and they will be focused in this research. The recent Naples conference on the sacred groves, especially the contributions of John Scheid and Olivier de Cazanove, demolished the wide spread theory of the cult of trees as the main reason to create sacred groves. My contribution will confirm their conclusions, and will deal with glades and grasslands rather than with bushes and trees. One of the most important features of Greek and Italic sacred areas was the behaviour of animals and men inside versus outside the sacred precincts. The animals could neither be molested when inside, nor used for profane purposes; they could only be sacrificed to the divinity who ruled over the sacred space. A common feature of many (virtually of all) the sacred spaces was asylia, and, as we shall see, animals were specifically connected with this characteristic. A second feature of many sacred spaces was the fecundity of 1

Graf (1993).

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animals. Using the cautious method of Fritz Graf, it is possible to attribute such features only to those sacred spaces in which animals lived, and not to any sacred grove or area in general.

The origins of asylia Greek asylia implied the status of an area that could not be violated by the forceful removal of something or someone from inside it, even if in order to retaliate for a previous robbery or injury. The word is composed of the alpha-privative and the Greek sylan, “take a prey”, or “plunder”2. Greek, and especially Hellenistic, asylia was the result of the international recognition of the sanctuary’s inviolability, and it could be applied also to the city in or near which an important temple stood. In ancient Italy a similar right also existed, even though many scholars have denied its acknowledgement under the Roman law3. The Romans and other Italic peoples, as well as the Greeks, believed that an asylum was a place where it was forbidden to pursue and remove slaves, refugees, and anything else sheltered inside4. The main mistake of the modern scholarship has been to limit its research to asylum for man, whereas Italic and Greek asylum was also intended for animals. The second mistake has been to believe that asylum was not a very ancient practice both in Greece and in Italy. The divinities of the ancient asylia were first of all protectors of animals and secondly they were protectors of human refugees. In this light modern scholars have failed to discuss a series of important testimonies, in which sacred precincts in Italy, Greece, and other countries provided safety for both animals and man. Sometimes 2 3

4

Therefore it neither signifies the “sacrality of every temple, sacred precinct or monument”, nor does it generically correspond to sacer, as Mossakowski (1996) maintains. Mommsen (1899) 459 = Mommsen (1907) 141 denied the existence of asylum in the Roman law. For the contrary viewpoint, see Altheim (1931) 175, 181. For more recent acknowledgement of asylum right by Rome: Latte (1954) 19; see also Schlesinger (1933) 2; Freyburger (1992) particularly 144. Many scholars maintain that the few passages in Roman historiography which mention asylum places in Rome, and first of all the Romulean asylum (Liv. 1.8.5 f.), were inspired by Hellenistic legal and religious traditions: Poucet (1984) 194; Fontana (1988); Dreher (1996); Mossakowski (1996); Dreher (2001), where one can find further bibliography, as well as in Dumont (1987) 137–139. Dumont (1987) 137–143, has correctly interpreted the sources which mention asyla in Rome (Plaut. Rud. 722; Tac. ann. 3.36; Sen. clem. 1.18; Plut. superst. 4). The juridical tradition knows the asylum right: Gaius inst. 1.53; Dig. 1.12.1.1; 1.6.2: 21.1.17.12; and the Latin name of this right was confugium or confugela (Paul. Fest. 39 L.): Dumont (1987) 139. Serv. Aen. 8.635: asylum condidit, ad quem locum si quis confugisset, eum exinde non liceret auferri. For the Greeks: SIG3 736, XVI; cf. Latte (1920) 206; Rigsby (1996).

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animals were even more healthy than if they had lived outside the sanctuary. The boundaries of these sacred precincts also excluded a variety of predatory or obnoxious animals as well as aggressive men.

Italic and Greek asylum Our survey will start with the ancient Veneti. A passage of Strabo says (5.1.9): It is a historical fact, however, that among the Heneti certain honours have been decreed to Diomedes; and, indeed, a white horse is still sacrificed to him, and two precincts are still to be seen – one of them sacred to the Argive Hera and the other to the Aetolian Artemis5. But some mythical elements, of course, have been added: namely, that in these sacred precincts the wild animals become tame, and they allow the people to approach and caress them, and any that are being pursued by dogs are no longer pursued when they have taken refuge here.

This is one of the most important testimonies to the origin of asylums in ancient Italy and elsewhere. Well, we can say that almost nobody noticed it6. According to one version of origins of Attic Arkteia (rituals of girls in honour of Artemis)7, a she-bear became tame after entering the sacred precinct of Artemis Mounichia. Lucian describes the animals which were kept in the sanctuary of Dea Syria, at Hierapolis: In the courtyard big oxen, horses, eagles, bears, and lions were living; they never harmed men, and were all sacred and tame8.

In Elam there was a sanctuary of Anaitis, where tame lions fawned on visitors and took food from them9. In Syria and Arabia temples were surrounded by an area where gazelles and other animals were kept, and hunting was forbidden10. In Egypt the sacred crocodiles were supposed to be tame11.

5 Lepore (1984). New hypotheses in Prosdocimi (2001) part. 6–15. Piccaluga (1980) proposed the misleading hypothesis of an agricultural nature of Artemis Aetolica’s ritual. Obviously the contempt of rites for this goddess could produce damages on the agricultural system, but the rites are nevertheless ancient rites of hunters and breeders. 6 I had called attention to this in a book of mine: Mastrocinque (1987) 32–36; cf. also Mastrocinque (1993) 104–112. 7 Schol. Aristoph. Lys. 645. 8 Lucian. dea Syria 41. See Lightfoot (2003) 476–479. 9 Ael. nat. 12.23. 10 Henninger (1981) 256–258, 264 f. and n. 70; Drijvers (1982); Lightfoot (2003) 476. 11 Hdt. 2.69.2.

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The same regulation of Venetic sacred glades was applied also to some sacred groves of Latium. Festus, in fact, writes12: People thought the Ides of August was a festal day of slaves because Servius Tullius, who was born in servitude, had dedicated a temple to Diana on the Aventine hill which was sacred; the deer had to be under protection of this goddess, and therefore the fleeing slaves (servi) were named deer (cervi) for they were so rapid.

Plutarch notes that the people who entered the forbidden precinct of Zeus on Mount Lyceium, in Arcadia, were called “stags” and that the god pretended they were delivered to him for punishment13. Such a habit of giving shelter to animals and even man in several sacred precincts was rooted in the traditions of archaic breeders, who preserved special herds of cattle for religious practices and considered them sacred. This ritual behaviour is characteristic of hunter cultures as well as herding cultures14. People believed that in sanctuaries prodigies occurred concerning animals. For instance, Aelian relates that animals fled into a sacred precinct of Pan in Arcadia to seek refuge from hunters, and that even the wolves dared not pursue them further inside15: And in Arcadian territory there is a shrine of Pan; Aule is the name of the place. Now any animals that take refuge there the god respects as suppliants and protects in complete safety. For wolves in pursuit are afraid to enter it and are checked at the mere sight of the place of refuge. So there is private property for these animals too to enable them to survive.

Ps.-Plutarchus’16 De fluviis reports that an Artemis temple in Mysia provided a shelter to boars. A marvellous big boar once entered the sacred area and spoke with human voice to hunters who were pursuing him. Aelian refers this custom also to a similar sacred precinct in Cyprus17:

12 460 L.: Servorum dies festus vulgo existimatur Idus Aug., quod eo die Ser. Tullius, natus servus, aedem Dianae dedicaverit in Aventino, cuius tutelae sint cervi; a quo celeritate fugitivos vocant cervos. Also Plut. qu. R. 100 = 287 E–F, refers to Ides of August as a festal day for slaves in memory of Servius Tullius, the son of a servant maid. Cf. recently Richard (1987) 208. Caius Gracchus fled from his enemies and sought refuge in the Diana temple on the Aventine: App. civ. 1.26.115; Plut. C. Gracch. 16. 13 Plut. qu. Gr. 300 A–C; cf. Burkert (1981) chap. 2.1. For the same precinct: Schol. Arat. 27. 14 Lanternari (²1976) 442–456. 15 Ael. nat. 11.6 (transl. Scholfield). 16 21 = 1163 D. 17 Ael. nat. 11.7 (transl. Scholfield). An asylum of Allat is also attested at Palmyra: Drijvers (1978); the published sculpture depicts a lion guarding an antelope; further bibliography on this asylum in Lightfoot (2003) 477 n. 6.

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On Curias when the deer (of which there are a great number and many hunters keen in pursuit of them) take refuge in the temple of Apollo there (the precinct is of very wide extent), the hounds bay at them but do not dare to approach. But the deer in a body graze undeterred and without fear and by some mysterious instinct trust to the god for their safety.

A temple of Artemis between Cleitor and Cynaetha, in Arcadia, was regarded as inviolable by the Greeks, and gave shelter to the sacred cattle of the goddess18. Hunters, upon entering the sacred grove of Diana at Aricia, had to lay down their weapons19. We find some ethnographic comparisons among African peoples, who delimited sacred areas within which the fleeing animals could neither be harmed nor molested20. Within such sacred areas animals grew bigger and healthier than elsewhere, as it happened near the Artemision of Hyampolis, in Phocis21. They could live for an extraordinarily long time, as it is stated by Pausanias22, who tells the story of a man in the Hellenistic age: Arcesilaus […] is said by the Arcadians to have seen, when dwelling in Lycosura, a sacred deer, enfeebled with age, of the goddess called Despoina. This deer, they say, had a collar round its neck, with writing on the collar: “I am a fawn that was captured at the time when Agapenor went to Troy.” This story proves that the deer is an animal much longer-lived even than the elephant.

The sacred territory of Hera Lacinia, near Croton, was holy to all neighbouring peoples; its limits included pasturage for animals sacred to the goddess; these animals had no herdsman, every species came back to its own barn, and no predator was hunting them. Livy23 reports the story as following: Six miles from the famous city was a temple more famous than the city itself, that of Lacinian Juno, revered by all the surrounding peoples. There a sacred grove, which was enclosed by dense woods and tall fir-trees, had in its centre luxuriant pastures, where cattle of all kinds, being sacred to the goddess, used to pasture without any herder. And at night the flocks of each kind would return separately to their stalls, never being harmed by wild beasts lying in wait, or by the dishonesty of men. Therefore great profits were made from the cattle, and out of the profits a massive golden column was wrought and consecrated.

18 19 20 21 22 23

Pol. 4.18.10. Grattius cyneg. 487. See Green (2007) 49–54, 87 f., 91 f. Frazer (³1913) 44 and 316 f. (on sacred groves of Akikuyu, East Africa). Paus. 10.35.7. Paus. 8.10.10. Liv. 24.3.4 f. (transl. Gardner Moore).

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The miraculous constraint of predators could also apply to harmful insects, as it occurred in Apollo’s sacred grove at Claros, which they did not enter. This fact is reported by Aelian24: Particularly in Clarus do the inhabitants and all Greeks pay honour to the son of Zeus and Leto. And so the land there is untrodden by poisonous creatures and is also highly obnoxious to them. […] Moreover Nicander (fr. 31) also bears witness to what I say, and his words are: “Neither viper, nor harmful spiders, nor deepwounding scorpion dwell in the groves of Clarus, for Apollo veiled its deep grotto with ash-trees and purged his grassy floor of obnoxious creatures.”

The guinea fowls which lived on the island of Leros were sacred to the goddess Parthenos, and no hunters or birds of prey hunted them, as it is stated by Aelian25: “Istros26 says that the guinea fowls living at Leros are not harmed by prey birds”. At Ascalon and Aphrodisias (Caria) doves sacred to Aphrodite lived undisturbed, and it was forbidden to catch them27. At the Roman Ara Maxima the power of Hercules prevented flies and dogs from entering the sacred precinct, as Pliny and other authors report: “Neither flies nor dogs enter the temple of Hercules in the Forum Boarium at Rome.”28 The asylum for man was only a consequence of the asylum for animals and a consequence of a god’s power to exclude hunters, hounds, wolves, and other aggressive beings from his sacred boundaries. The testimony of Festus to the servi who were respected as the cervi in Diana’s precinct shows that the sacred law was firstly established for deer and secondly for man. But it is possible that this sequence was only logical and not chronological and that the miracles concerning animals were simply the proof of the divine protection for the asylum, whose main purpose was the asylum for man. The international recognition of Greek asylia was a Hellenistic practice which expanded and acknowledged the local shelter of sacred precincts by obtaining decrees and statements from foreign cities or kingdoms. The international renunciation of retaliation and taking booty, however, can be traced back to archaic treaties between Greek cities which aimed to stop mutual attacks and retaliations29. In the Hellenistic period such acknowledgements conferred an international status on sacred precincts which were protected by an ancient and local right of asylum.

24 25 26 27 28 29

Ael. nat. 10.49 (transl. Scholfield); cf. Monbrun (2003). Ael. nat. 5.27; cf. Athen. 14.655 A–E (from a work of Clytus of Miletus). FGrH 334, F 60. Philo prov. 2.107 (in Eus. Pr. Ev. 8.14); Robert (1971). Plin. nat. 10.79; cf. Solin. 1.11; Plut. qu. R. 90 = 285 E. Gauthier (1972); Cataldi (1983).

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The divine bull in the sacred precinct Atreus vowed to Artemis the most beautiful herd of cattle, but later he did not give her the ram with the Golden Fleece30. Minos promised to sacrifice to Poseidon the creature which should appear out of the sea, and he saw a magnificent bull. Many evils ensued, when he sent it to his herds and sacrificed another, inferior, bull to Poseidon in its stead31. Livy32 writes that under king Servius Tullius a marvellous cow appeared and that it ought to have been sacrificed to Diana. As we have seen, man enjoyed the same privileges of asylum as the animals. Had therefore the people to consecrate the most beautiful girls and boys in sacred precincts, as well as the most beautiful animals? Let us look at several cases. Many myths tell the story of an ancient king, who should offer to the god or to the goddess his daughter as a substitute for an animal, which was impiously killed. Once Agamemnon, when hunting in a grove of Artemis, killed a stag, and boasted of his success. Artemis demanded the sacrifice of Agamemnon’s daughter as a form of compensation33. The same happened at Mounichia after the killing of a she-bear34. The human sacrifice was requested, but it could be avoided, for a she-goat was sacrificed as a substitute for the girl, and a group of young girls began the rite of Arkteia by remaining in the sanctuary as the substitutes for the she-bear. It has to be stressed that the wonderful animals which lived in the sacred spaces had to be sacrificed to the divinity, after a certain delay. The girl who replaced such an animal had to be sacrificed in the same way, but fortunately it was possible to replace her, in turn, with another animal. Ritual sacrifice was one of the threats to girls during their stay in a sacred place. Love and intercourse with a divine male animal were other ones. A complicated constellation of myths, especially in the Peloponnesus and Crete, tells how women, usually the daughters or the wife of the king, i. e. the most important women in the territory, acted as if they were cows. Proetos, king and founder of Tiryns, had as a wife, cow-eyed35 Stheneboea, and three daughters, who “fell mad, because they had scorned the divinity of Hera. They believed they had been turned into cows.”36 Argolis knew other myths in which men were supposed to be bulls and women cows. Argos was a cowherd, who was able to slay a terrible bull, 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Apollod. epit. 2. Apollod. bibl. 2.5.7. Liv. 1.45. Soph. El. 784–800. Suda, s. v. Embaros, Arktos and Brauronios; see Dowden (1989) chap. 1. Hes. fr. 129.20 Merkelbach/West. Hes. fr. 131 f. Merkelbach/West.

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scourge of Arcadia, whose skin he later wore37. In Argolis Io, daughter of the king and beloved of Zeus, was put in chains by Hera in the Heraion, and was kept by the sacred olive tree38. Her warder was Argos, who had three or four eyes, or even more. He was killed by Hermes, so that Io could escape. Io had cow’s horns on her head, and in fact she was or she became a heifer and wandered, as Aeschylus narrates in his Prometheus vinctus, until she gave birth to Epaphos, that is, the Apis bull39. According to Hesiod40, Io was Hera’s priestess. As Walter Burkert41 stressed, Argos was lord of the cattle herd and lord of Argolis; his surname was Panoptes (he who sees everything), and Zeus too was called Panoptes42. At Argos one statue of a three-eyed Zeus was kept43. Therefore Argos the cowherd was a manifestation of Zeus. An acropolis of Argos was called Nemea after the pasturing (nemomenai) cows44, which were sacred to Hera45. Greek mythology reports other plots in which women had intercourse with bulls. They were especially popular in Crete. Minos’ wife was Pasiphae, Helios’ daughter. She fell in love with a wonderful and marvellous bull, which was sent to Crete by Zeus or Poseidon46. In some versions the bull was Zeus himself in disguise47. She let Daedalus build a bronze cow, in which she concealed herself in order to deceive the divine bull and attract him. In this way she had intercourse with him and gave birth to the Minotaur48. Similarly Hesiodus49 tells the story of Europa: Zeus saw Europa the daughter of Phoenix gathering flowers in a meadow with some nymphs and fell in love with her. So he came down and changed himself into a bull […]. In this way he deceived Europa, carried her off and crossed the sea to Crete where he had intercourse with her. Then in this condition he made her live with Asterion the king of the Cretans. There she conceived and bore three sons, Minos, Sarpedon, and Rhadamanthys. 37 Apollod. 2.4; Schol. Eur. Phoen. 1116; Yalouris (1990) nos. 1, 23, 27, 28, 33, 44. 38 Apollod. 2.6; Plin. nat. 16.239. 39 Several Egyptian small bronzes from 6th to 5th centuries represent Apis as a bullheaded boy. 40 Hes. fr. 124 Merkelbach/West; Aesch. Suppl. 291; Hellanicus, FGrH Ia, p. 455. 41 Burkert (1981) 129; cf. Preller/Robert (1887) 396. 42 Aesch. Eum. 1045, and the inscription on the Argive altar edited by Vollgraff (1909) 445. 43 Paus. 2.24.3. 44 Etym. m. s. v. Aphesios Zeus. 45 Etym. m. s. v. Nemea. Cf. also on the hecatombs during the Heraia at Argos: Schol. Pind. Ol. 7.152 (1.230 f. Drachmann); Lucian. dial. deor. 3. 46 Mythogr. Vat. 1.47. 47 Liban. narr. 23. 48 Ov. met. 8.136–171; ars 1.297–311; epist. 4.58 f. 49 Hes. in Schol. Hom. Il. 12.292 (transl. Evelyn-White) = Bacchyl. fr. 10 Maehler; cf. also Aesch., TGrF 3, F 99; Mosch. 89 f.; Plin. nat. 12.11.

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Homer often calls Hera boôpis, “cow-eyed”50. Other women are called with the same adjective51, which is, however, formulaic only for Hera, the wife of Zeus, and mistress of the sacred cows.

Goat fertility As reported above, Pausanias52 states that the cattle living in Artemis’ sacred area at Hyampolis (Phocis) had no disease and were bigger than cattle on the outside. Sacred herds were primarily female, although extraordinary ones could contain a few males. Maybe only a single male was required in each sacred area. The bull which sometimes went to a sacred precinct had to be a divine beast, and in Hera’s sacred boundaries it could represent the power of Zeus. The bulls of Peloponnesian and Cretan mythologies were divine fecundators, or even represented Zeus himself, who was beloved not only by cows, but also by women. The divine bull and the wonderful ram with the Golden Fleece were epiphanies of male gods in sacred precincts, who were the source of fecundity53 and generation for animals and women. Such a description can be applied to Hera’s sacred grassy plains, but maybe not to Artemisian groves. Each god had his or her specific places. Hera had pasturages (leimônes), Artemis had groves (alsê) and glades, Aphrodite had gardens (kêpoi) 54, Pan had groves, as we have seen, and caves. That is apparently the main tendency: hunters like Artemis and Apollo protected wild animals, whereas a goddess of marriage and civilisation like Hera protected domesticated herd animals in her pasturages. A god of the fields, mountains, and wilderness like Pan protected semi-wild animals as goats, but also the more domesticated sheep. Pan was another god of fecundity. The myths and the rituals of Zeus, Hera, and their bovine herds were typical of Argolis, whereas myths and rituals of Pan and his goats were typical of Arcadia. The protection of Pan was given only to goats and rarely to sheep55. Pan was the owner of flocks56

50 For ex. Hom. Il. 1.551, 568; 4.50; 8.471; 14.159, 222, 263; 15.34. 51 Clymene: Hom. Il. 3.144; Phylomedousa: Hom. Il. 7.10; Halie: Hom. Il. 18.40; Harmonia: Pind. Pyth. 3.91. 52 Paus.10.35.7: ἄνευ νόσου ταῦτα καὶ πιότερα τῶν ἄλλων ἐκτρέφεσθαι λέγουσιν. 53 Motte (1971) 207–214, has collected a number of myths concerning intercourse between gods or heroes in gardens, prairies, and beachs. 54 See Motte (1971) 5–25 (which is dealing with both sacred and non-sacred grasslands). 55 Borgeaud (1974) 103: “il ne surveille que les chèvres, et parfois les moutons. Ni les chevaux, ni les bovins ne font partie de son domaine.” 56 Theocr. 7.113; Paus. 1.32.7; Verg. georg. 1.17; Longus 4.4.5.

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and the “husband of she-goats”57; he was the aigibates (“he who copulates with she-goats”)58. Greek and Roman iconography shows Pan as a shepherd of goats and as a fecundator of she-goats59. This god was the divine he-goat, who gave fecundity to his flock, and especially to his sacred flock60. Therefore one can suppose that Pan’s sacred precincts were the source of animal fecundity. The human part of Pan’s body could be connected to another of his functions: the fecundity of women. Pan was in fact believed to be a rapist of Nymphs and girls. Panòs gamos signified “rape”61. In Greek myth, for example, he tries to copulate with Echo62, Syrinx63, Selene64, Omphale65 and other divine females66. The myths report that he was wearing a ram’s skin in order to attract and deceive Selene67, in the same way as Zeus seduced Europa or Pasiphae seduced Zeus. The east-Peloponnesian mythology of the Man-Bull corresponds to the west-Peloponnesian mythology of the Man-He-Goat. In everyday life of Greek cities Pan, the god of girls, had to be present at the celebration of their marriage, and he was venerated in caves with the Nymphs68. The end of Menander’s Dyscolos is the best witness of Pan’s role in rituals which precede marriages. The word nymphe in Greek signifies not only “Nymph”, but also “bride”. The fecundity of sheep was a concern of both Pan and Hermes. Pan once brought the young ram with the Golden Fleece69, which was as wonderful as the bulls of Zeus and Poseidon.

Horse fertility The ancient Greeks wanted to increase the fecundity and the numerosity of their cattle. Every animal species had its specific god, which was represented among sacred cattle by the most beautiful male herd. Women too could derive advantage from this source of fertility, and every Greek society 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

Anth. Plan. 16.17. Theocr. epigr. 5.6; Anth. Pal. 6.31; cf. Borgeaud (1974) 104. Boardman (1997) nos. 258 f.; see also 246. Longus 4.4.5. Eur. Hel. 187–190. Theocr. Syrinx 5 f.; Longus 3.23. Ovid. met. 1.689–712; Longus 2.34; Ach. Tat. 8.6.7–10; Serv. ecl. 2.31. Verg. georg. 3.391 f. Ov. fast. 2.330–332. On the Pan’s occurrence during the dreams: Borgeaud (1974) 119. Macr. 5.22.9 ff.; Serv. georg. 3.391, which were following Nicander. Borgeaud (1974) 232–237. Eur. El. 703–705.

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organized its rituals according to the local god of sacred cattle. Many Greek cities conducted horse-breeding and therefore had a horse-god who fecundated their herds. Poseidon was in fact the god of horses, and we know a few myths in which Poseidon was the lover of mares. According to the mythographer Apollodorus70, Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus and Alcidice, was brought up by Cretheus, brother of Salmoneus, and conceived a passion for the river Enipeus, and she often went to its running waters and uttered her plaint to them. But Poseidon in the likeness of Enipeus lay with her, and she secretly gave birth to twin sons, whom she exposed. As the babes lay forlorn, a mare, belonging to some passing horse keepers, kicked with its hoof one of the two infants and left a livid mark on its face. The horse keeper took up both the children and reared them; and the one with the livid (pelion) mark he called Pelias, and the other Neleus.

This myth is not explicit in saying that Poseidon or his beloved take the shape of horses. On the other hand Pausanias71, in his description of the Arcadian city of Thelpousa, tells the story of Demeter and her temple known as Onkeion: When Demeter was wandering in search of her daughter, she was followed, it is said, by Poseidon, who lusted after her. So she turned, the story runs, into a mare, and grazed with the mares of Onkios; realising that he was outwitted, Poseidon too changed into a stallion and enjoyed Demeter […]. Demeter, they say, had by Poseidon a daughter, whose name they are not wont to divulge to the uninitiated, and a horse called Areion. For this reason they say that they were the first Arcadians to call Poseidon Horse.

Demeter of Thelpousa was called Erinys (“Fury”). According to another myth, Areion was born in Boeotia from Erinys and Poseidon metamorphosed into a stallion72. A monster which could be compared with Erinys was Medusa, the Gorgon, whose myth was very similar to that of Demeter. Hesiod’s Theogony73, when speaking of Medusa, says: With her alone the dark haired one 74 lay down in a soft meadow among spring flowers. When Perseus cut her head off from her neck, great Chrysaor and the horse Pegasus sprang forth.

70 Bibl. 1.9.8. 71 8.25.4 f. and 7 (transl. W. H. S. Jones); cf. Callim. fr. 652 Pfeiffer = Schol. Lycophr. 1225; Apollod. bibl. 3.6.8. See Jost (1985) 301–311; Breglia Pulci Doria (1986) 107– 126; Moggi/Osanna (2003) 405–408. The efforts to link these myths with agrarian cults and fields fertility (see Meyer 1902–1909, 2805) have little foundation. 72 Schol. Hom. Il. 23.346. 73 Hes. theog. 278–281. 74 Poseidon; cf. Hom. Il. 20.224. On the similarity of these myths: Jost (1985) 307.

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According to the mythology of Phygalia, Demeter Melaina begot Despoina from Poseidon75. Her archaic statue at Phygalia had a horse’s head76, and a Boeotian crater shows a Gorgon with a horse’s body77. The birth of both a human being and a horse is similar to birth of mixed creatures such as the Minotaur or Epaphos/Apis, which were born from a bull-god and a cow-woman. The patronage of Poseidon over horses is well attested78, especially in Arcadia79 and Boeotia80. The patronage of one god over one species was not exclusive, and other gods could take it over. For example, Hera could be herself the goddess of horses and be venerated as Hera Hippia81, and Athena was revered at Corinth as Hippia and Chalinitis (“she who used bit and bridle”)82; Poseidon Taureios was venerated in Boeotia and especially at Onchestos, because bulls were sacrificed to him83. In any case the multiplicity of domestic species was one of the most ancient reasons for a plurality of gods associated with animals. A single god might suffice for a people, whose economy depended on a single species, whereas a more complex economy required specialized gods for each breed. Every society or city thus venerated a specific god in accord with its traditions and its needs.

Men and wild animals in sacred precincts As we have seen, at Rome the slaves (servi) had the same rights as the stags (cervi) when they entered Diana’s sacred precincts. Many Greek mythical tales pretend that several men and, above all, women, were transformed into wild animals in Artemis’ or Zeus’ sacred areas. Apollodorus84 narrates a story about the couple Melanion and Atalanta: Once upon a time it is said that out hunting they entered into the precinct of Zeus, and there taking their fill of love were changed into lions. 75 Paus. 8.42.1–5; cf. Jost (1985) 314–317. A heroine whose name begins with hippos, “horse” was Hippothoe, of which Apollodorus (bibl. 2.4.5) writes: “Hippothoe was carried off by Poseidon, who brought her to the Echinadian Islands, and there had intercourse with her, and begat Taphius.” 76 Paus. 8.42.4. 77 Hampe (1936) 56 and pls. 36–38; Jost (1985) 307. 78 See Schachermeyr (1959) chaps 5 and 6; Will (1955) 159–163, 206–210. 79 Pheneos: Paus. 8.14.5; cf. Jost (1985) 35 f. 80 Onchestos: Hom. h. Apoll. 229–238. 81 See La Genière (1997) 264 f. 82 See Will (1955) 135–143. 83 Schol. Hes. scut. 621. 84 3.9.2 (transl. Frazer).

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The same author85 tells the story of Callisto, the Arcadian heroine: She was a companion of Artemis in the chase, wore the same garb, and swore to her to remain a maid. Now Zeus loved her and, having assumed the likeness, as some say, of Artemis, or, as others say, of Apollo, he shared her bed against her will, and wishing to escape the notice of Hera, he turned her into a bear. But Hera persuaded Artemis to shoot her down as a wild beast.

According to the myths, the majority of sacred precincts protected female animals, and the only male one was a god, or a marvellous animal which was sent by the male god. The owners of many of these areas were goddesses, who prohibited sexual intercourse with their protégés. The arrival of the god or of a divine male animal within the sanctuary leads to sexual transgression and fecundity of both female animals and women. In many sacred precincts life as in the golden age was re-created86. Cattle, usually domesticated, lived free in the sacred meadows. The same rule applied to slaves and women: they lived free from authority of masters, fathers, or husbands. Obviously a dichotomy between wild versus civilized life was created, as well as between primitive versus modern situation. The sacred precinct created a restricted zone in which, for a limited period, animals, slaves, and women lived freely, without threatening hunters, masters, and men. It is clear that such a mythical and ritual construct was conceived from the point of view of men. Men and also wolves and other predatory animals were concerned about limitations to their right over cattle, hunting prey, slaves, and women. There is no space now to deal with sacred precincts in which men having entered them were transformed into predators, that is, into wolves. Mythology and rituals of those precincts, and especially of that of Mount Lyceium, have been discussed and clarified by Walter Burkert87. The only thing we have to stress is that men only entered the sacred precinct of Zeus on the Lyceium, and not women. Greek societies, more specifically the men who lived in them, had to acknowledge that animals for hunting, cattle, and women did not belong to them. Prey was sacred to Artemis, who could keep and protect them in her sanctuaries. When offended, this goddess could send an obnoxious beast to destroy crops and vineyards, or to kill men. Cattle were sacred to Hera, horses to Poseidon, women to Artemis or/and to Demeter and also to Hera. There were two main ways to obtain animals and women from the gods: by consecrating to the gods the most beautiful animals and the most important women, or by renouncing them during several days in the year in favour of gods. The rape of women caused Demeter’s wrath, unjustified killing of animals caused the wrath of Artemis. 85 3.8.2 (transl. Frazer). Cf. also Ov. met. 2.409–507; fast. 2.153–190; Paus. 8.3.5 f. 86 Graf (1993) 27 f. 87 Burkert (1981) chap. 2.

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The sacred bargain In ancient Greek culture, then, a ritual behaviour was required in order for men to be allowed access to women and hunted animals. Across the boundaries of sacred precincts a ritual trade between gods and men was organized88. In this bargain many divine mediators were required. As Walter Burkert has shown, several gods were supposed to be jealous of their animals, and only the intervention of a divine mediator could make divine herds available to humankind. The best known case is that of Heracles and Geryon’s cattle89. Geryon was a three-headed cowherd-god, similar in some ways to the many-eyed Argos. Heracles killed Geryon and took his cattle, which were, in fact, Hades’ cattle90, through Gaul and Italy to Argolis, and many herds in Italy and Greece were supposed to descend from Heracles’ cattle91. The main result of Heracles’ labour, therefore, was that humankind had at its disposal cattle and meat. Hermes was another mediator between divine cattle and humankind. He stole Apollo’s herd and organized the first sacrifice in the Peloponnese, as the Homeric Hymn to Hermes narrates. He was worshipped by shepherds92; Pan, the god of sheep farming, was his son. Statues of Hermes often depict him with a ram. In addition, Hermes granted fertility to cattle and was thus often represented as a phallus93 or as a phallic stele called herme. Zeus made him the lord of every herd and the only messenger to Hades94. The murder of Argos by Hermes was a crime that caused the passage of cattle from the herd of a god (Hera in this case) to the world of humans. In fact, near the temples of Hera at Argos and in other towns, there lived sacred cows kept for sacrifices. The astuteness of Hermes and his friendship with humans earned him the character of a trickster, a clever inferior god who gave people every means of civilization95. Hermes and Heracles were able to go into netherworld realms and to come back to earth bringing cattle to the men. This feature makes these gods similar to shamans, which were supposed to be able to force the God of animals to let his beasts come again into the hunting fields of humans96. 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96

Smith (1995) 12–27. Burkert (1979) chap. 4, especially 83–98. Apollod. bibl. 2.5.10. Lycos Rheginus, FGrH 570 F 1; Proxenos, FGrH 703 F 8; cf. Pind. Nem. 4.54; Schol. Pind. Nem. 4.84; Schol. Aristoph. Aves 465; Schol. Theocr. 4.20; Antonin. Lib. 4. Cf. Mastrocinque (1987) 59. Semonides fr.18 Diehl; Hom. Od. 14.435 f. Paus. 6.26.5. Hom. h. Hermes 550–572. Burkert (1979) 93 and n. 29; Burkert (1981) chap. 3.2. See Burkert (1979) chap. 4.

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Women in captivity Io was a prisoner in Hera’s sacred precinct. Artemis Brauronia demanded that a group of young girls be segregated for a period in her sanctuary at Brauron97. Girls and kids were locked up in the Cretan Labyrinth, where the Minotaur was supposed to eat them. In Rome Fauna (called also Bona Dea) kept a group of women under control in her sacred grove98. According to several myths the daughters of primordial kings were consecrated to a goddess. Io was Hera’s priestess and daughter of the Argive king, the daughters of the Athenian king Cecrops were at Athena’s service, Amulius’ daughter was consecrated to Vesta. Many other myths speak of girls who wanted to escape marriage and sought the shelter of a virgin goddess, and in this way they became prisoners in the sacred area. We have already seen the case of metamorphoses of women into animals in the sacred precincts and the liberation of cattle from sacred meadows, and now we can see the captivity and escape of women in a similar way. The mistress of animals wanted women in exchange for animals. The myth of Brauron is clear: several Athenian girls were kept in the sacred precinct of Artemis as substitutes of a she-bear; they were not sacrificed, and the goddess accepted a she-goat as their substitute. When women and animals had been living for too long a time in the sacred precincts, the men of the society suffered the absence of those fundamental parts of their life. For that reason any form of exchange and substitution were requested in order to persuade the gods to release women and animals from their sacred areas. The end of women’s captivity represented the premise of procreation, and the release of animals was the premise of hunting or breeding, that is, nutrition.

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Mommsen (1899). – Theodor Mommsen, Römisches Strafrecht (Leipzig 1899). Mommsen (1907). – Theodor Mommsen, Le droit pénal, fr. transl. (Paris 1907). Monbrun (2003). – Philippe Monbrun, “Apollon, le scorpion et le frêne à Claros”, Kernos 16 (2003) 143–170. Montepaone (2002). – Claudia Montepaone, “Ifigenia a Brauron”, in: Gentili/Perusino (2002) 65–77. Mossakowski (1996). – Wieslaw Mossakowski, “The Problems of the Temple Asylum Genesis in the Ancient Rome”, Pomoerium 2 (1996) http://www.pomoerium.eu/ pomoer/pomoer2/inhalt2.htm. Motte (1971). – Alain Motte, Prairies et jardins de la Grèce antique. De la religion à la philosophie (Bruxelles 1971). Piccaluga (1980). – Giulia Piccaluga, “L’olocausto di Patrai”, in: Jean-Pierre Vernant et al. (eds.), Le sacrifice dans l’Antiquité (Vandœuvres-Genève 1980) 243–287. Poucet (1984). – Jacques Poucet, Les origines de Rome (Bruxelles 1984). Preller/Robert (1887). – Ludwig Preller, Griechische Mythologie, vol. 1, ed. by Carl Robert (Berlin 1887). Prosdocimi (2001). – Aldo Luigi Prosdocimi, “I riti dei Veneti antichi. Appunti sulle fonti”, in: Orizzonti del sacro. Culti e santuari antichi in Altino e nel Veneto orientale. Atti convegno Venezia 1999 (Roma 2001) 5–36. Richard (1987). – Jean-Claude Richard, “Recherches sur l’interprétation populaire de la figure du roi Servius Tullius”, RPh 61 (1987) 205–225. Rigsby (1996). – Kent J. Rigsby, Asylia: Territorial Inviolability in the Hellenistic World (Berkeley 1996). Robert (1971). – Louis Robert, “Les colombes d’Anastase et autres volatiles”, Journal des Savants (1971) 81–105. Schachermeyr (1959). – Fritz Schachermeyr, Poseidon und die Entstehung des griechischen Götterglaubens (München 1950). Schlesinger (1933). – Eilhard Schlesinger, Die griechische Asylie (Giessen 1933). Smith (1995). – Jonathan Z. Smith, “Trading Places”, in: Marvin Meyer/Paul Mirecki (eds.), Ancient Magic and Ritual Power (Leiden 1995) 12–27. Vollgraff (1909). – Wilhelm Vollgraff, “Inscriptions d’Argos”, BCH 33 (1909) 445–466. Will (1955). – Edouard Will, Korinthiaka. Recherches sur l’histoire et la civilisation de Corinthe des origines aux guerres médiques (Paris 1955). Yalouris (1990). – Nikolas Yalouris, “Io”, in: LIMC 5 (1990) 661–676.

The Great Medieval Mythogenesis: Why Historians Should Look Again at Medieval Heroic Tales anthony kaldellis Καὶ ἴδοις ἂν τοὺς ὑπὲρ τὸν ῾Ρῆνον βαρβάρους ᾄδοντας ὥς φασιν ἄγρια μέλη καὶ τοῖς κρωγμοῖς μὲν τῶν τραχὺ βοώντων ὀρνίθων ἀπεοικότα μηδὲν, σφίσι δ’ ὅμως αὐτοῖς δοκοῦντα ἐμμελῆ τε καὶ ἥδιστα. Michael Choniates, bishop of Athens (1182–1205)1

The contributions to the present volume highlight and justly honor the strengths of my colleague Fritz Graf ’s scholarship, namely his meticulous attention to detail combined with a capacity for broad reflection on longterm developments and an acute sensitivity for the consequences of theoretical choices, whether ancient, medieval, or modern. The present contribution is offered in the spirit of that reflection, and concerns the enduring importance of mythology for medieval societies. The argument crosses the boundaries of separate disciplines, only one of which (Byzantium) forms my area of specialization. I readily admit, therefore, that I am unqualified to write this paper, but I also do not know anyone who is; meanwhile, the patterns that I have observed call for attention. I hope for nothing more than to stimulate discussion. As far as ambition goes, at any rate, it is not as though I am writing a biography of the god Apollo! The thesis that I will develop in this paper rests on a series of interlinked observations about the patterns of production – chronological, geographic, and linguistic – of heroic tales and euhemerizing mythography in the Middle Ages. When they are aligned with each other, these patterns form a curious picture that calls for explanation, and any such explanation is bound to have significant implications for our understanding of the development of 1

Lambros (1879–1880) vol. 1, 26.

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medieval culture in addition, of course, to constituting a “metamythological” analysis of the production and value of myths in Christian Europe. I am not aware that these patterns have been noticed in scholarship. Perhaps one or two have, but in isolation from each other and normally limited to a few cases rather than across the extent of medieval Europe. It is only the full picture that calls for explanation in terms of the dynamics and structural shifts of medieval culture. Reduced to their bare bones, the observations I have been referring to are the following: (a) the period between the 11th and the 13th centuries witnessed a sudden rise in the production of heroic tales, especially concerning pagan heroes of the past and even gods (in some cases we are dealing with new compositions, in others with the elaborate codification of pre-existing local poems and traditions, whether oral or, less commonly, textual); (b) these pagan-heroic tales are usually recorded in the vernacular languages of the region in question and constitute a prominent component of the well known rise of vernacular literature in this period; (c) in all cases, these pagan heroes and gods are rehabilitated from their heathenism and sanitized for consumption and even admiration by the Christian societies that produced these tales. We are, in other words, still in the realm of pagan myth and heroic literature, despite being in the Christian Middle Ages. Finally, (d) this revival of pagan figures in works of vernacular literature occurred in the “Periphery” of the Latin “Core” of Europe, that is, mainly in regions that spoke Greek, Celtic, and Germanic languages2. In the Latin Core, with a few exceptions that will be discussed below, heroic tales focused on more or less recent Christian heroes who battled infidels; there was little interest in, or at least little knowledge about, pagan ancestors. To flesh out these patterns the argument must, at this point, survey the main texts that fit them. However diverse they may be in other respects, such as in their literary strategies, ethical and religious values, societal background and audience, it is, I believe, a significant historical fact that suddenly, in the period under consideration, such a large number of vernacular texts were composed (or elaborately copied or refashioned) that celebrated the deeds of the pagan heroes of the past and, in many cases, linked them (and sometimes their gods, too) to the cultures of the Periphery of late medieval Europe. The survey will proceed in geographical order rather than by language families, in order to avoid reifying concepts such as “Celtic” and “Germanic.” Much recent scholarship has rejected the attribution of these concepts to 2

I had developed the distinction between the Core and Periphery of medieval Europe independently, based on my observations regarding the distribution of this interest in pagan ancestors, but I am now happy to abdicate the responsibility for explaining it as it is well presented by Bartlett (1993) on grounds that are different from mine (which I take as indirect support for the methodological utility of the distinction).

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medieval mentalities, seeing them as modern ideological constructs. While it is a true that a reaction against this skeptical trend has emerged, especially concerning the smaller formations3, my argument does not depend on how this controversy is resolved. “Celtic” and “Germanic” are but convenient short-hand terms for referring to regions that were on the Periphery of the Latin Core; they are not meant in themselves to bear interpretive weight. Also, I concede that individual texts will be found to violate one or another of the patterns I have identified, but usually only one in each case. For instance, a text may be in Latin rather than the vernacular or it may lie outside the chronological parameters I have set. This is unavoidable, as we are dealing with human history and mythology, not science. The chronology of trends that span from Iceland to Byzantium is bound to be messy and, in the end, even language (Latin versus the vernacular) is secondary: the core of my thesis concerns the renewed interest in local pagan heroes and gods. Finally, I will not cite every text from each region that fits my thesis; moreover, my emphasis on pagan heroic tales is not meant to imply that these were the only kinds of texts that were produced in the vernacular in a particular region. An interest in Arthurian romance, for example, runs through both Core and Periphery (as do hagiography and other Christian genres), but it is, by and large, only in the Periphery that local pagan heroes are brought to the fore in this way. The case of Iceland is paradigmatic. The period under consideration saw the production of the Sagas in Old Norse, many of which concern pagan heroes from the period before the island’s conversion (1000 AD). In some cases, these figures are praised even while they are presented unapologetically as followers of the old religion; in other cases, they are made to convert, though this does not always result in a change of their behavior or values. They are meant, above all, to be Icelandic heroes (rather than pagan or Christian ones). Snorri Sturluson (1178–1241) composed a history of the Norse kings, an immense text later called the Heimskringla that traced the kings’ origins back to the Norse gods, who are euhemerized as human heroes (Óðinn was a warrior who came from the Asian city of Ásgarð). Snorri also composed the Prose Edda, a manual for alliterative verse. The prologue and first section likewise present a euhemerized history of the gods from a Christian point of view, making them into fleeing Trojans (for the significance of this, see below). This period also witnessed the compilation of the anonymous Poetic Edda, a major source for Norse mythology, from which, in fact, Christian editorializing is largely absent. Obviously, the individual poems may be earlier in date, but it is significant that our text survives in the late 13th-century Codex Regius. 3

E. g., on either end of the chronological spectrum, Liebeschuetz (2007) 341–355; Snyder (2003) 2–6 and esp. ch. 11.

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Ireland is also paradigmatic, except regarding chronology. Pagan heroic and mythological tales were apparently written down in previous centuries, but the earliest extant manuscripts date from the period under consideration here. In some of these stories, the pagan gods known as the Tuatha Dé Danann appear as a powerful race of people from the past, a concession to Christian sensitivity, yet even then they retain divine attributes. The stories of the Ulster Cycle in Old and Middle Irish, which feature the hero Cúchulainn (most prominently in the epic Táin Bó Cúailnge or “Cattle Raid of Cooley”), are set in an age before the coming of Christianity to Ireland. One of the two main recensions of the Táin (that found in the Book of Leinster) reflects the effort of a 12th-century scribe to systematize the many episodes that had become associated with this story. In a fundamental sense, then, this is a 12th-century text and reflects the concerns of that age4. The tales of the more popular Fenian (or Fionn) Cycle, which recount the deeds of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and his band of warriors, is also set before the island’s conversion, though most of the extant texts of this Cycle date between the tenth and early 13th centuries. Of particular interest is the most important Fenian text, dating to ca. 1200, the Acallam na Senórach (Tales of the Elders). This contorts chronology in order to bring Fionn’s nephew Caílte (a survivor of the band) face-to-face with St. Patrick so that the latter may bless him and (retroactively) Fionn himself. The hero tells the saint about the places and events of pre-Christian Ireland, including tales of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Thus the text fuses pagan and Christian Ireland on a national scale, given that hero and saint travel throughout the country in mutual respect and love and instructions are given that Caílte’s tales be written down and disseminated throughout Ireland. From Wales we have a disparate collection of eleven tales to which the name Mabinogion was attached in the 18th century. Its manuscript tradition begins with fragments extant from the 13th century while more complete versions are found in the White Book of Rhydderch (ca. 1350) and Red Book of Hergest (ca. 1400). The dates when these stories were composed (presumably they were transmitted orally at first) and then written down (in Middle Welsh) are controversial; at any rate, the latter event could not have been much earlier than 1100. Mabinogi originally referred to the first four tales (“Branches”) of the collection (Pwyll, Branwen, Manawydan, Math), and may have been derived from the name of the god Maponos. They are basically euhemerized accounts of pagan myths whose heroes inhabit a magical, pre-Christian world. The other tales feature Arthurian material, Briton legends and pseudo-history (e. g., the Roman emperor Magnus Maximus), and some reflect the conventions of French romans literature. It was also this 4

Cf. Dooley (2006).

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period that produced our extant manuscripts of earlier heroic Welsh poetry. Of particular interest is Y Gododdin, a heroic elegy for the 300 Gododdin warriors (a kingdom in northeastern England-southern Scotland) who fell in battle against the Angles around 600; it is traditionally attributed to the bard Aneirin. Regardless of when the poem was first composed (possibly as late as the 11th century, but probably earlier), it survives in one manuscript of the 13th century (the Book of Aneirin) and exhibits a mixed OldMiddle Welsh spelling. There is nothing Christian about the warriors’ ethos, though the poem adds Christianizing references. What is interesting is that their religion is less important to the poet than their anti-English, “Brython” national heroism. As in some of the other texts we have discussed, local or national connections trump religious identity. The magnificent poem Beowulf is our main source for the memory of the pagan past in Christian Anglo-Saxon England. Its heroes are explicitly presented as pagans but every effort is made to depict them as noble and quasi-Christian religious sentiments and invocations are attributed to them; their actions otherwise conform to a heroic ethos. Two potential problems for my thesis are, first, the poem’s date, which may be as early as the 9th century and also the fact that its hero is not English but a Geat from Scandinavia, where the action unfolds. Neither of these problems, however, poses an insurmountable objection to including Beowulf in the distinctive pattern of national-heroic literature that I have traced so far. For one thing, arguments for its date are entirely conjectural and tend to fit each historian’s general view of the evolution of English culture and literature. In fact, one of the leading authorities on the single manuscript in which the poem survives (the Nowell Codex of ca. 1000) has argued that Beowulf was probably composed in the early 11th century, in the context of renewed warfare between the English and the Danes that led to the reign over England of the Danish king Knútr (Cnut)5. And despite being set in Scandinavia, the poem’s Anglo-Saxon audience, whose own ancestors came from roughly that part of the world, would have quickly identified with the language, heroic ideals, and social customs of its protagonists in no less a way than did the Greeks with the world of the Achaian heroes of Homer’s Bronze Age. (Mycenae, Pylos, and Troy, let us not forget, were extinct and virtually forgotten places by the late classical period, and yet very much part of the Greek historical and geographic imagination.) There are other Old English texts that mention pagan heroes and gods (e. g., Deor ) but none – at least, none of the few that survive – go so far toward fusing the pagan past with the heroic values of Christian England as Beowulf. It is worth noting, by the way, that the survival of vernacular texts 5

Kiernan (1996).

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and “ancestral” pagan memories tends to diminish as we move from Iceland through Ireland, Wales, and Anglo-Saxon Englaland to the Latin Core, represented here by Norman England. After 1066, the Normans brutally suppressed Anglo-Saxon culture and interfered, through conquest and colonization, with the cultural evolution of Wales and Ireland. Put differently, the great survival of Icelandic language and literature was purchased at the cost of relative isolation from the rest of Europe. These patterns too will need to be considered when we attempt to explain the broader developments of this period. From Denmark we have Saxo Grammaticus’ massive Gesta Danorum in 16 books, which Saxo wrote in Latin around 1200 “to glorify our fatherland”, as he declares in the first sentence of the preface. About half the work deals with the martial deeds of the period of legend, including the tribal leaders and pagan kings of Denmark as well as the euhemerized gods (Othinus’ home of Asgard is identified here with Byzantium, perhaps based on the reputation that the “Great City” had among Scandinavians). Saxo wrote in Latin in part because he wanted his people and their ancestors to be praised in the manner and language that Virgil had used for the Romans and Beda for the English. He noted that Christianity had come all too recently to his people but was also a partisan of Latinity, which he treated as a means to enhance the Danes’ glory. He mentions among his sources Danish traditions (including texts “of their own language that they engraved on rocks”) and the work of Icelandic scholars, so a considerable part of his material was of vernacular origin. The Gesta transcends the transition from pagan to Christian, like so many of the other texts we have seen. And its outlook too is fundamentally martial. Our first tour through the Periphery ends at Byzantium, which was, of course, a culture unlike any of those we have touched on so far. Nevertheless, it too went through a development similar to that reflected in the literature of the North. Only a brief summary can be offered here as the literary genres and ideological contours of that development were different and perhaps more complicated in this case6. The Byzantines considered themselves Romans and traced their history, laws, society, political institutions, and even their descent (in part) to the ancient Romans. For Byzantines before the 12th century, “Hellenism” was either paganism or classical education, two senses that were generally discrete but could interfere with each other (placing philosophers in jeopardy). We should not underestimate the strength and depth of the Byzantines’ Roman identity. That modern historians have cast them as “medieval Greeks” is because western scholars adhere to the medieval bias according to which the Roman legacy belongs 6

For a fuller discussion, see Kaldellis (2007b) part 2.

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exclusively to the West (and so the Byzantines are “mere” Greci ) while the ideology of modern Greece has, in a complementary move, claimed Byzantium as a bridge to to its own antiquity. But neither side speaks for the Byzantines themselves in this matter. In precisely the period under consideration Byzantine intellectuals began to look to their “ancestors” to find solutions for the problems troubling the empire. They began to produce texts praising the ancient pagan Romans for their martial valor and other virtues in explicit recognition of the fact that they were not Christians, for example the History of Michael Attaleiates7. In the late 12th and 13th centuries, facing the onslaught of Latin Europe (in the form of the Crusades) and subject to western pressure to be “Greek”, some Byzantines began to shift the terms of this ancestor-worship to the Greeks. Without surrendering their claims to a Roman identity, they began to re-imagine it in a Greek guise – in distinction to the Latin “Romans” coming out of the West – and even experimented with notions of descent from the Greeks while inventing ideological means to ameliorate their paganism. The Byzantines too, in other words, like almost all the other nations on the Periphery whose literature has survived, turned to their pagan ancestors and heroized them in defiance of their paganism, even euhemerizing and allegorizing their gods. Being a scholarly society, they did so not in epics but in commentaries on classical authors, in histories, treatises, and letters, most of which were written in an elevated form of Greek, not demotic (demotic literature emerged in precisely this period but was not complicit in this ideological shift). But the distinction between the vernacular and learned language in Byzantium was not equivalent to that in the West, as it reflected a spectrum of stylistic registers in one and the same language. The ideological development was similar here to what happened in the North. There are additional texts and regional traditions that could be brought into the discussion (see below for the idiosyncratic and partially relevant History of Geoffrey of Monmouth and the Nibelungenlied; also for parallel developments in the Islamic East). Overall this sudden interest in pagan ancestors and the production of (mostly) heroic texts about them cannot have been coincidental, occurring as it did more or less simultaneously from Iceland to Byzantium (and, in fact, Iran). In most of the surveyed regions, this went hand-in-hand with the emergence of vernacular literature. As a broad cultural trend, moreover, what I will call the Great Medieval Mythogenesis seems to have been independent of the time that had elapsed since each people had converted (Scandinavia had recently joined Christendom, Wales and Ireland had known the faith for centuries, while Byzantium was the first state to convert, nine or so centuries ago). This trend was a feature 7

Kaldellis (2007a) 1–22.

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of the period centered on the 12th century and must be explained by reference to the developments of that age. But before we try to explain this Mythogenesis, we have to be precise about the contours of the phenomenon itself, because they are in fact very revealing. The converse (and equally) curious observation that we must make is that this Mythogenesis did not occur in Europe’s Latin core, namely in Spain, France, Italy, and (though this is more complex) the German lands. Not that those regions did not produce vernacular poems that celebrated the heroes of the past, but those heroes were Christians fighting Muslims, such as in the Song of Roland, the epics of Guillaume d’Orange, and the Poem of the Cid, or, slightly later during this period, they belonged to the world of the Arthurian romance that was or had become popular throughout both Core and Periphery. In the Core, there was no mythology to euhemerize or allegorize except that in classical literature just as there was no memory of any pre-Christian local heroes to celebrate. We should remember that the gods and heroes of the Mythogenesis under discussion were emphatically not those of classical mythology and legend, but locals, barbarians (though they are occasionally and tangentially related to the medieval myth of the wanderings of the Trojans). Irish heroes made sense only in Ireland, not merely because only in Ireland could Old and Middle Irish be understood. Likewise, many of the heroes in the Icelandic sagas are proud to be Icelandic as opposed to Norwegian (their closest cultural relatives) and the hero Beowulf is attested only in Anglo-Saxon. Byzantium is the exception here, of course, as its pagan heroes and gods were precisely those of classical antiquity, but it had a “natural” affinity to them that no other culture could claim. In the 12th century, only a Byzantine could invoke the Athenian politician Aristeides the Just (and know who that man had been) or express his cultural pride by authoring a philological commentary on the text of Homer. The Mythogenesis, therefore, consisted of a series of mutually independent cultural acts along the Periphery8, which, moreover, could only have occurred in each of its regions and not in the Core. This means that our explanation will have to account both for why it did occur in the Periphery and also for why it did not – in fact could not have – in the Core. The second, negative part is actually slightly easier to explain. But first we need to understand what kind explanation we are looking for. Each of these texts or local developments has been interpreted by specialists in each region within its own cultural context but, as the medieval Mythogenesis as a whole has not yet been recognized, these interpretations remain partial. There were obviously in each region different conditions on the ground – social, political, cultural, and economic – that determined the specific shape and meaning that the deeds of 8

Except for Saxo, who acknowledged a debt to the Icelanders.

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pagan heroes held in each step of their reception. In almost every imaginable way the texts that we have are different from each other, except with respect to the patterns that I observed above, which emerge only when we look at this “corpus” from a distance, when we project them onto the broad canvas of medieval history. Beyond all their culturally specific qualities, then, these texts also tell a story about the Making (or the Unmaking) of Europe. Let us look first at the Latin Core. It was called Latin, even in the Middle Ages themselves, because it consisted of former provinces of the Roman empire that, in late antiquity, were detached from the empire by barbarians who once spoke Germanic languages, namely Goths, Franks, Lombards, and others, who sooner or later converted to Catholic Christianity and exchanged their native languages for (later) Latin. By the 12th century, however, no one in these regions of the former empire could speak Gothic, Frankish, or Lombardic. They had been thoroughly latinized and now spoke languages that would become Spanish, French, and Italian. They retained no memory whatever of their ancestral pagan traditions and little regarding their preconversion kings and heroes. Traces of interest in those traditions may be detected during the intervening period (between the 5th and 10th centuries), but in the end “national” histories and genealogies were being concocted on the basis of the Old Testament (to a lesser degree) and classical history, especially the flight of the Trojans to the West9. In other words, even where there was a desire to celebrate the heroic past of the dynasties and “nations” of the Core (however those could be defined: see below), there was no native material with which to satisfy that need, no memory of any ancestors before the 5th century AD. One therefore had to resort to the “generic” Roman tale of a Trojan ancestry, which was copied to the point where a 12th-century historian could note that almost all the people of the West were of Trojan descent10. Even Snorri used it to frame his narrative of Norse mythology, although he gave it only a minor, “coordinating” role: it was his way of saying that the Norse people were not genealogically cut off from the now expanding and, we might say, “agenda-setting” Latin Core. But those who lacked memory of their “ethnic” ancestors and knowledge of pre-Romance languages turned by default to their other “cultural ancestors”, namely the Romans, and happily allowed the cultural koine of the Middle Ages that was “Rome” to fill this gap11. Moreover, the Trojan link precisely reinforced ideological links to the idea of Rome, which was almost always desirable. This conclusion has serious implications for scholarly views of the cultural matrix of medieval Europe. In his book The Making of Europe, Robert 9 Cf. Murray (1998) 121–152; Garrison (2000) 114–161. 10 Shawcross (2003) 120–152, here 121–123, citing previous bibliography on the importance of the Trojan myth. 11 For this view of Rome in the Middle Ages, see Smith (2005).

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Bartlett has argued that what lay behind the “Latin West” were basically the territories that made up the empire of Charlemagne. It was these regions that now, in the High Middle Ages, expanded with such dramatic impact on the societies along the Periphery. But our thesis concerning the Mythogenesis indicates that there was a deeper, ancient matrix at work here too, namely the cultural and linguistic frontiers of the ancient Roman empire. Historically active long after their physical abandonment, they not merely set the frontier between Romance and other languages of Europe but also shaped the cultural resources and historical memory of the people who settled within them. Just as the Gauls who were conquered by Caesar quickly came, within a few generations, to view Caesar as their national ancestor rather than Vercingetorix12, so too the difference between those who settled within and those who remained outside the boundaries of the ancient empire proved decisive when it came to their languages, memories, and heroes in later times. Very old divisions were making their power felt in the 12th century. This conclusion, in turn, challenges the belief of historians who assert that state borders in antiquity and the Middle Ages were essentially meaningless because they were permeable and fluid. It seems that borders and institutions had weight after all, even long after their nominal dissolution. An exception to this pattern, though its peculiarities in this regard are generally recognized, was Anglo-Saxon England. A combination of factors, including the failure of Latin to replace the local languages during the empire, the time-gap between the Roman withdrawal and the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons, and the nature and extent of the Anglo-Saxon settlement, gave this province a unique post-Roman history13. It was the Normans who brought England back into the Latin fold. Consider the difference between Beowulf and Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain (ca 1135, in Latin), that begins with the island’s settlement by Brutus, a descendant of Aeneas, and features long and invented sections on Arthur and Merlin (these provided the impetus for the medieval fascination with Arthur). The difference between the cultural specificity and ancestral memories reflected in Beowulf on the one hand and the vapid Trojan tale imported from the postFrankish Continent on the other tells us exactly what it meant to belong, now, to the Latin Core. Beowulf had cultural depth. In fact, Geoffrey omitted the English period as not being a part of the history of Britain, probably to please his Norman masters. But what exactly did that leave him with? The Arthurian tales in the History were innovative (if invented) and largely restricted to Britain, but by appropriating this Welsh tradition and setting it to the service of the Normans Geoffrey internationalized it; it soon spread throughout Europe and it too lost cultural specificity. On the other hand, by 12 See Woolf (1998). 13 Cf. Salway (1981) 499 f.

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recounting the deeds of the pre-Christian kings of Britain, a contribution to which Geoffrey draws attention at the beginning of his preface, he too was participating in the Mythogenesis of this period even though he (or his source) had to invent most of it (and omit discussion of the heroes’ paganism). Like the Roman province of Britannia, medieval Britain occupied an ambiguous cultural position vis-à-vis the Medieval Mythogenesis. Pseudo-histories that lacked cultural depth could be easily appropriated and move across cultural borders. Just as Geoffrey had made Arthur popular (eventualy throughout Europe, even Byzantium), his tale of Brutus spawned a French Roman du Brut (by the Norman poet Wace). In the early 13th century, Layamon’s Brut was based on that French poem and was the first telling of the story of King Arthur in English. It is also remarkable for its many echoes of Old English poetic style […] and […] the almost complete absence of words of French origin. We thus go from a pseudo-historical classic in Latin prose via 12th-century French verse adaptation to something that has been compared with Beowulf or the Battle of Maldon, the great heroic poems of Old English literature14.

Perhaps Norman England was not altogether out of the mythogenetic game after all. The other text that is difficult to categorize is the Nibelungenlied (ca. 1200, in Middle High German). Certainly it is an epic (and rather dark) poem about heroes who lived in the distant past, in fact who were contemporaries of the hero of Beowulf (5th–6th centuries). Its setting is identified as the age of the great Germanic migrations and some of the events and protagonists can easily be identified with known figures of that age (Etzel is Attila, Dietrich is Theodoric the Great, etc.), though their histories and personalities have been fictionalized to a great degree. In addition, the hero Siegfried, impossible though it is to identify him securely in history, certainly comes from a deeper substratum of Germanic lore and mythology. All these figures, whatever they may have been before the Nibelungenlied took shape, have been superficially christianized in the poem. They refer vaguely to God and duly go to church but that is about all, and this is not a poem about their religion or in which religious differences play any role (the poem is ultimately about the chivalric code and its complications). Etzel is in fact (correctly) portrayed as a pagan, but this does not affect the interactions with the other characters. In fact, he is just as noble: “many of the greatest warriors eagerly sought to serve him, and in his court one saw knights who were Christian and men who clearly were pagan, all united, all loyal to their noble lord” (1334)15. In 14 Bartlett (2000) 506. 15 The translation is by Raffel (2006) 185. Cf. Charlemagne in the Song of Roland 3596– 3598: “I must render to a pagan neither peace nor love. Receive the faith which presents to us, Christianity, and then I shall always love you” (tr. Burgess 1990, 143).

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a sense, then, pagans from the past are here “rehabilitated” for a late medieval audience; despite the many similarities between the Nibelungenlied and the Song of Roland in terms of chivalric values, Roland’s context of religious war is utterly lacking here. So why is the Nibelungenlied difficult to categorize? First, the courtly world of the Nibelungenlied is so similar to that of the Old French romans that we cannot draw a firm distinction here between Core and Periphery. Whatever “ancestral” traditions lurk behind the story, they have been expressed in the poetic koine of the late 12th century. On the other hand, the poem reveals that memories and cultural genealogies did manage, in the eastern, “Germanic” regions of the old empire of Charlemagne, to slip through this poetic matrix in a way that did not happen (and could not have happened) in the western regions: Siegfried the son of Siegmund is not like Aeneas, “Brutus”, or Arthur, and Gunter has to go to Iceland to find Brunhild, not a place on the itinerary of any hero sung about in the Core. My second and more important reservation, however, is that, in whichever way they may have begun their careers, the heroes of the Nibelungenlied are not cast as pagans from the national past of the poet’s audience. One of the chief effects of writing about pagan heroes in a Christian society is that it establishes a temporal rupture between past and present that only a specific audience would be willing and able to cross, namely the audience that identifies with those heroes on the grounds of language, culture, and ancestry: the Táin was meaningful (indeed, comprehensible) only in Ireland, Beowulf only in Anglo-Saxon England, and so on. While there is no doubt that precisely such traditions are reflected in the Nibelungenlied, their distinctive edge has been blunted. We are not here in the presence of a radical “otherness”, a local distinctiveness, that separates the culture of the poem’s audience from the myth-historical repertoire of Europe’s Latin Core through an emphasis on local pagan ancestors. The ambiguous position of the Nibelungenlied, however, does not challenge my thesis regarding the Great Medieval Mythogenesis; quite the contrary, it actually offers a strong argument in its favor. I have argued that, in the period under review, it made a difference to the ideological contours of heroic literature and the shape and depth of its “ancestral” memory whether one was in the Core or the Periphery of Latin Europe. The eastern, “Germanic”, regions of Charlemagne’s empire held an ambiguous position with regard to that broad distinction: in many ways they were part of the Core, in others not16, so it is entirely consistent with – and in fact, it almost could have been predicted by – my argument that the Nibelungenlied too would display exactly such a mixed and ambiguous profile. 16 See Bartlett (1993); Arnold (1997); and Smith (2005) esp. 30, 37–39, 288.

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I have so far sketched merely some of the conditions that may explain the distribution of mythography across Europe in the later Middle Ages and the different forms that heroic literature took in the Core and the Periphery. It was part of the impact of the Roman empire on virtually all the peoples that it encompassed within its territory, even after it itself had departed from the scene, that they had come to forget their ancestral languages and cultural roots and reinscribed themselves into the portable and universal stories of the Church and Roman imperialism itself 17. But what we still lack is an explanation for why the Great Medieval Mythogenesis happened at all, especially when and where it did. It is, perhaps, too early to speculate about explanations, as the phenomenon itself has not been widely observed to begin with, much less studied. A historical interpretation of the Mythogenesis as a broad trend would have to take into account the particulars of each region as well as the “pan-European” situation and this cannot be done here. I will, however, point in the direction of what seems the most profitable approach and conclude with some “metamythological” observations. The renewed interest along the Periphery in distinctive local ancestors – whether specifically ethnic ones or more broadly cultural ones – cannot have been unrelated to the expansion of the Core into the Periphery during this very period, a development charted by Bartlett in The Making of Europe. Not only did the Latin Core expand militarily on all fronts, it exported its languages and nomenclature, religion, social and political forms, urbanization (where that was underdeveloped), and military technologies to the peoples along the Periphery, who were thereby to varying degrees brought into the fold. J. M. H. Smith has noted that, for instance, “Scandinavia was now incorporated within the political community of Latin Christendom on much the same terms as other regions”18. Mythogenesis must somehow be seen as a reaction to this process of incorporation. It certainly was that in the case of Byzantium for example, where we can easily see that the turn to the ancient Greeks and the “discovery” that they were the cultural and possibly biological ancestors of the (eastern) Romans (e. g., by the emperor Theodoros II Laskaris) was designed to help the Byzantines cope with and confront the Latin West that had just invaded their territory and colonized their lands. Wales and Ireland were similarly being colonized by Norman England, so too Central and Eastern Europe by broader coalitions. For all, then, that historians of the Core talk about standardization, normalization, and the elimination of local diversity, the expansion of Europe seems, to the contrary (and at least to this degree), to have stimulated diverse expressions of local identity in the Periphery. What could be less “normal” than 17 For this phenomenon in the East, see Millar (1994). 18 Smith, J. M. H. (2005) 255.

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the vernacular languages of those regions? Diverse cultural allegiances were being asserted on the Periphery through the medium of heroic legends and vernacular literature to which the Core had no claim and of which it could have little understanding. The two processes could not have been unrelated. Yet we should not imagine reaction as uniformly negative. “Europeanization” and “Latinization” were not coercive in all their forms nor were they necessarily perceived to be so by those involved in Mythogenesis (to the extent that we are aware of their attitudes on the matter). Saxo, for example, was in favor of incorporation and desired the process to move faster, as he noted in the preface to his History of the Danes. “Reaction”, thus, could signal opposition or the need to strengthen local identities (however those were configured), or it could function as a facilitator of incorporation: a genealogy, after all, could define the broad terms on which a “new” people was entering the broader Christian community. The two processes – the making of Europe and the creation of the regional identities of the Periphery – went hand-in-hand. Once again mythology stepped in to serve the needs of the moment, in this case of broad cultural and historical adjustment. In this process, oral and textual traditions, local memories, and heroic lays were recast and reinterpreted. Gods were euhemerized (if they had not been already), narratives and genealogies shaped by the conventions of classical historiography and Scripture, national histories fused with the Trojan line of European descent. Pagan ritual practices and beliefs were toned down in remembrance in order to make ancient heroes more appealing, or they were reinvented or rationalized; there was probably little or no direct contact with living paganism. In short, my argument makes no claim about the authenticity of the traditions preserved in the texts, which were written for and by Christians19. In fact, the Christian context is what makes the argument possible in the first place. I make no claim regarding how traditions made it through the period of conversion to the moment of Mythogenesis. As J. Z. Smith put it: Regardless of whether we are studying myths from literate or non-literary societies, we are dealing with historical processes of reinterpretation, with tradition. That, for a given group at a given time to choose this or that mode of interpreting their tradition is to opt for a particular way of relating themselves to their historical past and their social present […] almost every religious tradition that forms the object of our research had had a centuries-old history20.

On a more interesting, metamythological level we may wonder how and to what degree the texts surveyed above enable historians to initiate a discussion on “national identity” in the Middle Ages, an interpretive concept that 19 See, e. g., McCone (1990) for an extreme reading. 20 Smith, J. Z. (1990) 107.

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I have alluded to at times, albeit loosely. Many theorists of the nation (who tend to be modernists by training) assume that it is a purely modern phenomenon, while historians of ancient and medieval societies, who are not theorists of the nation, tend to assume that the concept is an anachronism when applied to those societies. But in recent decades, many scholars, especially those who combine theoretical and historical approaches, have begun to revise this assumption and find that indeed a number of ancient and medieval societies had developed collective identities not unlike those of modern nations (which are diverse enough to begin with)21. In the case of the Medieval Mythogenesis, I suspect that many of the texts in question reflect national identities and, moreover, that some were meant to shape them in certain ways. A text in the vernacular that focuses on ancient pagan heroes that can be claimed only by a particular community of language, values, and memory, presents itself as a national artifact. There are many different ways in which the texts I have surveyed reflect imagined national communities. Much work will have to be done in order to validate this thesis, of course, but it is in fact underway on many fronts. Mytholog y and mythogenesis may, then, play a key role in this discussion, as being both a product and a contributor to medieval ethnogenesis in the Periphery: it was precisely when they came into increased contact with the Core that Ireland, Iceland, Denmark, and Byzantium sought to define their traditions more forcefully. I conclude this sketch of an argument by looking further East. From the mass of materials that I have accumulated over the years, a greater challenge poses itself. The period under consideration seems to have witnessed a parallel movement within – or around the Periphery of – the Islamic world as well. Ferdowsi’s Shanameh fits perfectly with the criteria that I have set based on texts from Ireland to Byzantium: this is an epic poem written in a national language rather than the religious koine of its world (Persian instead of Arabic), about the pagan heroes of a people conquered by the bearers of the new faith, and written precisely with the intention to project Persian culture in the face of what historians of the Middle Ages call “standardization and normalization”. And this is not the only text produced during this period in the Islamic world that fits these criteria. It is possible, then, that we will have to expand our horizons even more and ask: What was really going on in the world between 1000 and 1300? To this question, at least in the way in which it has been framed here, pagan myth (to put it strongly) may provide important and hitherto neglected insights.

21 The literature is large and growing. Different (but ultimately complementary) approaches are represented by Smith, A. D. (1986); Reynolds (1998) 17–36; Kaldellis (2007b) ch. 2.

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Bibliography Arnold (1997). – Benjamin Arnold, Medieval Germany, 500–1300: A Political Interpretation (Toronto 1997). Bartlett (1993). – Robert Bartlett, The Making of Europe: Conquest, Colonization and Cultural Change, 950–1350 (Princeton 1993). Bartlett (2000). – Robert Bartlett, England under the Norman and Angevin Kings, 1075–1225 (Oxford 2000). Burgess (1990). – Glyn S. Burgess, The Song of Roland (London 1990). Dooley (2006). – Ann Dooley, Playing the Hero: Reading the Irish Saga “Táin Bó Cúailnge” (Toronto 2006). Garrison (2000). – Mary Garrison, “The Franks as the New Israel? Education for an Identity from Pipin to Charlemagne”, in: Yitzhak Hen/Matthew Innes (eds.), The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge 2000) 114–161. Kaldellis (2007a). – Anthony Kaldellis, “A Byzantine Argument for the Equivalence of All Religions: Michael Attaleiates on Ancient and Modern Romans”, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 14 (2007) 1–22. Kaldellis (2007b). – Anthony Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium: The Transformations of Greek Identity and the Reception of the Classical Tradition (Cambridge 2007) part 2. Kiernan (1996). – Kevin Kiernan, Beowulf and the Beowulf Manuscript (Ann Arbor 1996). Lambros (1879–1880). – Spyridon Lambros, Μιχαὴλ Ἀκομινάτου τοῦ Χωνιάτου τὰ σωζόμενα, vol. 1–2 (Athens 1879–1880). Liebeschuetz (2007). – Wolf Liebeschuetz, “The Debate about the Ethnogenesis of the Germanic Tribes”, in: Hagit Amirav/Bas Ter Haar Romeny (eds.), From Rome to Constantinople: Studies in Honour of Averil Cameron (Leuven etc. 2007) 341–355. McCone (1990). – Kim McCone, Pagan Past and Christian Present in Early Irish Literature (Maynooth 1990). Millar (1994). – Fergus Millar, The Roman Near East (31 BC – AD 337) (Harvard 1994). Murray (1998). – Alexander Callander Murray, “Post vocantur Merohingii: Fredegar, Merovech, and ‘Sacral Kingship’ ”, in: id. (ed.), After Rome’s Fall: Narrators and Sources of Early Medieval History (Toronto 1998) 121–152. Raffel (2006). – Burton Raffel, Das Nibelungenlied: Song of the Nibelungs (New Haven/ London 2006). Reynolds (1998). – Susan Reynolds, “Our Forefathers? Tribes, Peoples, and Nations in the Historiography of the Age of Migrations”, in: Alexander C. Murray (ed.), After Rome’s Fall: Narrators and Sources of Early Medieval History (Toronto 1998) 17–36. Salway (1981). – Peter Salway, Roman Britain (Oxford 1981). Shawcross (2003). – Teresa Shawcross, “Re-inventing the Homeland in the Historiography of Frankish Greece: The Fourth Crusade and the Legend of the Trojan War”, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 27 (2003) 120–152. Smith, A. D. (1986). – Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origin of Nations (Oxford/New York 1986). Smith, J. M. H. (2005). – Julia M. H. Smith, Europe after Rome: A New Cultural History 500–1000 (Oxford 2005). Smith, J. Z. (1990). – Jonathan Zittell Smith, Drudgery Divine: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity (Chicago 1990). Snyder (2003). – Christopher Allen Snyder, The Britons (Malden, Mass. 2003). Woolf (1998). – Greg Woolf, Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul (Cambridge 1998).

In Praise of the Chaotic bruce lincoln I When historians of religions take up the theme of chaos, they usually begin with the earliest Greek evidence, that of Hesiod’s Theogony. Typically, discussion then heads north to note how similar is the Old Norse Ginnungagap, as described in Snorri’s Edda. After these almost-obligatory opening moves, virtually anything is fair game, it being understood that a general category has been established. All that remains is to build as long a list as possible, mixing new and exotic examples in with the familiar chestnuts1. Although I will follow this same pattern to a certain extent, I do so not from idle habit, but for a critical purpose. At the outset, let me dissociate myself from any suggestion of universal patterns, for I doubt that “chaos” or something translatable as such is to be found everywhere. At best, there are concepts with family resemblances to the primordial situation described in myth, which we might term “the chaotic”, reserving “Chaos” (with the majuscule) for the Greek datum and “chaos” (with the minuscule) for a term used more broadly to describe – often, with pejorative connotation – a state of ferment, turbulence, and disorder. All examples that might be cited, moreover, have their own context-specific particular features that complicate – which is to say, enrich and modify – the discussion. Progress comes from identifying these particularities and probing their significance, then revising our general model to take account of them. Toward that end, the strategy I will follow is relatively straightforward. Beginning where everyone else begins – τὸ χάος in Hesiod, followed by Snorri’s Ginnunga-gap – I will adduce one more example: the Void (tuhīigīh) of Zoroastrian cosmogonies, as found in Middle Persian (Pahlavi) texts. Not only does this last datum differ from both the Greek and the Old Norse in important ways, the mythic narrative also moves the Void from the chaotic to chaos. 1

Thus, to cite an obvious example, Girardot (1987).

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Having recognized this, we will revisit the Greek and Old Norse materials to note similar developments there. And once that portion of the inquiry is complete, I will venture some conclusions, while recalling an argument between two legendary figures of our discipline that took place in illo tempore (as one of them would have said). Thirty-six years later, their disagreement continues to haunt me, and the way they resolved it still strikes me as wrong. Using the materials just described, I hope to advance their discussion.

II Directly following the Theogony’s proem and its invocation of the Muses, Hesiod announces the theme of his work. Hail, daughters of Zeus! Give [me] a delightful song. Celebrate the holy race of immortals, who are eternal, Born from Earth and starry Sky, From dark Night, and those whom the salty Sea nourished. Tell how the gods and earth first came into being […] Tell these things to me, O Muses, who dwell on Olympus, From the beginning, and tell me which of them first came into being 2.

In this passage, the poet suggests that all divine beings descend from four parents – Earth (Gaia), Sky (Ouranos), Sea (Pontos), and Night (Nyx) – a claim borne out by the rest of the poem. Yet when the question of primacy is posed (“Which of them first came into being?”, line 115), the response is surprising. Rather than naming any of the entities just identified, the text states in effect “None of the above”, then introduces another set of four truly primordial beings, only one of which – Earth – recurs from the first-named tetrad3. 2

3

Hesiod, Theogony 104–115. All translations are original and texts are taken from the edition of West (1966). χαίρετε τέκνα Διός, δότε δ’ ἱμερόεσσαν ἀοιδήν· κλείετε δ’ ἀθανάτων ἱερὸν γένος αἰὲν ἐόντων, οἳ Γῆς ἐξεγένοντο καὶ Οὐρανοῦ ἀστερόεντος, Νυκτός τε δνοφερῆς, οὕς θ’ ἁλμυρὸς ἔτρεφε Πόντος. εἴπατε δ’ ὡς τὰ πρῶτα θεοὶ καὶ γαῖα γένοντο. […] ταῦτά μοι ἔσπετε Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι ἐξ αρχῆς, καὶ εἴπαθ’, ὅτι πρῶτον γένετ’ αὐτῶν. Even here, a slight variation occurs, for when Earth enters the story as part of the first-named tetrad (line 106), she bears the name Γῆ. When she next appears, as part of the second-named (but first-born) tetrad, it is under the name Γαῖα (line 117). Elsewhere in the poem, γῆ is used only as a common noun, denoting the physical earth, but not the goddess who is its embodiment (cf. lines 679, 720, 721, 723a, 728, 736, 762, 790, 807, 972). For the latter, the form Γαῖα is always employed elsewhere (23 ×, including lines 20, 45, 126, 147, 154, etc.). This point has been noted

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She, moreover, is relegated to second place, absolute primacy being granted to a previously unmentioned figure4. Tell these things to me, O Muses, who dwell on Olympοs, From the beginning, and tell me which of them first came into being. Truly, Chaos was born first; next Wide-breasted Earth, forever the unmovable seat of all The immortals who possess the summit of snowy Olympos; [ Then] misty Tartaros, in the furthest depths of wide-stretching earth, And Desire (Eros), who is fairest among the immortal gods5.

The text then connects the two tetrads genealogically, establishing that the four entities it introduced first are, for the most part, children of those it introduced second. The latter actually constitute the first generation of the cosmos (fig. 1)6. Beyond this, a subtle distinction is drawn, which helps explain why the two tetrads were presented in inverse order of their births. Thus, the first-named tetrad includes beings who are much more easily perceived and recognized, since their existence is fully material (Earth, Sky, and Sea; in this regard, Night – the daughter of Chaos – is a mediating figure). By contrast, the first-born (but second-named) tetrad includes beings whose existence tends toward abstraction and non-materiality: at best, they find

4 5

6

by West, p. 189, who takes the occurrence of Γῆ as a proper name at line 106 to be a Homeric usage. This may be so, but the contrast of nomenclature at lines 106 and 117 also advances a subtle theological point: existence of the earth as a deity (Γαῖα) is temporally prior to its realization in material form (Γῆ), insofar as spirit takes ontological precedence over matter. For some recent attempts to interpret this concept, see Bussanich (1983), Podbielski (1986) and Mondi (1989), with citation of earlier literature. Theogony 114–122: ταῦτά μοι ἔσπετε Μοῦσαι Ὀλύμπια δώματ’ ἔχουσαι ἐξ αρχῆς, καὶ εἴπαθ’, ὅτι πρῶτον γένετ’ αὐτῶν. ἤτοι μὲν πρώτιστα Χάος γένετ’· αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα Γαῖ’ εὐρύστερνος, πάντων ἕδος ἀσφαλὲς αἰεὶ ἀθανάτων οἳ ἔχουσι κάρη νιφόεντος Ὀλύμπου, Τάρταρά τ’ ἠερόεντα μυχῷ χθονὸς εὐρυοδείης, ἠδ’ ῎Ερος, ὃς κάλλιστος ἐν ἀθανάτοισι θεοῖσι. Theogony 123–132: “From Chaos, Nether-Darkness (Erebos) and black Night were born, And from Night, Celestial-Light (Aithêr) and Day came to birth, Whom Night conceived and bore after mingling in love with Nether-Darkness. Earth first gave birth to starry Sky (Ouranos), Equal to herself, so that he might fully cover her, And she was ever the unmovable seat for the blessed gods. And she gave birth to great mountains, lovely divine haunts Of the Nymphs, who dwell in the glen-filled mountains. And she bore Pontos, the barren sea, with its swelling surface, Without any act of desirous love.”

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Darkness

Light

Chaos

EARTH

NIGHT

SKY Mountains

Day

Fate, Destiny, Death, etc.

Tartaros

Eros

SEA

Titans Zeus & Olympian gods

Nereids, etc.

Typhon

Fig. 1: First generations of existence according to Hesiod’s Theogony. The four entities that appear in Small Capital Letters figure in the first-named tetrad, introduced at lines 104–107. Those that appear in Boldface Type figure in the second-named tetrad, introduced at lines 116–120). Note that Earth (Gaia) appears in both groups.

only minimal realization in concrete substance (Chaos, Desire, and Tartaros; here, it is Earth who mediates). More elusive, mysterious, and subtle than the second tetrad, it is thus more difficult to know. As a result, members of this group are revealed to us only after we have made the acquaintance of their children, for knowledge of the first generation’s nature – indeed, of their very existence – is constituted as a higher level of understanding, which comes only with reflection and not from immediate sensory perception. The contrast of abstract and concrete is most clearly drawn, perhaps, between the first-named members of each tetrad: Chaos and Earth. From these two, all other beings descend, but their lineages remain forever distinct, there being no sexual connection between any of their progeny, no matter how temporally distant. All the descendants of Chaos come via Night, and all (save Day and Light) are the products of parthenogenesis. As a result, they – like their ancestors – share an abstract, indistinct, non-material nature7.

7

ἐκ Χάεος δ’ ῎Ερεβός τε μέλαινά τε Νὺξ ἐγένοντο, Νυκτὸς δ’ αὖτ’ Αἰθήρ τε καὶ ῾Ημέρη ἐξεγένοντο, οὓς τέκε κυσαμένη Ἐρέβει φιλότητι μιγεῖσα. Γαῖα δέ τοι πρῶτον μὲν ἐγείνατο ἶσον ἑωυτῇ Οὐρανὸν ἀστερόενθ’, ἵνα μιν περὶ πάντα καλύπτοι, ὄφρ’ εἴη μακάρεσσι θεοῖς ἕδος ἀσφαλὲς αἰεί, γείνατο δ’ οὔρεα μακρά, θεᾶν χαρίεντας ἐναύλους Νυμφέων, αἳ ναίουσιν ἀν’ οὔρεα βησσήεντα, ἠδὲ καὶ ἀτρύγετον πέλαγος τέκεν οἴδματι θυῖον, Πόντον, ἄτερ φιλότητος ἐφιμέρου. Being non-material, nebulous, and somewhat indistinct, members of this lineage are thus hard to know and their character often prompts a certain disquiet or anxiety, as

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Initially, Earth also reproduces asexually, giving birth to Sky, Mountains, and Sea. Thereafter, she mates with two of her sons (Sky and Sea), and from these unions descend all (save one) of her offspring8. Of all the primordial beings, Earth is not only the most fertile, but also the most substantial. Thus, within the second tetrad, one can observe a cline from Night (daughter of Chaos and least material of the four) through the sequence Sky-Sea-Earth, i. e. a gas, a liquid, and a solid. Earth is the most concrete, the most stable, and the most tangible of the four or, to put it differently, the most fully realized in matter. Chaos stands at the opposite extreme. Of all that exists, it is most unformed and inchoate in its material existence. This conclusion is consistent with the etymological significance of the term, for most precisely τὸ χάος denotes a gaping space: “void, chasm, abyss”9. Insubstantiality as yet without bounds, Chaos stands just a half-step removed from Non-being. As Hermann Fränkel aptly put it, “nicht ein rein privatives Nicht, sondern ein negatives Etwas”10. Even so, it is the condition of possibility for all else. Initially, Chaos may then be understood as existence in its zero-grade, coupled with potentiality at the maximum: the point of departure for all subsequent creation and creativity.

in the case of Fate (Moros), Destiny (Kêr), Death (Thanatos), Grief (Oiz ys), Nemesis, and Strife (Eris). Others, however, remain ambiguous and ultimately unknowable, but not necessarily threatening, as in the case of Sleep (Hypnos), Dreams (Oneiroi), and Love (Philotês). Regarding this lineage, as treated by Hesiod and others, see Ramnoux (1986) and Scalera McClintock (1989). 8 The exception is Typhôn, whom Earth bears to Tartaros, but who dies without issue (Theogony 820 ff.). On the significance of this monster and the victory over him that confirms Zeus’s power, see Ballabriga (1990) and Blaise (1992). 9 Hofinger (1975) 700, translates τὸ χάος as “abîme, gouffre”, when used as a common noun, τὸ Χάος (i. e. the proper noun) as “Chaos, l’abîme personifié; dieu primordial”. Later authors tend to associate Chaos either with the empty space between Earth and Sky above (thus Bacchylides 5.27 and Aristophanes, Clouds 424, 627, Birds 1218) or that between Earth and Tartaros below (thus [Pseudo-]Plato, Axiochus 371e and Quintus Smyrnaeus 2.614). Etymologically, the attested form is derived from an earlier *χάϜ-ος, closely related to the adjective χαῦνος, “insubstantial” (on which, see the splendid discussion of Mondi, 1989, 22–26) and a bit more distantly to such tems as χάσκω, “to yawn, gape, open wide” and χάσμα, “chasm, gulf, wide opening”. For fuller discussions, see West (1966) 192–193, Frisk (1973) vol. 2, 1072–1073, Chantraine (1968–1980) 1246. 10 Fränkel (²1960) 318.

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III Another classic instance of the chaotic is found in Old Norse traditions that situate the first acts of cosmic history at a place called Ginnunga-gap11. The word is a compound, whose second element denotes an empty space (ON gap, cognate to English gap and derived from the verb gapa, “to gape, open wide”)12. The compound’s first element, however, is an adjective of less certain meaning. Most experts relate ginnunga to Old Norse ginn-, itself a prefix that can mean “vast, wide”, also “great”, and perhaps also “powerful” (in the view of some, magically so)13. Also tempting are connections to Old High German ginunga (with single -n-) “opening, cleft, rictus”14 and 11 The name Ginnungagap is unattested in any text prior to the Edda of Snorri Sturluson (1179–1241). In all likelihood, Snorri himself coined the term, drawing on Völuspá 3, a poem that probably dates to the late 10th Century. “It was early in time There where Ymir dwelt. Neither sand, nor sea was, Nor chill waves. The earth, not found, Nor heaven above. The void was vast (gap var ginnunga) And grass nowhere.” “Ár var alda Þar er Ymir byggði; Vara sandr né sær né svalar unnir. Iörð fannz æva né upphiminn: gap var ginnunga, en gras hvergi.” 12 Vries (1977) 156. Compare also Anglo-Saxon geáp (noun) “expanse, room”, (adjective) “open, spread out, extended, broad, roomy, spacious, wide”, geápan (verb) “to gape, open”. 13 Thus Vries (1977) 167–168, Vries (1930), who favors an association of ginnunga to Runic Danish ginu-, as attested in inscriptions that read ginoronoR (Stentoften, c. 620 CE) and ginArunAR (Björketorp, c. 650). Interpreting these forms to mean “zauberkräftige runen” he goes on to suggest that Ginnungagap most literally denotes “der mit magischen kräften erfüllte weltraum”. The attempt is labored and ultimately unconvincing. 14 Dronke (1969–) vol. 2, 112–114, frankly acknowledged that ginnunga “presents a tortuous problem; it has no straightforward linguistic interpretation in terms of Old Norse”. She goes on to suggest that Old High German ginunga (with single -n-), which usually serves to gloss Latin hiatus and rictus, “may have been a term for the heathen Germanic Chaos ”. Going further still, she imagines it was borrowed into Old Norse, with doubling of the consonant as a result of associations to ON ginn-. While possible, the argument seems unlikely: more ingenious than persuasive.

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Anglo-Saxon be-ginnan, on-ginnan, “to begin, commence, endeavor” (conceivably, “to open a space in which things can happen”)15. All of these comparisons are semantically appropriate and phonologically possible, if strained in some particulars. In contrast to Chaos, however, Ginnungagap was not theorized as first of all beings or the parent of any others. Rather, according to Snorri’s Edda, it was an emptiness that lay between two already extant realms of more positive character: Niflheim to the north and Muspellheim to the south. Notwithstanding the initially static nature of this situation, the gap provided possibilities. Just as cold and all grim things come from Niflheim, so that which is near to Muspell was hot and bright. But Ginnungagap was as mild as windless air. And when the icy rime and the warm breeze met, it melted and dripped, and from these living drops, life quickened with the strength of that which sent the heat. It had the bodily form of a man and he was named Ymir16.

We will have more to say about Ymir, but at present let us simply observe that Ginnungagap, unlike Chaos, is not a first half-step toward being, but an (almost)17 empty space of encounter: the crucible in which two other entities could meet and transform each other. The two, in fact, are inverse images, for Niflheim and Muspell each possess one positive, life-sustaining quality (Niflheim’s moisture, Muspellheim’s heat), but lack precisely that quality the other possesses (cold being the absence of heat and dryness the absence of moisture). The dialectic interaction of these two contraries thus yielded a synthesis of cosmic importance18. Niflheim + Muspellheim → Drops of Water that become Life (− Heat/+ Moisture) + (+ Heat/− Moisture) → (+ Heat/+ Moisture)

15 Cleasby/Vigfusson/Craigie (1957) 200, who derive ginnunga from Old Norse ginnand connect the latter to Anglo-Saxon gin or ginn “vast, wide”, then go on to state “It seems however better to derive it from the verb beginnan, English begin, a word used in all Teutonic languages, except the old Scandinavian tongue, where it is unknown, unless in this mythological prefix.” The absence of corresponding terms in Scandinavian remains a significant difficulty. 16 Gylfaginning 5, text from Faulkes (1982) 10: “Svá sem kallt stóð af Niflheimi ok allir hlutir grimmir, svá var þat er vissi námunda Muspelli heitt ok ljóst, en Ginnungagap var svá hlætt sem lopt vindlaust. Ok þá er mœttisk hrímin ok blær hitans, svá at bráðnaði ok draup, ok af þeim kvikudropum kviknaði með krapti þess er til sendi hitann, ok varð manns líkandi, ok var sá nefndr Ymir.” 17 Comparison of the primordial gap to “windless air” (lopt vindlaust) suggests the presence of a minimal something that, like air, is of indispensable importance, however much it may be imperceptible. 18 On this passage, see See (1988) 52–55, Faulkes (1983), Clunies Ross (1994) vol. 1, 152–158, and Lincoln (2001).

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Like Chaos, Ginnungagap mediates Being and Non-Being. It is not, however, the first principle in any absolute sense and its role is more catalytic than foundational, for it provides other, already existing entities a fertile, if nondescript space where they can meet and interact in dynamic fashion. This being accomplished, Ginnungagap disappears from the story, except for one last, reprise appearance, which we will consider later. The same is true of Chaos.

IV Unfortunately, there is no canonic version of the Zoroastrian cosmogony, and we will have to draw on several sources. One of the most thorough, the Greater Bundahišn, begins its account as follows. 1. Ohrmazd, highest in omniscience and goodness, for boundless time always existed in the light. That light is the seat and place of Ohrmazd, which one calls “Endless Light”. 2. Omniscience and goodness exist in infinite time, just as Ohrmazd, his place and religion exist in the time of Ohrmazd. 3. Ahriman exists in darkness, with total ignorance and love of destruction, in the depths. 4. His crude love of destruction and that place of darkness are what one calls “Endless Darkness”. 5. Between them a void existed – that which is the wind, in which the two are mixed. 6. Both realms have the quality of finitude and infinitude, 7. since the height one calls “Endless Light” has no end, and the depths known as “Endless Darkness” are without limit. 8. At their border, the realms of “Endless Light” and of “Endless Darkness” are both finite, since there is a Void between them and they are not connected to each other19.

As with Snorri’s narrative, the Zoroastrian cosmogony begins with certain entities already well-established: the deity Ohrmazd (“Wise Lord”), who inhabits the realm of “Endless Light”, and his demonic counterpart Ahriman (“Evil Spirit”), who resides in “Endless Darkness”. Initially, the chief difference between Ginnungagap and the “Void” (Pahlavi tuhīgīh )20 seems to be 19 Text from Anklesaria (1908) p. 2, line 11 – p. 3, line 12: “pad weh dēn owōn paydāg, Ohrmazd bālistīg pad harwisp āgāhīh ud wehīh zamān ī akanārag andar rōšnīh hamē būd. ān rōšnīh gāh ud gyāg ī Ohrmazd hast kē asar rōšnīh gōwēd. ān harwisp āgāhīh ud wehīh zamān ī akanārag ciyōn Ohrmazd wehīh ud dēn zamān i Ohrmazd būd hēnd. Ahriman andar tārigīh pad pas-dānišnīh ud zadār-kāmagīh zofr-pāyag būd. uš zadārkāmagīh xām ud ān tārigīh gyāg hast kē asar tārigīh gōwēd. u-šān mayān tuhīgīh būd hast kē way kē-š gumēzišn padiš. harw dō hēnd kanāragōmandīh ī akānaragōmandīh cē bālistīh ān īº asar rōšnīh gōwēd kū nē sarōmand ud zofr pāyag ān ī asar tārigīh ud ān hast akanārīh. pad wimand harw dō kanāragōmand kū-šān mayān tuhīgīh ēk ō ī did nē paywast hēnd. did harw 2-ān mēnōg pad +xwēš tan kanāragōmand.” 20 The term is an abstract noun meaning “emptiness, void”, built on the adjective tuhīg “empty”. As Bailey (1943/1971) 135 first recognized, the same cosmic void is sometimes also denoted as wišādagīh (“openness, empty space”). Thus, for instance,

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their spatial orientation. While the former is located on a horizontal plane (mediating North and South), the latter is set on the vertical (mediating heaven and the infernal depths). There are, however, other important distinctions to be drawn. Thus, if Chaos is a space of emergence and Ginnungagap a space of productive encounter, the primordial Void of Zoroastrianism is a tense no-man’s land: a buffer between potential adversaries. To make war against Ohrmazd, then, the hyper-aggressive Ahriman first had to cross the Void, as is narrated in Dēnkard 5.24. The Adversary’s movement went from place to place in the Void. From the beginning, the Adversary scurried about without reason, and he came to the border of the lightsubstance by a motion toward power that was not particularly well-considered. That Adversary was also unreasoning, foolish and evil. Since he came witless and combative, he was perceived as being of an oppositional nature21.

Directly Ahriman entered the Void, it ceased to be a neutral border zone and became contested territory, just he ceased to be a distant threat and became an active invader. As the open space offered him little resistance, the Evil Spirit rapidly reached the lowest heavens, where his attack was checked, as is recounted in several sources22. Falling back, he dragged some of the lower stars with him, creating a mixture of light (from the stars) and darkness (from himself) in what previously was the Void23. Selections of Zad Spram 1.1: “Now, in the Religion, it is revealed thus: Light was above and darkness below, and in between the two was empty space.” (hād pad dēn ōwōn paydāg kū: rōšnīh azabar ud tārīgīh azēr u-šān mayānag ī harw 2 wišādagīh būd.) 21 Dēnkard 5.24.2 f. The text is taken from Dresden (1966) 357, lines 6–11 and Madan (1911) 457, lines 4–8: “hambadīg pad wihēz ī az gyāg [ō gyāg] andar tuhīgīh āyad. hambadīg az bun abēcim agārīhā dwārist pad tuwān jumbāgīh ud nē nāmcištīgxwāhišnīhā mad ō sāmān ī ēn rōšn gōhr. ōh-īz ōy hambadīg abēcim ud halagwadagār ud ka anāgāhīhā pahikafišnīg mad {ud} az jud-gōhrīh ōšmurīhist būd.” 22 See Greater Bundahišn 6A.2–4 (TD² MS. 60.11–61.9), Selections of Zad Spram 3.2–4, Dēnkard 3.107 (B Ms. 74.20–75.1). 23 Selections of Zad Spram 1.31 f. Text from Gignoux/Tafazzoli (1993)188: “Ahriman, together with his allies, came to the star station. The base of the sky is in the star station. He pulled it down from there to the Void, which is outside the foundation of the lights and the darkness, to the place of battle, where there is the motion of both.” (pad ham zamān Ahriman az ham-zōhrān hammis bē ō star pāyag āmad. bun ī asmān ī pad star pāyag +dāšt. az anōh frōd ō tuhīgīh āhixt ī +bērōn ī buništ ī rōšnān ud tārān ud gyāg ī ardīg kē-š tazišn ī harw dōān pad-iš.) Cf. Greater Bundahišn 4.10 (TD² MS 41.10–42.1): “Then the Evil Spirit, together with powerful demons, came against the lights. He saw the sky, which was shown to him spiritually, even if it was still not created in bodily/material fashion. Enviously and desirously, he attacked the sky, which stood in the star station and led it down to the Void, which, as I wrote at the beginning, was between the foundation of the lights and the darknesses.” (pas +ayēd Gannag Mēnōg abāg hammis dēwān abzārān ō padīragīh rōšnān. u-š ān

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No longer empty, this space now became the battleground in which good and evil struggle. Inside this intermediate zone, nothing is pure and all is a mixture. Thus, differing proportions of light and darkness, wisdom and ignorance, benevolence and aggression, self-control and impetuosity, creativity and destructiveness are present in all living beings, such that some incline more toward Ohrmazd and some toward Ahriman, but none are entirely one way or the other. As a result, until the end of history, all beings suffer a certain measure of doubt, division, and internal conflict as they are called to take sides in the cosmic struggle. However ferocious that struggle might be, the Pahlavi scriptures show confidence in its outcome. After a finite period of combat (most texts stipulate 6000 or 9000 years), Ohrmazd’s forces will rout their adversaries and restore primordial perfection. Most texts suggest that Ahriman will then be consigned to the endless darkness from which he came24, but Dēnkard 5.24 has a different version. He was thrown and fell back into the Void, having been thoroughly tested, utterly defeated, impotent, completely deformed, his abilities destroyed, sickly-faced, anguished, heavily oppressed, clothed in fear, consigned to the prison called ‘Victory that is [really] Non-Victory’, deprived of his capacity for battle, and rendered hopeless by the power of the deity25.

Continuation of this text makes it clear that Ohrmazd’s triumph is definitive and total. Never again will Ahriman rise to threaten the peace and perfection of the good creation26. In this moment, the (former) Void is once more asmān dīd ān-išn mēnōgīhā nimūd ka nē astōmand dād estēd. arēšk kāmagīha tag abar kard asmān pad +star pāyag estād frōd ō ī tuhīgīh haxt ahy-m ī pad bun nipišt kū andarag ī buništag ī rōšnān ud tomīgān būd.) It is not clear to me which stars Ahriman dragged into the Void, but it may have been the planets, which are marked by an awkward retrograde motion much like his own, and to which a malevolent nature is often attributed. See further such texts as Greater Bundahišn 2 (TD² MS. 25.5–30.10), 4.23 (TD² MS. 44.5–10), 4.27 (TD² MS. 45.6 f.), 5.4–7 (TD² MS. 49.13–50.15), 5A.1–9 (TD² MS. 51.1–55.2), 6H (TD² MS. 70.12–71.1), 6J (TD² MS. 71.4–11), 27.52 (TD² MS. 188.2–12). Also relevant are Selections of Zad Spram 1.26–33, 34.49, Mēnōg ī Xrad 8.17–21, 12.3–10, 49, and the Pahlavi Rivāyat accompanying the Dādestān ī Dēnīg 35c.1–2 and 65. 24 Thus, for instance, Greater Bundahišn 34.30 (TD² MS. 227.10–12). 25 Dēnkard 5.24.9 (B MS. 358.14–18): “abgandan ōbastan ī-š abāz ō tuhīgīh spurr-uzmāyišnīhā ud bowandag-stōwīhā ud agārīhā ud purr-waxrīhā ud zadabzārīhā ud wašt-rōyīhā ud widārd ud garāntom ud awištābtom bim-paymōgīhā ud ān drubuštīh ī pērōzīh apērōzīh xwanihēd andaragīhā ud brīd-kōxšišnīhā ud an-ēmēdīhā pad ān ham nērōg ī yazd.” 26 Dēnkard 5.24.10 (B MS. 358.19–359.2): “One reason he is not able to return to the struggle is that once he retreated [into the Void], there is no way for him to be able to come back. Here, no fear, lamentation, or thought of him remains. He is in that fortress ‘Victory that is Non-Victory’: in terror, dread, self-made contain-

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transformed, as it receives the battered body of the vanquished Evil Spirit. In so doing, that which was once a borderland, then a battleground, now becomes a graveyard or prison, also a monument to the victor and a reminder – if any were needed – of what happens to those who oppose him.

V This image – the Void as final resting place of the vanquished – prompts a return to the Old Norse and Greek texts we considered earlier, for they both contain something similar that makes us rethink the chaotic. Thus, we left Snorri’s account of Ginnungagap at the point where life first appeared in drops of moisture (born of fire and ice) and these coalesced to form the body of a being known as Ymir. In the continuation of his narrative, Snorri goes on to tell that Ymir was a frost giant, the first of this race27, and that another race known as the Æsir later came into being independent of Ymir. Conflict followed and a struggle for power, in the course of which the Æsir, led by Óðinn, killed the giant and made use of his body. They took Ymir and brought him in the middle of Ginnungagap and made the earth of him; of his blood, the sea and waters; of his flesh, the earth was made; and mountains of bones. They made rocks and stones of his teeth and jawbones, and of the bones that were broken. […] On the edge of the sea they gave land for dwelling to the race of giants, and inland they made a stronghold around that region, because of the hostility of the giants. For this stronghold, they used the brows of the giant Ymir, and they called that stronghold Miðgarð28. ment and total bondage. Thus, in no way is he able (to return to the struggle).” (u-š abāz ō kōšišn mad +ayāristan nē sazistan cim ēk ān ī pēš abāz dwārīd u-š ēc ēwēnag abāz ayāristan. nē sazēd ud ēc homānāg-bahrīh nēst. ēc bim ud cēhišn handēšišn u-š ēdar nē mānēd ud pad-iz ān pērōzīh a-pērōzīh drubuštīh ud āhr ud sam ud xwadīk-kard pašn ud bandīh bowandag bast ēstēd ēc ēwēnag nē ayāristan cimīg.) 27 Gylfaginning 5 (Faulkes 1983, 10 f.): “In no way may we acknowledge him a god. He was evil, as were all his kinsmen. We call them frost giants. It is also said that when he slept, he sweated. Then a man and woman grew under his left arm, and one foot begat a son with the other. From that came the lineages that were frost giants. The old frost giant we call Ymir.” (Fyr øngan mun játum vér hann guð. Hann var illr ok allir hans ættmenn, þá ko˛llum vér hrímþursa. Ok svá er sagt at þá er hann svaf, fekk hann sveita. þá óx undir vinstri ho˛nd honum maðr ok kona, ok annarr fótr hans gat son við o˛ðrum. En þaðan af kómu ættir, þat eru hrímþursar. Hinn gamli hrímþurs, hann ko˛llum vér Ymi.) 28 Gylfaginning 8 (Faulkes 1983, 11 f.): “þeir tóku Ymi, ok fluttu í mitt Ginnungagap, ok gerðu af honum jo˛rðina; af blóði hans sæinn og vo˛tnin. Jo˛rðin var go˛r af holdinu, en bjo˛rgin af beinnunum; grjót ok urðir gerðu þeir af to˛nnum ok jo˛xlum, ok af þeim beinum, er brotin váru. […] ok með þeiri sjávar stro˛ndu gáfu þeir lo˛nd

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In this way, the gap was filled with material substance taken from Ymir’s corpse and became the world over which Óðinn then came to rule as king. The cosmos itself is thus a monument to his victory, but that monument can be read in alternative fashion. From the perspective of the marginal territories to which they are relegated (alongside the sea, which is, in fact, their ancestor’s blood), the surviving frost giants regard Miðgarð not as the site of a glorious triumph, but of a primordial crime. Their resentment of the Æsir, their invasions of Miðgarð, and their continued attempts to disrupt Óðinn’s kingdom, are all grounded in their desire to set things right by avenging Ymir29.

VI Much as the Void was modified by Ohrmazd’s victory over Ahriman, and Ginnungagap transformed when Óðinn killed Ymir, something similar happened to Chaos when Zeus struggled with the Titans for the kingship in heaven. At the height of the battle, according to Hesiod: Zeus no longer restrained his spirit, but straightaway his Lungs were filled with power and he revealed All his violent force. He strode forth from the sky and from Olympos, Hurling incessant lightning, and the thunderbolts Flew fast from his strong hand, spinning out holy flame. All around, life-bearing Earth cried out, And her vast woodlands crackled as they burned. The earth boiled, as did all the streams of Okeanos, And boundless Sea. Hot wind surrounded The chthonian Titans, flames reached the vast aithêr Above, and the flash of the lightning Blinded the eyes of these powerful beings. The fierce divine heat overpowered Chaos 30. til bygðar jo˛tna ættum. En fyrir innan á jo˛rðunni gerðu þeir borg umhverfis heim fyrir ófriði jo˛tna, en til þeirar borgar ho˛fðu þeir brár Ymis jo˛tuns, ok ko˛lluðu þá borg Miðgarð.” This passage draws on older poetic traditions, including Grímnismál 40–41 and Vafþruðnismál 21. 29 On this aspect of the Ymir myth, see Lindow (1994). 30 Theogony 687–700: οὐδ’ ἀρ’ ἔτι Ζεὺς ἴσχεν ἑὸν μένος, ἀλλὰ νυ τοῦ γε εἶθαρ μὲν μένεος πλῆντο φρένες, ἐκ δέ τε πᾶσαν φαῖνε βίην· ἄμυδις δ’ ἄρ’ ἀπ’ οὐρανοῦ ἠδ’ ἀπ’ Ὀλύμπου ἀστράπτων ἔστειχε συνωχαδόν, οἱ δὲ κεραυνοὶ ἴκταρ ἅμα βροντῇ τε καὶ ἀστεροπῇ ποτέοντο χειρὸς ἄπο στιβαρῆς, ἱερὴν φλόγα εἰλυφρόωντες, ταρφέες· ἀμφὶ δὲ γαῖα φερέσβιος ἐσμαράγιζε

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This passage is often taken to be an account of Zeus’s aristeia, i. e. his glorious deeds in the heat of that battle in which he overthrew Ouranos and established himself as lord of creation31. More precisely, it describes how his violent power reached and shook all regions of the cosmos: land (Gaia, line 693, and Chthōn, 695), sea (Okeanos, 695, and Pontos, 696), air (Autmē, 696, and Aithēr, 697), and the below, here represented by Chaos (line 700), which was effectively invaded and captured (katekhen) by the god’s fiery blast32. This assault opened up a new phase in the struggle, followed by quite horrific violence on all sides, with Zeus ultimately triumphant, after which he consigned the defeated Titans to Tartaros, lowest and bleakest of all cosmic realms. At this point in his narrative, Hesiod pauses to provide a long description of Tartaros, complete with all its personnel and landmarks33. One phrase above all concerns us, however, where he says: “apart from all the gods the Titans dwell, beyond misty Chaos.”34 Which is to say that the primal near-

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καιομένη, λάκε δ’ ἀμφὶ περὶ μεγάλ’ ἄσπετος ὓλη· ἔζεε δὲ χθὼν πᾶσα καὶ Ὠκεανοῖο ῥέεθρα πόντος τ’ ἀτρύγετος· τοὺς δ’ ἄμφεπε θερμὸς ἀυτμὴ Τιτῆνας χθονίους, φλὸξ δ’ αἰθέρα δῖαν ἵκανεν ἄσπετος, ὄσσε δ’ ἄμερδε καὶ ἰφθίμων περ ἐόντων αὐγὴ μαρμαίρουσα κεραυνοῦ τε στεροπῆς τε. καῦμα δὲ θεσπέσιον κάτεχεν χάος. Typically, editors do not capitalize χάος here or in verse 814, treating it as a common, rather than a proper noun. This reflects their sense that the usage in these passages differs from that of lines 116 and 123, where Chaos is fully personified, but it is an editorial decision and not part of the manuscript tradition. In the latter two passages, Chaos has become less nebulous and more objectified, also less independent an entity as it becomes an object on which Zeus’s power makes itself felt. It is thus more proper (and more analytically revealing) to observe that the nature of Chaos changes in the course of the mythic narrative as the result of the action, than positing two different entities: τὸ Χάος and τὸ χάος. Thus, for instance, West (1966) 349. It is hard to capture the full sense of the verb katekhein, which Hesiod employs here and at line 844 to describe acts of penetration and domination. Hofinger (1975) 339, offers the following definition: “envahir, occuper, régner sur, prendre possession de”. The term appears more frequently in the Homeric epic, where its semantics include “to hold down, keep in a lowered position”, and “to seize, detain, withhold from the rightful owner” (Cunliffe 1963, 219–220). For detailed discussion of this passage, see Johnson (1999). Theogony 813–814: πρόσθεν δὲ θεῶν ἔκτοσθεν ἁπάντων / Τιτῆνες ναίουσι, πέρην χάεος ζοφεροῖο. Modification of Chaos by the adjective zopheros in this line indicates the way it has been made just a bit more tangible and assimilated to Tartaros. Nowhere else is that term applied to Chaos and this is the only time it appears in the Hesiodic corpus. Zophos, however, from which it is derived, is elsewhere associated with the subterranean murk of Tartaros (Theogony 653, 658, 729).

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emptiness has been annexed, repositioned, and put to new use. Now situated between the above and below, the emptiness of Chaos constitutes an uncrossable barrier that will keep the vanquished in their prison and Zeus on his throne.

VIII In the Fall of 1971, I was fortunate to begin my graduate studies with a class offered by Jonathan Z. Smith as an introduction to the History of Religions. At the time, Smith was locked in a personal and intellectual struggle with Mircea Eliade, then the dominant figure in the discipline35. At that point, the nature of this struggle was not as clear as it would later become, nor did entering students realize how high were the stakes, but it was hard not to feel the tension and excitement of the moment. Several episodes from that era remain indelible, but none more so than a day when Smith entered class late, visibly shaking with frustration and nervous energy. He had just left Eliade – whom I had not yet met – and they had been forced to break off an important conversation. “We were arguing about which came first”, he explained, “order or disorder.” Predictably, Eliade favored order and Smith the reverse, and their exchange produced only partial agreement. “He forced me to acknowledge”, Smith went on, “that disorder can only exist in contrast to a prior order. I don’t know if that’s just a sly debater’s point, but I have to take it seriously. So I’m prepared to concede that order came first, but only by one half-second ! After that, I insist there was always disorder." At the time, I was impressed by both men, by the intelligence – also the integrity – of the positions they articulated, and the importance of their disagreement. I wasn’t sure who had gotten the better of the debate, but I could see that astute and principled arguments had been made on both sides. I knew enough to understand that Hesiod’s notion of Chaos was a crucial datum for the discussion, and that other myths of the chaotic also figured implicitly, but most of the subtleties were quite lost on me. It was clear, however, that giants were throwing thunderbolts and worlds could turn on the outcome. Having now had thirty-plus years to reflect, I am inclined to think that both Eliade and Smith got things wrong, as becomes clear from the mythic narratives we have considered. Thus, all three cosmogonic accounts (those 35 Smith has recently written about this period and his dealings with Eliade (Smith, 2004, 1–60, esp. 11–19). The course I took from Smith in Fall 1971 is described at pp. 10 and 39–41. Eliade has virtually nothing of interest to say about this period or his brilliant junior colleague, neither in his Journal (Eliade, 1990), nor in any of his autobiographical writings.

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of Hesiod, Snorri, and the Pahlavi texts) begin by positing a primordial situation that includes – either alone or as part of a relatively small set – a vague, murky, unformed, decidedly insubstantial entity, rich in potential and neutral, even benign in its disposition. This image represents neither “order”, “disorder”, nor anything of the sort: not yet, at any rate. Rather, it is simply “the chaotic”, i. e. the nebulous Etwas that mediates Non-Being and Being as the precondition of all subsequent creation. The situation is pre-cosmic and thus, a fortiori, pre-moral and pre-political. Gradually, however, each text introduces new characters, who become adversaries in a struggle for rulership over the emergent cosmos: Zeus and the Olympians vs. Ouranos and the Titans, Óðinn and the Æsir vs. Ymir and the Frost Giants, Ohrmazd and the gods vs. Ahriman and the demons36. In the course of these struggles, the relatively peaceful and egalitarian situation of primordial anarchy ends, violent conflict erupts, one party wins and one party loses, after which a monarchic regime of cosmic dimensions is established. What is more, as a crucial part of consolidating his power, the new world-ruler appropriates, transforms, and redeploys “the chaotic”, which now becomes a more specific, more limited, and more tendentious something, rather than remaining the nebulous reservoir of all potentials. In this new context, it becomes an instrument for exercising power over the vanquished, as when Chaos becomes part of the apparatus locking the Titans in a subterranean prison; when the Zoroastrian Void becomes a battleground, a trap, and a tomb; or when Ginnungagap becomes Miðgarð, fortress of the Æsir and monument to Óðinn’s victory. Something similar can be observed at the level of discourse when newly emergent regimes of power develop the habit of describing their predecessors and adversaries (also their victims and, in truth, everyone and everything that threatens, questions, or eludes their grasp) as manifestations of “chaos”, by which they now mean “disorder”. In effect, what they have done is to capture an older discourse of primordial potentiality and absolute freedom (“the chaotic”), which they tendentiously remodel for use as a weapon with which to stigmatize opponents and foreclose all unwanted possibilities: above all, any challenges to their power. Returning to the disagreement of Smith and Eliade, let me suggest that neither “order” nor “disorder” came first, but the two came forth as a pair. What is more, these fraternal twins were born well after other entities, under the influence of other forces. Were I Hesiod, writing a theogony, I would thus place “the chaotic” – which is to say, sheer potentiality and absolute freedom – at the very dawn of creation. In the second or third generation, then, I would introduce a character named “Power”, whose abilities were 36 On some of the patterns one finds in such myths, see Oosten (1985).

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martial in the first instance and political in the second, including all the subtle arts of propaganda. The subsequent narrative would describe how Power captured the chaotic and worked to make it his servant. The story would have many episodes, but ultimately, as a sort of test, Power would offer his prisoner a new suit of clothes, encouraging him to choose a wardrobe that suited his nature: something, moreover, that contrasted sharply with the drab business suits and stiff military uniforms that Power himself favored. And when the chaotic chose a Harlequin costume, a riot of colors, soft fabrics, and exotic, exuberant, playful design, Power was delighted. The time had come to set his captive free, he said, and to help forget all their past troubles, he suggested they take new names. And so, exercising the prerogatives of his office, he called himself “Order”, his new servant “Chaos”, and he advised the public to choose very, very carefully between them.

Bibliography Anklesaria (1908). – Ervad Tahmuras Dinshaji Anklesaria (ed.), The Bûndahishn. Being a Facsimile of the TD Manuscript No. 2 brought from Persia by Dastur Tîrandâz and now preserved in the late Ervad Tahmuras’ Library (Bombay 1908). Bailey (1943/1971). – Harold Walter Bailey, Zoroastrian Problems in the Ninth-Century Books (Oxford 1943, Reprint, with new introduction and index 1971). Ballabriga (1990). – Alain Ballabriga, “Le dernier adversaire de Zeus. Le myth de Typhon dans l’épopée grecque archaïque”, Revue de l’histoire des religions 207 (1990) 3–30. Blaise (1992). – Fabienne Blaise, “L’épisode de Typhée dans la Théogonie d’Hésiode (v. 820–885): La stabilization du monde”, Révue des études grecques 105 (1992) 349–370. Bussanich (1983). – John Bussanich, “A Theoretical Interpretation of Hesiod’s Chaos”, Classical Philolog y 78 (1983) 212–219. Chantraine (1968–1980). – Pierre Chantraine, Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque (Paris 1968–1980). Cleasby/Vigfusson/Craigie (1957). – Richard Cleasby/Gudbrand Vigfusson/William Craigie, Icelandic-English Dictionary (Oxford 1957). Clunies Ross (1994–). – Margaret Clunies Ross, Prolonged Echoes: Old Norse Myths in Medieval Icelandic Society (Odense 1994–) vol. 1, 152–158. Cunliffe (1963). – Richard Cunliffe, A Lexicon of the Homeric Dialect (Norman 1963). Dresden (1966). – Mark Jan Dresden (ed.), Dēnkart. A Pahlavi Text. Facsimile Edition of the Manuscript B of the K. R. Cama Oriental Institute, Bombay (Wiesbaden 1966). Dronke (1969–). – Ursula Dronke, The Poetic Edda (Oxford 1969–). Eliade (1989–1990). – Mircea Eliade, Journal I–IV, trans. Mac Linscott Ricketts (Chicago 1989–1990). Faulkes (1982). – Anthony Faulkes (ed.), Snorri Sturluson, Edda. Prologue and Gylfaginning (Oxford 1982). Faulkes (1983). – Anthony Faulkes, “Pagan Sympathy: Attitudes to Heathendom in the Prologue to Snorra Edda ”, in: Robert J. Glendinning/Haraldur Bessason (eds.), Edda: A Collection of Essays, The University of Manitoba Icelandic studies 4 (Winnipeg 1983) 282–314.

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Fränkel (²1960). – Hermann Fränkel, “Drei Interpretationen aus Hesiod”, in: Wege und Formen frühgriechischen Denkens. Literarische und philosophiegeschichtliche Studien (München ²1960) 316–334. Frisk (1973). – Hjalmar Frisk, Griechisches etymologisches Wörterbuch (Heidelberg 1973). Gignoux/Tafazzoli (1993). – Anthologie de Zādspram. Edition critique du texte pehlevi, traduit et commenté par Philippe Gignoux et Ahmad Tafazzoli, Studia Iranica 13 (Paris 1993). Girardot (1987). – Norman J. Girardot, “Chaos”, in: Mircea Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion (New York 1987) vol. 3, 213–218. Hofinger (1975). – Marcel Hofinger, Lexicon Hesiodeum (Leiden 1975). Johnson (1999). – David M. Johnson, “Hesiod’s descriptions of Tartarus (Theogony 721–819)”, Phoenix 53 (1999) 8–28. Lincoln (2001). – Bruce Lincoln, “The Center of the World and the Origins of Life”, History of Religions 40 (2001) 311–326. Lindow (1994). – John Lindow, “Bloodfeud and Scandinavian Mythology”, Alvíssmál 4 (1994) 51–68. Madan (1911). – Dhanjishah Meherjibhai Madan (ed.), The Complete Text of the Pahlavi Dinkard (Bombay 1911). Mondi (1989). – Robert Mondi, “Chaos and the Hesiodic Cosmogony”, Harvard Studies in Classical Philolog y 92 (1989) 1–41. Oosten (1985). – Jarich Oosten, The War of the Gods: The Social Code in Indo-European Mytholog y (London 1985). Podbielski (1986). – H. Podbielski, “Le Chaos et les confins de l’univers dans la Théogonie d’Hésiode”, Les études classiques 54 (1986) 253–263. Ramnoux (1986). – Clémence Ramnoux, La nuit et les enfants de la nuit dans la tradition grecque (Paris 1986). Scalera McClintock (1989). – Giuliana Scalera McClintock, Il pensiero dell’ invisibile nella Grecia arcaica (Napoli 1989). See (1988). – Klaus von See, Mythos und Theologie im skandinavischen Hochmittelalter, Skandinavistische Arbeiten 8 (Heidelberg 1988). Smith (2004). – Jonathan Z. Smith, Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago 2004). Vries (1930). – Jan de Vries, “Ginnungagap”, Acta Philologica Scandinavica 5 (1930) 41–66. Vries (1977). – Jan de Vries, Altnordisches etymologisches Wörterbuch (Leiden 1977). West (1966). – Martin L. West, Hesiod, Theogony (Oxford 1966).

Mensch und Tier

Dogs as Dalits in Indian Literature wendy doniger Introduction Animals play important roles in the Hindu religious imaginary. Yogic asanas and sexual positions are named after animals; cats and herons are used as symbols of ascetic hypocrisy. Gods become incarnate as animals and have animal vehicles in the human world. The process works in two opposite directions at once. On the one hand, the observation of the local fauna provides images with which people may think of their gods; whether or not people get the gods that they deserve, they tend to get the gods (and demons) that their animals deserve1. On the other hand, the ideas that people have about the nature of the gods, and of the world, and of themselves, will lead them to project onto animals certain anthropomorphic features that may seem entirely erroneous to someone from another culture observing the same animal. Clearly the two – the animals of the mind and the animals of the terrain – are intimately connected, and both are essential to our understanding of Hinduism. The ancient Sanskrit texts, usually dismissed as the work of Brahmin males, in fact reveal a great deal about the lower castes, often very sympathetic to them, and sometimes masked by narratives about dogs, standing for the people now generally called Dalits, formerly called Untouchables. Tracing these stories through the centuries, we can see how the attitudes to these marginalized groups constantly shifted. Countless terms have been coined to designate these lowest castes, the dispossessed or underprivileged or marginalized groups, including the tribal peoples. Sanskrit texts usually named them by specific castes (Chandala, Chamara, Pulkasa, etc.) or called them ‘Low and Excluded’ (Apasadas) or ‘Born Last’ (Antyajas). Much later the British called them Untouchables, the Criminal Castes, the Scheduled (they pronounced it SHED-yuled) Castes, 1

An insight beautifully captured by the palindrome: Dog as a devil deified lived as a god.

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Pariahs, the Depressed Classes, Outcastes, and so forth. Gandhi called them Harijans (‘the People of God’). The members of these castes (beginning in the 1930s and 1940s and continuing now) called themselves Dalits (using the Marathi/Hindi word for ‘oppressed’ or ‘broken’ to translate the British ‘depressed’). B. R. Ambedkar (in the 1950s), a Dalit, tried, with partial success, to convert some of them to Buddhists. Post-colonial scholars call them (and other low castes) Subalterns. Many of these groups were also called ‘DogCookers’ (Shva-Pakas2), because caste Hindus thought that these people ate dogs, which in turn ate anything and everything, and in Hinduism, you are what you eat3. There have been protests against the mistreatment of the lower castes from a very early age in India, though they generally took the form of renouncing caste society and forming an alternative society in which caste was ignored; no actual reforms took place until the 19th century. Yet the lower castes left their traces in upper caste literature. The Brahmins did produce a great literature, after all, but they did not compose it in a vacuum. They did not have complete authority or control the minds of everyone in India. They drew upon, on the one hand, the people who ran the country, political actors, and, on the other hand, the non-literate classes. Because of the constant incursion of oral and folk traditions into Sanskrit texts, Dog-Cookers do speak, not always in voices recorded on a page but in signs that we can read if we try. Texts covertly critical of the caste system reverse the symbolism and speak of breaking the rules for dogs, treating them as if they were not impure. Moreover, the dog that doesn’t bark4 generates a silence that speaks; it is a good metaphor for the voice of marginalized people that we can sometimes hear only when it does not speak. Certainly the Sanskrit texts argued that the lower castes would pollute any sacred text that they spoke or read, like milk contained in the skin of a dog5. But this probably applied only to a limited corpus of texts, probably 2 3 4

5

Shvan, ‘dog’, is the source of our ‘hound’, and paka (from the Sanskrit pak/c, ‘cook’), means ripe, cooked, or perfected and is related to the English term borrowed from Hindi, ‘pukka’, as in ‘pukka Sahib’, ‘well-ripened/cooked/perfected Englishman’. The British, too, made this equation, as in the 19th century signs that often proclaimed, No Dogs Or Indians Allowed. Sherlock Holmes once solved a mystery, the case of Silver Blaze, a race-horse, by using a vital clue of omission. When Inspector Gregory asked Holmes whether he had noted any point to which he would draw the Inspector’s attention, Holmes replied, “To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.” “The dog did nothing in the night-time”, objected the puzzled Inspector, the essential straight-man for the Socratic sage. “That was the curious incident”, remarked Sherlock Holmes. The fact that the dog did not bark when someone entered the house at night was evidence, in this case evidence that the criminal was someone familiar to the dog. Doniger O’Flaherty (1976) and (1983).

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Vedic texts, rather than Sanskrit in general. It is also surely significant that there are strong sanctions against lower castes teaching the Veda, but not necessarily against them learning it. The fact that the Vedas, the most ancient Sanskrit texts (c. 1500 BCE), scorned the horse-headed gods called the Ashvins for teaching the Vedas to the wrong sort of people should alert us to the possibility that this, too, might be a rule honored at least sometimes in the breach as well as in the observance. And we can ferret out voices of many castes in the ancient texts, and once we have access to the oral and folk traditions, we can begin to write the alternative narrative with more confidence.

Dogs in the Vedas During the period in which the Rig Veda was composed (c. 1500–1000 BCE), dogs lived with the family under the same roof. A watchdog is the object of a sleeping spell spoken by (according to various interpretations) a thief trying to break into a house, a lover on a secret nocturnal rendezvous in his mistress’s house, mothers singing it as a lullaby to their children, or the family priest praying for a peaceful slumber for the inhabitants of the house. Some of the verses are: White and tawny son of Sarama, when you bare your teeth they gleam like spears in your snapping jaws. Fall fast asleep! Bark at the thief or the marauder, as you run up and back again, son of Sarama. Tear apart the wild boar, for he would tear you apart. But you are barking at those who sing Indra’s praises; why do you threaten us? Fall fast asleep!6

‘Son of Sarama’ means ‘dog’, because Sarama, Indra’s beloved brindled bitch, is regarded as the mother of all dogs. The story goes that the Panis, tribal people who were the enemies of the Vedic people, had stolen cows from certain Vedic sages and hid them in mountain caves. The gods sent Sarama to follow the trail of the cows; she found the hiding place, bandied words with the Panis, resisted their attempts first to threaten her and then to bribe her, and brought home the cows7. Sarama’s two “four-eyed” sons (probably a reference to the two eyes plus the two round marks above the eyebrows that many dogs have to this day) “with flaring nostrils” guard the doors of hell8, as Cerberos does in Greek myth, and Yama’s dog in Hindu myth. In the Brahmanas, texts composed a few centuries later (c. 900 BCE), a dog played a part in keeping evil out of the sacrifice, and the negative role of the dog is evidence that the lower castes were still essential to the ritual. It may well be that the growing acknowledgment of class distinctions in this 6 7 8

RV 7.55.2–4; Doniger O’Flaherty (1981) 288 f. RV 10.108; Doniger O’Flaherty (1981) 155 f. RV 10.14.10–12; Doniger O’Flaherty (1981) 44.

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period, and the formulation of more intense rules of purity and impurity, began to find the omnivorous dog a useful symbol of the impure eater, the outsider. Another factor in the fall of the dog’s status may have been the progressive decline of the Vedic gods Indra, Yama and Rudra, who were associated with dogs9. According to the Brahmana descriptions of the Vedic horse sacrifice, as the stallion stood in water, collateral relatives of the king and queen brought to the stallion a “four-eyed” dog. Then, when the dog could no longer touch bottom in the water, the son of a whore killed him with a wooden club, saying, “Off with the mortal! Off with the dog!” For, “Truly the dog is evil, one’s fraternal enemy; thus he slays his evil, his fraternal enemy. […] They say that evil seeks to grasp him who offers the horse sacrifice. He throws the dog beneath the feet of the horse. The horse has a thunderbolt. Thus by a thunderbolt he tramples down evil.”10 The horse then put his right front hoof on the dead dog, while another spell banished any man or dog who might harm the horse11. The association of the dog with an unclean woman (the whore whose son kills him) and with feet, as well as explicitly with evil, is an indication of his status as a kind of scapegoat, more precisely a scape-dog, onto whom the sins of the community were transferred. The sacrifice of a “four-eyed dog” at the beginning of the horse sacrifice also takes on deeper meaning when interpreted in the context of the ancient Indian game of dice, for the dice are also said to be four-eyed, that is, marked by four black spots12. Bitches, too, lose cachet between the Rig Veda and the Brahmanas. In the Brahmanas, Sarama is still a somewhat positive figure; she still finds the cows that the Panis have stolen, and resists their bribes of food, as in the earlier text. Indra says, “Since you found our cows, I make your progeny eaters of food”, and the brindled dogs who are Sarama’s descendents “kill even tigers”13. But now she eats the amniotic sac that contains the waters – just as dogs (and other animals) do eat the afterbirth – which the text regards as an act of murder. The same ambivalence hedges the curse/boon that her progeny will be omnivorous – it’s good to kill tigers, but bad to eat the amniotic sac. Sarama is a good dog, but dogs as a species are bad, for they pollute the oblations by licking them in their attempt to eat them. A number of texts therefore ban dogs from the sacrificial area. The Rig Veda warns the sacrificer to keep “the long-tongued dog” away14, and the great textbook of caste law 9 10 11 12 13 14

Debroy (2008). TB 3.8.4.2; Doniger O’Flaherty (1990) 14–17. MS 2.1.19–23; 3.12.1; Jamison (1996) 78, 99. White (1989) 283–303. JB 2.440–442; Doniger O’Flaherty (1985) 97 f. RV 9.101.1.

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attributed to Manu (1st or 2nd century CE) warns that if the king does not enforce the law, crows will eat the sacrificial cakes and dogs will lick the oblations15. Several Brahmanas tell of ways to destroy an ogress named LongTongue (Dirgha-jihva), who licks the milk offering and curdles it16 or licks at the Soma all the time17. Though she is an ogress, not specifically called a dog, her name is the name of a dog in the Rig Veda and she does just what dogs are supposed to do: she licks the oblation. This Long-tongue also just happens to have vaginas on every limb, like another ogress whom Indra destroyed by placing penises on each of his joints and seducing her18. And so Indra equips Kutsa’s son (Indra’s grandson) in the same way. Then: Long-Tongue and Indra’s Grandson — They lay together. As soon as he had his way with her, he remained firmly stuck in her. He saw these mantras and praised with them, and with them he summoned Indra. Indra ran against her and struck her down and killed her with his thunderbolt that was made of mantras. Whoever praises with these mantras slays his hateful fraternal rivals and drives away all evil demons19.

Long-tongue’s long tongue makes her ritually dangerous, and her equally excessive vaginas make her sexually both threatening and vulnerable (eventually immobilized, in an image perhaps suggested by observations of mating dogs, often similarly paralyzed). Despite her grotesque and bestial sexuality, Long-Tongue does no harm, yet she is destroyed. She is more sinned against than sinning. For the point of the Brahmana is that the dangerous bitch (in either canine or human form) is not, ultimately, dangerous – for the man who knows the mantras. Dogs are satirically transformed from the lowest to the highest caste in an Upanishadic passage (c. 600 BCE): The Song of the Dogs — A group of dogs asked a Vedic priest, “Please, sir, we’d like to find some food by singing for our supper. We are really hungry.” He asked them to return the next morning, and so the dogs filed in, sliding in slyly as priests slide in slyly in a file, each holding on to the back of the one in front of him. They sat down together and began to hum. Then they sang, “Om! Let’s eat! Om! Let’s drink. Om! May the gods bring food! Lord of food, bring food! Bring it! Bring it! Om!”20

Apparently the dogs are rewarded, for the passage concludes with a statement that anyone who understands the secret meaning of the words (a meaning that the text supplies) ‘will come to own and to eat his own food’. To have dogs, the most impure of animals, impersonate Brahmins makes 15 16 17 18 19 20

M 7.21. KS 29.1; MS 3.10.6; AB 2.22.10. JB 1.161 f.; Doniger O’Flaherty (1985) 101 f. KB 23.4. JB 1.161 f.; Doniger O’Flaherty (1985) 101 f. CU 1.12 f.

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this remarkable satire, so reminiscent of Orwell’s Animal Farm, truly bolshie. For dogs are already stigmatized as eaters of carrion; when someone annoys a sage by asking where the heart is lodged, he replies, impatiently, “In the body, you idiot! If it were anywhere other than in ourselves, dogs would eat it, or birds would tear it up.”21 The author of this text may be poking fun at Brahmins or pleading for more sympathy for dogs (and therefore for the lower castes), or both or none of the above22.

Dogs in the Sanskrit epics For caste-minded Hindus, dogs are as unclean as pigs are to orthodox Jews and Muslims, and dogs are symbols of the sorts of people that Sanskrit authors sometimes called ‘Dog-cookers’. Dogs are also associated with the Adivasis, the so-called tribal peoples of India. Animal attendants, leather workers, people who touch human waste are often referred to as pigs and dogs23. The Mahabharata, the great Sanskrit epic (c. 300 BCE to 300 CE), generally upholds the basic prejudice against dogs, as in this story, which also makes clear the analogy between dogs and upwardly mobile Pariahs: The Dog Who Became a Lion — Once there was an ascetic of such goodness that the flesh-eating wild animals – lions, tigers, rutting elephants, leopards, rhinoceroses, and bears – were like his disciples. A dog was his companion, devoted, tranquil, living on roots and fruits, with a heart like that of a human being. One day a hungry leopard came there and was about to seize the dog as his prey when the dog begged the sage to save him. The sage turned him into a leopard, and then, when a tiger attacked, into a tiger, and then a rutting elephant, and a lion24. Now that he was carnivorous, all the other animals feared him and stayed away, and finally he wanted to eat the sage, who read his thoughts and turned him back into a dog, his own proper form by birth (jati). The dog moped about unhappily until the sage drove him out of the hermitage25.

This dog even has a human heart, but he must not be allowed to get ideas above his station. The phrase ‘his own proper form by birth’ (jati) can also be translated, ‘his own proper form by caste’, for jati means both birth and caste. Both the dog and the sage are all wrong from the very beginning; the dog violates dog dharma by being a vegetarian, where he should be a carnivore, and the sage is wrong, too, to protect the dog by making him bigger and bigger instead of putting him in safer and safer places. But the sage does 21 22 23 24 25

BU 3.9.25. Lincoln (2007). The two species are combined in the German term of insult, ‘Schweinehund!’ (Pig-dog). He also becomes a sharabha, a fierce mythical beast, variously described. MB 12.115.1–12.119.20; White (1991) 251.

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not reciprocate the dog’s devotion or attachment to him. Where the dog misrecognizes himself as a human, the sage in the end is as cruel as a dog26. A very different point of view is expressed in another great story about dogs in the Mahabharata, which occurs at the very end, when king Yudhishthira is walking alone to heaven, and a dog attaches himself to him: Yudhishthira’s Dog — Yudhishthira walked alone, never looking down. Only a dog followed him – the dog that I have already told you about quite a lot. Then Indra, king of the gods, came to Yudhishthira in his chariot and said to him, “Get in.” Yudhishthira said, “This dog, O lord of the past and the future, has been constantly devoted to me. Let him come with me; for my way of thinking is not cruel.” Indra said, “Today you have become immortal, like me, and you have won complete prosperity, and great fame, your majesty, as well as the joys of heaven. Leave the dog. There is nothing cruel in that. There is no place for dog-owners in the world of heaven; for evil spirits carry off what has been offered, sacrificed or given as an oblation into the fire, if it is left uncovered and a dog has looked at it. Therefore you must leave this dog, and by leaving the dog you will win the world of the gods.” Yudhishthira said, “People say that abandoning someone devoted to you is a bottomless evil, equal – according to the general opinion – to killing a Brahmin. I think so, too.” When the god Dharma, who had been there in the form of the dog, heard these words spoken by the Dharma King, he appeared in his own form and spoke to king Yudhishthira with affection and with gentle words of praise: “Great king, you weep with all creatures. Because you turned down the celestial chariot, by insisting, ‘This dog is devoted to me’, there is no one your equal in heaven and you have won the highest goal, of going to heaven with your own body.”27

Yudhishthira’s dog, like Yama’s dog, is testing a dead man at the gates of the other world; Yama’s dog, like Sarama, is a good dog, a Vedic dog; but now, in the Mahabharata, dogs are regarded as polluting. What is most striking about this passage is that the god of Dharma himself becomes incarnate in this animal; it is as if the God of the Hebrew Bible became incarnate in a pig. (In later Hinduism, Dharma occasionally becomes incarnate as a Pariah, a Chandala.) Clearly animals are being used here, as usual, to make a powerful ethical point; it is a way of arguing about the sorts of humans who should or should not go to heaven (a topic that the Mahabharata also explicitly addresses) or even, perhaps, by extension, about the castes who should or should not be allowed into temples. All good Hindus go to heaven, but they do so after dying and being given a different, heavenly body; Yudhishthira is unique in being given the gift of going to heaven in his own body. Perhaps in acknowledging his bond with animals – treating his dog like “someone who has come to you for refuge” or “a friend” – Yudhishthira has somehow preserved the animality of his own body (that very animality denied by the 26 Hiltebeitel (2001) 200–202. 27 MB 17.2 f.

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sages who regard both dogs and women as dirty) and enters heaven not merely as a disembodied spirit, but as his entire self. Yudhishthira refuses to abandon a dog who is “devoted” (bhakta) to him. The dog, the loyal dog, is, after all, the natural bhakta of the animal kingdom; it’s no accident that it’s a dog, not, say, a cat, that follows Yudhishthira like that (cats, in Hinduism, are depicted as religious hypocrites). But bhakti at this period meant little more than belonging to someone, dedicated to someone as a servant or loyal friend; it almost certainly did not yet have the specific overtone of passionate love between a god and his devotee that was to become characteristic of a branch of medieval Hinduism. Yet as the word expanded its meaning, the story of Yudhishthira and his dog often came to be read as a model for that sort of devotion. The commentator approves of Indra’s action in rejecting contact with someone – the dog – who is literally untouchable, a-sprishya – the Hindu party-line at this time, which Yudhishthira here challenges. For this is surely a way of arguing about the sorts of humans who should or should not go to heaven. For Yudhishthira, heaven will not be heaven if he cannot bring his dog with him28. “I am determined not to be cruel”, says Yudhishthira. The term that he uses for ‘not to be cruel’ is more literally ‘not-to-harm-humans’ (a-nrishamsa)29. It is a doubly weakened word: a double negative (it doesn’t refer to doing something good, just to not doing something bad) and speciesspecific (specifying harm to humans); to apply it to the treatment of an animal is therefore rather forced, given the usual Hindu distinction between cruelty to humans and to animals. Elsewhere, too30, Yudhishthira says that non-cruelty is the highest dharma. The term (‘not to be cruel’), which occurs here three times in four verses31, is sometimes translated as ‘compassion’32, but the usual Sanskrit word for that is karuna, a more positive word33. Indra 28 Elizabeth Marshall Thomas was on the same wavelength when she insisted, in an interview, that there were dogs in heaven. How did she know? she was asked. Because, she replied, otherwise it would not be heaven. She may have been paraphrasing the American humorist Will Rogers, who said, “If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went”, or perhaps, somewhat more cynically (recalling that ‘cynic’ is related to the Sanskrit word for ‘dog’, su-van), James Thurber: “If I have any beliefs about immortality, it is that certain dogs I have known will go to heaven, and very, very few persons.” 29 Other translators call it ‘uncruelty’, ‘absence of cruelty’, ‘non-injury’, or even ‘compassion’. 30 MB 3.297.72. 31 MB 17.3.7, 8, 10, and 30. 32 Nilakantha, commenting on the Mahabharata in the 17th century, glosses ‘cruelty’ as ‘lack of pity’ (nirdayatvam); ‘lack of cruelty’, then, which is the form that occurs in the text (a-nri-shamsya), would be ‘pity’. 33 Tull (1996).

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praises Yudhishthira for ‘weep[ing] with’ all creatures (anukrosha), a word sometimes translated as ‘compassion’, but more than compassion, a vivid form of sympathy. Yudhishthira is damning himself with faint praise if all he can muster up, in place of either ‘compassion’ or ‘weeping with’, is that he doesn’t harm humans. He is hedging. Indra’s argument, that dogs would pollute the sacrificial offerings merely by looking at them, let alone touching them, is a common one. Manu (7.21) warns that if the king did not wield the rod of punishment justly, the dog would lick the oblation and everything would be upside down. Elsewhere, the Mahabharata, in speaking of queen Sita, Rama’s wife, who has lived in the home of a man other than her husband, compares her to an oblation that a dog has licked34. Much of the trouble in the Mahabharata begins with a dog that does not lick an oblation: A Dog Falsely Accused — When Janamejaya and his brothers were performing a sacrifice, a dog, a son of the bitch Sarama, came near. The brothers beat the dog, who ran howling back to his mother and told her that they had beaten him though he had neither looked at nor licked the offerings. Sarama then went to the sacrificial grounds and said to Janamejaya, “Since you beat my son when he had not done anything wrong, danger will befall you when you do not see it coming.”35

As a result of his prejudiced mistreatment of this pup, Janamejaya soon gets into serious trouble with other animals (snakes). Thus the Mahabharata both begins and ends with a story about justice for dogs. In the Ramayana, too, the other great Sanskrit epic, roughly contemporaneous with the Mahabharata, a dog comes to Rama and complains, first, that dogs are not allowed in palaces or temples or the homes of Brahmins (whereupon Rama invites him into the palace) and, second, that a Brahmin beggar beat him for no reason. Rama summons the Brahmin, who confesses that he struck the dog in anger when he himself was hungry and begging for food; when he told the dog to go away, the dog went only a short distance and stayed there; and so he beat him. Rama asks the dog to suggest an appropriate punishment for the Brahmin, and the dog asks that the Brahmin – whom he describes as filled with anger and bereft of dharma – be made the leader of a Tantric sect. (The dog himself had this position in a former life and regarded it as a guaranteed road to hell.) This granted, the Brahmin feels certain he has been given a great boon and rides away proudly on an elephant, while the dog goes to Varanasi and fasts to death36. Clearly, the dog is morally superior to the Brahmin, and Rama treats him with great respect throughout this long and rather whimsical episode.

34 MB 3.275.14. 35 MB 1.3.1–18. 36 R 7.52; appendix I, no. 8, lines 332–465.

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But in Yudhishthira’s case the conflict remains unresolved; the text equivocates. The sudden intrusion of the voice of the author in the first person at the beginning of the episode (“the dog that I have already told you about quite a lot”37) is highly unusual, almost unprecedented. It is as if the author has anticipated the end of the story and begins to remind the audience that it is just a story – and not only just a story, but just a test (as they used to say of air raid signals on the radio), one of a series of tests that Dharma set for his son, all of which he passed38. For the dog never does go to heaven, never violates Hindu law, because there was no dog; it was all an illusion; in case of a real dog … what then? The story shows just how rotten the caste system is, but does not change it. No dogs get into heaven.

Dogs in the Puranas Centuries later, in the Skanda Purana (c. 700–1150 CE), dogs are depicted very differently: The Trident Paw — An evil thief was killed by the king’s men. A dog came to eat him, and accidentally, unthinkingly, the dog’s nails made the mark of Shiva’s trident on the man’s forehead. As a result, Shiva’s messengers took him to Kailasa39.

The dog, instead of the sinner, performs an accidental act of worship – the three scratches of his nails – part of his foot, the lowest part of this lowest of creatures – forming the triple lines of Shiva’s trident (trishula). The dog who intends to eat the thief (and perhaps succeeds; the text does not say) unthinkingly (chaitanyena vina) blesses him. Another blessing-by-eating dog appears in another story in this text: The Accidentally Fed Dog — Once upon a time there was a certain Tribal named Chanda (“Fierce”), a man of cruel addictions. He killed fish and animals and birds and even Brahmins, and his wife was just like him. One night, on the great Night of Shiva, he spent the night in a bilva tree, wide awake, hoping to kill a wild boar. There happened to be a Shiva-linga under the tree. The leaves of the bilva tree [used in Shiva worship] that the hunter cut off to get a better view fell on the Shiva-linga, and mouthfuls of water that he spat out chanced to land there too. And so, unknowingly, he performed a puja. His wife, too, stayed up all night worrying about him, for she feared he had been killed. But she went and found him, and brought him food, and while they were bathing before their meal a dog came and ate all the food. She became angry and started to kill the dog, but Chanda said, “It gives me great satisfaction to know that the dog has eaten the food. What use is this body, anyway? Don’t be angry.” And so he enlightened her. 37 MB 17.2.26. 38 MB 17.3.18. 39 SP, KK 5.92–95; Doniger O’Flaherty (1993) 66.

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Shiva sent his messengers with a heavenly chariot to take the Tribal to the world of Shiva, with his wife, because he had worshipped the linga on the Night of Shiva. But the Tribal said, “I am a violent hunter, a sinner. How can I go to heaven? How did I worship the Shiva-linga?” Then they told him how he had cut the bilva leaves and put them on the head of the linga, and he and his wife had stayed awake and fasted. And they brought the couple to heaven40.

By eating the food, the dog inadvertently causes the Tribal and his wife to give food, a part of the puja prescribed for the Night of Shiva, as is staying up all night. This story depicts three important possibilities: of linga worship by unclean mouthfuls of water from a hunter, of inadvertent worship by someone violating Hindu dharma, and of salvation for a man because of a dog. There is a more complex story of salvation by dog in the Vamana Purana (c. 450–900 CE), a story about the very evil king Vena41: The Dog that Broke the Chain of Evil — Vena went to purify himself at the tirtha (bathing place) of Shiva the Pillar (Sthanu), but the gods forbade him to bathe there. Now, there was a dog there who had been a man in a previous life but had been sinful and hence reborn as a dog. The dog came to the Sarasvati river and swam there, and his impurities were shaken off and his thirst slaked. Then he was hungry, and entered Vena’s hut; when Vena saw the dog he was afraid. Vena touched him gently and the dog showered him with water from the tirtha. Vena plunged into the water, and by the power of the shrine, he was saved. Shiva offered Vena a boon, and Vena said, “I plunged into the lake out of fear of this dog, for the gods forbade me to bathe here. The dog did me a favor, and so I ask you to favor him.” Shiva was pleased and promised that the dog would be freed from sin and would go straight to Shiva’s heaven. And he promised Vena that he, too, would go to Shiva’s heaven – for a while42.

The unclean dog transfers the water from his body to that of Vena, both by shaking himself (as wet dogs always do) and by frightening Vena so much that Vena jumps into the water. I take the text to mean that Vena could jump into the water only after the dog had sprinkled him. Vena cannot enter the shrine himself, for reasons that are spelt out in another version of the story: as he approaches the shrine of Shiva, the wind in the sky says, “Do not do this rash deed; protect the shrine. This man is enveloped in an evil so terrible that it would destroy the shrine.”43 This is the Catch 22: the sinner would pollute the shrine before the shrine could purify the sinner; the sick man is too sick to take the medicine. The dog therefore intercedes for him: he makes him a little less polluted, so that he becomes eligible for real purification. Vena is not finished yet; there are other rebirths before he is finally 40 41 42 43

SP, KK 33.1–64; Doniger O’Flaherty (1993) 70 f. Doniger O’Flaherty (1976) 321–331. VS 26.4–62; 27.1–23; Doniger O’Flaherty (1976) 325–370. SP 7.1.336.95–253.

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freed, but the dog makes it possible for him to proceed on that path. And finally, at the end of the myth, and a millennium or two after Yudhishthira’s dog in the Mahabharata vanished before he could enter heaven, this dog enters Shiva’s heaven.

Dogs in contemporary India According to Indian texts, dogs are supposed to be treated badly, and, as we have seen, usually are; but on many occasions, dogs are, perversely, honored. One of those occasions today is the Tantric worship of Shiva in his aspect as Bhairava, who often has the form or face of a dog or a dog as his vehicle. All over India, there are Bhairava temples where people offer puja to both statues of dogs and living dogs. In the temple to Kal Bhairava in Varanasi, there are images of Shiva astride a big white dog, as well as black plaster statues of dogs, paintings of dogs, metal dogs, and real live dogs that sleep and wander inside and outside the temple. Pilgrims to Varanasi worship the dogs and decorate them with garlands of Indian donuts and other things delicious to dogs, which the dogs of course immediately shake off and eat. All of which is evidence either that (some) dogs are more sacred than cows in Hinduism or, perhaps, that Hindu views of animals are far too complex to capture by words like ‘sacred’ or ‘impure’. Other peoples’ zoological taxonomies look bizarre only to people who view them through their own rather ethno-centric lenses. A number of castes44 take hounds with them during their long expeditions when they graze their sheep in mountain forests. They regard dogs as forms of their god, Mallanna (or Mailara), whom hounds follow in his expeditions and who also takes the form of a dog on occasion. In rituals, the priests (or, sometimes, the house-holders themselves) enact the roles of dogs and drink milk that they regard as fed to Mallanna. Kal Bhairava may be a Sanskritized (and Tantricized) version of this folk-god. The worshippers of the Maharashtrian horseman god Khandoba (a form of Shiva, often assimilated to Mallana and called Martanda) sometimes act as his dogs, and bark in the course of his rituals, as Bhairava is said to have told them to do. These devotees are called “Tigers” in Marathi and Kannada; it is said that they originally were tigers, but that through the darshan of the god Martanda their bodies became human45 – a fascinating inversion of the Mahabharata story about the dog who got into serious trouble by trying to become a tiger. Forest-dwelling Maharashtrian tribal groups like 44 Such as the Kurnis (a weaver caste) of Karnataka and Kurumas (a shepherd caste) of Northern Andhra Pradesh. 45 Sontheimer (1997) 52 f.

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the Warlis worship and propitiate tigers as the ‘sentinel deities’ or guardians of the village boundaries, but the word for tiger can also denote a fierce domesticated animal – watchdogs, sheepdogs, or hunting dogs of the kind that attend Khandoba46. The mixing of ‘tiger’ and ‘dog’ is chronic in myth, ritual, and art; Bhairava’s vehicles are occasionally the dog and the tiger or two animals each of which is a mixture of both. Two pro-dog stories appeared in the news in November 2007, one about Nepal and one about Tamil Nadu. The first (BBC News, Thursday, November 8, 2007) reported on a Police Dog Training School in Nepal that trains dogs for rescue and search, for tracking criminals, explosives and drugs, and patrol. There are 51 dogs, some born on the premises, others from outside. For most of the year, the dogs are not well treated, and many are left to forage for themselves and feed on scraps, but for one day a year, they are honored and garlanded (presumably with edibles). The article began: “According to the Hindu scripture, the Mahabharat, dogs accompanied Dharmaraj Yudhisthir on his journey to heaven. There is also a Hindu belief that dogs guard the underworld.” Aside from giving Yudhishthira more than one dog, this was a good, historical approach, and the article concluded: “It’s recognized that no animal has a closer relationship with people.” The compassion here is limited to some dogs, some of the time. But it’s a start. The second story, carried by the Hindustan Times and CNN from New Delhi (CNN.com Europe, November 13, 2007) is worth reporting in its entirety: Man Marries Dog — A man in southern India married a female dog in a traditional Hindu ceremony in a bid to atone for stoning two dogs to death, a newspaper reported Tuesday. [Picture: P. Selvakumar, left, garlands his ‘bride’, Selvi.] The 33-yearold man married the sari-draped dog at a temple in the southern state of Tamil Nadu on Sunday after an astrologer said it was the only way to cure himself of a disability, the Hindustan Times newspaper reported. P. Selvakumar told the paper that he had been suffering since he stoned two dogs to death and strung them up in a tree 15 years ago. “After that my legs and hands got paralyzed and I lost hearing in one ear”, the paper quoted him as saying. Family members chose a stray female dog named Selvi who was then bathed and clothed for the ceremony. The groom and his family then had a feast, while the dog got a bun, the paper said.

Again the special moment of compassion is balanced by a memory of more typical cruelty. As we have seen, the tension between cruelty and compassion has marked the entire span of the history of dogs in India.

46 Elison (2007).

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Bibliography Sanskrit texts AB BU CU JB KB KK KS M MB MS R RV SP TB VS

Aitareya Brahmana, with the commentary of Sayana (Calcutta 1895). Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, in: One Hundred and Eight Upanishads (Bombay 1913). Chandog ya Upanishad, in: One Hundred and Eight Upanishads (Bombay 1913). Jaiminiya Brahmana (Nagpur 1954). Kaushitaki Brahmana (Calcutta 1903). Kedara Khanda of the Skanda Purana. See SP. Kathaka Samhita: Die Samhita der Katha-Sakha, vol. 1–3 (Leipzig 1900). Manavadharmasastra (The Laws of Manu), trans. Wendy Doniger with Brian K. Smith (Harmondsworth 1991). Mahabharata (Poona 1933–1969). Maitrayani Samhita (Wiesbaden 1970–1972). Valmiki, Ramayana (Baroda 1960–1975). Rig Veda, with the commentary of Sayana, vol. 1–6 (London 1890–1892). Skanda Purana (Bombay 1867). Taittiriya Brahmana, ed. Rajendralala Mitra (Calcutta 1859, Delhi 1985). Vamana Purana (Saromahatmya) (Benares 1968).

Secondary Literature Debroy (2008). – Bibek Debroy, Sarama and Her Children: The Dog in Indian Myth (Delhi 2008). Doniger O’Flaherty (1976). – Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, The Origins of Evil in Hindu Mytholog y (Berkeley 1976). Doniger O’Flaherty (1981). – Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, The Rig Veda (Harmondsworth 1981). Doniger O’Flaherty (1983). – Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, “The Image of the Heretic in the Gupta Puranas”, in: Bardwell L. Smith (ed.), Essays on Gupta Culture (New Delhi 1983) 107–128. Doniger O’Flaherty (1985). – Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, Tales of Sex and Violence: Folklore, Sacrifice, and Danger in the Jaiminiya Brahmana (Chicago 1985). Doniger O’Flaherty (1988). – Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, Textual Sources for the Study of Hinduism (Manchester 1988). Doniger O’Flaherty (1993). – Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, “The Scrapbook of Undeserved Salvation: The ‘Kedara Khanda’ of the ‘Skanda Purana’”, in: Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty (ed.), Purana Perennis: Reciprocity and Transformation in Hindu and Jaina Texts (Albany 1993) 59–83. Elison (2007). – William Elison, Immanent Domains: Gods, Laws, and Tribes in Mumbai (Diss. Chicago 2007). Hiltebeitel (2001). – Alf Hiltebeitel, Rethinking the Mahabharata: A Reader’s Guide to the Education of the Dharma King (Chicago 2001). Jamison (1996). – Stephanie Jamison, Sacrificed Wife / Sacrificer’s Wife: Women, Ritual, and Hospitality in Ancient India (New York 1996).

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Lincoln (2007). – Bruce Lincoln, “How to Read a Religious Text: Reflections on Some Passages of the Chandogya Upanisad”, History of Religions 46 (2007) 379–381. Sontheimer (1997). – Günther-Dietz Sontheimer, King of Warriors, Hunters, and Shepherds: Essays on Khandoba, edited by Anne Feldhaus, Aditya Malik, and Heidrun Brückner (Delhi 1997). Tull (1996). – Herman Tull, “The Killing that is Not Killing: Men, Cattle, and the Origins of Non-Violence (Ahimsa) in the Vedic Sacrifice”, Indo-Iranian Journal 39 (1996) 223–244. White (1989). – David Gordon White, “Dogs Die”, History of Religions 29 (1989) 283–303. White (1991). – David Gordon White, Myths of the Dog Men (Chicago 1991).

The Fluttering Soul richard seaford

I will argue, on the basis of passages of different kinds, that the idea of the dying soul as a fluttering bird (fearfully desiring to fly) was present in the rehearsal of death in mystic initiation. This will I hope in turn shed light on some of the passages. It is a small tribute to the large contribution made by Fritz Graf to our understanding of – inter alia – mystic initiation. 1. In a famous section of the Phaedrus Plato imagines the soul as winged. The wing naturally soars upwards (246c1, 248c1, etc.), and the soul that loses its wings or has them broken falls to earth (246c2, 248b3–c9). It then enters a series of incarnations, in which the soul of the philosopher can become winged and remember its closeness to god, ‘undergoing a continuous initiation into perfect mysteries’ (249c7 f.). More specifically, he sees beauty on earth (a reminder of true beauty), becomes winged, and is described as ‘fluttering eagerly to fly upwards1, but unable to, looking upwards like a bird, and neglecting things on the ground’ (249d6–9; cf. 255c9). Thus some may attain to a dim memory of our initiation into ‘the most blessed of initiations’ (250b9). The first reaction of the ‘recently initiated’ (ἀρτιτελής), when he sees a beautiful face or body, is to shudder (ἔφριξε), along with some negative reactions (fear, sweat, fever), and then his soul re-grows its wings (251). Finally, philosophers when they die ‘become winged and light’ (256b4). The idea that the soul leaves the body as a bird is implied by some Attic visual representations of the dead or dying2. Sophocles compares departing souls to birds (Oid. T. 174). And death himself is winged. In Phaedrus the idea takes a more complex form: the winged soul is initiated into divine mysteries, but may lose its wings, fall to earth, enter the body, re-grow its wings, remember its initiation, and on death fly with wings from the body. 1 2

ἀναπτερούμενος προθυμούμενος ἀναπτέσθαι. Vermeule (1979) 18 f.

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2. In Phaedo Plato maintains that the road to Hades has many forks and windings (108a). This he infers “from the rituals (ὅσια) and ceremonies (νόμιμα) practised here (on earth)”, by which he surely means mystery-cult3. He then distinguishes between on the one hand the orderly and wise soul, which follows its guide and understands its circumstances, and on the other the soul that is in a state of desire for the body. This latter kind of soul flutters (ἐπτοημένη) around the body for a long time, and after much resistance and suffering is led away by its appointed daimōn and – on arriving at the place where the other souls are – is avoided by everybody and wanders around alone, whereas the pure soul finds gods as companions and guides. In both the Platonic passages the fluttering of the soul derives from tension, albeit of opposite kinds: in Phaedrus the soul desires to fly from the body, but cannot, whereas in Phaedo it desires to stay with the body but cannot. Now the anxiety and suffering in the transition to the next world was rehearsed in mystic initiation4. The importance of mystic initiation in both our passages5 suggests the possibility that the idea of the fluttering soul was present in mystic initiation. The possibility is strengthened by the following passages. 3. In Aristophanes’ Clouds, which represents the initiation of Strepsiades into Socrates’ school as mystic initiation6, Strepsiades says that his soul is fluttering7. 4. Fluttering (πτόησις) is according to Plutarch an ingredient in the emotions suffered by mystic initiands8: he describes good souls after death as suffering, in the meadows of Hades, a period of purification of pollutions contracted from the body, and then, as if returning home after exile, experiencing joy like that of mystic initiands (τελούμενοι, those being initiated), joy mixed with commotion and πτόησις and accompanied by pleasant hope.

3

4 5 6 7 8

Mystic initiation expounded the nature of the next world, and gave instructions on the route to be taken by the dead: e. g. with Plato’s ‘many forks and windings’ cf. the route instructions (e. g. ‘journey on the right-hand road’) in the mystic formulae (of the classical period) on the funerary gold leaves: Graf/Johnston (2007). E. g. Plut. fr. 178; Demetrius eloc. 101; the passages cited below n. 32. For Phaedrus see Riedweg (1987) 30–69. See e. g. Byl (1988). The verb here is ποτάομαι (the frequentative of πέτομαι), translated by LSJ as ‘flutter’, as is also πτοεῖσθαι. Mor. 943c. It also occurs to characterise an undesirable effect of bodily desires at Plat. Phaed. 68c, rep. 439d, leg. 783d; Aristot. eth. Eud. 1231a.

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5. The musical theorist Aristides Quintilianus reports that in Bacchic initiations there is cleansing of the πτοίησις of the more ignorant people, through music and dance9. 6. In Euripides’ Bacchae, as Pentheus first appears, he is described by the words “what a flutter he is in” (214 ὡς ἐπτόηται), and soon thereafter is told “you are mad (μαίνῃ) in the most painful way” (326), “you are flying” (πέτῃ) (332), and “you are now mad, after earlier leaving your mind” (359). All this cannot be explained as merely a natural reaction to what has happened. And indeed the mental state of Pentheus will become even more odd. Every detail of it, and much else in the play, can be explained by (and only by) the hypothesis that it reflects the ritual of initiation into the Dionysiac mysteries10. That Pentheus’ πτόησις is Dionysiac is confirmed by Kadmos asking Agaue, as he brings her out of her maenadic frenzy, whether there is still fluttering (τὸ πτοηθέν) in her soul (1268). 7. The sixth column of the fragmentary Derveni papyrus11 is as follows. prayers and sacrifices appease the souls, and the incantation of the magi is able to transform the daimones when they impede. Impeding daimones are avenging souls12. This is why the magi perform the sacrifice, as if paying a penalty. On the offerings they pour water and milk, from which they make the libations also. They sacrifice innumerable and many-knobbed cakes, because the souls also are innumerable. Initiands (μύσται) make preliminary sacrifice to the Eumenides in the same way (κ[ατὰ τὰ] αὐτὰ) as magi do. For the Eumenides are souls. Because of these, he who is about to sacrifice to the gods, first ὀ[ρ]νίθ[ε]ιον …

9 Aristid. mus. 3.25. He says at the beginning of the chapter that this πτόησις “of the more ignorant people” is a result of the fall of the soul into body and world (a neoplatonic idea). Characteristic of the ‘purification’ inherent in mystic ritual would be to intensify the πτόησις in order to expel it. So too in neoplatonism the return of the soul from the body to itself produces a ‘bacchic revel’ (ἀναβακχεύεσθε, Plot. 1.6.5; cf. Olympiodorus in Phaedonem p. 111 Norvin, 4–190) and is envisaged in terms of mystic ritual (Plot. 6.9.9). 10 Seaford (1996), esp. 42 n. 70. 11 See now Kouremenos/Parassoglou/Tsantsanoglou (2006). 12 This sentence of the translation depends on the supplement ψ[υχαὶ τιμω]ροί rather than ψ[υχαῖς ἐχθ]ροί. But the previous sentence anyway strongly implies that the daimones are indeed souls. See Betegh (2004) 88, and – on angry dead souls – Johnston (1999) 127–160. Souls prevent a soul from entering Hades at Hom. Il. 23.71–74. Note also that in mystic initiation fellow-initiates may push aside or trample on each other but subsequently form the happy company of the blessed: e. g. Plut. fr. 178.

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After this point very little can be gleaned from this column of the papyrus. Betegh (77) notes that ὀρνίθειον can mean ‘of a bird’, ‘belonging to a bird’, or ‘birdlike’. He rejects the view of Tsantsanoglou that it refers to the sacrifice of birds, arguing instead that it refers to the birdlike nature of the Eumenides or the souls. I suggest that it is the birdlike nature of the Eumenides/souls that gives point to bird sacrifice. The initiands sacrifice ‘in the same way as’ the magi not (or not only) because they are both sacrificing to souls, but because in both cases what is sacrificed resembles the recipients. Just as the magi make ‘innumerable’ sacrifices ‘because the souls too are innumerable’, so the initiands sacrifice birds for the Eumenides (identified as souls) who are imagined as winged, i. e. as souls like birds13. Indeed, the creatures called Eumenides or Erinues are often represented with wings14. The point of these rituals is to overcome the ‘terrors of Hades’ (column 5.6), to ease passage into the next world, almost certainly in mystic initiation, which was a rehearsal for death, or conceivably at the funeral of a fellowinitiate. Terrifying daimones who impede the passage to the underworld are known from other texts, and are sometimes said to be present in mystic initiations15. The painful resistance to dying, such as we find in the fluttering soul in Phaedo, is given objective form in the impeding daimones. Given the tendency to imagine animal sacrifice as somehow embodying or standing for human death, not least in mystic initiation16, the temporary fluttering17 of a bird being sacrificed is apt precisely as a ‘preliminary sacrifice’ in the ordered appeasement of the daimones, embodying the fluttering of the human soul that precedes benign acceptance into the underworld. Their appeasement is described here as transformation18, i. e. perhaps into the Eumenides mentioned six lines later19. There is at any rate in the papyrus much overlap between the four categories of beings in the underworld (‘souls’, daimones, Erinues, and Eumenides). The Erinues are in the papyrus seemingly identified with righteous souls20, and elsewhere often associated or identified with maenads21. And 13 Further, ὀρνίθειόν τι is generally read in column 2, in the traces immediately after ἑκάστοις (‘for each dead soul?’). 14 Eur. Or. 275 f. (and Willink 1986, ad loc.), 317, Iph. T. 289; Prag (1985) pls. 50–52. 15 Johnston (1999) 130–139. 16 Seaford (1994a) 281–301. 17 If it is the fluttering that matters, this would explain the (otherwise surprisingly indiscriminate) “something birdlike” (ὀρνίθειόν τι), if the right reading in col. 2. 18 μεθιστάναι, which might conceivably mean removal; but see Tsantsanoglou (1997) 111 f. 19 So Johnston (1999) 278: “After this transformation, the initiates might safely approach these entities on their own behalf and offer sacrifices to them as well.” 20 Tsantsanoglou (1997) 100 f., 106–109. 21 Seaford (1994a) 348.

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conversely maenads are sometimes associated with Hades22, and in vasepainting sometimes seem to be imitating birds23. Both these features of maenads occur in the fragments of Naevius’ Lycurgus. 8. In Naevius fr. 39 Warmington, palliis patagiis crocotis malacis mortualibus with gowns, edgings, soft saffron dresses, clothes of death,

the plural suggests that these robes belong to the chorus of maenads. Mortualia (‘clothes of death’) has not been explained. Compare the description of Pentheus’ maenadic disguise in Bacchae as “the adornment that he will go off to Hades in” (857). Inasmuch as mystic initiation is an entry into the underworld, funerary dress is apt for the initiand. 9. Naevius fr. 30–32 Warmington Alis sublime in altos saltus inlicite, ubi bipedes volucres lino lumina linquant. With wings high upwards into lofty glades lure them, where let biped birds in linen (nets) leave the light24.

This seems to be a command by Lykourgos, perhaps in response to a messenger’s comparison of the maenads to birds (as in Bacchae: see 12 below). The ‘birds’ are called ‘biped’ because they are in fact human (maenads), but also because, caught in lime, they are unable to fly. This then would be the cruelly sarcastic perversion of a mystic symbol. Very similar in this respect is dying ‘in linen’. The maenadic-funerary costume donned by Pentheus is of linen (Eur. Bacch. 821). According to Herodotus (2.81) the Egyptians bury their dead not in wool but in linen, and “in this they agree with those who are called Orphics and Bacchics, but are Egyptians and Pythagoreans”. Centuries later, Lucius in Apuleius’ Golden Ass puts on a linen robe for his mystic visit to Hades25. The sarcasm derives in all likelihood from the Aeschylean version (Lykourgeia), which no doubt influenced (directly or indirectly) Naevius’ version, just as it did Euripides’ Bacchae 26. In Bacchae Pentheus’ linen maenadic-funerary costume reaches to the feet (833 πέπλοι ποδήρεις), and the very same 22 Seaford (1994a) 323. 23 Beazley (1958). 24 I translate Buecheler’s emendation; sublimen alios mss. But the textual problem does not affect my point. 25 Apul. met. 11.14 f., 23. Linen grave garments have been found at Eleusis, and with one of the mystic gold leaves: Seaford (1996) 222. 26 Dodds (1960) 31–33.

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adjective is used of the Dionysiac costume in Aeschylus’ Lykourgeia (fr. 59). Reaching to the feet was an aspect of the funerary robe, and this was the basis for the irony – again in Aeschylus – of Agamemnon being trapped in a funerary robe of which is said “you would call it a net and robes that cover (or bind) the feet” (ποδιστῆρας πέπλους)27. If Naevius’ maenads were to be trapped in their garments, then the linen of passage 9 was the same as the mortualia (lethal funerary garments) of passage 8. The death of fluttering birds unable to fly off, like the dying fluttering soul in Plato’s Phaedo, seems to evoke (and pervert) a mystic doctrine of dying. The fluttering may even have become a topos, for all three of the Euripidean dramas that contain most evocations of mystic initiation (Cyclops, Ion, Bacchae) 28 have thiasos members imagined as fluttering or trapped birds (or vice versa). 10. Cyclops. Silenos, at his first drink of wine after long abstention, is described thus: “held by the cup as if in lime he flaps with his wings” (πτέρυγας ἀλύει) (433 f.). 11. In the messenger speech in Ion a bird drinks poisoned wine and immediately “shook its well-feathered body and went into a bacchic frenzy” (εὔπτερον δέμας ἔσεισε κἀβάκχευσεν), gasps for breath, and dies (1203–1207). 12. Bacchae. Pentheus imagines the maenads “in the thickets, like birds, held in the most pleasant nets of sex” (957 f.). But he is wrong (685–688). By contrast, it is in their extraordinary cohesion as a group that the maenads are compared by an eye-witness to a group of soaring birds (748 ἀρθεῖσαι). Indeed, soaring upwards is a joy. It is only impediment to flight that causes fluttering and its underlying anxiety. Mystic ritual provides release 29, and typically consists of a transition from isolated anxiety to joyful belonging to the group30. The idea of the fluttering soul would belong to the initial stage. In Phaedrus the wings of the soul naturally soar upwards to the divine, but the sight of a beautiful face or body causes the “recently initiated” (ἀρτιτελής) to shudder (ἔφριξε) and fear before growing the wings of his soul (251). Given that this is a discussion of sublimated erotic desire (ἔρως), we should compare the following two passages, for they are the only other extant instances of the verb φρίσσειν used of ἔρως, both of them – remarkably – in the form ἔφριξ’ ἔρωτι.

27 28 29 30

Choeph. 1000 with Garvie (1986) ad loc.; cf. Ag. 1115 etc.; Seaford (1984). For Bacchae and Cyclops see Seaford (1981); for Ion see Zeitlin (1989). E. g. Graf/Johnston (2007) 132. E. g. Plut. fr. 178: Seaford (2004) 299.

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13. Aeschylus fr. 387. ἔφριξ’ ἔρωτι (ἔρως δὲ L) τοῦδε μυστικοῦ τέλους. I shuddered with strong desire for this mystic completion/ritual.

14. Sophocles Ajax 693. ἔφριξ’ ἔρωτι· περιχαρὴς δ’ ἀνεπτάμαν. I shuddered with strong desire, and flew up with joy.

This is the chorus’ first reaction to the ‘deception speech’ in Sophocles’ Ajax, a passage marked by a pattern of evocations of mystic ritual31. And so the only three instances of the combination of φρίσσειν and ἔρως all occur in a mystic context, and two of them (1 and 14) follow initial φρίσσειν with flying upwards. Φρίσσειν, its noun φρίκη, and ἔρως all occur frequently to describe the emotion of the mystic initiand32. But none of them ever refers to joy, and so the way in which passage 14 is generally translated – “I thrilled with joy” vel sim. – is wrong. The unusual combination of φρίσσειν and ἔρως in all three passages (1, 13, 14) is precisely the combination of fear and strong desire that we would expect in the death-like transition to mystic bliss. Similar is the mystic combination of commotion and πτόησις with joy and pleasant hope in passage 4. And indeed the combination of hope with distress and fear is a regular feature of descriptions of the emotions of the mystic initiand33. What is more, φρίσσειν – besides meaning an emotion – also means the bristling of an animal mane, or of the feathers on a bird34. This combination of the subjective with the objective is essential to the mystic idea of the soul as a bird. What might be the significance of post-mortem flying upwards? The astonishingly detailed similarities between Greek mystic initiation and the cross-cultural phenomenon of the Near-Death Experience make it most unlikely that the former was uninfluenced by the latter 35. And so we may here note that a common feature of the latter is the experience of looking down from a height onto one’s own body 36. However, ‘looking down on’ in mystic initiation is looking down on other (struggling) initiands (notably ἐφορῶν in Plutarch fr. 178), never – so far as I know – on one’s own body. 31 Seaford (1994b). 32 Plut. fr. 178, Ages. 24.7; Demetr. eloc. 101; Aristid. 22.2. Erōs: Eur. Bacch. 813; Max. Tyr. 31.3. 33 E. g. Aristid. 48.28; Artem. interpr. 2.39; Plut. mor. 47a. 34 See LSJ. A fine example of φρίσσειν of feathers is Pind. Pyth. 4.183; of birds also at e. g. Aristot. hist. an. 560b6; Plut. mor. 980 f.; Opp. hal. 6.128, cyn. 3.123. 35 The similarity was noted already in Plut. fr. 178. Cf. Seaford (2005). 36 Blackmore (1993) 165–182.

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In general mystic initiands are imagined as obtaining happiness in the underworld, a destination that does not generally require wings. This seems to contradict Plato’s vision of mystic initiation as a celestial vision that requires the soul to soar upwards on wings. Even the meadow, common as a place for mystic happiness in the underworld, seems in Phaedrus to be somewhere in the sky (248c1). We have argued that the idea of fluttering was present in mystic initiation to express the anxiety of dying. But the mystic transition to happiness is not associated with flying – with one exception, a 4th-century BC gold leaf from Thurii (5 Graf/Johnston). 15. Κύκλου δ’ ἐξέπταν βαρυπενθέος ἀργαλέοιο,

ἱμερτοῦ δ’ ἐπέβαν στεφανοῦ ποσὶ καρπαλίμοισι. I have flown out of the painful circle of heavy grief, I have reached with swift feet the lovely crown.

This ‘circle’ is generally taken to be the cycle of reincarnation37. Here then, in a mystic formula, we find something similar to the Platonic idea of the soul growing wings to fly out of the cycle of re-incarnation. ‘Swift feet’ then puts beyond doubt the human identity of the initiate.

Bibliography Beazley (1958). – John D. Beazley, “A Hydria by the Kleophrades Painter”, Antike Kunst 1 (1958) 6–8, pls. 2–6. Betegh (2004). – Gábor Betegh, The Derveni Papyrus (Cambridge 2004). Blackmore (1993). – Susan Blackmore, Dying to Live (Buffalo/New York 1993). Byl (1988). – Simon Byl, “Encore une dizaine d’allusions éleusiniennes dans les Nués d’Aristophane”, RBPH 66 (1988) 113–138. Dodds (1960). – Eric Robertson Dodds, Euripides Bacchae (Oxford 1960). Zeitlin (1989). – Froma I. Zeitlin, “Mysteries of Identity and Designs of the Self in Euripides’ Ion ”, PCPhS 35 (1989) 144–197. Garvie (1986). – Alexander F. Garvie, Aeschylus Choephori (Oxford 1986). Graf/Johnston (2007). – Fritz Graf/Sarah Iles Johnston, Ritual Texts for the Afterlife (London/New York 2007). Johnston (1999). – Sarah Iles Johnston, Restless Dead (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1999). Kouremenos/Parassoglou/Tsantsanoglou (2006). – Theokritos Kouremenos/George M. Parassoglou/Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou (eds.), The Derveni Papyrus (Florence 2006). Prag (1985). – A. J. N. W. Prag, The Oresteia: Iconographic and Narrative Traditions (Warminster 1985). Riedweg (1987). – Christoph Riedweg, Mysterienterminologie bei Platon, Philon und Klemens von Alexandrien (Berlin/New York 1987). 37 Graf/Johnston (2007) 127.

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Seaford (1984). – Richard Seaford, ”The Last Bath of Agamemnon”, CQ 34 (1984) 247–254. Seaford (1994a). – Richard Seaford, Reciprocity and Ritual (Oxford 1994). Seaford (1994b). – Richard Seaford, “Sophokles and the Mysteries”, Hermes 122 (1994) 275–288. Seaford (1996). – Richard Seaford, Euripides Bacchae (Warminster 1996). Seaford (2004). – Richard Seaford, Money and the Early Greek Mind (Cambridge 2004). Seaford (2005). – Richard Seaford, “Mystic Light in Aeschylus’ Bassarai ”, CQ 55 (2005) 602–606. Tsantsanoglou (1997). – Kyriakos Tsantsanoglou, “The First Columns of the Derveni Papyrus”, in: André Laks/Glenn Most (eds.), Studies on the Derveni Papyrus (Oxford 1997) 93–128. Vermeule (1979). – Emily Vermeule, Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry (Berkeley/Los Angeles 1979). Willink (1986). – Charles W. Willink, Euripides Orestes (Oxford 1986).

Mythe et émotion. Quelques idées anciennes philippe borgeaud

La raison du rite, au delà ou en deçà du discours indigène, semble nous échapper. On pourrait être tenté d’opposer, à cette évanescence du sens «objectif», un autre sens, à localiser du côté des affects et non d’une théorie. Mais là encore, un obstacle majeur surgit: comment traiter, anthropologiquement, scientifiquement, des affects, de manière transculturelle? Comment décrire, convenablement, ce que pourrait être l’émotion d’un Grec, d’un Romain ou d’un Bororo? Pour Evans-Pritchard, ce jeu est risqué: les interprétations par les émotions des coutumes observées dans des cultures éloignées de nous ne pourraient être, fatalement, «pour la plupart, [que] des conjectures, du genre: si j’étais un cheval, avec cette différence que, au lieu de dire: si j’étais un cheval je ferais ce que font les chevaux pour une raison ou une autre, on dit: je ferais ce que font les chevaux d’après tel ou tel sentiment que l’on suppose pouvoir attribuer aux chevaux»1. Evans-Pritchard (qui songe au-delà de Frazer à l’ensemble des vieilles théories évolutionnistes sur le tabou ou le mana, peut-être aussi à Rudolph Otto), s’attaque à ceux qui veulent ramener le sacré à une crainte fondamentale, considérée comme une émotion fondatrice: Comment peut-on savoir qu’une personne éprouve de la crainte ou une émotion? Comment reconnaître ce sentiment? Comment le mesurer? […] Si les anthropologues devaient classer les phénomènes sociaux d’après les émotions qui sont censées les accompagner, il n’en résulterait que chaos car ces états émotionnels, à supposer qu’ils soient présents, varient non seulement d’individu à individu, mais chez le même individu en différentes occasions et même à différents moments du même rite […]. Si la religion se caractérise par un sentiment de peur, alors on pourrait dire qu’un individu qui fuit précipitamment devant un buffle qui l’attaque accomplit un acte religieux. Et si la magie se caractérise par sa fonction apaisante (catharsis), alors on pourrait dire qu’un médecin qui, par des moyens classiques, guérit un malade de ses angoisses, accomplit un acte magique2. 1 2

Evans-Pritchard (1965) 34. Evans-Pritchard (1965) 34 sq.

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Evans-Pritchard conclut cette non-entrée en matière sur un appel à la prudence qui n’est finalement pas une fin de non recevoir, mais au contraire une remarque anthropologiquement ouverte et même, il faut le dire, étrangement positive, annonciatrice de ce que va devenir, effectivement mais avec prudence, l’anthropologie des émotions effectuée, depuis, par des ethnologues de terrain: Si l’on accomplit des rites à certains moments critiques, dans la maladie ou à l’heure de la mort, quand l’événement qui s’y rapporte est susceptible de provoquer angoisse et affliction, ces sentiments seront évidemment présents; mais même dans ce cas il faut rester prudent. L’expression de l’émotion peut être obligatoire, elle fait partie et partie essentielle du rite lui-même, comme les pleurs et les signes extérieurs de douleur qui accompagnent la mort et les funérailles, que les acteurs ressentent véritablement ou non la douleur. Certaines sociétés ont recours à des pleureurs professionnels. Donc, encore une fois, si des expressions émotionnelles accompagnent les rites, il se peut fort bien que ce ne soit pas l’émotion qui suscite le rite mais le rite qui déclenche l’émotion. C’est le vieux problème: rit-on parce qu’on est heureux ou est-on heureux parce qu’on rit? Nous n’allons certainement pas à l’église parce que nous sommes dans un état émotionnel intense, mais notre participation aux rites peut nous plonger dans cet état3.

Cette réflexion-là tranche avec le développement qui la précède et qui pouvait laisser craindre que du côté des émotions, aucune approche anthropologique (au sens d’anthropologie sociale ou culturelle) ne serait possible. Or, on le sait, la question de la théâtralité, de la mise en scène et de l’articulation de l’affect au rite, est bel et bien devenue une véritable question, très actuelle, au cœur des recherches anthropologiques sur les émotions4. Dans le prolongement de ce débat, je propose que l’on examine ensemble quelques moments exemplaires d’un autre débat, celui qui oppose (depuis longtemps) les partisans de l’idée du mythe comme science primitive (morale ou historique), à ceux qui lui cherchent une fonction différente, plus «objective». Dans ce cadre-là aussi la question des émotions est devenue essentielle. A la question «de la raison des rites» (qui sont des actions), correspond en effet la question: «de la raison des mythes» (qui sont des récits). Les manières d’envisager cette «raison» sont multiples et contradictoires, non moins que ne le sont les réponses à la question du rite. On pourra penser que c’est normal, étant donné que le mythe, pas plus que le rite, n’est forcé d’avoir même rôle, même fonction et même signification d’une société à l’autre, d’une époque à l’autre, d’une circonstance à l’autre. Mais ce qui va retenir ici mon attention, ce n’est pas la matérialité des dossiers comparatistes, dans leur complexité, mais plus simplement le fil qui conduit, dans la tradition savante qui est la notre, des premières approches académiques du mythe aux approches contemporaines. Je ne pourrai bien sûr le faire qu’à 3 4

Evans-Pritchard (1965) 35. Cf. notamment Abu-Lughod (1986); Lutz/White (1986) 405–436; Lutz (1988); Lutz/Abu-Lughod (1990); John Corrigan (2004).

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partir de quelques exemples, au risque de paraître arbitraire. Mon intention n’est pas d’aboutir à une conclusion: elle est d’agiter quelques uniformes interprétatifs, dans l’espoir de libérer quelques idées, ou vieilles intuitions qui s’y trouvent peut-être engoncées. C’est à Christian Gottlob Heyne, comme l’a très justement rappelé Fritz Graf, que l’on doit la notion moderne de «mythe». Prenant ses distances de la fabula au sens de la tradition classique et moderne, celle notamment de Fontenelle, Heyne donne ou redonne à cet objet l’appellation latine mythus, transcrivant le grec mythos 5. Il convient selon lui de distinguer le mythus de ce que les Anciens, de manière péjorative, désignaient comme le «mythique», le mythikon des Grecs, le «mytheux» de Marcel Detienne. Contrairement au mythikon (qui lui se laisse traduire en fabula), le mythus n’est ni une fiction, ni une invention des poètes. Le mythus est au contraire un mode narratif nécessaire, naturel et universel, celui de l’humanité primitive. Produit (collectif) d’une lointaine préhistoire il apparaît, parallèlement au rite, comme une réaction (narrative) aux manifestations menaçantes, ou heureuses, de la nature. Issu d’un si lointain passé, on ne peut espérer l’appréhender à l’aide de concepts inventés dans les laboratoires du savoir moderne. Pour comprendre le mythe il faut, selon Heyne, se référer à son contexte d’émergence. La culture grecque, de ce point de vue, ne représente pas un terrain d’observation très favorable. Homère et Hésiode travaillent à partir de mythes, certes, mais de mythes qui se formèrent dans une époque où ils n’étaient pas encore nés. Il faudrait donc remonter, à partir de ce que nous pouvons lire, jusqu’à cette couche «mythopoétique» qui va préoccuper tout le XIXe siècle. Le mythe, désormais, est devenu l’objet d’une enquête de type historique, qui lui prête le caractère d’une machine à remonter le temps6. Les différentes procédures (comparatistes ou autres) que le XIXe siècle invente pour effectuer cette remontée du temps ne nous arrêterons pas ici. Ce que je veux relever c’est autre chose, qui concerne directement le résultat affiché de cet étrange pèlerinage aux sources mythopoétiques. Ce petit point essentiel concerne l’objet premier, tel qu’on désire le reconstituer. Une fois effectuée la plongée diachronique, que rencontrons-nous? De quoi parle le mythe, cette réaction primitive (selon Heyne) aux manifestations, menaçantes ou heureuses, de la nature? Heyne distinguait deux catégories de mythes originels, le genre philosophique, genus philosophicum, et le genre historique, genus historicum. Cette dis5 6

Pour Heyne, cf. Graf (1993) 9–13; Fornaro (2004). Un des aspects les plus intéressants de la théorie de Heyne est qu’il recherche les vrais mythes non seulement avant, mais aussi ailleurs, chez des peuples comparables aux ancêtres des Grecs: selon Heyne, les tribus indiennes d’Amérique du Nord pourraient offrir, dans cette perspective, un témoignage précieux. L’idée, ou une idée très proche, était déjà présente chez le père Lafitau, au XVIIIe s.

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tinction sépare un enseignement d’ordre moral ou philosophique, une leçon, d’un côté, et un récit de l’autre, une histoire (ou une intrigue). Cette distinction entre leçon (morale) et enchaînement narratif (histoire) va être reprise par la suite, et faire l’objet de nombreuses réflexions qui connaissent des variantes importantes. Voici ce que cela donne, par exemple, chez Creuzer: Le mythe se divise ainsi en deux branches principales selon son contenu. Soit il contient des événements anciens et s’appelle en tant que tel légende, soit il contient d’anciennes croyances et d’anciens enseignements, et on le désigne alors d’un terme qui devrait être réservé à cet usage précis: tradition7.

La réflexion inaugurée par Heyne sur la relation, dans les mythes, entre un signifié factuel et un signifié idéel, sera poursuivie, après Creuzer, par d’autres mythologues encore. On retrouve une telle bipartition chez K. O. Müller (1797–1840)8. Bien que K. O. Müller désapprouve la séparation proposée par Heyne (Müller 1825, 70), il ne peut complètement échapper au modèle dualiste qu’il s’efforce de dépasser. Le contenu originel des mythes devient chez lui l’expression collective (et autochtone) non pas d’une doctrine (comme chez Creuzer) mais d’une expérience vécue, celle des multiples tribus de la nation grecque primitive. Dans ce sens, le mythe ne transmet pas simplement de l’histoire oubliée, mais une histoire où à l’émotion se mêle de la sagesse et de la spiritualité9. Cette combinatoire entre genus philosophicum et genus historicum va préoccuper aussi J.-J. Bachofen, pour qui le mythe est l’expression d’une réaction spirituelle face aux grands bouleversements qui ont marqués l’histoire la plus ancienne. «La recherche historique», écrit-il dans Tanaquil, «est toujours confrontée à une manifestation spirituelle soumise à l’évolution et au perfectionnement; les éléments réels et idéels de la tradition ne se présentent pas côte à côte, séparés, mais mêlés les uns aux autres, se dérobant par conséquent à toute tentative de distinction ou de séparation; l’histoire du passé ne permet jamais d’atteindre une vérité de l’ordre du réel, mais toujours de l’ordre du spirituel.»10 La recherche historique appliquée au mythe n’a de sens, selon Bachofen, que dans la mesure où elle prend pour objet le niveau où s’élabore une 7 Creuzer (²1921). D’après: Howald (1926) 66–76 = 1. Auflage 1810, Buch I, drittes Kapitel: «Ideen zu einer Physik des Symbols und des Mythos», § 39: «Es zerteilt sich mithin der Mythos seinem Inhalt nach in zwei Hauptäste. Er enthält entweder alte Begebenheiten und insofern heisst er Sage, oder alten Glauben und alte Lehre, und wir nennen ihn mit einem Worte, das der genauere Sprachgebrauch einzig dieser Gattung vorbehalten mochte: Überlieferung.» 8 Müller (1825). 9 Müller (1825) 67, 70 sq., 109. 10 Bachofen (1951) 50.

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pensée. Il ne s’agit pas de reconstituer des enchaînements de faits, mais de comprendre des réactions mentales, d’ordre intellectuel ou spirituel, comme il dit, face à ces faits. Sans exclure la présence d’éléments réels (historiques, événementiels) dans les mythes – il reste en cela très proche des positions de K. O. Müller – Bachofen a tendance à privilégier l’aspect «idéel» du mythe. Il convient de souligner cette propension des mythologues romantiques et post-romantiques à réfléchir à la difficile distinction entre, d’un côté l’histoire qu’on raconte (ou la légende, le récit d’évènements plus ou moins merveilleux), de l’autre un enseignement ou une «leçon», où l’idée se mêle au sentiment. Pour le dire d’une manière un peu abrupte, le XIXe siècle n’aura pas seulement eu le triste privilège de nous retourner vers le passé sous la forme d’une quête nostalgique de «racines spirituelles», il aura aussi posé, sans parvenir à la résoudre, une question essentielle: comment se fait-il que, dans la mythologie, un récit, une histoire, une séquence de propositions narratives en viennent à être porteurs d’une charge sémantique et émotionnelle aussi forte et aussi rayonnante? Comment se fait-il que dans ce type de récit, la moindre image renvoie à des cascades d’images en échos, donnant une profondeur de sens inhabituelle? La réponse habituelle à cette question de la puissance sémantique, ou charge émotionnelle du récit mythique fut, chez les Romantiques et postromantiques, le postulat d’une nostalgie des origines, marquée par la quête des aubes, des fondements, des racines (souvent nationales). Qu’en sera-t-il chez les ethnologues et les anthropologues? On rencontre de ce côté-là, en cette fin du XIXe siècle, dans les laboratoires de l’anthropologie naissante, des lecteurs attentifs et très critiques de Max Müller. Max Müller s’en tenait au mythe comme discours préscientifique sur le monde. Discours erroné, faussé par ce qu’il a appelé une «maladie du langage». A l’origine du mythe, Max Müller reconstituait (par la comparaison historico-linguistique) un énoncé primitif, une théorie enfantine et forcément anthropomorphique sur les phénomènes atmosphériques et plus particulièrement sur les aventures du soleil dans son rapport aux aurores, à la nuit, aux orages; métamorphosé en récit merveilleux par l’effet des contraintes métaphoriques de la langue, le discours primitif sur la nature subsiste à l’état de fossile dans les mythologies. Comme le dira Ernst Cassirer, dans la théorie de Max Müller le mythe n’est rien d’autre que l’ombre obscure jetée sur la pensée par le langage11. Cela a pu paraître une option admirable aux yeux de certains: Mallarmé, via Cox, sera enchanté par ces retrouvailles avec une énigmatique parole de l’aube12. Mais cela, on s’en rend compte assez vite du côté des anthropologues et de certains philosophes, n’explique rien. 11 Cassirer (1973) 17. 12 Mallarmé (1880). G. W. Cox était un professeur oxfordien, disciple fidèle de Max Müller. Il ne faut toutefois pas surestimer l’estime de Mallarmé pour ce travail. Il

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Il restait en effet à comprendre comment «cette ombre jetée par le langage sur la pensée» ne cesse de se voir re-sémantisée en de nouvelles énonciations. Avoir découvert pour le mythe une origine, une racine oubliée, n’explique rien. Il faut chercher du sens ailleurs. Frazer essayera de le faire en ramenant le mythe au rite, et en conférant à celui-ci le rôle de lutter contre le temps et la mort. Mais il aura, à nouveau, oublié de considérer le récit en lui-même. De l’analyser pour ce qu’il est, comme il se donne, et non pour ce qu’il cache, ou veut oublier. Issue d’une émotion primitive devant le monde, la pensée mythique, selon Cassirer qui se réfère à de bonnes sources, n’a pas à être expliquée en termes d’origine. Elle est solidaire d’une forme d’expression particulière, qui recourt naturellement à un langage chargé d’images. Le primitif se fait contemporain. Les figures des dieux et des démons, qui animent les récits mythiques, surgissent partout où le monde, dans son altérité surprenante, assaille l’humain, soudainement et avec brutalité, soulevant des affects de frayeur ou de désir, de manque ou de satisfaction: «Alors le courant, si l’on peut dire, passe: la tension se décharge, l’excitation subjective s’objective, elle prend, face à l’homme, figure de dieu ou de démon.»13 Le symbolisme mythique, dira-t-il ailleurs, «conduit à l’objectivation des émotions»14. Cassirer fait référence, ici, à Herman Usener, le théoricien des dieux de l’instant15, mais aussi aux travaux d’anthropologues comme Konrad Theodor Preuss16. Preuss fut l’une des grandes figures de l’école des américanistes de Berlin. Lié à Usener il fit partie, dès 1904, du conseil d’édition de l’Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 17. Il dirigea, entre 1905 et 1907, une expédition ethnographique au nord du Mexique, chez les Coras (voisin des Huichols). Il en ramena le concept de «magische Denkweise» (mode magique de penser). Selon ses observations, le «primitif» ne perçoit pas les objets du monde comme découpés, séparés les uns des autres dans leurs individualités, mais comme pris dans la masse d’une totalité indifférenciée et continue. Tout ce qui ne provoque pas une émotion particulière, positive ou négative, lui est nécessairement indifférent. En revanche le «primitif» attribue immédiatement une force et une substance magique aux objets qui éveillent son intérêt,

13 14 15 16 17

écrira en effet, dans sa lettre autobiographique à Verlaine: «J’ai dû faire, dans des moments de gêne ou pour acheter de ruineux canots, des besognes propres et voilà tout (Dieux antiques, Mots anglais) dont il sied de ne pas parler» (cité dans Mallarmé 1945, 1625). Cassirer (1973) 50. Cassirer (1993) 70. Usener (1896); Usener (1904a); Usener (1904b). Preuss (1914) 9, cité par Alcocer (2006), à qui je me réfère pour tout ce qui concerne Preuss. Cf. Schlesier (1994) 205.

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parce qu’ils sont directement liés à sa survie18. Un exemple particulièrement frappant est celui de la cigale selon les Coras, tel que Preuss le transcrit dans son rapport d’expédition. Les Coras racontent que la cigale apporte l’été, et ils la surnomment «parole des dieux». «Cela me semble un surnom très juste, écrit Preuss, car c’est elle qui apporte du ciel les fleurs des arbres fruitiers et son chant annonce la saison des pluies. Son efficacité repose précisément sur son chant assourdissant durant cette saison. D’une certaine manière, la cigale matérialise les mots des dieux car elle chante à leur demande, ainsi l’efficacité de cet animal est finalement la leur.»19 Cassirer sera frappé par cette manière mythique de ne pas séparer ce que sépare notre pensée quand elle se veut analytique. Il emprunte à Preuss un autre exemple, celui de la conception qu’on se fait du soleil chez les Coras: dans la mythologie des Coras, dit-il, «l’intuition du ciel nocturne et du ciel diurne a dû précéder, comme un tout, l’intuition du soleil, de la lune et de chaque groupe d’étoiles. La première conception mythique n’aurait pas été ici celle d’une divinité lunaire ou solaire, ce fut au contraire de l’ensemble des astres que partirent, en quelque sorte, les premières impulsions mythiques». Cassirer cite alors Preuss: Le dieu du soleil occupe sans doute la première place dans la hiérarchie des dieux, mais il est représenté […] par les diverses divinités astrales. Elles existent antérieurement à lui, il est créé par elles, lorsque quelqu’un saute ou est jeté dans le feu; son pouvoir d’action est déterminé par elles et il se maintient artificiellement en vie en se nourrissant du cœur des sacrifiés, c’est à dire des étoiles. La voûte nocturne étoilée est une condition préalable à l’existence du soleil, c’est là le sens de toute la conception religieuse des Coras et des anciens Mexicains, et il faut y voir aussi un facteur essentiel du développement de la religion20.

Le mythe, discours sur le monde, déborde de sens. En renvoyant les objets dont il parle à une perception globale du monde naturel, il énonce, avec les objets du monde, des choses essentielles pour l’existence humaine. Cette question, dans le mythe, du lien entre une histoire qu’on raconte et un sens qui la déborde de tous côtés, cette question directement issue du romantisme sera reprise, de manière moins poétique que chez Preuss, mais peut-être scientifiquement plus efficace, par les ethnologues de l’école anglaise, certains desquels auront été des élèves (libérés) de Frazer, avant de se laisser influencer par les approches de Durkheim, Mauss et Hubert. L’ethnologie de l’école anglaise à laquelle je me réfère fonctionne comme une sorte d’antidote aux dangers de cette plongée en apnée que le romantisme nous incitait à pratiquer, en direction des origines et du paradis des archétypes: l’ethnologie nous enjoint de passer de la diachronie à la synchronie. Découvrir pour le mythe une origine, une racine oubliée, n’explique 18 Preuss (1914) 9, cité par Alcocer (2006). 19 Preuss (1912) 131 (trad. Alcocer 2006, 159). 20 Cassirer (1973) 22 (renvoyant à Preuss 1912, 50, et aussi Preuss 1914, 9 sq.).

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pas pourquoi on raconte, dans tel ou tel contexte, tel ou tel mythe. Il faut chercher le sens du mythe ailleurs que dans une archéologie. Le primitif est un contemporain. Mais du même coup, la question qui se posait auparavant se pose encore: les mythes ont-ils pour fonction d’expliquer le monde et le destin? Expliquer pourquoi telles ou telles choses existent, tels ou tels faits se produisent? On connaît la réponse de Malinowski à cette vieille question qui fut encore celle de son maître Frazer. Malinowski est hostile au concept même de mythe étiologique: Mais nos Mélanésiens souscriront-ils à cette manière de voir? Certainement non. Loin d’eux le désir d’expliquer, de rendre intelligibles les faits et événements dont parlent leurs mythes et, moins qu’autre chose, ils ne cherchent à expliquer ou à rendre intelligible une idée abstraite21.

Malinowski va jusqu’à dire ce qui suit: Le mythe qui inculque la croyance à l’immortalité, à la jeunesse éternelle, à une vie au-delà du tombeau, ne constitue pas une réaction intellectuelle à une énigme, mais exprime un acte de foi explicite, ayant sa source dans une réaction des plus profondément instinctives et émotionnelles à l’idée la plus formidable et la plus obsédante22.

Cet acte de foi exige, pour fondement, quelque chose qui transcende ce que Jack Goody appellera plus tard la raison graphique. Malinowski attire notre attention sur une pragmatique du récit, une pragmatique de type oral et gestuel, dont il fait le médium par excellence de la profondeur «fonctionnelle», et émotionnelle, du mythe. Faire du mythe une forme de science balbutiante reviendrait en effet, ditil, à encourager «les observateurs à se contenter des récits tels qu’ils sont enregistrés par écrit», c’est-à-dire tel qu’ils sont transcris par l’ethnographe. La version écrite que Malinowski et ses collègues couchent dans leurs rapports de terrain serait privée d’une dimension essentielle, d’ordre émotionnel: Le texte, poursuit Malinowski, épuise bien le côté rationnel d’une histoire; mais les aspects fonctionnel, culturel et pragmatique de tout conte indigène ressortent surtout de la manière dont il est récité, de la voix, des gestes et de la mimique du conteur, ainsi que de ses rapports avec le contexte. Il est plus facile de transcrire une histoire que d’observer les liens diffus et complexes par lesquels elle se rattache à la vie ou d’étudier sa fonction en recherchant les vastes réalités sociales et culturelles dont elle fait partie. C’est bien pour cette raison que nous possédons tant de textes et savons si peu relativement à la véritable nature du mythe23.

21 Malinowski (1932), version numérique par M. Jean-Marie Tremblay, «Les classiques des sciences sociales», Site web: http://www.uqac.uquebec.ca/zone30/Classiques_ des_sciences_sociales/index.html, 16. 22 Ibid. même page. 23 Ibid. 17.

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Cette remarque sur la mutilation que représenterait le passage de l’oral à l’écrit est d’autant plus frappante qu’elle entraîne une curieuse constatation. Tandis que, dans le rite, la théâtralisation peut être considérée comme un facteur de contrôle de l’émotion (une émotion spontanée, réprimée, laissant place à l’expression d’une émotion convenue), la performance de la narration, elle, met en scène, «avoue» une émotion apparemment non maîtrisée, le renvoi à un vaste univers de sens que le «texte» du récit recèlerait de manière implicite24. Pour essayer de comprendre ce qu’il en est de cet implicite et de sa valeur émotionnelle, il convient de se tourner vers un proche précurseur de Malinowski, et inspirateur de celui-ci, le jeune Arthur Reginald Brown. Je propose que l’on rende visite pour un instant à cet étudiant un peu anarchiste (qui voue une grande admiration à Pierre Kropotkine)25: il a 25 ans quand il débarque sur son terrain (un des premiers terrains de longue durée), dans les îles Andaman. Il est envoyé là-bas par ses professeurs, W. H. R. Rivers et A. C. Haddon sous la direction desquels il prépare, pour Cambridge, une thèse d’ethnologie26. Son séjour dans ce petit archipel situé au sud de la Birmanie a lieu entre 1906 et 1908. De retour, il soutient sa thèse, puis la récrit peu à peu en vue d’une publication, jusqu’en 1914. Il espérait pouvoir y travailler encore, mais ses nombreuses activités l’en empêchèrent. C’est donc le texte dans son état de 1914 qu’il publie en 1922 sous le titre de The Andaman Islanders, avant de le republier en 1933, puis en 1948. Entre temps, par souci d’originalité, il a changé son nom (Brown) en Radcliffe-Brown. Je me réfère, pour sa monographie «andaman», à l’édition américaine de 1948, The Andaman Islanders, The Free Press, Glencoe, Illinois. On y trouvera une bonne illustration de ce que Malinowski appelle les rapports avec le contexte, et l’attention portée aux aspects fonctionnels, culturels et pragmatiques du récit mythique27. Dans le chapitre de sa monographie consacré à la description et à la relation des «mythes et légendes», Radcliffe-Brown brosse d’abord un cadre idéal: la mémoire des récits légendaires andamanais est sous contrôle de certains spécialistes qui se trouvent être aussi des guérisseurs, en charge des pratiques magiques liées aux vertus des plantes. Ces oko-ĵumu, comme 24 Il ne faut pas négliger le facteur théâtral. L’esbroufe. Un facteur certainement très familier à Malinowski, cet ami de Witkiewicz, dont en plus on connaît, grâce à la publication posthume et certainement non désirée de son Journal d’ethnologue, la grande habileté à déguiser ses propres sentiments. 25 Cf. Graeber (2006). 26 Cf. Hogbin (1988) 322. 27 Malinowski, lui, ira encore plus loin dans ce domaine. Son terrain durera encore plus longtemps, et il sera le premier ethnologue à travailler directement dans les langues indigènes (cf. Evans-Pritchard 1977, 53).

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on les appelle, sont des autorités, en matière de mythe. Ils transmettent un savoir qu’ils tiennent de leurs prédécesseurs, tout en se sentant libres d’introduire chacun ses propres variantes, en matière de récits, ou ses propres recettes magiques, en matière de guérison. Ceci dit, Radcliffe-Brown relève que l’absence de forme traditionnelle (the lack of traditional forms), ainsi que de chants traditionnels (traditional songs) est une caractéristique de la mythologie andaman. Toutefois, si chaque individu compose ses propres chants, seul un certain nombre d’individus sont considérés comme ayant autorité de raconter les légendes (187). Tel est le cadre social idéal dans lequel le mythe s’énonce. Cadre idéal, précise Radcliffe-Brown qui ajoute en effet, comme un aveu dont il aurait peut-être préféré pouvoir se passer, que «de nos jours», tout cela a changé. Seuls quelques récits ont survécu, dans la mémoire de ceux qui les ont entendus racontés par les vieux oko-ĵumu. La plupart des oko-ĵumu n’ont pas formé de successeurs, depuis le choc traumatisant qu’a représenté l’établissement d’Européens chez les Andamanais. Mais Radcliffe-Brown revient (188) sur la nature non-systématique des légendes andamanaises. Les mêmes informateurs, dit-il, peuvent donner, selon l’occasion, des versions très différentes de motifs aussi importants que l’origine du feu, ou les débuts de l’humanité. Chaque récit, en outre, est perçu comme indépendant des autres. Il n’est point opéré, d’un récit à l’autre, de comparaison consciente. Il faut donc se méfier de la mythologie andamanaise telle qu’elle est recomposée, par exemple, par E. H. Man !28 Cette critique n’empêche pas Radcliffe-Brown de traduire un ensemble assez cohérent de récits mythologiques, qui constituent l’essentiel de son chapitre 4 (Myths and Legends). Les Andamanais ont une pluralité de mythes sur l’origine de l’humanité, c’est-à-dire sur leur propre origine, étant donné qu’ils ne considèrent pas qu’il y ait d’autres humains qu’eux: les étrangers sont des esprits (des Lau, 192). De l’origine des humains, les récits passent à l’origine du feu, puis aux mythes de catastrophe, déluges et transformation des ancêtres en animaux, à la dispersion des ancêtres dans l’archipel. A la page 213, le mythe de l’origine de la nuit va retenir notre attention. Dans la version recueillie par Radcliffe-Brown lui même, un ancêtre animal Da Teŋat (un animal non identifié, probablement une sorte d’araignée) échoue dans sa quête de nourriture. Parti à la pêche pour nourrir la tribu, il ne trouve qu’un petit poisson. Dépité, il lance des flèches au hasard. Puis il recherche ses flèches en demandant aux fruits de la jungle comment ils s’appellent. En ce temps-là, en effet, les ancêtres ne connaissaient pas les 28 Man (1883) 163–174 («Mythology»); ces pages sont la conclusion d’un long article en deux parties, constituant un rapport ethnologique systématique, «On the Aboriginal Inhabitants of the Andaman Islands». La référence donnée par RadcliffeBrown est inexacte (signe d’agacement?)

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noms des fruits et des arbres. Les végétaux interrogés refusent de répondre, jusqu’à ce que Da Teŋat découvre la première flèche, fichée dans un gros yam. Le yam, après avoir refusé de dire qui il est, rappelle Da Teŋat et lui dit son nom. Da Teŋat déterre le yam, qu’il emporte avec lui. L’ancêtre découvre ensuite une sorte de pierre, la résine, et enfin un petit animal, une sorte de cigale, qu’il emporte aussi avec lui. Revenu au camp, il enseigne à son peuple à cuire le yam. Puis il prend la cigale dans ses doigts et l’écrase. La cigale crie et la nuit s’installe, qui recouvre le monde. Les ancêtres essaient de faire revenir le jour. Da Teŋat prend la résine et fabrique des torches, en enseignant à son peuple à chanter et à danser. Enfin, Da Koŋoro (Monsieur Fourmi) chanta un chant et le jour revient. Désormais il y eut alternance du jour et de la nuit. Au chapitre suivant (intitulé «The Interpretation of Andamanese Customs and Beliefs: Ceremonial»), Radcliffe-Brown insiste sur le fait qu’il ne s’intéresse pas aux origines des coutumes et des croyances, mais à leur signification: «not the origins, but the meaning !» On aimerait bien sûr connaître le passé, dit-il, mais on ne dispose d’aucune archive. Cela doit inciter à renoncer à des reconstructions hypothétiques. Il adresse cette remarque à ceux qui pensent que cette recherche de l’histoire à travers le mythe serait la tâche principale de l’ethnologue (cf. 229 n. 1). Chaque coutume, chaque croyance, joue un rôle social, comme chaque organe d’un corps vivant a sa part dans la vie de l’organisme. Cette métaphore organiciste entraîne Radcliffe-Brown à proposer une sorte de «physiologie sociale» (230), où les questions posées ne sont pas d’ordre historique, mais psychologique et culturel, en vue d’établir un système général d’idées et de sentiments. Toute comparaison, à ce niveau-là, avec des coutumes ou des croyances d’autres «races sauvages» (comme on disait alors), serait inutile, et même trompeuse. Dans une perspective somme toute assez proche de celle qui deviendra celle de Dumézil quelque trente ans plus tard, RadcliffeBrown précise sa pensée (230): The true comparative method consists of the comparison, not of one isolated custom of one society with a similar custom of another, but of the whole system of institutions, customs and beliefs of one society with that of another. In a word, what we need to compare is not institutions but social systems or types.

Ces prémisses lui permettent d’énoncer son hypothèse de travail (working hypothesis, 233): «A society depends on a system of sentiments.» La note 1 de la page 234 définit les sentiments comme «emotional tendencies». Tout ce qui affecte la cohésion du social (ou son bien-être) est ramené à ce «système de sentiments». Ces sentiments ne sont pas innés, mais développés par l’action de la société sur l’individu. Les coutumes cérémonielles ont pour fonction de maintenir et de transmettre d’une génération à l’autre les dispositions émotionnelles dont la société (comme elle est constituée) dépend pour son existence.

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Pour entrer dans ce système de sentiments, il n’est pas d’autre voie que celle qui consiste à prendre en compte l’explication donnée par les natifs euxmêmes. C’est ainsi que Radcliffe-Brown est amené à analyser les discours indigènes sur le mariage, le deuil, la danse, le feu, la nourriture, l’initiation, la peinture corporelle, les scarifications, etc. Mais cette immersion dans le terrain n’explique pas tout. En 1912, c’està-dire au moment où il rédige la version publiée des Andamanese Islanders, il est en correspondance avec Marcel Mauss29. Une note à la page 325 (n. 1) fait référence à Durkheim, Hubert et Mauss, à propos du «pouvoir moral de la société qui agit sur l’individu directement ou indirectement», pouvoir qui se trouve au fondement des obligations morales. En ce qui concerne l’approche des rites et des cérémonies, et la notion de force morale, il convient de souligner l’influence qu’aura eu sur lui la lecture de l’importante introduction de Henri Hubert à la traduction française du Manuel d’histoire des religions du hollandais Chantepie de la Saussaye, traduction parue en 1904. Dès son retour des îles Andaman, il consacre une partie de son cours, à Londres en 1909–1910, puis à Cambridge, à la conception de la sociologie que propose l’Année sociologique, dont la tradition rapporte qu’il en possédait la collection entière, et qu’il ne s’en séparait jamais30. La puissance, la force qui se dégage du social se laissent expérimenter, sous le regard andamanais de Radcliffe-Brown, dans des états d’intense émotion collective induits par des cérémonies comme celle de la danse (326). Cette force, de surcroît, se trouve projetée, par les Andamanais, dans le monde naturel. Comment s’effectue ce saut du social au naturel, se demande l’ethnologue? La réponse, il ne la cherche pas du côté purement idéologique, comme d’autres le feront plus tard, qui insisteront sur cet effet de réel (souvent pervers) qui permet de donner à la règle ou au préjugé (notamment raciste) l’aspect d’une réalité naturelle. Si Radcliffe-Brown nous entraîne lui aussi en direction d’un processus de confusion entre le monde social et la nature, il en cherche le mécanisme du côté d’une valorisation sociale de la nature, c’est-à-dire qu’il privilégie une approche de type socio-psychologique. L’individu fait l’expérience de la force morale de la société non seulement dans le cadre des rituels sociaux, mais aussi dans sa relation à tout objet 29 Cf. les deux lettres publiées par Louis Marin dans Radcliffe-Brown (1968) 7–14. 30 Sur tout cela, cf. l’excellent Stocking (1984). Stocking discute et critique l’opinion, répandue dans certain milieux anthropologiques anglais, selon laquelle l’engouement de Brown pour l’école de Durkheim n’aurait été que l’effet d’un superficiel «snobisme francophile». Il ne semble pas que Brown ait été sensible à l’usage de Durkheim par l’école des hellénistes ritualistes animée par Gilbert Murray, F. M. Cornford et Jane Harrison. Une note de Themis, signalée par Stocking (1984, 109), semble plutôt suggérer l’inverse: Jane Harrison a probablement découvert Durkheim à travers Brown.

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du monde naturel qui revêt pour lui ce que Radcliffe-Brown appelle une «social value»31. L’importance des cérémonies, celles d’initiation en particulier, est évidente. La cérémonie permet à l’individu de ressentir (to feel) la force morale de la société. Pour définir cette force, Radcliffe-Brown fait appel au dossier classique de la peur; pour éclairer la fonction essentielle de la sacralisation des règles coutumières, il cite le pseudo-Pétrone sur le timor qui crée les dieux (primus in orbe deos fecit timor) 32: à travers les cérémonies et les coutumes, l’Andamanais est conduit à ressentir qu’il se trouve dans un monde empli de dangers invisibles, dangers issus de la nourriture, de la mer, du temps qu’il fait, de la forêt et de ses animaux, et par dessus tout des esprits des morts. Ces dangers, il ne peut y échapper qu’avec l’aide de la société, en se conformant aux usages sociaux, et en racontant des histoires. Radcliffe-Brown entreprend alors (au chapitre VI), l’interprétation des mythes et légendes recueillis au chapitre IV. Il revient en particulier sur la seconde version du mythe d’origine de la nuit (la version qu’il a recueillie lui-même). Ce qui est en jeu dans ce récit, c’est la valeur sociale de la nuit. L’alternance jour-nuit et le chant de la cigale sont des évènements inséparables pour les Andamanais; il s’agit de deux aspects du même phénomène. La cigale du mythe est un insecte bien réel, dont Radcliffe-Brown ignore le nom scientifique, mais dont il a eu l’expérience directe: on ne l’entend «chanter» (faire du bruit), dit-il, qu’entre le coucher du soleil et la nuit, et entre l’aurore et le lever du soleil (330). Or, si nous n’avons aucune prise sur la nuit et le jour, la cigale, elle, peut faire l’objet d’une action. Par conséquent, toute interférence avec la cigale est prohibée, et cette prohibition a pour fonction de marquer ou d’exprimer la valeur sociale de l’alternance jour-nuit, alternance à laquelle la cigale est intimement associée, comme elle est associée, aussi, au passage des saisons. Toute la légende est construite autour de ce thème. Au début il n’y avait pas de nuit, pas d’obscurité. La vie sociale se déroulait de manière continue, sans phases d’intensité plus ou moins grande. Mais voici qu’un ancêtre, apparemment pris de colère à la suite d’une mauvaise pêche, écrase une cigale. L’ancêtre Teŋat, dans la version Akar-Bale, après sa déception à la pêche, fait des trouvailles: il trouve tour à tour un yam (végétal), de 31 Le meilleur exemple de ce processus de valorisation sociale du monde naturel est celui de la nourriture: dans les îles andamans l’alimentation est un agent d’émotion collective, décrit comme l’indicateur privilégié de cette alternance d’euphorie et de dysphorie dont parlait aussi Durkheim. 32 Pétrone fr. 27,1. Le poème (ou fragment de poème) qui s’ouvre sur cette formule est transmis par Riese (1973) fasc. I, no 466,343 sq.; il fut attribué à Pétrone par Scaliger, qui se fonde sur le mythologue chrétien du VIe siècle Fulgence, qui cite le premier vers (aussi présent chez Stace, Thébaïde 661, mais dans un autre contexte) comme étant de Pétrone.

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la résine (considérée comme du minéral, une pierre pour les Andamanais) et un petit animal, la cigale dont le cri amène la nuit sur le monde. Comme le montre le discours indigène sur la nuit, l’obscurité, avec son inhibition des activités, est ressentie comme un mal, une source de dysphorie sociale, une occasion de se manifester pour les esprits (les Lau) hostiles à la société. S’appuyant sur une autre version du même mythe rapportée par Man, Radcliffe-Brown accorde beaucoup d’importance au motif de l’invention du chant et de la danse, implicite dans la version Akar-Bale. La danse, inséparable du chant, a toujours lieu la nuit, chez les Andamanais. Chant et danse apparaissent comme un moyen de neutraliser les effets négatifs de l’obscurité, entraînés par le cri de la cigale. La référence à la résine, elle, renvoie à l’usage des torches qui accompagne la danse. Ce que le cérémoniel de danse et de chant vient corriger, c’est l’effet d’une colère de l’ancêtre. Dans ce type de société, rappelle Radcliffe-Brown, la colère est une source de danger, de menace sur la cohésion sociale. A la colère de l’individu, qui conduit au désastre social, le rituel collectif apporte un correctif harmonieux: le chant et la danse ramènent le jour. Quant à Monsieur Fourmi, Da Koŋoro, le dernier à chanter, son nom désigne une petite fourmi rouge (338): «Chaque fois qu’on a raconté en ma présence ou simplement évoqué cette histoire, cet épisode particulier (le succès du chant de Koŋoro) suscitait le plus grand amusement chez les auditeurs. C’était très évidemment une plaisanterie. Pourtant, malgré toutes mes tentatives, je n’ai pas été capable de découvrir où était exactement la plaisanterie.» L’humour, c’est-à-dire encore une fois un élément émotionnel, donc difficile à traduire, représente une dimension particulière, non négligeable, de l’expérience sociale. L’indigène andaman n’aurait, selon Radcliffe-Brown, aucun intérêt pour la nature sinon dans la mesure où elle affecte la vie sociale. Pas d’intérêt scientifique, ou artistique, mais une grande attention portée à l’environnement, à l’adaptation à cet environnement. On est à la fois très près, et très loin de la «pensée sauvage» qui, chez Lévi-Strauss, «bricolera» de l’abstrait avec du concret, élaborant ainsi, à l’aide des éléments du monde, un langage dans lequel une pluralité de sens pourra être investie au gré des contextes culturels et sociaux, le mythe en tant que tel n’étant contraint, en définitive, par aucune mission autre que celle de révéler, ou mettre en branle, les structures de la pensée humaine. On sait que Radcliffe-Brown aura le privilège d’être reconnu, par les structuralistes, comme celui qui le premier a su résoudre l’énigme totémique, telle qu’on la trouve synthétisée et vulgarisée par Lévy-Bruhl. Il a en effet montré, dans une de ses dernières conférences (prononcée en 1951)33, qu’il 33 Radcliffe-Brown (1968), bientôt suivi, sur d’autres terrains, par Evans-Pritchard (1956), et Lévi-Strauss (1962a)

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va de soi que l’affirmation des Bororos disant qu’ils sont de rouges aras ne saurait être que de nature métaphorique et relève d’un usage de l’animal à des fins de classification. Un tel usage consiste, très schématiquement, à articuler des différences relevant de la culture à des différences relevant de la nature et à faire apparaître un rapport d’homologie entre un discours sur le social et un discours sur les espèces naturelles. Cela n’a rien à voir avec une pensée primitive, prélogique, d’ordre affectif, qui serait essentiellement différente de la nôtre, et dépendante d’une certaine loi de «participation»34. Prolongeant cette démonstration, Lévi-Strauss désincarnera carrément l’animal totémique. Ce qui en reste, chez lui, c’est un «outil conceptuel aux multiples possibilités». L’animal totémique s’est retiré en tant que bête; il est devenu véhicule abstrait d’une pensée, outil conceptuel qui doit son prestige aux multiples possibilités combinatoires qu’il offre: «véritable système au moyen d’une bête, et non la bête elle-même»35. Le bricolage lévi-straussien passe par la langue et la linguistique. Il présuppose la notion saussurienne d’arbitraire du signe. Chez Radcliffe-Brown, dont on a voulu faire un «structuralo-fonctionnaliste», l’horizon méthodologique est différent: on ne rencontre pas l’arbitraire du signe, ni aucune référence à la linguistique structurale, mais au contraire on voit régner le postulat selon lequel ce que nous appellerions signe (le choix d’une image ou d’un élément narratif), loin d’être arbitraire, s’impose à la conscience, issu d’une perception émotionnelle autant qu’intellectuelle du monde naturel. Il est peut-être légitime, ici, de rappeler que Radcliffe-Brown, avant de devenir ethnologue, avait reçu une première formation en psychologie expérimentale. Dans les termes de Louis Marin, la relation (compliquée) qui s’établira finalement entre le jeune Lévi-Strauss et le vieux Radcliffe-Brown a la saveur de ces parentés à plaisanterie (entre le neveu et l’oncle maternel) étudiées par les ethnologues: Reconnaître la complexité des attitudes du neveu à l’égard de sa «mère masculine» risque d’appauvrir, dans le schématisme d’une opposition de contraires, la richesse d’une opposition de complémentaires, qui n’est pas seulement un des objets d’étude de l’anthropologie, mais une tension de son champ épistémologique36.

C’est cette tension dont j’ai essayé, en hommage à Fritz Graf, d’explorer les origines, pour en faire ressentir l’intérêt encore actuel. Cette tension peut 34 Il existe sur ces rouges aras une abondante bibliographie, que Mary Douglas s’est plu à dépouiller et dont elle a pu dire (Douglas 1980, 9): «Confronté à cette vaste et obscure littérature, le lecteur profane se prend à soupçonner qu’il doit y avoir ou bien un petit détail erroné dans le rapport de l’explorateur, ou bien une grande erreur dans la théorie.» 35 Lévi-Strauss (1962b) 196 (à propos de l’aigle dans le système totémique des Osages). 36 Marin (1968).

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être rapportée, en des jours plus proches de nos origines communes, à celle qui unit et oppose tout à la fois les approches que Jean Rudhardt et JeanPierre Vernant d’un côté, Walter Burkert de l’autre, feront du sacrifice, entre violence et partage.

Bibliographie Alcocer (2006). – Paulina Alcocer, «La forme interne de la conscience mythique. Apport de Konrad Theodor Preuss à la Philosophie des formes symboliques de Ernst Cassirer», L’Homme 180 (2006) 139–170. Abu-Lughod (1986). – Lila Abu-Lughod, Veiled Sentiment. Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society (Berkeley 1986). Bachofen (1951). – Johann Jakob Bachofen, Die Sage von Tanaquil, Gesammelte Werke 6 (Basel 1951). Cassirer (1973). – Ernst Cassirer, Langage et mythe. A propos des noms de dieux, trad. française (Paris 1973). Cassirer (1993). – Ernst Cassirer, Le mythe de l’Etat, trad. Bertrand Vergely (Paris 1993). Corrigan (2004). – John Corrigan (éd.), Religion and Emotion. Approaches and Interpretations (Oxford 2004). Creuzer (²1921). – Friedrich Creuzer, Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Völker, besonders der Griechen, vol. 4 (Leipzig ²1921). Douglas (1980). – Mary Douglas, Edward Evans-Pritchard (New York 1980). Evans-Pritchard (1956). – Edward Evans-Pritchard, Nuer Religion (Oxford 1956). Evans-Pritchard (1965) – Edward Evans-Pritchard, La religion des primitifs (Paris 1965). Evans-Pritchard (1977). – Edward Evans-Pritchard, Anthropologie sociale, Petite Bibliothèque Payot 132 (1977). Fornaro (2004). – Sotera Fornaro, I Greci senza lumi. L’antropologia della Grecia antica in Christian Gottlob Heyne (1729–1812) e nel suo tempo (Göttingen 2004). Graeber (2006). – David Graeber, Pour une anthropologie anarchiste (Montréal 2006). Graf (1993). – Fritz Graf, Greek Mytholog y. An Introduction (Baltimore 1993). Hogbin (1988). – Ian Hogbin, «Radcliffe-Brown, Alfred Reginald (1881–1955)», dans: Australian Dictionary of Biography 11 (Melbourne 1988) 322. Howald (1926). – Ernst Howald, Der Kampf um Creuzers Symbolik, eine Auswahl von Dokumenten (Tübingen 1926). Lévi Strauss (1962a). – Claude Lévi-Strauss, Le totémisme aujourd’hui (Paris 1962). Lévi-Strauss (1962b). – Claude Lévi-Strauss, La pensée sauvage (Paris 1962). Lutz (1988) – Catherine Lutz, Unnatural Emotions. Everyday Sentiments on a Micronesian Atoll and Their Challenge to Western Theory (Chicago 1988). Lutz/Abu-Lughod (1990). – Catherine Lutz/Lila Abu-Lughod, Language and the Politics of Emotion (Cambridge 1990). Lutz/White (1986). – Catherine Lutz/Geoffrey M. White, «The Anthropology of Emotions», Annual Review of Anthropolog y 15 (1986) 405–436. Malinowski (1933). – Bronislaw Malinowski, «Le mythe dans la psychologie primitive», dans: Mœurs et Coutumes des Mélanésiens, trad. par S. Jankélévitch (Paris 1933), repris dans: Trois essais sur la vie sociale des primitifs (Paris 1968) 61–97. Mallarmé (1880). – Stéphane Mallarmé, Les dieux antiques. Nouvelle mythologie illustrée (Paris 1880).

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Mallarmé (1945). – Stéphane Mallarmé, Œuvres complètes (Paris 1945). Man (1883). – Edward Horace Man, «On the Aboriginal Inhabitants of the Andaman Islands», Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 12 (1883) 69–175. Marin (1968). – Louis Marin, «Présentation», dans: Radcliffe-Brown (1968) 15. Müller (1825). – Karl Ottfried Müller, Prolegomena zu einer wissenschaftlichen Mythologie, mit einer antikritischen Zugabe (Göttingen 1825). Preuss (1912). – Konrad Theodor Preuss, Die Nayarit-Expedition. Textaufnahmen und Beobachtungen unter mexikanischen Indianern. Vol. I: Die Religion der Cora-Indianer in Texten nebst Wörterbuch Cora – Deutsch (Leipzig 1912). Preuss (1914). – Konrad Theodor Preuss, Die geistige Kultur der Naturvölker (Leipzig 1914). Radcliffe-Brown (1948). – Alfred Reginald Radcliffe-Brown, The Andaman Islanders (Glencoe, Ill. 1948). Radcliffe-Brown (1958). – Alfred Reginald Radcliffe-Brown, «The Comparative Method in Social Anthropology», dans: M. N. Srinivas (ed.), Method in Social Anthropolog y. Selected Essays by A. R. Radcliffe-Brown (Chicago 1958) 108–129. Radcliffe-Brown (1968). – Alfred Reginald Radcliffe-Brown, Structure et fonction dans la société primitive (Paris 1968). Riese (1973). – Alexander Riese (ed.), Anthologia Latina (Amsterdam 1973). Schlesier (1994). – Renate Schlesier, Kulte. Mythen und Gelehrte (Frankfurt a. M. 1994). Stocking (1984). – George Stocking, «Dr. Durkheim and Mr. Brown: Comparative Sociology at Cambridge in 1910», dans: George Stocking, Jr. (ed.), Functionalism Historicized: Essays on British Social Anthropolog y (Madison 1984) vol. 2, 106–130. Usener (1896). – Hermann Usener, Götternamen. Versuch einer Lehre von der religiösen Begriffsbildung (Bonn 1896). Usener (1904a) – Hermann Usener, «Heilige Handlung», ARW 7 (1904) 281–339. Usener (1904b) – Hermann Usener, «Mythologie», ARW 7 (1904) 6–32.

Bubbling Blood and Rolling Bones: Agency and Teleology in Rabbinic Myth michael d. swartz I. Myth in Judaism? For generations scholars have recognized that ancient Judaism is rich in sacred stories that reflect the culture’s world view, a category known to historians of religion as myth. But what does it mean to say that there is myth in Judaism? Several recent studies have examined this question and its history (Fishbane 2003; Niehoff 1993; Liebes 1993; see also Rubenstein 1996)1. As M. R. Niehoff points out, Yehudah Liebes, following a pattern set by Gershom Scholem, defines myth as “a sacred story about the deity” and sees the history of Jewish thought from the Rabbinic Judaism of late antiquity to the medieval Kabbalah as one in which conflicts between God and external forces are integrated increasingly into conceptions of God’s inner life. For Michael Fishbane, however, the proliferation of mythological patterns in Midrash, the classical Jewish literature of biblical exegesis, represents “the reverse process of domesticating original nature myths in the rabbinic framework” (Niehoff 1993, 247). In these and earlier studies, the mythological element in Jewish lore is usually identified with creation. Fishbane (2003), for example, argues that the Midrash allows the emergence of myths of God’s struggle with the forces of chaos, represented by primordial monsters such as the Leviathan as well as the personified sea. Jeffery Rubenstein, who shows how early medieval midrashic texts tend to express myths more directly than their late antique antecedents, takes an Eliadian view of myth for the purposes of his study, citing Eliade (1975) and Eliade (1961). In his characterization, myth “tells of the paradigmatic acts of the gods (God) or the ancestors” (Rubenstein 1997, 134). Definitions of myth often expand the category to sacred stories that do not necessarily focus on origins; most descriptions of myth also em1

On the place of myth in Jewish historiography see Breslauer (1997), especially Breslauer’s introduction, 1–10, and Wasserstrom (1997).

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phasize their use in the various contexts of performance, ritual, and social structure. Moreover, myths not only express the tellers’ world views, but can reveal deeper structures of thought (mentalité) that underlie a culture’s explicit stories and theories about the world in which he lives. This study focuses on such a relationship between mythopoesis, exegesis, world-view, and phenomenology. In the literature of early rabbinic Judaism and the Hebrew liturgical poetry of the ancient synagogue several sources ascribe agency and intentionality to natural components of creation. In some cases these are revealed to be the result of a divine plan according to which God embedded objects, living creatures, and natural substances in the world so that they could fulfill a purpose in later history. In other cases, they was understood as inherent in the nature of such substances as blood and earth. This conception has ramifications for how ritual, especially sacrifice and divination, was understood in Judaism in late antiquity. The sources for this study will be myths of creation and folktales about the history of ancient Israel found in Midrash, Talmudic literature, and the synagogue poetry known as piyyut. Most of these sources were compiled in Roman Palestine, between the 3rd and 7th centuries, CE.

II. Before the Beginning One of the most potent myths in Rabbinic Judaism is the idea that several components of present-day reality were created before the world itself, or perhaps had been co-existent with God or an element of his being. The most prominent expression of this myth is the idea that the Torah was used in the creation of the world. This myth is based on what the Rabbis saw as the exegetical implications of a remarkable composition in chapter 8 of the Book of Proverbs. In that chapter a personified figure of Wisdom speaks to the reader autobiographically, calling on men to “learn shrewdness” and “instruct [their] minds” (Prov. 8:5)2. There Wisdom declares, “The Lord created me at the beginning of his course, the first of His works of old” (Prov. 8:22) and “I was with Him as a confidant (amon), a source of delight every day” (Prov. 8:30). In a well known passage in Midrash Genesis Rabbah, the principal rabbinic commentary to Genesis, the Midrash interprets Prov. 8:30 to mean that God used the Torah as the blueprint for the world: Amon [means] artisan (oman). The Torah says: I was the handiwork of the Holy One, blessed be He. It is the custom of the world that when a king of flesh and blood

2

All biblical translations in this article are based on the New Jewish Version (NJPS) (1999), with occasional modifications.

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builds a palace, he does not build it with his own knowledge, but with that of an artisan. And the artisan does not build it with his own knowledge, but from scrolls3 and tablets that he has, so that he will know how to make rooms and furnishings. Thus the Holy One, blessed be He, looked into the Torah and created the world4. The Torah says “with ‘beginning’ (be-reshit) God created” (Gen. 1:1) and “beginning” means nothing other that Torah, as it is said, “The Lord created me at the beginning (reshit) of His way” (Prov. 8:22).

This remarkable idea presupposes a stage of pre-creation as well as a hypostasized Torah. It may also reflect a conception of divine wisdom akin to Philo’s concept of the Logos, and perhaps even the notion that the Torah was pre-existent with God5. This idea forms a key foundation myth for the rabbis, for whom the Torah contains all knowledge. But it is not the only statement of pre-creation in rabbinic literature. For example, one of the most prominent alternatives to this myth is the idea that the Tabernacle, the Temple, and their cult were pre-created and serve as a model for future history. This idea is significant because it locates a ritual institution in the primordial history of the world6. Similar lists enumerate the things created in the twilight between end of the six days of creation the first Sabbath, a liminal time in prehistory. For example, Mishnah Avot 5:6 contains the following list: Ten things were created on the eve of the Sabbath at twilight: the mouth of the earth [that swallowed up Korah and his clan in Num. 15:32]; the mouth of the well [from which the Israelites drew water in the wilderness in Num. 21]; manna; [Noah’s] rainbow; [Moses’s] staff; the Shamir 7; the letters [of the Hebrew alphabet]; the writing [on the tablets of the Ten Commandments]; and the tablets [of the Ten Commandments]. And some say: also demons, the grave of Moses, and the ram of Abraham [in Gen. 22:13].

This list consists mostly of things and creatures that are to be used later in history, particularly the history of Israel. The motif then reflects a teleological view of creation, in which God embeds materials, beings, and objects in the world with specific historical intentions. In ancient and medieval Jewish 3 4 5 6 7

Heb. dipthera’ot, (Gk. διφθέρα), a document made from hide; see Jastrow (1975) s. v. dyptr’. Theodor/Albeck (²1965) vol. 1, 6. On the possible relationship of Philo’s concept to this midrash see Winston (1985) 25; cf. Freudenthal (1874) vol. 1, 73; Bacher (1891) 357–360; cf. also Marmorstein (1932); and Segal/Dahl (1978). On this idea as a parallel to the myth of the pre-created Torah see Rubenstein (1993); on this idea in liturgical poetry see Swartz/Yahalom (2005) 30–34, and Swartz (forthcoming). A hard stone or worm that was used to hew the stone of Solomon’s Temple according to legend. See Ginzberg (1909–1947) vol. 5, 53 and Sokoloff (1990) s. v. shamir.

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exegesis, poetry, and folklore, this teleology is expressed in two ways: The idea that pre-created things are to be used or interpreted at a later time; and that ostensibly inarticulate beings or substances may act out the divine will or exercise moral judgment. In the following, three ramifications of this teleological frame of mind will be examined: the idea that substances such as blood and the earth serve as actors in the moral drama of history; the role that animals and inanimate objects play in enacting or resisting the divine will; and the idea that God has placed sources of meaning in the natural world and its implications for the practice of divination.

III. The Voice of Blood Blood is ostensibly an inanimate substance. But in ancient Mediterranean cultures, the nature of blood and its fate have ritual, legal, and cosmic consequences. In his classic study of impurity in Greek religion, Robert Parker (1983) shows how the shedding of blood is not only a social concern but a metaphysical one as well. In ancient Greek society, the unjust spilling of blood creates an imbalance that must be addressed through legal redress and sacrifice. One the one hand, as Parker says, “murder-pollution is caused by an unnatural act, and for this reason is virtually identified […] with the anger of the man unnaturally killed” (Parker 1983, 123). On the other hand, it is a “vehicle through which social disruption is expressed” (Parker 1983, 121). In Jewish thought, blood is identified with life itself; a law in Lev. 17:11 forbids the eating of blood. The reason given is that “the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have assigned it to you for making expiation for your lives upon the later; it is the blood, as life, that effects expiation;” similarly, Gen. 9:4 forbids all humanity to eat of “flesh with its life-blood in it” and Israelite dietary laws require the draining of blood from animals during slaughtering8. So too, the consequences of shedding blood are not only social but metaphysical in ancient Judaism as well. Thus when God challenges Cain regarding his murder of Abel, he declares, “Your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground. Therefore you shall be more cursed than the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand” (Gen. 4:10 f.). Gen. 4:10 uses the plural, deme, for blood. This presumed anomaly was the basis for exegesis that, according to the Mishnah, was used by judges to impress on witnesses the gravity of giving honest testimony in capital cases (M. Sanh. 4:5): 8

Lev. 3:17, 7:26, 17:10–14; Deut. 12:15 f., 20–24.

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For thus we have found in the case of Cain when he killed his brother, as it is written, “the bloods of your brother (deme ahikhah) cry out.” It does not say, “the blood . (dam) of your brother, but “the bloods of your brother” – his blood and the blood of his descendents. Another interpretation: “The bloods of your brother” – for his blood was spilled on the trees and on the rocks.

This speech contains two exegeses of Gen. 4:11. The first takes the plural to mean that the accusation of murder (and by extension to false witness) applies not only to the blood of the victim but of the victim’s descendents, who will never be born. The second interpretation implies that the earth refused to accept the blood and therefore it was scattered above the earth. Genesis Rabbah explains, “It could not ascend because his soul had not yet ascended, and it could not go down, because no person had ever been buried there (in the earth), so his blood was spilled on the trees and rocks.”9 These latter interpretations thus contradict what would seem to be the plain meaning of Scripture, which states that the earth swallowed up the blood and was cursed10. In Az be-En Kol, an anonymous liturgical poem from the 3rd or 4th centuries, the earth is cursed according to the conventional meaning of the verse11: You shall surely be a destructive curse along with that which opened its mouth12 to share that which you stole13.

The implication is that not only did Cain steal Abel’s blood, but so did the earth, since it accepted it14. A story that appears in the Palestinian Talmud, Palestinian midrashic sources and the Babylonian Talmud, illustrates a dramatic consequence of the beliefs in the agency of blood and the earth15. According to 2 Chronicles 9 10 11 12 13 14

Genesis Rabbah 22:9 (Theodor/Albeck ²1965, 216). Ginzberg (1909–1947) vol. 5, 140 n. 21. Swartz/Yahalom (2005) 148 f., lines 357 f. See Yahalom (1996) 104. That is, the earth. Abel’s blood. In the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael Beshallah, . ch. 9 (Horowitz/Rabin ²1970, 145), the Egyptian soldiers are given a burial place according to Exod. 15:12 because Pharaoh had admitted God’s justice in Exod. 12:27; in another interpretation of Exod. 15:12 (ibid.), the sea worries that since the earth was cursed because it accepted Abel’s blood, it will likewise be brought to justice if it accepts the Egyptians. 15 Y. Taan. 4:6 (69a–b); Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana, Ekhah 7 (Mandelbaum ²1987, vol. 1, 258 f.); Lamentations Rabbah 4:13 (Buber 1899, 149); the version in proem 23, ibid. 21 f., is copied from the Babylonian Talmud (see Buber’s commentary ad loc.); the version in Eccles. Rabbah is in turn taken from Lam. Rabbah, proem 23. On this complex of stories see Blank (1937–1938); Ginzberg (1909–1947) vol. 6, 396 f.; Amaru (1983); Hasan-Rokem (2000) 169–171; Eliav (2005) 78; Boustan (2005) 166 n. 66.

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24:20–22, a prophet named Zechariah son of Jehoiada was murdered in the Temple Court at the command of King Joash for prophesying against the kingdom of Judah. As he was dying, Zechariah called for God to avenge his murder16. The Talmudic story connects this episode to the destruction of the first Temple 250 years later by the army of Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon and his officer, Nebuzaradan (2 Kings 25:8–21). The Palestinian Talmud’s version will be quoted here, although the Palestinian midrashim add useful details. In most sources, the story is introduced by a statement that 80,000 young priests were killed because of the blood of Zechariah. The question is then raised exactly where in the Temple Zechariah was killed: R. Yudan asked R. Aha, . “Where was Zechariah killed, in the Women’s Court or the Court of the Israelites?” He said to him, “Not in the Women’s Court, nor in the Court of the Israelites, but in the Court of the Priests.”

This leads to a discussion of exactly what was done with the blood: Nor did they did not treat his blood like the blood of a deer, nor like the blood of a ram. In that case (that of a wild animal) it is written, “[If any Israelite or any stranger who resides them hunts down and animal or a bird that may be eaten,] he shall pour out its blood and cover it with earth.” (Lev. 17:13) – but in this case (the killing of the prophet), it is written, “[For the blood she shed is still in her]; she set it upon a bare rock; [she did not pour it out on the ground to cover it with earth.]” (Ezek. 24:7): Why all this? “She set her blood upon the bare rock so that it was not covered, so that it may stir up [My] fury to take vengeance.” (Ezek. 24:8)

To highlight the enormity of the crime, the Talmud adds: Seven sins were committed that day: They killed a priest, a prophet, and a judge17; they spilled innocent blood; they polluted the Temple Court; and it occurred on Sabbath and the Day of Atonement18.

At this point the story of the murder of the priests follows. When Nebuzaradan19 went up (to the Temple Mount), he saw blood boiling. He said to them, what kind (of blood) is this? They said to him, “The blood of the bulls, rams, and lambs that we used to slaughter on the altar.” Immediately they brought to him bulls, rams, and lambs and slaughtered them for him. But the blood was still boiling. And since they did not admit to him he hung them on the gallows (to be 16 Matthew 23:34 f. and Luke 11:50 draw a connection between the innocent blood of Abel and the blood of Zechariah (there conflated with the Zechariah ben Berachiah of the prophetic book), but does not reflect directly on the belief in the agency of blood. On this passage see Chapman (1911–1912). In 333, the Bourdeaux Pilgrim was shown the blood of Zechariah on the Temple Mount; by that time the Zechariah of 2 Chron. 24 had become confused with Zecharias the father of John the Baptist; see Wilkinson (³1999) 30. 17 That is, Zechariah was all three. 18 In Lamentations Rabbah 4:13 this statement follows the story of the blood of Zechariah. 19 See 2 Kings 25:8–10.

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tortured). They said, “(It is) because the Holy One, blessed be He, wants to claim his blood from our hands.” They said to him, “It is the blood of the priest, prophet, and judge, who prophesied to concerning [all that you would do to us]20 and we stood over him and killed him.” Immediately he brought 80,000 young priests and killed them over it. But still the blood boiled21. Then he (Nebuzaradan) chastised it. He said to it, “What do you want me to do – destroy your entire people because of you?” Immediately the Holy One, blessed be He, was filled with mercy and said, “If this man, who is flesh and blood and cruel, is filled with mercy for my children, how much more so should I be, about whom it is written, ‘For the Lord your God is a compassionate God; He will not fail you nor will He let you perish; He will not forget the covenant which Heb made on oath with your fathers?’ (Deut. 4:31).” Immediately He signaled to the blood and it was swallowed up in its place.

There are many dimensions to this complex story of martyrdom and revenge. This analysis will focus on the function of blood and earth. One of the questions the story raises is whether the blood of the martyr can be likened to sacrificial blood. This question is implied in the discussion of where the prophet was killed. 2 Chron. 24:21 states that he was killed “in the Court of the House of the Lord”. This would imply that he was killed in one of the outer courts in the temple complex. The answer, that he was killed in the Court of the Priests, emphasizes that Zechariah was killed in the section of the Temple where sacrificial slaughter take place22. This raises the question of whether his blood was disposed of in a way analogous to that of game animals – that is, following, in a perverse way, some kind of sacral law. The answer, that his blood was spilled on the rocks, serves to draw a sharp distinction between any kind of blood of a sacrificial or alimentary animal and the blood of the martyr23. Likewise, in the story, the Jerusalemites’ attempt 20 The words in square brackets, which appear in the parallels in Palestinian midrashim, were added to the Leiden manuscript by a scribe. In those parallels, the second occurrence of the phrase “they said to him” is absent, making both sentences part of the people’s statement to Nebuzaradan. 21 In the parallels to this version of the story in Lamentations Rabbah 4:13 (early 5th century CE) and Pesiqta de-Rav Kahanah (late 5th or early 6th century CE), the blood of the victims boiled and accumulated it reached the tomb of Zechariah, presumably the tomb known as such in the valley of Kidron. Pesiqta de-Rav Kahanah (Mandelbaum ²1987, 259) adds a scriptural prooftext in Hosea 4:2: “They break all bounds, and blood touches blood.” 22 Matthew 23:35 states that he was killed “between the sanctuary and the altar;” cf. Luke 11:51; on these passages see Chapman (1911–1912). 23 In Tosefta Kippurim 1:12 (Lieberman 1992, 224–235), a passage condemns the priesthood of the second-temple period for its corruption by telling a story in which a young man is stabbed on the ramp to the altar. The priests worry about whether the bloody knife has caused impurity to the inner hall or the courtyard. The Tosefta comments that “the purity of the knife was more important to them than the spilling of blood”.

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to deceive Nebuzaradan into thinking that the blood is that of sacrificial animals has the effect of distinguishing the blood of sacrifices from the blood of martyrs. The Babylonian Talmud’s more elaborate version, which adds to the drama of the earlier story in several ways, reinforces this distinction. In this version Nebuzaradan does not simply slaughter the sacrificial animals to appease the blood; rather, he kills them to find out if sacrificial blood will boil under normal circumstances. When he does so, he sees that their blood does not boil, indicating to him that sacrificial blood does not usually act this way. Once it becomes clear that this is no ordinary blood, Nebuzaradan then demands on threat of torture to know why this blood is boiling24. When they tell him it is the blood of the prophet, he begins to appease it by slaughtering young priests25. Eventually he speaks directly to the blood (or Zechariah himself)26. Only when he threatens to wipe out the entire nation does God have mercy and stop the blood from boiling. As George Kohut and Tamar Alexander-Frizer point out, the premise behind this story and others like it is that blood has a conscious, living identity with the person from whom it has flowed27. But this is also related to an idea implied by Gen. 4:11 and interpretations of it: that the earth itself may refuse to accept the blood of a victim of murder. In this story, therefore, there are three types of agency beyond that of living humans; there is the agency of blood, which takes it upon itself to act on behalf of the dead person from which it came to extract justice; there is the earth, which refuses to accept the blood of the innocent; and there is the will of God, who inter venes when provoked by the boundless evil of the Babylonian villain to stop the natural process of revenge28. In the Babylonian Talmud’s version, the story has a happy ending. Nebuzaradan, horrified at the bloodshed that he has unleashed, reasons, “If this can happen to them (the Jews), who only killed one man, what will happen to me?” He then flees the scene and converts to Judaism29. 24 In the Palestinian versions, he places the Jerusalemites on the gallows. In the Babylonian version (b. Gittin 57a), he threatens to tear their flesh with iron combs. 25 In the Babylonian version, he slaughters the great and lesser courts (sanhedrin), young men and women, and schoolchildren. 26 The story is ambiguous in this version. In the Babylonian Talmud’s version, Nebuzaradan calls out to Zechariah by name. 27 Kohut (1903); Alexander-Frizer (1991) 39–52. These studies relate a medieval story in which the blood of a son proves his kinship with his father to motif H486.1 in Thompson (1955–1958). 28 In Lamentations Rabbah 4:13, God also signals to the blood to boil when Nebuzaradan first enters the Temple Mount. On blood piety in medieval Christianity see Bynum (2007). 29 Blank (1937–1938) 340 n. 23, suggests that this tendency to look on Nebuzaradan more favorably may be explained by how he is portrayed in Jer. 40:2–4.

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IV. Useful Animals A second category of tales about the active role of seemingly mute entities concerns animals and objects that act out the divine will in crucial moments in history. Greek and Roman mythologies are replete with myths about animals, especially those in which interactions and metamorphoses between animals and humans are common30. These are rarer in ancient Jewish myths, but there are a few categories in which animals play a role. Victor Aptowitzer catalogued a host of stories in which animals are punished for their misdeeds or, conversely, repent of their misdeeds by helping a biblical hero or harming a villain (Aptowitzer 1926). There are also well-known stories in which the moon and stars or mountains vie for primacy or for God’s favor. In another category, animals and impersonal substances act as the agents of divine retribution (Aptowitzer 1920–1921). One such story appears in Leviticus Rabbah, the Midrash to Lamentations and parallels31. Like the story of the blood of Zechariah, it is also an elaborate, violent story of destiny and revenge. In it, Titus, destroyer of Jerusalem, enters the Temple and desecrates it in the most unspeakably obscene ways. In revenge, God destroys him in a gruesome way through the tiniest of His creatures, a mosquito. Galit Hasan-Rokem (1993 and 1998) has analyzed this story insightfully, shedding light on how its structure suggests, as she puts it, a “mediation of the contradiction inherent in a situation in which an omnipotent deity’s abode lies in the ashes of a fire lit by an emperor subsequently killed by a mosquito” (Hasan-Rokem 1993, 10). Hasan-Rokem uses the story to stress the theme of the limits of God’s omnipotence. However, the story is also useful to this discussion of the theme of the teleological selection of objects and animals in creation. Placing this story in its redactional context will illustrate this point. In Leviticus Rabbah this story is introduced by a discussion of whether God has created anything unnecessary32. The exegetical starting point for this discussion is Eccles. 5:8, which is taken by the midrash to mean: “And the superfluity (ve-yitron) of all the earth is His; He controls a field that is cultivated.”33 The subsequent exegeses of this verse stress the necessity of every detail of creation. According to one statement, “Even things in the 30 On the role of animals in myth see especially Sarah Iles Johnston’s essay in this volume. 31 Lev. Rabbah 22:3 (Margulies 1993, 499–502; see Margulies’s notes for further parallels and variants); Avot de-Rabbi Natan, Version B, ch. 7 (Schechter 1887, 20 f.); b. Gittin 56b; Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer 49. 32 Lev. Rabbah 22:2 (Margulies 1993, 498). 33 NJPS translates the first part of this verse as, “Thus the greatest advantage of the earth is his.”

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world that seem to you superfluous, such as fiber to make ropes, fibers to weave a cord34 – even they are for the benefit of the world.”35 Another interpretation explains that even bothersome insects are necessary: “And the superfluity of the earth is His” (Eccles. 5:8): Even things in the world that you see as superfluous, such as flies, mosquitoes, and fleas – even they are (included) in the creation of the world, as it is written, “And the heaven and earth were completed” (Gen. 2:1)36.

The midrash then gives specific examples of the value of animals that would seem to have no purpose. The story of Titus and the mosquito is introduced in this way: “And the advantage of the earth is His” (Eccles. 5:8): The Holy One, blessed be He, said to the prophets, “If you will not convey my message, I have no messengers.” R. Aha . said: The Holy One, blessed be He, carries out his message with anything – even by means of a snake, even by means of a scorpion, even by means of a frog, even by means of a mosquito37.

The word translated “message” can also refer to a commission or errand. That is, God uses whatever creatures are necessary to do His bidding. At this point, the saga of Titus and the mosquito follows: The evil Titus entered the Holy of Holies, his sword sheathed in his hand, and cut the two curtains. Then he took two prostitutes, spread out a Torah scroll under them, and had sexual intercourse with them on top of the altar; his sword came out dipped in blood. Some say it was the blood of the Holy of Holies and some say it was the blood of the goat of Yom Kippur.

As the story begins, Titus not only destroys the Temple, the physical habitation of God on earth, but desecrates it in the most obscene and violent way. First he slashes the curtain that covers the Holy of Holies; the story may imply that Titus thought the blood on the sword was the blood of the Deity Himself 38. He then taunts God further: He then cursed on high and said, “One who does battle with a king in the desert and is victorious is not like one who does battle with a king in his own palace and is victorious over him.”39 What did he do? He gathered all the vessels of the Temple, placed them in a net, and sent down to a ship. When he went down, he ran into a gale on the sea. He said, “It seems to me that the god of this people is only powerful in water. He did not punish the generation of the flood except with 34 Following Sokoloff ’s emendation (Sokoloff 1990) s. v. nsk. Margulies (1993) 498 suggests swg y’ lmswk gpn’, “fences to enclose vines”. 35 Lev. Rabbah 22:1 (Margulies 1993, 494 f.). 36 Lev. Rabbah 22:2 (Margulies 1993, 498). 37 Lev. Rabbah 22:3 (Margulies 1993, 499). 38 Hasan-Rokem (1993) 7, comments that the Aramaic gloss about the whether it was the blood of the sacrificial goats or the Holy of Holies takes the form of a rumor and heightens the ambiguity of the sexual connotations of the image. 39 This statement takes the form of a proverb in Aramaic.

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water; He did not punish the generation of the Tower of Babel except with water; He did not destroy the Pharaoh and all his army except with water. So too, when I was in His house and in his territory He could not prevail against me. But now He has preceded me here.”40

As in the story of Jonah, divine displeasure is expressed by the stormy sea. However, Titus uses even this struggle against him to belittle the power of his adversary. This is the point at which God prepares His revenge: The Holy One, blessed be He, said to him, “By your life! I will use the smallest creature of all those that I have created from the six days of creation to punish that evil man.” Immediately the Holy One, blessed be He, signaled 41 to the sea and it stopped raging. When he got to Rome, the people of Rome came out to praise him as “Conqueror of the Barbarians!”42 Immediately they heated up the bath and he went in to bathe. When he emerged they poured him an after-bath double cup43 (of wine). Then God appointed a mosquito, which entered his nostril and kept on eating until it reached his brain, and it gnawed at his brain. He said, “Call the doctors and let them split open the brain of this evil man44, so that I can know by what means the god of this people is punishing this evil man.” Immediately they called the doctors and they split open his brain and found a creature in it the size of a young dove and its weight was two litras. R. Lazar b. R. Yose said, “I was there and they put the dove on one side of a scale and two litras on the other, and one balanced out the other.”45 Then they took it and put it into a bowl, and every way one (the mosquito) changed the other (Titus) changed. The mosquito flew away, the soul of the evil Titus flew away.

This complex story conveys many themes concerning divine power, familiarity and foreignness, and the nature of the soul. As Hasan-Rokem observes (1993), the echoes of the Jonah story are not only evident in this tragicomic reversal of Jonah’s experience with the ship and its virtuous pagan sailors, but in the use of the verb zmn to refer to God’s appointing of the mosquito – itself a reversal of the big fish that protected Jonah. However, the story acquires a somewhat different emphasis once it is seen in its redactional context.

40 As Hasan-Rokem (1993) 8 points out, Titus understands God as a counterpart to Neptune, who is only powerful in the sea. 41 The verb used here is ramaz, the same verb that is used in the story of the blood of Zechariah above. 42 Heb. nyqyty’ brbryh, transliterating Gk. νικητὴς βαρβάρων. Hasan-Rokem (1993) 9, notes the use of Greek words here to highlight the foreignness of the setting of the emperor’s triumph. 43 Heb. dyplwpwtwryn; transliterating Gk. διπλοποτήριον. 44 This is Titus speaking, referring to himself. 45 As Hasan-Rokem (1993) 9, observes, “Validation by actual witnesses often appears at the end of narratives in the legend genre to connect it with historical reality.”

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In Leviticus Rabbah, this story is followed by several less dramatic stories regarding the miraculous properties and deeds of animals and objects that have been designated to accomplish a given task on earth46. The outcomes of these actions are less consequential than in the Titus story. However, these stories are similarly organized around the rubric ‘that God accomplishes his goals by means of the most unlikely creatures’. They concern a man, usually a Rabbi, who observes an unusual phenomenon and concludes that the creature or object he is watching is “prepared to do His (God’s) bidding”. As Eli Yassif observes47, these stories not only convey a distinctive message on their own, but bear on the meaning of the Titus legend in its context: “The emphasis thus shifts from punishment of the blasphemer to the story of the smallest of animals carrying out the will of God.” Each of these stories uses an unusual or counterintuitive detail about nature to make its point. A particularly striking example is a story of a frog and a scorpion: There is a story of a man who was standing on the riverbank and saw a frog carrying a scorpion across the river. He said, “This one is prepared to do (God’s) bidding.” He (the frog) brought it over the river and went and did His bidding and came and returned it (the scorpion) to its place48.

In another version of this story in the later Midrash Tanh. uma, a local detail is added and the purpose of the scorpion’s journey is made explicit: There is a story of a scorpion that went to do His bidding across the Jordan, and the Holy One, blessed be He, appointed a frog and it carried it over. Then that scorpion stung a man and he died49.

Here the scorpion has obviously crossed the river for the explicit purpose of killing someone. In addition, the Tanh. uma’s version uses the verb zimmen, “appointed”, like the Titus story and the book of Jonah to indicate God’s designation of a creature for a specific purpose. Both versions of this story may be related to a common tale of the frog or turtle and the scorpion. This folktale type, designated by Stith Thompson’s Motif-Index of Folk-Literature as K952.150, “Ungrateful river passenger

46 In Lev. Rabbah 22:4 (Margulies 1993, 503–511) there are nine such stories. In Gen. Rabbah 10:7 (Theodor/Albeck ²1965, 79–83) the first five of these appear, with minor variations, introduced as in Lev. Rabbah by the point that God does his will by means of the smallest of creatures. In Tanhuma Huqat 1 (Buber 1885, 98 f.), six of . . the nine appear. In the two latter versions, the Titus story follows the other stories. See also Num. Rabbah 18:22. 47 Yassif (1999) 238. 48 Lev. Rabbah 22:4 (Margulies 1993, 503 f.). 49 Tanh. Huqat 1 (Buber 1885, 98). This version is written in Hebrew while Leviticus . Rabbah’s version is in Aramaic. 50 Thompson (1955–1958) vol. 4, 355.

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kills carrier from within”, appears in Indian, Persian, Syriac, and Arabic sources. In most versions of this story, the scorpion makes a deal with the frog or turtle that he should carry him across the river and assures him that it is not in the scorpion’s interest to sting the frog, since they will both drown. The scorpion stings the frog anyway, because, after all, it is a scorpion. The point of the conventional fable is that some creatures (or people) cannot change what they are. In this variation of the story, it is precisely the fact that the scorpion goes against its natural instincts that makes the event remarkable and clearly a sign of divine planning. In another story in this cycle in Leviticus Rabbah, it is a snake that carries out the mission: R. Yanai was sitting and teaching at the gate of the city and saw a snake approaching excitedly51. He chased after it from one side and it would one return from the other side. He said, “This one is ready to do His bidding.” At once a report spread in the city that so-and-so the son of so-and-so was bitten by a snake and died52.

These stories do not constitute the elaborate morality tale of genocide and justice that are the Zechariah and Titus stories, but tales about the fate of ordinary people. However, other stories in this series concern the fate of a community or a prominent Jewish leader, such as the following: R. Yitzhak was sitting at the sea wall of Caesarea and saw a thigh bone rolling. He placed it aside and it kept on rolling. He said, “This (bone) is prepared to do His bidding.” After a few days a courier passed by. It rolled between his legs, he tripped on it and fell and died. They went and searched him and found that he was carrying evil decrees against the Jews of Caesarea53.

This story concerns not the agency of an animal, but of a thigh bone – although it may be that like blood, the thigh bone retains some of the will of the living creature from which it came. Nonetheless, like Titus’s mosquito, it does take action in defense of a community. In all cases, the stories make the point not only that God sends messengers to do His bidding, but that if something is destined to happen, nature itself will be determined to make it happen. The word “prepared”, mukhan, used in these stories, implies both preparation and readiness – that is, that it is ready to do God’s will and that it has been explicitly made by God for that purpose. In other words, it implies both divine intent in creation and the agency of the being that carries out that intent.

51 Or, perhaps, hissing. 52 Lev. Rabbah 22:4 (Margulies 1993, 505). This story is one of several in this cycle concerning snakes; for example, in one story, a Roman officer dismisses a Rabbi ignominiously from the latrine on which he is sitting; the Rabbi concludes that this is all for the best, whereupon a snake bites the Roman (ibid.). 53 Ibid.

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V. Creation and Divination Another way in which animal and objects play an active role is in divination. Divination is a system in which every detail of the environment is filled with meaning. That is, to the diviner the world is inherently semiotic. This idea of a world alive with meaning, a world in which animals, plants, and inanimate objects are active instruments of communication between God and humanity, is reinforced by the legends described here that ascribe agency to elements of the natural world54. In some narrative traditions, divination implies not only that the divine employs animals and objects as messengers to humankind but that those beings are active agents. This is most visible in Talmudic legends about the reliability of informants. A striking case is the set of practices known as the “language of birds and the language of palm trees” in which the patterns of bird flight and song and the swaying of palm trees are read using finely honed techniques. The latter skill was attributed to one of the founders of the Rabbinic movement, Yohanan ben Zakkai, along with the language of angels and demons55. Yet even these crafts are not represented without ambivalence in the Talmud. One representation of this tradition in the Babylonian Talmud takes the form of the following story of Rav Ilish, who was in prison (b. Gittin 45a): One day he was sitting with someone who knew the language of birds. A raven came and called out to him. (Rav Ilish) said to the man, “What did he say?” He said, “Flee, Ilish! Flee Ilish!” He said, “Ravens are liars. I do not rely on them.” Then a dove came along and called out. He said (to the man), “What did he say?” He said, “Flee, Ilish, Flee Ilish.” He said, “The community of Israel is likened to a dove56. This must mean that a miracle will happen to me. I will flee.”

Mindful perhaps of the biblical Noah story, Rav Ilish listens not to the raven, whom he calls a liar, but to the dove57. The assumption behind bird, tree, and angelic divination is that these creatures know something we do not. But this story asserting that the raven does not always tell the truth, the Talmud also presupposes that it knew what it was saying. The idea that animals and other natural phenomena lead conscious existences that reflect their will and destiny did not go unchallenged in antiquity. Josephus quotes a book of obscure origin attributed to Hecataeus, a leading writer and intellectual of early Hellenistic Alexandria. This book tells a story 54 For a survey of ancient Jewish concepts of divination, see Swartz (2003). 55 B. Bava Batra 134a and b. Suk. 28a. On the entire passage see Halperin (1980) 137 f., cf. Halperin (1976) 219 f. 56 See for example Cant. 5:2. 57 For another example of the raven’s unattractive habits, see Lev. Rabbah 19:1 (Margulies 1993, 415).

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of a Jewish archer named Mosollamus, who was traveling with the Ptolemaic army. At one point the army stopped their marching because a bird was flying overhead and the military soothsayer wanted to observe it: The seer having pointed out the bird to him, and saying that if it [the bird] stays there, it is expedient for all to wait still longer, and if it rises and flies ahead, to advance, but if [it flies] behind, to withdraw at once, he [Mosollamus], after keeping silence and drawing his bow, shot and, hitting the bird, killed [it]. When the seer and some others became irritated and called down curses upon him, he [Mosollamus] said, “Why are you raving, [you] wretches?” Then, taking the bird in his hands he said, “How, then, could this [bird], which did not provide for its own safety, say anything sound about our march? For had it been able to know the future, it would not have come to this place, fearing that Mosollamus the Jew would draw his bow and kill it.”58

This is a story that circulated in various forms in the Roman world59. Both divination techniques and their critics shared the cultural space of the ancient Mediterranean. Jewish culture of that time and place partook of that culture; we should neither attribute the proliferation of these concepts to foreign influence nor consider them exclusively Jewish.

VI. Agency and Teleology The wide variety of legends, sayings, and interpretations presented here indicate a complex relationship between myth, ideology, and mentality. On the one hand, they presuppose a divine creator whose plan for humanity, and for Israel in particular, is inherent in the act of embedding objects, creatures, and natural elements in creation. On the other hand, these sources do not presuppose absolute predestination. The snakes, mosquitoes, bones, and blood that populate these stories act not only out of obedience to divine command but from an active sense of telos 60. They thus possess agency, if not exactly human will and cunning. These conceptions constitute not simply an explicit theology but a mentalité. This is evident from the smaller stories of how creatures act out – and act against – their nature for the benefit not of an entire nation, but to complete the fate of an individual. The next step in understanding how these conceptions functioned in ancient Jewish society would be to explore efforts by the human community to draw practical conclusions from this way of framing the universe. This would involve the study of medical and magical attempts to control or

58 Bar-Kochva (1996) 49–53, translating Josephus, Contra Apionem 1.201–204. 59 See Bar Kochva (1996) 57–70. 60 On telos in rabbinic anthropology see Schofer (2005).

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enroll those creatures and elements, as well as scholastic and popular activities, such as divination, exegesis of the natural world, and the patterning of human behavior, that transform these underlying assumptions into forms of praxis. Such a study would lead us where the study of myth often leads, into ritual.

Bibliography Alexander-Frizer (1991). – Tamar Alexander-Frizer, The Pious Sinner: Ethics and Aesthetics in the Medieval Hasidic Narrative (Tübingen 1991). Amaru (1983). – Betsey Halpern Amaru, “The Killing of the Prophets: Unraveling a Midrash”, Hebrew Union College Annual 54 (1983) 153–180. Aptowitzer (1920–1921). – Victor Aptowitzer, “Die Anteilnahme der physischen Welt an den Schicksalen des Menschen”, Monatsschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 28 (1920) 227–231, 305–313; 29 (1921) 71–87, 164–187. Aptowitzer (1926). – Victor Aptowitzer, “The Rewarding and Punishing of Animals and Inanimate Objects: On the Aggadic View of the World”, Hebrew Union College Annual 3 (1926) 117–155. Bacher (1891). – Wilhelm Bacher, “The Church Father, Origen, and Rabbi Hoshaya”, Jewish Quarterly Review o. s. 3 (1891) 357–360. Bar-Kochva (1996). – Bezalel Bar-Kochva, Pseudo-Hecataeus, On the Jews: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora (Berkeley 1996). Blank (1937–1938). – Sheldon H. Blank, “The Death of Zechariah in Rabbinic Literature”, Hebrew Union College Annual 12–13 (1937–1938) 327–346. Boustan (2005). – Ra’anan Boustan, From Martyr to Mystic: The Story of the Ten Martyrs, Hekhalot Rabbati, and the Making of Merkavah Mysticism (Tübingen 2005). Breslauer (1997). – S. Daniel Breslauer (ed.), The Seductiveness of Jewish Myth: Challenge or Response? (Albany 1997). Buber (1885). – Salomon Buber (ed.), Midrash Tanhuma Huqat, vol. 1 (Vilna 1885). . . Buber (1899). – Salomon Buber (ed.), Ekhah Rabbah (Vilna 1899). Bynum (2007). – Caroline Walker Bynum, Wonderful Blood: Theolog y and Practice in Late Medieval Northern Germany and Beyond (Philadelphia 2007). Chapman (1911–1912). – John Chapman, “Zecharias, Slain between the Temple and the Altar”, Journal of Theological Studies 13 (1911–1912) 398–410. Eliade (1961). – Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane (New York 1961). Eliade (1975). – Mircea Eliade, Myth and Reality (New York 1975). Eliav (2005). – Yaron Z. Eliav, God’s Mountain: The Temple Mount in Time, Place, and Memory (Baltimore 2005). Fishbane (2003). – Michael Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking (Oxford 2003). Freudenthal (1874). – Jakob Freudenthal, Hellenistische Studien (Breslau 1874). Ginzberg (1909–1947). – Louis Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews (Philadelphia 1909–1947). Halperin (1976). – David J. Halperin, “The Ibn Sayyad Traditions, and the Legend of al-Dajjal”, Journal of the American Oriental Society 96 (1976) 219 f. Halperin (1980). – David J. Halperin, The Merkavah in Rabbinic Literature (New Haven 1980). Hasan-Rokem (1993). – Galit Hasan-Rokem, “Within Limits and Beyond: History and Body in Midrashic Texts”, International Folklore Review 9 (1993) 5–12.

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Hasan-Rokem (1998). – Galit Hasan-Rokem, “Narratives in Dialogue: A Folk Literary Perspective on Interreligious Contacts in the Holy Land in Rabbinic Literature of Late Antiquity”, in: Arieh Kofsky/Guy G. Stroumsa (eds.), Sharing the Sacred; Religious Contacts and Confl icts in the Holy Land, 1st–15th Centuries CE ( Jerusalem 1998) 109–129. Hasan-Rokem (2000). – Galit Hasan-Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature (Stanford 2000). Horowitz/Rabin (²1970). – H. Saul Horowitz/Israel Abraham Rabin (eds.), Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael ( Jerusalem ²1970). Jastrow (1975). – Marcus Jastrow, Dictionary of the Targumim, the Talmud Babli and Yerushalmi, and the Midrashic Literature (New York 1975). Kohut (1903). – George Alexander Kohut, “Blood Test as Proof of Kinship in Jewish Folklore”, Journal of the American Oriental Society 24 (1903) 129–144. Lieberman (1992). – Saul Lieberman (ed.), The Tosefta, vol. 2 ( Jerusalem 1992). Liebes (1993). – Yehudah Liebes, Studies in Jewish Myth and Jewish Messianism (Albany 1993). Mandelbaum (²1987). – Bernard Mandelbaum (ed.), Pesiqta de-Rav Kahana (New York ²1987). Margulies (1993). – Mordechai Margulies (ed.), Midrash Vayiqra Rabbah (New York 1993). Marmorstein (1932). – Arthur Marmorstein, “Philo and the Names of God”, Jewish Quarterly Review n. s. 12 (1932) 295–306. Niehoff (1993). – Maren R. Niehoff, “The Phoenix in Rabbinic Literature”, Harvard Theological Review 89 (1993) 245–265. NJPS – JPS Hebrew – English Tanakh: The Traditional Hebrew Text and the New JPS Translation (Philadelphia ²1999). Parker (1983). – Robert Parker, Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion (Oxford 1983). Rubenstein (1996). – Jeffery Rubenstein, “From Mythic Motifs to Sustained Myth: The Revision of Rabbinic Traditions in Medieval Midrashim”, Harvard Theological Review 89 (1996) 131–159. Schechter (1987). – Solomon Schechter (ed.), Avot de-Rabbi Natan (London/Wien/ Frankfurt a. M. 1887). Schofer (2005). – Jonathan Wyn Schofer, “Self, Subject, and Chosen Subjection: Rabbinic Ethics and Comparative Possibilities”, Journal of Religious Ethics 33 (2005) 255–291. Segal/Dahl (1978). – Alan F. Segal/Nils A. Dahl, “Philo and the Rabbis on the Names of God”, Journal for the Study of Judaism 9 (1978) 1–28. Sokoloff (1990). – Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic (Ramat Gan 1990). Speiser (1964). – Ephraim Avigdor Speiser, The Anchor Bible Genesis (Garden City 1964). Swartz (2003). – Michael D. Swartz, “Divination and Its Discontents: Finding and Questioning Meaning in Ancient and Medieval Judaism”, in: Scott Noegel/Brandon Wheeler (eds.), Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World (University Park 2003) 155–166. Swartz (forthcoming). – Michael D. Swartz, The Signifying Creator: Non-Textual Sources of Meaning in Ancient Judaism (New York, forthcoming). Swartz/Yahalom (2005). – Michael D. Swartz/Joseph Yahalom, Avodah: Ancient Poems for Yom Kippur (University Park, Pa. 2005). Theodor/Albeck (²1965). – Yehuda Theodor/Chanoch Albeck (eds.), Midrash Bereshit Rabbah ( Jerusalem ²1965).

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Thompson (1955–1958). – Stith Thompson, Motif-Index of Folk-Literature: A Classification of Narrative Elements in Folktales, Ballads, Myths, Fables, Mediaeval Romances, Exempla, Fabliaux, Jest-Books, and Local Legends (Bloomington 1955–1958). Wasserstrom (1997). – Steven M. Wasserstrom, “A Rustling in the Woods: The Turn to Myth in Weimar Jewish Thought”, in: Breslauer (1997) 97–122. Wilkinson (³1999). – John Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels (Warminster ³1999). Winston (1985). – David Winston, Logos and Mystical Theolog y in Philo of Alexandria (Cincinnati 1985). Yahalom (1996). – Joseph Yahalom, Az be-En Kol: Seder ha-’Avodah ha-Ere.s-Yisraeli haQadum le-Yom ha-Kippurim ( Jerusalem 1996). Yassif (1999). – Eli Yassif, The Hebrew Folktale: History, Genre, Meaning (Bloomington 1999).

Protagonisten

Orpheus und die Buchrolle cornelia isler-kerényi

Orpheus lässt einen, wenn man sich einmal auf ihn eingelassen hat, nicht leicht los: Der Adressat dieser Reflexion hat das, wie die Verfasserin, erfahren und durch viele seiner Schriften bezeugt1. Die neueren Publikationen zum Derveni-Papyrus haben das Thema Orphismus nochmals aktualisiert. Die relativ hohe Datierung des Textes, auf den sich jener des Papyrus bezieht, in das frühe 5. oder sogar späte 6. Jahrhundert v. Chr. 2 legt die Frage nahe nach möglichen Spuren dieses Phänomens in der Bildkunst. Hat der Orphismus trotz der „kleinen Anzahl von Anhängern“ wirklich „eine bedeutende Rolle in der Religion der klassischen Zeit“ gespielt? 3 In der genannten Zeit sind bekanntlich die Vasenbilder unsere Hauptquelle, die aufgrund der besonderen Art ihrer Träger sehr spezielle Vertreter der Bildkunst sind, zugleich aber für uns von besonderem Wert, weil sie den ursprünglichen Adressaten in Griechenland und Italien und deren konkretem Leben sehr nahe stehen 4. Was lässt sich also der attischen Bildgeschichte des Orpheus entnehmen, wie sahen ihn die Käufer und Benützer dieser Keramik, wie unterscheidet sich die Figur von ähnlichen Gestalten der griechischen Mythologie? 5 Diese Studie geht von der vielzitierten apulischen Amphora in Basel mit der Darstellung einer Grabädikula aus, in der ein weißhaariger Mann sitzt, der eine Buchrolle in der Hand hält6. Ihm gegenüber ist in seltsam tänzelndem Schritt jener Kithara spielende Orpheus dargestellt, den wir von 1 2 3 4 5 6

Zuletzt: Graf/Johnston (2007). Burkert (2005) 62 f. Benson (1996) 393. So auch Bundrick (2005) 3: „State monuments […] convey the agendas of the government and the elite, while painted vases […] come closer to what we would today call ‚popular culture‘ by virtue of their large numbers and wide audience.“ Die hier vorgelegten Überlegungen basieren auf der Arbeit am Artikel „Orfeo nella ceramografia greca“ für die Zeitschrift Mythos (Palermo). Graf/Johnston (2007) 63, Abb. 3.

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einer Reihe apulischer Volutenkratere kennen7: offenbar zitiert hier der Ganymed-Maler aus einem bestehenden Repertoire. Seine Darstellung scheint ikonographisch isoliert dazustehen. Eine klärende Untersuchung, auf deren Grundlage erst eine adäquate Interpretation des Bildes im eigenen kulturhistorischen Kontext möglich wäre, sollte aber jemand leisten, der sich in der apulischen Keramik und ihren gravierenden Problemen der Zuschreibung, Datierung und Systematisierung wirklich auskennt8. Was mich heute interessiert, ist das seltene Attribut der Buchrolle, das auch in der attischen Ikonographie des Orpheus vorkommt und schon dort die besondere Beziehung dieses Heros zur Schriftlichkeit anzudeuten scheint9.

Orpheus im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. und seine Vorboten Orpheus wird erst in der zweiten Generation der rotfigurig arbeitenden Vasenmaler bald nach 490 v. Chr. zum Thema, und zwar in der Schalenwerkstatt des Brygos und ihrem Umkreis. Die Figur eines exzeptionellen Musikers Namens Orpheus war aber schon vorher bekannt, wie das Argonautenrelief in Delphi bezeugt und eine schwarzfigurige Oinochoe in Rom bestätigt10. Auf noch viel frühere Zeiten, nämlich auf das 13. Jahrhundert v. Chr., geht allerdings die Idee zurück, dass die Musik die Grenzen des Menschlichen zu übersteigen vermag11. Musiker kommen in Bildern des Symposions in archaischer Zeit natürlich oft vor, wie in solchen des Gruppentanzes auf geometrischen Vasen. Um so mehr ist verwunderlich, dass im reichen mythologischen Repertoire der attisch-schwarzfigurigen Keramik des 6. Jahrhunderts ein auf Musik spezialisierter Heros fehlt. Der Musiker par excellence ist eindeutig Apollon, bei dem Lyra oder Kithara unter den wichtigsten Attributen und Erkennungszeichen sind. Auch er wird aber nur selten und relativ spät als Musiker allein dargestellt12: Die Musik war für die Vasenmaler archaischer Zeit viel weniger wichtig als für jene des 5. Jahrhunderts13.

7 Pensa (1977); Garezou (1994) 88 f. Maria-Xeni Garezou sei herzlich dafür gedankt, dass sie mir ihren für LIMC Addenda erstellten Orpheus-Text zur Verfügung gestellt hat. 8 Denoyelle (2005). 9 Zur Schriftlichkeit im Orphismus: Calame (2005). 10 Garezou (1994) 84, Nr. 6; 97, Nr. 176. 11 Spätmykenische Pyxis aus Chania: Tzedakis (1970). 12 Lambrinudakis (1984) 202, Nr. 119–124; 207, Nr. 168 f. 13 Bundrick (2005) 6.

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Bis gegen 460 v. Chr. wird von der Orpheus-Geschichte allein sein tragischer Tod durch die thrakischen Frauen dargestellt. Auch sonst haben blutrünstige Kampfszenen zu dieser noch von den dramatischen Ereignissen der Perserkriege geprägten Zeit offenbar Konjunktur. Bemerkenswert ist aber, dass man von Anfang an auf die Enthauptung des Sängers anspielte: Unter den Gegenständen, die den Mordwilligen als Waffe dienen, kommt oft die gezackte Sichel vor, dieselbe, mit der Perseus die Gorgo enthauptet. Wer die Geschichte kannte, wurde damit, wie auch durch die vom wehrlos Sterbenden ostentativ in die Höhe gestreckte Lyra14, auf die Unsterblichkeit des Orpheus-Gesanges hingewiesen. Um 460 v. Chr. oder bald danach kommt als neues Thema der musizierende und singende Orpheus vor, dem meistens thrakische Männer, gelegentlich auch ein Satyr oder Frauen zuhören. Die Atmosphäre ist jetzt friedlich, wenn auch nicht entspannt, was wohl die um die Jahrhundertmitte gewandelte allgemeine Stimmung in Athen widerspiegelt15. Das tragische Schicksal des Musiker-Heros war allerdings unvergessen: In einem der frühen Musikbilder naht eine Schildkröte16, jenes unter den Tieren, das in mythischen Zeiten der Musik zugleich geopfert und geweiht worden war. Orpheus war also im 5. Jahrhundert ein Heros mit einer ganz speziellen Beziehung zum Tod: Einer, der nicht nur, wie viele andere Heroen zwar einen grausamen Tod erleidet, aber in der Erinnerung weiterlebt, sondern in besonders effektiver Weise darüber hinaus Wirkung entfaltet.

Musen Gleichzeitig mit dem Erscheinen des musizierenden Orpheus sind im Repertoire der athenischen Vasenmaler weitere Veränderungen zu beobachten. Auffällig ist zunächst das neue Auftreten der Musen. Musen nehmen bekanntlich bereits im frühen 6. Jahrhundert am Götterzug zur Hochzeit der Thetis mit Peleus auf den Dinoi des Sophilos und dem François-Krater teil17. Auch spätere schwarzfigurige Bilder zeigen sie oft, vor allem als Begleitung des musizierenden Apollon. Danach weist unsere Dokumentation in der ersten Hälfte des 5. Jahrhunderts eine Lücke auf. Erst gegen 450 werden die Musen wieder zum Thema, und zwar nicht mehr als Begleitfiguren, sondern – allein, zu zweit oder zu mehreren – als Protagonistinnen. Zwar gehört das stilistisch früheste Beispiel dieser Gruppe in den Umkreis des Niobiden-

14 15 16 17

Schmidt, M. (1973) 96. Um 450 v. Chr. finden verschiedene Friedensinitiativen des Perikles statt. Garezou (1994) 84, Nr. 8. Queyrel (1992) 671, Nr. 120 f.

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Malers18, doch scheint zu dieser Aufwertung der Musen der Villa GiuliaMaler am meisten beigetragen zu haben19: Ein überaus gepflegter Maler mit einer ausgesprochenen Vorliebe für die Welt der Frauen und einer ebenso klaren Abneigung gegen Emotionen und heftige Bewegungen, vor allem bekannt von nicht weniger als 13 der 29 sogenannten Lenäenstamnoi20. Auch nach 450 v. Chr. fällt die Bevorzugung des Musenthemas durch bestimmte Vasenmaler auf, die zu den qualitätvollen ihrer Generation gehören: den Phiale-, den Schuwalow-, den Kalliope-Maler. Ein Zeichen für Qualität ist ausserdem, dass es relativ häufig für weißgrundige Vasen verwendet wird21, die besonders sorgfältig und oft originell bemalt wurden, für den praktischen Gebrauch im Alltag aber wenig geeignet waren22. Ebensowenig zufällig kommt zur selben Zeit als Träger von Musenund Frauenbildern die Kalpis genannte Form der Hydria gehäuft vor, die mehr symbolisch als praktisch zu gebrauchen war23. Die Pyxis und die bauchige Lekythos, kostbare und anspielungsreiche Geschenke für Frauen24, sind ebenfalls gut vertreten. Zu den Attributen bereits der frühesten dieser Musen gehören, außer der Lyra und seltener der Flöte, sowohl die Papyrusrolle wie die Schreibtäfelchen. Eine der frühesten dieser Rollen wird vom Villa Giulia-Maler in die Hand der Mnemosyne gelegt, die neben ihrer im Sitzen Leier spielenden Schwester steht25: ein Hinweis darauf, dass „the book roll is thus a mnemonic device facilitating recitation, not a ‚real‘ book for reading alone“26. Die Täfelchen konnten mehr ephemeren Zwecken dienen27, doch wurden sie auch, wie wir sehen werden, zum Aufschreiben und Aufbewahren von Orakeln benützt28. Die Aufwertung der Musen im Jahrzehnt 460–450 v. Chr. geht mit der verstärkten Präsenz auch menschlicher Frauen oft mit denselben Attributen – Musikinstrumenten, Papyrusrollen, Kästchen – im Repertoire der Vasenmaler einher. Dem entspricht die wachsende Bedeutung der Frauenwelt als Abnehmer bemalter Gefäße, wie die generelle Zunahme von „Frauenformen“, Hydria, Pyxis, Lekane, im Sortiment der athenischen Luxuskeramik signalisiert. Dies gilt nicht nur für die nach wie vor potenten überseeischen

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Queyrel (1992) 667, Nr. 85. Queyrel (1992) 663, Nr. 44b; 664, Nr. 47f, 47g, 50; 667, Nr. 86; 672, Nr. 145 f. Isler-Kerényi (2009). Queyrel (1992) 660, Nr. 1, 2, 6, 12; 666, Nr. 77. Wehgartner (1983) 10. Schmidt, S. (2005) 229–232. Schmidt, S. (2005) 143–150. Queyrel (1992) 672, Nr. 145; Schreibtäfelchen und Rolle: 664, Nr. 51. Immerwahr (1964) 37. Vgl. Martin (2001). Immerwahr (1964) 20. Brümmer (1985) 101 f.

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Märkte Etruriens, Kampaniens und Siziliens, sondern ebenfalls für Athen: Unter den für 48 Musenvasen bekannten Fundorten ist Griechenland nicht weniger als 15-mal vertreten, davon Attika zehnmal.

Andere Sänger Aufschlussreich ist nun, dass der musizierende Orpheus zum ersten Mal gerade im Werk des Villa Giulia-Malers auftaucht29. Zur selben Zeit kurz vor der Jahrhundertmitte fällt die Rolle des mythischen Sängers allerdings auch anderen Figuren zu. Als Erster ist Musaios zu nennen30, dessen ältestes bekanntes, inschriftlich gesichertes Zeugnis eine Hydria wiederum des Villa Giulia-Malers ist31. Im Ganzen gibt es von Musaios bis gegen 410 v. Chr. sechs sichere Darstellungen32, davon drei Schalen. In seiner Ikonographie fällt auf, dass er immer von Musen umgeben und dem Apollon zum Verwechseln ähnlich ist33. Das Beisammensein des Musaios mit den Musen ist durchwegs völlig friedlich, wie auch die Schriftquellen nichts von tragischen Vorfällen in der Art der Thamyras- und der Orpheusgeschichte wissen, ja eine Mythologie überhaupt zu fehlen scheint34. In Anbetracht der Überlieferungssituation kann man wohl der Hypothese zustimmen, dass Musaios als eine Art „Orphée attique“ in Athen eingeführt worden ist, um eine genealogische Verbindung vom mythischen Orpheus zu den der Gegenwart näheren Dichtern Homer und Hesiod herzustellen und über den Sohn Eumolpos auch die Ansprüche Athens auf Eleusis zu bekräftigen35. Eine weitere Sängerfigur, deren Ikonographie mit jener des Orpheus interferiert, ist Thamyras36. Seine älteste Darstellung kommt ebenfalls um 460–450 v. Chr. im schon besprochenen frühesten Musenbild aus dem Umkreis des Niobiden-Malers vor37. Diese und zwei weitere Zeugnisse befinden sich auf Hydrien: die zwei jüngeren, frühestens um 440 entstandenen sind dem Phiale-Maler zugeschrieben38. Die Amphora eines späten Manieristen steht der erstgenannten Hydria motivisch und stilistisch, also wohl auch chronologisch, näher39. Eine Inschrift sichert die Deutung der ganzen 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Garezou (1994) 84, Nr. 7. Kauffmann-Samaras (1992). Kauffmann-Samaras (1992) 686, Nr. 2. Kauffmann-Samaras (1992) 686, Nr. 2–5; 687, Nr. 12 f. Kauffmann-Samaras (1992) 686, Nr. 6–8. Kauffmann-Samaras (1992) 685 f. Kauffmann-Samaras (1992) 687. Nercessian (1994); Bundrick (2005) 126–131. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 1. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 2 f. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 4.

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Gruppe40. Der Musiker, der die Fuchsfellmütze und den gemusterten Mantel der Thraker trägt, sitzt jeweils in der Mitte zwischen drei oder zwei Musen. In den Versionen des Phiale-Malers hören ihm auf der einen Seite ein Musenpaar, auf der anderen die alte Mutter Argiope zu. Sein Instrument ist dreimal die Lyra, einmal die Kithara: Das kaum erkennbare Saiteninstrument auf der stark beschädigten frühesten Hydria ist nämlich die Lyra41. Auf dem gegen 420 v. Chr. datierbaren Volutenkrater des Polion steht Thamyras in der fußlangen Sängertracht im Kreis der Musen42. Den drei dem Meidias-Maler bzw. seinem Umkreis zugeschriebenen Versionen43 ist nur gemeinsam, dass Thamyras keine Kopfbedeckung trägt: Er ist aber nur einmal in ein luxuriös gemustertes, generell als exotisch gekennzeichnetes kurzes Gewand gekleidet44, das auch in einem dritten ebenfalls um 410 v. Chr. entstandenen Bild vorkommt45. Auf der Athener Pyxis trägt er die für junge Männer übliche griechische Tracht46, auf der New Yorker Hydria ist das Detail kaum erkennbar47. Ob er jetzt noch als Thraker galt, bleibt also offen. Wenn man das tragische Ende von Thamyras’ Musizieren bedenkt, das auf einer einzigen Vase, wiederum einer Hydria, thematisiert wird48, überrascht die durchaus friedliche, ja erotisch gefärbte Atmosphäre der Beispiele von Polion an49. Sie fällt in denselben Jahren auch bei Musaios auf, der dann übrigens in gleicher Weise exotisch – nicht thrakisch – gekleidet ist. In Bezug auf die erotisch gefärbte Atmosphäre von Glück schließt sich an die Ikonographie des Musaios und des Thamyras jene des Phaon an, ein seltenes, bezeichnenderweise ebenfalls im Umkreis des Meidias-Malers vorkommendes Thema. Der von Aphrodite mit ewigem Glück belohnte Fährmann lagert halb nackt – wie zu dieser Zeit auch Dionysos – im Kreise schöner Frauen: Die Lyra, die im Phaon-Mythos nicht erwähnt wird, weist wohl auf Apollon hin, in dessen Kreis Phaon zu gehören scheint50. Sie ist zum austauschbaren Zeichen der Idylle geworden: Sie fehlt bezeichnenderweise ausgerechnet in dem Beispiel, das durch die inschriftliche Benennung gesichert ist51. 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 2. Marcadé (1982) 223. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 5. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 6, 7, 9: Es handelt sich gerade nicht um ein „costume thrace“. Zu dieser Frage vgl. Moret (1975) 154. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 6. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 8. Philippaki (1988) Abb. 10, 6–7. Queyrel (1992) 668, Nr. 94. Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 16. Schmidt, S. (2001) 295: „Das Thema dieser Bilder ist die Musik und nicht die Hybris.“ Berger-Doer (1994) 367. Berger-Doer (1994) 365, Nr. 3.

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Wie stehen nun Musaios, Thamyras und Phaon zu Orpheus? Den drei Erstgenannten ist gemeinsam, dass sie von Musen oder musenähnlichen Frauen umgeben sind, wobei sich diese Formel gegen 410 v. Chr. in eine generelle und vage Glücksmetapher verwandelt: Orpheus ist der einzige, der an dieser Umdeutung nicht partizipiert. Dem Musiker Orpheus, der in der Regel als junger Grieche charakterisiert wird52, hören stattdessen thrakische Männer zu. Als Träger von Bildern der anderen Musiker wird klar die Hydria, ein zu der Zeit weiblich konnotiertes Gefäß bevorzugt53, während für den Leier spielenden Orpheus am häufigsten die zwei analogen, die männliche Symposionwelt evozierenden Gefäße Kolonnetten- und Glockenkrater benützt werden54. Für die Vasenmaler sind bis um 420 v. Chr. sowohl Orpheus wie Musaios Griechen; ein Thraker ist Thamyras. Bis dann, gegen Ende des Jahrhunderts, alle Musiker-Heroen der attischen Vasenmalerei mit Ausnahme des Orpheus zu Vertretern einer paradiesischen „anderen Welt“ werden55.

Orpheus und die Musen Wir haben gesehen, welche relativ große Rolle im dritten Jahrhundertviertel die Hydria als Träger von Musen- und Thamyrasbildern spielt. Diese Form nimmt gelegentlich auch Orpheusbilder auf: in den Jahrzehnten um 450 v. Chr. dreimal die Mordszene56, um 430 dreimal ganz besondere Darstellungen. Auf der Hydria im Petit Palais57 ist eine merkwürdige Kombination der Tötungs- und der Musikszene zu sehen. Orpheus musiziert zwischen einem Thraker rechts und einem Satyr links. Ganz rechts schaut eine bewaffnete Frau in kurzem Chiton der Szene ruhig zu, von links eilt eine zweite, ebenfalls kurzgewandete Frau mit einer Mörserkeule herbei. Die Frauen sehen eher wie Amazonen als wie Thrakerinnen aus, die Situation scheint in der Schwebe zu sein. Sie ist vergleichbar mit jener auf einem etwa gleichzeitigen Glockenkrater58, auf welchem zwischen dem musizierende Orpheus und einer Thrakerin mit der Sichel in der Hand ein Thraker zu vermitteln scheint. Die Frau setzt den Fuß auf eine Geländestufe, eine Position, die 52 So auch Bundrick (2005) 118 und 129; Cohen (2000) 107 f. Einzige Ausnahme ist der Kolonnettenkrater Garezou (1994) 85, Nr. 22, wo er zwar mit dem thrakischen Mantel, aber mit einem griechischen Reisehut ausgestattet ist. In den Darstellungen der Tötungsszene weist Orpheus nur auf Garezou (1994) 86 f., Nr. 43 und 57 die thrakische Alopekis als Kopfbedeckung auf. 53 Schmidt (2005) 259 f. 54 Bundrick (2005) 121 f. 55 Bundrick (2005) 131. 56 Garezou (1994) 85, Nr. 28; 86 f., Nr. 45, 57. 57 Garezou (1994) 85, Nr. 25. Umgezeichnete Abrollung: Lissarrague (1994) 275 f., Abb. 6. 58 Garezou (1994) 85, Nr. 26; Lissarrague (1994) 276 f., Abb. 7; Bundrick (2005) 124 f.

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der Ikonographie der Musen entnommen ist59: Soll die Thrakerin als AntiMuse bezeichnet werden? Das anonyme Bild auf der Rückseite – ein junger Mann zwischen einer Frau links und einem Bärtigen rechts, eingerahmt von sitzenden gestikulierenden Frauen60 – spielt möglicherweise auf den Konflikt zwischen Männern und Frauen an, die im Mythos von der Musik des Orpheus ausgelöst worden ist61. Die zwei anderen Hydrien, auf die wir gleich zurückkommen werden, tragen das nur zur Orpheus-Ikonographie gehörende Bild des orakelnden Kopfes62, beide Male in Gegenwart von Musen. Dies wird kaum überraschen: Seit Homer sind es die Musen, die für die Wahrheit des dichterischen Wortes, aber auch der Orakel bürgen63. Thamyras und Musaios erscheinen also vom Anfang ihrer Ikonographie an von Musen umgeben. Auf einer Pyxis in der Art des Meidias-Malers64 kommen sie sogar beide vor, zusammen mit Apollon und ursprünglich vielleicht acht Musen65: Musaios spielt die Harfe, Thamyras eine prächtige Kithara, die Muse namens Sophia eine kleine Lyra, während Apollon versunken zuhört, Kalliope zum Tanz ansetzt und Polymnia (sic!) einen Papyrus breit entrollt hat. Ist ein Konzert oder ein Wettspielen gemeint? Orpheus gehört jedenfalls nicht zu diesem Kreis. Mit Sicherheit kommen die Musen erst im Umfeld seines orakelnden Kopfes auf.

Orpheus und die Schriftträger Durch die Musen wird Orpheus mit einem ihrer typischsten Attribute, der Buchrolle, also mit dem geschriebenen Wort, verknüpft. Besonders evident wird diese Verknüpfung im Fall eines kaum bekannten Zeugnisses für das weissagende Orpheushaupt auf einer Oinochoe in Basel66, die um 440–430 v. Chr. datierbar ist (Abb. 1). In der Bildmitte ist der Orpheuskopf in der Vorderansicht zu sehen, links davon eine sitzende, aus einer offenen Rolle lesende Muse, rechts eine ihrer Schwestern, die in der für Musen gewohnten 59 Queyrel (1992) 660, Nr. 7, 14; 663 f., Nr. 44a, 47d; 667 f., Nr. 81, 92, 100: gemeint ist der Felsen des Helikon: Queyrel (1992) 675. Implizit ist in dieser Haltung, die bezeichnenderweise auch von Thrakern um Orpheus eingenommen wird, das aufmerksame Zuhören. 60 Richter/Hall (1936) Taf. 130. 61 Lissarrague (1994) 277–284. 62 Garezou (1994) 88, Nr. 68 f. 63 Queyrel (1992) 657. 64 Queyrel (1992) 668, Nr. 96. 65 Philippaki (1988) 92. 66 CVA Basel 4 Taf. 21 (im Druck). Ich danke Vera Slehoferova herzlich dafür, dass sie mir das Bild zur Verfügung gestellt hat.

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Haltung des aufmerksamen Zuhörens den Fuß hochgestellt hat und den Kopf auf die rechte Hand aufstützt67. Die Situation ist vergleichbar mit jener auf dem schon lange vielbesprochenen Zeugnis für das orakelnde Orpheushaupt, der Schale in Cambridge, auf welcher ein junger Reisender die Aussage des Kopfes auf Geheiß des Apollon auf ein Diptychon schreibt68. Rolle und Täfelchen sind also in diesem Zusammenhang für die Vasenmaler gleichbedeutend. Auf einer anderen Schale des späten 5. Jahrhunderts in Cambridge69 wird der auf einem Felsen sitzende Lyraspieler aufgrund der ihn einrahmenden Musen entweder als Apollon oder als Musaios gedeutet70. Hier kommt die offene Buchrolle sowohl auf jeder Außenseite wie im Innenbild, also dreimal vor. In einem Fall ist der Muse mit der Rolle die Schwester gegenübergestellt, die ein geöffnetes Kästchen trägt. Das ist nichts Überraschendes: Buchrollen wurden generell – wie andere wertvolle Gegenstände – in Kästchen aufbewahrt und gehören zu den üblichen Requisiten von Unterrichts- und Musikszenen71. Wenn das Kästchen halb geöffnet wiedergegeben ist, wird unterstrichen, dass sein Inhalt soeben herausgenommen worden und normalerweise nicht für jedermann zugänglich ist. Kästchen konnten in der Tat auch Orakelsprüche enthalten und als Archiv dienen72. An dieser Stelle drängt sich ein Exkurs nach Italien auf, wo Orpheus offenbar kein Unbekannter war, wie die apulischen Volutenkratere bezeugen, die ihn beim Haus des Unterweltsherrschers zeigen73. Auf einer etwas unbeholfen bemalten, vielleicht apulischen Hydria in Palermo74, die um die Mitte des 4. Jahrhunderts datiert wird, sitzt ein junger, orientalisch gekleideter Leierspieler in der Mitte. Links von ihm steht eine Muse mit der Lyra, rechts wendet sich ihm eine weitere Muse zu, die dabei ist, ein Buch zu entrollen. Zwischen beiden steht unübersehbar im Vordergrund ein Kästchen mit offenem Deckel, aus welchem die Rolle offenbar herausgenommen 67 Auf der Rolle sind laut Slehoferova drei Zeilen wahrscheinlich mit dem Namen Orpheus zu sehen. 68 Garezou (1994) 88, Nr. 70; Graf (1987) 93 f.; Lissarrague (1994) 288, Abb. 14a–b: Umzeichnung auch der Seite B mit zwei Musen. 69 Queyrel (1992) 663, Nr. 44d; Immerwahr (1964) 30, Nr. 26. 70 Auf einem Felsen sitzen sowohl der Musiker Orpheus (Garezou 1994, 84, Nr. 7) wie Musaios (Kauffmann-Samaras 1992, 686, Nr. 2) und Thamyras (Nercessian 1994, 903, Nr. 2–4). Der Felsen wird in einer späten Darstellung der Orpheustötung übernommen: Panvini (2003) 112, II 61. 71 Brümmer (1985) 103 Abb. 29a–c; Bellier-Chaussonnier (2002). Besonders anschaulich dargestellt auf einer Hydria mit musizierenden Frauen des Niobiden-Malers: Reeder (1996) 208–210, Nr. 45. 72 Brümmer (1985) 101 f. 73 Garezou (1994) 88 f., Nr. 72–84. 74 Immerwahr (1973) 146, Taf. 33.2.

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Abb. 1: Attisch-rotfigurige Oinochoe. Basel, Antikenmuseum Basel und Sammlung Ludwig, Inv. BS 1416 (Foto Andreas F. Voegelin). Orakelnder Kopf des Orpheus zwischen zwei Musen.

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Abb. 2: Apulische (?) Hydria. Palermo, Banco di Sicilia, Fondazione Mormino 385 (aus Antike Kunst 16 [1973] Taf. 33.2). Lyraspieler zwischen zwei Musen.

wurde (Abb. 2). Weil er zwischen Musen gezeigt wird und man seine Tracht irrtümlich als thrakisch bezeichnet75, identifiziert man diesen Musiker mit Thamyras76, obwohl dieser sonst in der unteritalischen Vasenmalerei unbekannt zu sein scheint77 und schon seine attische Ikonographie, wie wir gesehen haben, sehr dünn ist. Eine plausible ikonographische Verbindung zur Hydria in Palermo gibt hingegen der als Orpheus gedeutete Kitharaspieler zwischen exotisch gekleideten Männern rechts und einem Musenpaar links auf einem etwa gleichzeitigen apulischen Volutenkrater (Abb. 3)78. Der zwischen zwei Musen links und einer dritten mit einer Buchrolle rechts zum Klang der Lyra kündende Dichter einer attischen Hydria (Abb. 4)79, die wenig jünger ist als die beiden schon erwähnten mit dem Orpheuskopf, könnte aufgrund der engen Ver75 Die Tracht lässt sich gut mit jener, allerdings bis zum Boden reichenden, eines apulischen Orpheus vergleichen: Garezou (1994) 88, Nr. 73. 76 Nercessian (1994) 903, Nr. 10. 77 Vgl. die Indices in Trendall/Cambitoglu (1978) und Trendall (1967) mit ihren Supplementen. 78 Queyrel (1992) 668, Nr. 90. Die Männer sichern die Deutung auf Orpheus, das kleine Reh verweist sowohl auf Apollon wie auf Orpheus, vgl. Garezou (1994) 98, Nr. 191, dazu Lissarrague (1994) 271, Abb. 1. 79 Queyrel (1992) 664, Nr. 45: als Apollon gedeutet.

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Abb. 3: Apulischer (?) Volutenkrater. Napoli, Museo Nazionale Archeologico 82347 (H 1978) (aus LIMC 6,2 [1992] 396 Mousai 90). Orpheus zwischen Musen und exotischen Zuhörern.

Abb. 4: Attisch-rotfigurige Hydria. Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen Dr. 331 (aus LIMC 6,2 [1992] 390 Mousai 45). Lyraspieler zwischen Musen.

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wandtschaft mit dieser apulischen Version ebenfalls Orpheus sein, der ja dem Apollon nicht weniger ähnlich ist als Musaios: Damit hätten wir auch in Athen einen musizierenden Orpheus zwischen Musen. Wenn aber in den letzten Jahrzehnten des 5. Jahrhunderts in Athen auch Orpheus von Musen umgeben sein kann, besteht kein Hindernis, im Sänger der Palermitaner Hydria nicht Thamyras, sondern Orpheus zu erkennen. Dann könnte das Kästchen ein Hinweis auf nicht allen zugängliche Orpheusschriften sein. Ein weiterer Hinweis dazu findet sich in der etruskischen Kunst. Auch dort war Orpheus im 4. Jahrhundert kein Unbekannter. Dies bezeugen ein faliskischer Stamnos in Wien, auf dessen einen Seite ein nackter Kitharaspieler zwischen gefährlichen Hadesbewohnern musiziert80, und einige Spiegel mit dem orakelnden Orpheuskopf 81. Für die Bedeutung des Behälters neben der Buchrolle spricht ein weiterer, ebenfalls in das 4. Jahrhundert datierter etruskischer Spiegel, auf dem Orpheus, von Tieren – Vögeln, einem Reh, einer kleinen Wildkatze – umgeben, die Kithara spielt. Neben ihm steht im Vordergrund ein zylindrischer Korb mit seinem Deckel daneben, in welchem, wie es scheint, Buchrollen zu sehen sind82.

Schluss Welches Bild des Orpheus wurde den Leuten vermittelt, die im Athener Kerameikos einkauften? In der Zeit der Perserkriege und den darauf folgenden Jahrzehnten war er ein Grieche, also ein Vertreter, ja ein Märtyrer, der eigenen zivilisierten Welt, den in Thrakien ein tragisches Schicksal ereilte. Dies hat natürlich nichts mit der realen Geographie zu tun, sondern mit mentalen Kategorien83. Gemeint ist, dass Orpheus in doppelter Weise als ein Protagonist der Randzone galt: der Heroenzeit vor dem Troianischen Krieg und der Gegend unmittelbar außerhalb der eigenen Welt. Für die Betrachter dieser Bilder war klar, dass der tragische Tod des Orpheus eine besondere Art der Unsterblichkeit nicht ausschloss. Zwischen 460 und 450 v. Chr. beginnt im Kerameikos die Hochkonjunktur der Musen und mit ihnen von mehreren mythischen Sängern, darunter des Orpheus: Auch bei ihm begleitete der Klang das Wort. Auf der Namensvase in Berlin scheinen die Thraker links sich der Musik hinzugeben, während jene rechts dem genauen Wortlaut folgen. Wohl zu Recht ist diese Aufwertung der Musen auf die öffentliche Diskussion über den ethischen 80 81 82 83

Pensa (1977) 78, Abb. 14. Cristofani (1985) 6–8; Graf (1987) 94. Schefold/Jung (1988) 90, Abb. 103. Vgl. Graf/Johnston (2007) 168: „essential foreignness“ der mythischen Sänger Thrakiens.

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Wert der Musik für die Polis zurückgeführt worden84. Hinzu kommt die neu auf Frieden statt auf Konfrontation orientierte Politik des Perikles. Nach 440 v. Chr. setzt sich Orpheus von den anderen Musikern vor allem durch sein einmaliges Weiterleben als Orakel und durch seine explizite Verbindung zur Schriftlichkeit ab: Auf der Oinochoe in Basel hängt die Lyra ungespielt an der Wand, während die Muse die Botschaft des nur noch als Kopf anwesenden Orpheus vorliest. Unter allen mythischen Sängern ist Orpheus der einzige, der die uralte Idee von der das Menschliche übersteigenden Wirkung der Musik bis in die Spätantike und das christliche Mittelalter weiterträgt. Im klassischen Athen sind seine verzauberten Hörer aber nicht Vögel und andere Tiere, sondern menschliche Wesen des Draußen: Thraker oder Satyrn. Im Athener Kerameikos sind weder die Hadesfahrt noch ihr Auslöser, die Liebe zu Eurydike, ein Thema, obwohl man laut Euripides und dem ungefähr gleichzeitigen Dreifigurenrelief durchaus davon wusste85. Das früheste Zeugnis dafür in der Keramik ist eine soeben publizierte, nur in Fragmenten erhaltene protoitaliotische Hydria aus einem Heiligtum in der Chora von Tarent86. Auf den Vasen von Athen weist der abgeschnittene Kopf des Orpheus, kombiniert mit der Schriftrolle oder dem Schreibtäfelchen, dennoch auf seine HadesErfahrung hin und darauf, dass er als Einziger, im Unterschied etwa zu Herakles oder Theseus, den Menschen der Gegenwart darüber berichten durfte. Das schließbare Kästchen für die Papyrusrolle weist vielleicht darauf hin, dass die Botschaft nicht jedem und nicht jederzeit zuteil wurde. Von den vielen Erscheinungsformen des Orpheus in der antiken Literatur87 haben Athens Vasenmaler offenbar nur jene ausgewählt, die zur praktischen Funktion der Bildträger und zu ihrem Lebensumfeld passten. Dementsprechend ist eine vage Assoziation zum Bakchischen nur gerade durch die Ähnlichkeit der thrakischen Frauen zu den Mänaden, die den Pentheus zerreißen, möglich88. Im 5. Jahrhundert wurde Orpheus als Leidender und durch ein einmaliges Schicksal Belohnter, nicht als Bestrafter gesehen: Insofern passte die Figur zur finalen Bestimmung der meisten Bildträger als Grabbeigaben. Orpheus war für die Athener einer der Ihren, dem die ihr Land und ihre Polis bevorzugenden Musen89 zwar nicht die Unsterblichkeit, aber die einmalige Gabe verliehen hatten, als Toter weiter zu singen und Wahres zu verkünden. 84 85 86 87 88

Kauffmann-Samaras (1992) 687; Bundrick (2005) 121. Graf (1987) 81 f. Fontannaz (2008). Graf/Johnston (2007) 165–174. So auch Lissarrague (1994) 285. Explizit wird die Ähnlichkeit erst in der apulischen Vasenmalerei, vgl. Garezou (1994) 87, Nr. 63 mit Bažant/Berger-Doer (1994) 308, Nr. 6. 89 Vgl. das Zitat aus dem Rhesos (941–2) in Bundrick (2005) 1.

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Literaturverzeichnis Bažant/Berger-Doer (1994). – Jan Bažant/Gratia Berger-Doer, „Pentheus“, in: LIMC 7,1 (1994) 306–317. Bellier-Chaussonnier (2002). – Maud Bellier-Chaussonnier, „Des représentations de bibliothèques en Grèce classique“, REA 104 (2002) 329–347. Benson (1996). – Carol Benson, „Orpheus und die Thrakerinnen“, in: Ellen D. Reeder (ed.), Pandora. Frauen im klassischen Griechenland (Baltimore/Basel 1996) 392–394. Berger-Doer (1994). – Gratia Berger-Doer, „Phaon“, in: LIMC 7,1 (1994) 364–367. Brümmer (1985). – Elfriede Brümmer, „Griechische Truhenbehälter“, JdI 100 (1985) 1–168. Bundrick (2005). – Sheramy D. Bundrick, Music and Image in Classical Athens (Cambridge 1985). Burkert (2005). – Walter Burkert, „La teogonia originale di Orfeo secondo il Papiro di Derveni“, in: Guido Guidorizzi/Marxiano Melotti (edd.), Orfeo e le sue metamorfosi. Mito, arte, poesia (Roma 2005) 46–64. Calame (2005). – Claude Calame, „Pratiche orfiche della scrittura: itinerari iniziatici?“, in: Guido Guidorizzi/Marxiano Melotti (edd.), Orfeo e le sue metamorfosi. Mito, arte, poesia (Roma 2005) 28–45. Cohen (2000). – Beth Cohen, „Man-Killers and their Victims: Inversions of the Heroic Ideal in Classical Art“, in: Beth Cohen (ed.), Not the Classical Ideal. Athens and the Construction of the Other in Greek Art (Leiden/Boston/Köln 2000) 98–131. Cristofani (1985). – Mauro Cristofani, „Faone, la testa di Orfeo e l’immaginario femminile“, Prospettiva 42 (1985) 2–12. Denoyelle (2005). – Martine Denoyelle, „L’approche stylistique: bilan et perspectives“, in: Martine Denoyelle et al. (edd.), La céramique apulienne. Bilan et perspectives (Naples 2005) 103–112. Fontannaz (2008). – Didier Fontannaz, „L’entre-deux-mondes. Orphée et Eurydice sur une hydrie proto-italiote du sanctuaire de la source à Saturo“, AntK 51 (2008) 41–72. Garezou (1994). – Maria-Xeni Garezou, „Orpheus“, in: LIMC 7,1 (1994) 81–105. Graf (1987). – Fritz Graf, „Orpheus: A Poet Among Men“, in: Jan Bremmer (ed.), Interpretations of Greek Mytholog y (London/Sydney 1987) 80–106. Graf/Johnston (2007). – Fritz Graf/Sarah Iles Johnston, Ritual Texts for the Afterlife. Orpheus and the Bacchic Gold Tablets (London/New York 2007). Immerwahr (1964). – Henry R. Immerwahr, „Book Rolls on Attic Vases“, in: Charles Henderson (ed.), Classical, Mediaeval and Renaissance Studies in Honor of Berthold Louis Ullmann (Roma 1964) 17–48. Immerwahr (1973). – Henry R. Immerwahr, „More Book Rolls on Attic Vases“, AntK 16 (1973) 143–147. Isler-Kerényi (2009). – Cornelia Isler-Kerényi, „Retour au stamnos attique: quelques réflexions sur l’usage et le répertoire“, Mètis (2009) (im Druck). Kauffmann-Samaras (1992). – Aliki Kauffmann-Samaras, „Mousaios“, in: LIMC 6,1 (1992) 685–687. Lambrinudakis (1984). – Wassilis Lambrinudakis, „Apollon“, in: LIMC 2,1 (1984) 183–327. Lissarrague (1994). – François Lissarrague, „Orphée mis à mort“, Musica e storia 2 (1994) 269–307. Marcadé (1982). – Jean Marcadé, „Une représentation précoce de Thamyras et les Muses dans la céramique attique à figures rouges“, Revue Archéologique (1982) 223–229.

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Martin (2001). – Richard P. Martin, „Rhapsodizing Orpheus“, Kernos 14 (2001) 23–33. Moret (1975). – Jean-Marc Moret, L’Ilioupersis dans la céramique italiote. Les mythes et leur expression figurée au IV e siècle (Rome 1975). Nercessian (1994). – Anne Nercessian, „Thamyris, Thamyras“, in: LIMC 7,1 (1994) 902–904. Panvini (2003). – Rosalba Panvini, Ceramiche attiche figurate del Museo Archeologico di Gela. Selectio Vasorum (Venezia 2003). Pensa (1977). – Marina Pensa, Rappresentazioni dell’Oltretomba nella ceramica apula, Studia Archeologica 18 (Roma 1977). Philippaki (1988). – Barbara Philippaki, „ Apollonos Echilasmos“, in: John H. Betts et al. (edd.), Studies in Honour of T. B. L. Webster, Bd. 2 (Bristol 1988) 89–95. Queyrel (1992). – Anne Queyrel, „Mousa, Mousai“, in: LIMC 6,1 (1992) 657–681. Reeder (1996). – Ellen D. Reeder, Pandora. Frauen im klassischen Griechenland (Baltimore/ Basel 1996). Richter/Hall (1936). – Gisela M. A. Richter/Lindsey F. Hall, Red-figured Athenian Vases in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (London/Oxford 1936). Schefold/Jung (1988). – Karl Schefold/Franz Jung, Die Urkönige Perseus, Bellerophon, Herakles und Theseus in der klassischen und hellenistischen Kunst (München 1988). Schmidt, M. (1973). – Margot Schmidt, „Der Tod des Orpheus in Vasendarstellungen aus Schweizer Sammlungen“, in: Hans P. Isler/Gérard Seiterle (edd.), Zur griechischen Kunst, 9. Beiheft zu Antike Kunst (Basel 1973) 95–105. Schmidt, S. (2001). – Stefan Schmidt, „Die Athener und die Musen. Die Konstruktion von Bildern zum Thema Musik im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr.“, in: Ralf von den Hoff/ Stefan Schmidt (edd.), Konstruktionen von Wirklichkeit. Bilder im Griechenland des 5. und 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. (Stuttgart 2001) 281–298. Schmidt, S. (2005). – Stefan Schmidt, Rhetorische Bilder auf attischen Vasen. Visuelle Kommunikation im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. (Berlin 2005). Trendall (1967). – Arthur D. Trendall, The Red-figured Vases of Lucania, Campania and Sicily (Oxford 1967). Trendall/Cambitoglu (1978). – Arthur D. Trendall/Alexander Cambitoglu, The Redfigured Vases of Apulia (Oxford 1978). Tzedakis (1970). – G. Tzedakis, „Minoikos Kitharodos“, Archaiologikà Analekta Athinon 3 (1970) 111 f. Wehgartner (1983). – Irma Wehgartner, Attisch weißgrundige Keramik. Maltechnik, Werkstätten, Formen, Verwendung, Keramikforschungen 5 (Mainz 1983).

Orpheus als Lehrer des Musaios, Moses als Lehrer des Orpheus rené bloch

Die Philosophen darf man nicht anklagen, denn sie gehören zu einem Volk, das weder Wissen noch Torah kennt, sind sie doch Griechen. Und Griechenland gehört zu den Nachkommen Japhets, die im Norden wohnen. Das Wissen aber, das von Adam vererbt wurde und von göttlicher Kraft durchdrungen ist, findet sich nur in der Nachkommenschaft Sems, des Auserwählten Noahs. Dieses Wissen ist seit Adam nie von diesem Auserwählten gewichen und wird nicht weichen. Unter den Griechen aber war das Wissen erst seit der Zeit, als diese die Überhand nahmen, wobei es von den Persern zu ihnen gelangt war, zu den Persern aber von den Chaldäern. In jenen Tagen traten unter ihnen die berühmten Philosophen hervor, nicht vorher und auch nicht nachher. Und seit ihre Herrschaft von den Römern übernommen wurde, trat unter ihnen kein berühmter Philosoph mehr hervor.

Wer sich hier so abschätzig über die Griechen äußert, ist jener jüdische Gelehrte, den der Religionsphilosoph Jehuda Halevi in seinem im 12. Jahrhundert verfassten Streitgespräch Kusari auftreten lässt1. Der namenlos bleibende jüdische Gelehrte versucht im Dialog dem König der Chasaren die Überlegenheit der jüdischen Lehre darzulegen, am Ende erfolgreich. Der unmittelbare Kontext der zitierten Textpassage ist die Frage, ob der Ansicht der Philosophen – gemeint ist die aristotelische Schule – zu folgen sei, nach der die Welt seit je bestanden habe2. Die Antwort des jüdischen Gelehrten könnte deutlicher nicht sein. Als der Chasarenkönig nachfragt, ob man Aristoteles also keinen Glauben schenken dürfe, wird dies bestätigt: Weil Aristoteles als Nichtjude nicht auf unbestrittene Überlieferungen zurückgreifen konnte, fehlte ihm die Einsicht für die Anfänglichkeit der Erde3. Halevis philosophischer Traktat nimmt den Übertritt des chasarischen Herrscherhauses zum Judentum im 8. Jahrhundert als Beispiel für die Über1 2 3

Jehuda Halevi, Kusari 1,63 (meiner Übersetzung des ursprünglich auf Arabisch verfassten Textes liegt die hebräische Version von Ibn-Tibbon aus dem Jahr 1167 zugrunde). Kusari 1,62. Kusari 1,64 f.

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legenheit der jüdischen Lehre. Der Kusari sollte „den Juden in der Diaspora neues Selbstbewusstsein einflößen“4. Der Text ist auch selbst Ausdruck jüdischen Selbstvertrauens im Spanien des 12. Jahrhunderts, wobei Halevi mit seiner (freilich nicht in aller Konsequenz betriebenen) Kritik an Aristoteles im Kanon der mittelalterlichen jüdischen Religionsphilosophen eher aus der Reihe fällt. Die Griechen kommen, so Halevis jüdische Stimme im Kusari, ursprünglich aus dem Norden. Ganz entsprechend der griechischen Ethnographie (und im Einklang mit der mittelalterlichen Kosmographie5) unterscheidet Halevi zwischen dem geographischen und klimatischen Ideal Palästina, vertreten durch Noahs Sohn Sem, einerseits und dem Süden Hams bzw. dem Norden Japhets andererseits6. Dass aus dem hohen Norden nichts Gescheites kommt, das hatten gerade die griechischen Ethnographen seit alters betont7. Ursprünglich sei das Wissen ganz bei den Juden gewesen, hält die jüdische Stimme weiter fest. Und nie sei es von ihnen gewichen. Die Griechen aber seien erst spät und auch dann nur indirekt – über die Chaldäer und Perser – zu Wissen gelangt. Kurzzeitig („nicht früher und nicht später“) seien bei den Griechen zwar Philosophen aufgetreten, aber seit römischer Zeit hätten die Griechen keinen „berühmten Philosophen“ mehr hervorgebracht. Dies sind kühne Worte aus einem Umfeld, in dem griechische Philosophie – vor allem die aristotelische – in manchen Punkten das Denken der Zeit mitbestimmte. Halevis Zurechtweisung griechischer Philosophie, sein Aufbäumen gegen ihre Vormacht und seine Betonung jüdischer Priorität lesen sich gleichsam wie eine nahtlose Fortführung eines Argumentariums, das in der jüdischhellenistischen Literatur verbreitet war: Am Anfang stand jüdisches Wissen; von da ist es zu anderen Völkern, insbesondere den Griechen, aber auch etwa zu den Ägyptern, weiter gewandert: Moses, so wurde behauptet, war der Lehrer des Orpheus8. Und weil πρεσβύτερον κρείττων, das Ältere als das Bessere galt, ging damit zumeist auch ein Beweis der geistigen Überlegenheit einher. Im Folgenden sollen einige Texte aus der jüdisch-hellenistischen Literatur exemplarisch diskutiert werden, in denen die Anciennität des Judentums betont wird. Es soll der Frage nachgegangen werden, welche Absichten und Hintergründe dieser oftmaligen Betonung, Wissen sei ursprünglich jüdisch 4 5 6 7 8

Brenner (2008) 96. Touati (1994) 2. Zum Nordbild bei christlich-lateinischen Autoren bis zum 12. Jh. cf. die Arbeit von Fraesdorff (2005). Kusari 1,95. Zum geographischen Determinismus in der griechischen und römischen Ethnographie cf. unlängst Borca (2003). Cf. unten S. 476.

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gewesen und von da in andere Kulturen geflossen, zugrunde liegen könnten. Unsere ersten Textbeispiele werden um die Figur des Orpheus kreisen, jene schillernde Figur der griechischen Mythologie, mit der sich Fritz Graf seit seiner Dissertation von 1974 in mehreren wegweisenden Publikationen auseinandergesetzt hat9. Hier wird sich auch die Frage stellen, warum gerade Orpheus zu einem Orientierungspunkt für den jüdischen Diskurs über Wissen und kulturelle Souveränität wurde. Ein Gedicht aus den Pseudo-Orphica, Poetae epici Graeci fr. 377–378 Bernabé10, ist derart den Leitlinien des jüdischen Hellenismus entlang verfasst, dass man es mit sehr großer Wahrscheinlichkeit als jüdisch bezeichnen kann11. Ein (anonymer) jüdischer Autor hat im Namen des Orpheus ein Gedicht verfasst, in dem die Überlegenheit der jüdischen Gottesvorstellung über jene der Griechen zum Ausdruck kommen soll. Die Textüberlieferung des Gedichts ist schwierig und umstritten, aber Christoph Riedweg scheint mir überzeugend dargelegt zu haben, dass es (nur) zwischen zwei Versionen zu unterscheiden gilt: zwischen einer „Urfassung“ und jener, die beim jüdischen Religionsphilosophen Aristobulus aus dem 2. Jahrhundert v. Chr. greifbar ist12. Die Urfassung dürfte nicht viel älter sein. Gleich zu Beginn, in der ersten Zeile, wird deutlich, dass hier von einer Initiation die Rede sein soll: „Ich will zu jenen sprechen, die dazu berechtigt sind; die Türen aber schließt zu, die ihr alle gleichermaßen uneingeweiht seid.“13 Nach dem Ausschluss der Uneingeweihten richtet sich Orpheus an Musaios: Er sei angesprochen („du aber höre“). Musaios wird als Sprössling der lichtbringenden Göttin Mene, der Mondgöttin, angerufen14, in der Version des Aristobulus gegen Ende des Gedichts dann auch als „Kind“: ὦ τέκνον 15. Damit ist die seit dem Hellenismus mehrfach belegte genea9 Zentral sind Graf (1974) 22–39, Graf (1987), die Artikel „Orpheus“, „Orphic literature“ und „Orphism“ im OCD [Graf 1996] und zuletzt Graf/Johnston (2007) 165–184. 10 Bernabé (2004) 296–309. Wichtig ist die Studie von Riedweg (1993); cf. jüngst auch Riedweg (2008), ferner Walter (1983), Roessli (1999), Holladay (1996) und (1998) sowie West (1983) 33–35. 11 Riedweg (1993) 55–62. Mit Recht verweist Riedweg insbesondere auf die strikt monotheistische Formulierung in Vers 13 der „Urfassung“ (hierzu gleich anschließend) als ein deutliches Indiz für eine jüdische Autorschaft: οὐδέ τις ἔσθ’ ἕτερος χωρὶς μεγάλου βασιλῆος. 12 Dem entsprechen bei Bernabé die versio prima (fr. 377) und die versio ampliata ab Aristobulo (fr. 378). 13 Diese Übersetzung für βέβηλοι bietet sich zumindest für die Urfassung (fr. 377 Bernabé 1) eher an als „Ruchlose“ (so Riedweg 1993 z. St.). Die Version des Aristobulus (fr. 378 Bernabé 2 f.) ergänzt den ersten Vers so: „die ihr die Satzungen der Gerechten meidet, obwohl das Göttliche sie doch für alle gleichermaßen festsetzt.“ 14 Fr. 377 Bernabé 2 f. bzw. fr. 378 Bernabé 3 f. Zu dieser Abkommenschaft cf. Henrichs (1985). 15 Fr. 378 Bernabé 40.

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logische Linie zwischen Orpheus und Musaios ausgezogen: Bei Diodor ist Musaios genauso Sohn des Orpheus wie später bei Servius16. Freilich betont noch letzterer, dass die Meinungen bezüglich der Genealogie des Musaios auseinander gehen (et sunt variae de hoc opiniones): Neben der Ansicht, Musaios sei der Sohn des Orpheus gewesen, wird erneut die Abkommenschaft von der Mondgöttin genannt. Unbestritten aber sei, dass Musaios ein Schüler des Orpheus war (nam eum alii Lunae filium, alii Orpheum volunt, cuius eum constat fuisse discipulum). Bei Aristobulus sind dieselben beiden Varianten greifbar. Jedenfalls ist in beiden Fällen – und darin unterscheidet sich das jüdische Gedicht von Artapanus, von dem noch zu handeln sein wird17 – Orpheus der „Gebende“, Musaios der „Empfangende“. Orpheus fordert seinen Sohn/Schüler Musaios auf, frühere, lieb gewonnene Lehren hinter sich zu lassen und ganz dem einen Gott zu folgen. „Was früher gut schien“, ist falsch. Der jüdische Autor – sowohl in der Urfassung als auch in der Neufassung bei Aristobulus – schreibt Orpheus ein monotheistisches, zumindest aber ein monolatristisches Manifest zu. Von Gott heißt es: „Eins ist er, selbstgeworden, aus Einem entstanden ist alles geschaffen.“18 Der jüdische Pseudepigraph betreibt „Mythenkorrektur“19, indem er Orpheus zu einem Sprachrohr jüdischer Theologie macht. Natürlich kennt unser Autor den Orpheus-Mythos und auch die orphische Dichtung, an die er sich anschließt. Der Pseudepigraph begeht einen Balanceakt zwischen dem Wunsch, nicht erkannt zu werden, und der gleichzeitigen Absicht, die eigene, intellektuelle Vorherrschaft zu betonen. Während dem ursprünglichen Verfasser dieser Balanceakt recht gut gelang, treffen wir bei Aristobulus dann auf einen jüdischen Orpheus, der das jüdische κρείττων in grellen Farben darstellt: „Denn keiner der Sterblichen könnte wohl den Herrscher der Menschen sehen, außer jener einzige, der von alters her vom Geschlecht der Chaldäer stammt.“20 „Orpheus“ selbst hält sich in beiden Versionen bescheiden zurück und bekennt, dass auch er selbst vor lauter Nebel Gott nicht erblicken könne (αὐτὸν δ’οὐχ ὁρόω)21, der „Orpheus“ des Aristobulus aber verweist auf eben jenen Chaldäer. Wer ist mit μουνογενής τις ἀπορρὼξ φύλου ἄνωθεν Χαλδαίων gemeint? Die Forschung tendiert in der Mehrheit dazu, Abraham hinter dieser Beschreibung zu vermuten22. Diese Möglichkeit ist gewiss nicht auszuschließen: Abraham wird in der jüdisch-hellenistischen Literatur mit der Sternenkunde in Verbindung ge16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Diod. 4,25,1; Serv. Verg. Aen. 6,667. Cf. Graf (1974) 12. Unten S. 475. Fr. 377 Bernabé 8 (ähnlich fr. 378 Bernabé 10). Zu diesem Begriff cf. Vöhler/Seidensticker (2005). Fr. 378 Bernabé 23 f. Fr. 377 Bernabé 14; fr. 378 Bernabé 20. Riedweg (1993) 37.86; Walter (1983) 238.

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bracht; er soll den Ägyptern und Phöniziern auch die Astronomie beigebracht haben23. Dennoch scheint es mir wahrscheinlicher, dass beim aristobulischen Orpheus nicht Abraham, sondern Moses gemeint ist. Erstmal gilt es im Auge zu behalten, dass Aristobulus das pseudo-orphische Gedicht als weiteren Beweis dafür einfügt, dass die griechischen Denker in Bezug auf die göttliche Beschaffenheit des Alls Moses gefolgt seien24. Dass „Chaldäer“ gleichsam auch eine Bezeichnung für Juden sein kann, ist aus der PhilonLektüre bekannt, wo gerade Moses als „Chaldäer“ vorgestellt wird25. Und von Philon erfährt man auch, dass Moses die „chaldäische Wissenschaft“ (Χαλδαϊκὴ ἐπιστήμη) – gemeint ist die Sternenkunde – erlernt habe26. Die Verse über den Chaldäer-Abkömmling im pseudo-orphischen Fragment bei Aristobulus erinnern zudem an den Traum des Moses beim jüdischen Tragiker Ezechiel: In jener Szene träumt Moses, wie er vom Thron Gottes die ganze Welt überblickt und wie die Sterne sich vor ihm verneigen27. Die Beschreibung des göttlichen Throns, auf den Moses sich im Traum setzen darf, geht mit jener im pseudo-orphischen Gedicht einher28. Mit dem „Chaldäer“, der die „Bewegung des Gestirns und der Himmelskugel“29 kennt und deswegen Gott sehen kann, ist also eher Moses als Abraham gemeint. Und dieser Moses geht in seiner Gotteserkenntnis über Orpheus hinaus. Die Moses-Figur bleibt im weiteren Verlauf des Gedichts, das insgesamt durchaus eine Einheit bildet30, präsent – zumindest in der Version bei Aristobulus, vielleicht auch in der Urfassung31: Nach der Schilderung der göttlichen Allmacht32 wird die Quelle von ‚Orpheus’‘ Wissen schließlich genannt: „So die Lehre der Alten (λόγος ἀρχαίων), wie sie der Wassergeborene gebot, der sie von Gott her in Form von Satzungen auf zwei Gesetzestafeln empfing.“33 Scaligers Emendation ὑδογενής für das in den Handschriften

23 So bei Flavius Josephus (ant. Iud. 1,167: τήν τε ἀριθμητικὴν αὐτοῖς χαρίζεται καὶ τὰ περὶ ἀστρονομίαν παραδίδωσι) und Pseudo-Eupolemus (Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,17,2–9; 9,18,2). 24 Eus. Pr. Ev. 13,12,3–5. 25 Phil. Vit. Mos. 1,5: Μωυσῆς γένος μέν ἐστι Χαλδαῖος (wobei die Manuskripte an dieser Stelle zwischen Χαλδαῖος und Ἑβραῖος variieren). 26 Phil. Vit. Mos. 1,23. 27 Ezechiel, Exagoge 77–80. Moses zählt dabei alle Sterne. 28 Cf. mit der Ezechiel-Szene fr. 377 Bernabé 17–20 bzw. fr. 278 Bernabé 29–32. Zur Thronszene bei Ezechiel cf. den Kommentar bei Lanfranchi (2006) z. St. 29 Fr. 378 Bernabé 24 f. 30 Anders insbesondere Walter (1983) 218 Anm. 6. 225; dagegen (aus anderen Gründen) schon Riedweg (1993) 75. 105. 31 Riedweg (1993) 52 schließt dies zumindest nicht ganz aus. 32 Fr. 378 Bernabé 33–35. 33 Fr. 378 Bernabé 36 f.

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überlieferte, aber nicht einsichtige ὑλογενής ist sicher richtig34. Gemeint ist natürlich Moses, dessen Name in Exodus 2,10 volksetymologisch als „der aus dem Wasser Gezogene“ verstanden wird35. Das Adjektiv ὑδογενής ist sonst nicht belegt, und es ist gut möglich, dass hier bewusst ein jüdisches Pendant zum Epitheton ἀφρογενής der Aphrodite kreiert wurde: Der „Schaumgeborenen“ entspricht der „Wassergeborene“. Die jüdisch-hellenistische, aber auch die rabbinische Literatur spielten gelegentlich mit der Idee, Moses als gleichsam göttliche Figur darzustellen36. Die „Lehre der Alten“ geht demnach auf Moses zurück. Dabei ist mit λόγος ἀρχαίων die orphische Lehre gemeint: Hier wird der zu Anfang des Gedichts genannte παλαιὸς λόγος (die „alte Lehre“, auf die sich Orpheus beruft)37 aufgenommen. Damit ist klar (etwas mehr in der Version des Aristobulus als in der Urfassung): Orpheus’ Lehre geht letztlich auf jene des Moses zurück. Mit Orpheus verbanden die Griechen Erfindergeist, außergewöhnliche Kräfte (das machte ihn dann auch zum Magier), eine sogar die Natur bewegende Musik und nicht zuletzt Wissen über die Anfänge der Welt und über das, was dereinst kommen werde38. Orpheus galt als Stifter der Mysterienreligionen39; er erfand die Buchstaben und generell die Weisheit für die Menschen40. Orpheus steht am Anfang von Dichtung und Philosophie und lebte eine Generation vor dem troianischen Krieg41. Dieser Orpheus, der doch Anfang und Ende der Welt kennt, entscheidet sich in diesem jüdischen Beispiel orphischer Dichtung für das Judentum: Und wer dieser Lehre – insbesondere dem Glauben, dass es nur einen Gott gibt – folgt, der „werde alles leicht erkennen“, heißt es in der Fassung bei Aristobulus42. Moses ist 34 Cf. die Diskussion bei Riedweg (1993) 41 und im textkritischen Apparat von Bernabé (2004) z. St. 35 Auch der Tragiker Ezechiel, Exagoge 30 f., nimmt diese Etymologie auf: ὄνομα δὲ Μωσῆν ὠνόμαζε, τοῦ χάριν / ὑγρᾶς ἀνεῖλε ποταμίας ἀπ’ ᾐόνος. Ähnlich formuliert auch Phil. Vit. Mos. 1,17 (διὰ τὸ ἐκ τοῦ ὕδατος). 36 Ios. ant. Iud. 2,232 spricht von der „göttlichen Schönheit” des kleinen Moses (παῖδα μορφῇ τε θεῖον). Nach Phil. Vit. Mos. 1,27 fragen sich die Leute, ob Moses menschlich oder göttlich sei. Artapanus lässt die Ägypter Moses als „gottgleicher Ehre würdig“ einschätzen (Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,27,6: ἰσοθέου τιμῆς). Zu Moses als θεῖος ἀνήρ cf. Holladay (1977) 47–102. Die rabbinische Literatur kennt eine Tradition, nach der Moses nicht starb, sondern als Gottes Diener weiter lebte (Sifre Deuteronomium 357; bSota 13b). 37 Fr. 377 Bernabé 7a (zur Überlieferung Riedweg 1993, 28); fr. 378 Bernabé 9. 38 Zu den Charakteristika der Orpheus-Figur cf. v. a. die Arbeiten von Fritz Graf (oben Anm. 9). 39 Graf (1974) 22–39. 40 Alkidamas, Ulixes 24: εὑρὼν ἀνθρώποις γράμματα καὶ σοφίην. 41 Cf. Garezou (1994) 81–83. 42 Fr. 378 Bernabé 16.

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„kundig/wissend“; das in der überarbeiteten Fassung zur Anwendung kommende Adjektiv ist das aus Homer und Hesiod bekannte ἴδρις 43. Orpheus und die ihm nachfolgenden Griechen, so lautet die Botschaft des Gedichts, hatten sich getäuscht: Das wahre Wissen kennen die Juden, es ist älter als jenes der Griechen, die es von den Juden geerbt hatten44. Im Metrum des Hexameters und unter Anwendung von Bildern, die aus der griechischen Mythologie stammen (Mene, Okeanos45), wird die Überlegenheit der jüdischen Lehre aufgezeigt. Ähnlich wie der anonyme Autor des pseudo-orphischen Gedichts argumentiert auch ein jüdischer Autor namens Artapanus, den man in etwa die gleiche Zeit datieren kann, in das 2. Jahrhundert v. Chr., vielleicht etwas später46. Aus Artapanus spricht ein überzeugter ägyptischer Diaspora-Jude mit einem starken Hang zum Ausgleich von Differenzen47. So gelangt in seinen Neuerfindungen biblischer Geschichten Joseph nicht über Umwege und eher zufällig nach Ägypten, sondern auf eigenen Wunsch48. Und der Moses des Artapanus wird nicht ausgesetzt, sondern von der ägyptischen Prinzessin adoptiert, ohne dass von einer Verfolgung der Juden die Rede wäre 49. Viele Juden, die früher mit Abraham nach Ägypten gekommen waren, seien aufgrund des Wohlstands des Landes dort geblieben50. Von einem Auszug aus Ägypten erfährt man bei Artapanus nichts. In Ägypten, so lautet offenbar die Botschaft, lässt es sich gut leben. Und dieses Ägypten, aber auch generell die ganze Menschheit habe Moses außerordentlich viel 43 Fr. 378 Bernabé 24 mit Riedweg (1993) 71. 44 Nach Diod. 1,23.92.96 waren Orpheus und Musaios in Ägypten, und die religiöse Weisheit gelangte von dort nach Griechenland. Gegenüber einer solchen Tradition würde hier auch eine Überlegenheit gegenüber Ägypten dargelegt, wie dies für das hellenistische Judentum ja nicht untypisch ist (Ezechiels Exagoge ist hierfür ein Beispiel). 45 Fr. 377 Bernabé 19: ἐπὶ τέρματος Ὠκεανοῖο; fr. 378 Bernabé 31: ἐπὶ τέρμασιν Ὠκεανοῖο. Die jüdisch-hellenistische Literatur spricht ohne Zögern vom Okeanos (Ios. bell. Iud. 2,363; ant. Iud. 1,38), der von Herodot im Ägypter-Logos als poetische Fiktion abgetan wird (Hdt. 2,23). 46 Auch die Datierung des Artapanus ist schwierig: Alexander Polyhistor (~ 100– 40 v. Chr.) hat aus seinem Werk exzerpiert. Wenn Artapanus die Septuaginta benutzt hat, wie seit Freudenthal (1875) angenommen wird (216: „Die Benutzung der LXX durch Artapan kann nicht bestritten werden“), liegt der terminus post quem in der Mitte des 3. Jh.s v. Chr. 47 Zur Herkunftsfrage cf. Barclay (2002) 33 und generell Koskenniemi (2002). Die Zweifel bei Jacobson (2006), ob Artapanus wirklich jüdisch war, sind unbegründet. 48 Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,23,1. 49 Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,27,2 f. 50 Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,18,1 (διὰ τὴν εὐδαιμονίαν τῆς χώρας). Abraham selbst sei ganze 20 Jahre in Ägypten geblieben, gemäß dem Jubiläenbuch immerhin fünf Jahre ( Jub. 13,11).

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zu verdanken: Moses habe, so Artapanus, den Menschen viele hilfreiche Dinge gegeben; er sei der Erfinder von Schiffen und Steinhebemaschinen, der ägyptischen Waffen sowie der Bewässerungs- und Kriegsmaschinen. Am Schluss dieser Liste wird en passant noch die Philosophie als weitere Errungenschaft des Moses hinzugefügt (καὶ τὴν φιλοσοφίαν ἐξευρεῖν)51. Zuvor ist von Moses’ Herkunft die Rede und davon, dass er von den Griechen Musaios genannt würde. Moses aber sei der Lehrer des Orpheus: γενέσθαι δὲ τὸν Μώϋσον τοῦτον Ὀρφέως διδάσκαλον 52. Der Verlauf der Argumentation ist bemerkenswert: Moses wird mit Musaios gleichgesetzt; um aber Moses die Rolle des πρῶτος εὑρετής zu sichern, muss Orpheus zum Schüler des Moses/Musaios degradiert und die in der griechischen Mythologie gängige (auch im diskutierten pseudo-orphischen Gedicht fassbare) Genealogie umgekehrt werden. Hier geht es Artapanus sicher auch um das Verständnis der Moses-Figur53, und eine Verbindung zwischen den Namen Moses und Musaios bot sich auch aufgrund der lautlichen Ähnlichkeit an. Musaios war, wie Belege aus Ägypten, Rom, der Kyrenaika und wohl auch aus Arabien zeigen, auch ein von Juden benutzter Name54. Da in der Antike der Name Moses von Juden offenbar lange Zeit gemieden wurde, konnte der ähnlich klingende Name Musaios als Ausweichmöglichkeit dienen55. Im Vordergrund steht aber auch bei Artapanus die Betonung der Primordialität jüdischen Wissens. Wie im jüdischen pseudo-orphischen Gedicht steht auch hier Moses am Anfang des Wissens – der Griechen, Ägypter und aller anderen Menschen. Dabei geht der Autor des pseudo-orphischen Gedichtes zweifelsohne weniger direkt und spielerischer vor. Die Botschaft ist aber letztlich dieselbe: Der mythische Sänger und Kulturbringer Orpheus hat sein Wissen Moses zu verdanken. Juden haben Orpheus und Musaios in die jüdische Genealogie eingesponnen. Hinter der „Übernahme“ von Orpheus steht zuerst einmal der Versuch, sich an die griechische Mythologie und damit generell die griechische Kultur anzubinden. Offenbar bestand das Bedürfnis, gleichsam Teil der griechischen Familie zu sein. In Alexandrien rangen die ansässigen Völkerschaften 51 Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,27,4. 52 Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,27,4. 53 Holladay (2002) 68: „Mousaios and Orpheus serve as important reference points for understanding Moses.“ 54 CPJ 20 (Μουσαῖος Σίμονος Ἰουδαῖος); Noy (1995) 74 (mater filio Museo bene mer(e)nti fecit); Lüderitz (1983) 67b.e (mit Diskussion). Auf einem jüdischen Grabstein aus Zoar (Provinz Arabia), in aramäischer und griechischer Sprache verfasst, findet sich der Name Musios: cf. Cotton/Price (2001). Im aramäischen Teil der Inschrift ließe sich auch Musaios lesen. Dass auch in einer paganen Quelle die Namen Moses und Musaios zusammenfallen konnten, ergibt sich aus einer Textpassage aus Numenius, Eus. Pr. Ev. 9,8,2, wo zwei Mal von Moses als Musaios die Rede ist. 55 Cf. Derda (1997) mit der Ergänzung von Williams (1997) 274.

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in ptolemäischer und noch mehr in römischer Zeit um eine gute soziale Stellung. Es war ein rhetorischer, später auch handgreiflicher Kampf, der sich nicht zuletzt zwischen den Juden und den einheimischen Ägyptern abspielte. Mit den Griechen in den Ursprüngen familiär verbunden zu sein, war bedeutsam: Ein vielleicht erneut zeitgleicher jüdischer Autor, Kleodem Malchas, lässt eine Enkelin Abrahams den Herakles heiraten56. Nach einem der Söhne Abrahams sei Afrika benannt worden, und als Herakles gegen Libyen zog, sei es zur Hochzeit zwischen dem wichtigsten griechischen Heros und einer Enkelin des Abraham gekommen. Familiäre Verbindungen zu Herakles zu beanspruchen, war ein in der Antike verbreitetes Bemühen (Sparta!): Die mit Herakles’ Heldentaten verbundenen Reisen luden dazu ein57. Auch Juden wollten sich mit Herakles verwandt sehen. Im Übrigen sind auch Herakles und insbesondere Herakleides als jüdische Namen belegt58. Orpheus konnte sich auch deswegen besonders als Anknüpfungspunkt anbieten, weil, wie Fritz Graf mit Recht betont, dieser in der Genealogie der griechischen Mythologie keinen festen Platz hat. Mitunter werden Apollo, der griechische Gott der Musik, und Kalliope, eine Muse, als seine Eltern genannt. Aber allein schon der Umstand, dass Orpheus im Mythos stirbt – was er bei einem unsterblichen Vater und einer unsterblichen Mutter nicht hätte tun „dürfen“ –, deutet darauf hin, dass Orpheus keinen festen Platz in der Familiengeschichte der griechischen Mythologie hat. Geschichten über Orpheus’ Geburt und Jugend, vor der Heirat mit Eurydike, sind nicht bekannt59. Orpheus musste für eine überzeugende Verknüpfung mit der jüdischen Urgeschichte nicht erst einer engen paganen Verbindung entledigt werden: Spielraum für Neuerfindungen war gegeben. Orpheus stand in Griechenland für altes, verbrieftes Wissen, und er galt als Kulturbringer. All dies machte ihn für den jüdischen Wunsch nach Anciennität attraktiv. Eine Verbindung mit Orpheus – so lange sie in der richtigen Abfolge geschah – ermöglichte zwei Dinge zugleich: die nie explizit formulierte, aber doch offensichtlich gesuchte Verbindung mit der griechischen Mythologie und den Nachweis, dass am Anfang dann doch das jüdische Wort stand. Dass Musaios als Orpheus’ Sohn oder Schüler galt, kam wie gerufen. Es war nur eine kleine Retusche notwendig. 56 Ios. ant. Iud. 1,240 f. Josephus stützt sich auf Alexander Polyhistor. Freudenthal (1875) 131 vermutete eine samaritanische Herkunft des Kleodem, was aber keineswegs zwingend ist. 57 Graf (1993) 129–131. 58 Herakles: CPJ 141; Herakleides: CPJ 144. 209. 455; Noy et al. (2004) Ach46 und BS5 (dort auch Heraklas); Lüderitz (1983) 72; Horbury/Noy (1992) 18. In CPJ 19 und wohl auch 451 ist Herakleia eine Jüdin. Das Epitaph einer jüdischen Heraklea in Noy et al. (2004) Ach70. 59 Graf (1996) 1078: „Orpheus who has no certain place in the web of Greek mythological genealogy.”

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Nicht auszuschließen ist zudem, dass die Verbindung von Moses mit Orpheus sowie Musaios, in dessen Name die Herkunft von einer Muse noch mitschwingt, auch deswegen interessant gewesen sein könnte, weil es auf jüdischer Seite offenbar ein Bestreben gab, aus Moses einen Musiker, zumindest einen musischen Moses zu machen. Bei Flavius Josephus singt Moses zweimal Lieder, und zwar in griechischen Hexametern: einmal nach dem Gang durch das Schilfmeer, einmal in seinem abschließenden Segen vor der Landnahme60. Und ebenfalls bei Josephus erfährt man, dass Moses eine Art Trompete erfunden habe61. Orpheus konnte auch in späterer Zeit in jüdischem Kontext als Sujet dienen, und zwar in Bildern: Aus der Synagoge von Dura Europos (3. Jahrhundert n. Chr.), jener von Gaza (6. Jahrhundert n. Chr.) und offenbar auch aus einer jüdischen Katakombe in Rom sind bildliche Darstellungen des Orpheus belegt62. Der Orpheus aus der Synagoge von Dura Europos hält seine Lyra in Händen, trägt eine phrygische Mütze und bezaubert mit seiner Musik die Tiere: Die Darstellung entspricht ganz der vom paganen Hintergrund zu erwartenden und auch in christlichem Kontext anzutreffenden Ikonographie63. Das Fresko aus Dura Europos besticht durch die unmittelbare Nähe zu zwei biblischen Motiven: Unterhalb der Orpheus-Szene ist abgebildet, wie Jakob seine eigenen Söhne sowie die beiden Söhne Josephs segnet. So steht ein paganes Motiv neben biblischen. Nun zeigt das Beispiel der Synagoge von Gaza, dass Orpheus mit dem biblischen König David verbunden werden konnte64. Dass im Falle von Gaza David gemeint ist, ergibt sich aus der hebräischen Beschriftung (auch trägt die Figur statt einer phrygischen Mütze ein kaiserliches Diadem). Der Typos des singenden Orpheus bot sich für eine Darstellung des in der hebräischen Bibel ebenfalls singenden (2 Sam. 60 Ios. ant. Iud. 2,346: καὶ Μωυσῆς ᾠδὴν εἰς τὸν θεὸν ἐγκώμιόν τε καὶ τῆς εὐμενείας εὐχαριστίαν περιέχουσαν ἐν ἑξαμέτρῳ τόνῳ συντίθησιν; ibid. 4,303. 61 Ios. ant. Iud. 3,291: Εὗρε δὲ καὶ βυκάνης τρόπον ἐξ ἀργύρου ποιησάμενος. Dadurch, dass Moses hier zum Erfinder eines Instruments gemacht wird, rückt er auch in die Nähe des Hermes (Hom. h. 2). Cf. Nodet (²1992) z. St. („Moïse musicien est ainsi comparable à Hermès, inventeur de la lyre“). 62 Cf. vor allem Kippenberg (1990) mit den entsprechenden Abbildungen und früherer Literatur; Hachlili (1988) 298; Roessli (1999) 298–303 und Markschies (2005) 243 f. Nach Eisler (1925) 4 fand sich eine weitere Orpheus-Darstellung in der jüdischen Katakombe Vigna Randanini in Rom („ein zwar beschädigtes, aber ganz unzweifelhaftes Fresko des Orpheus“). Ein Mosaik in einem Haus in Sepphoris zeigt ebenfalls Orpheus: cf. Weiss (2003). 63 Garezou (1994) 90–96. Zur christlichen Orpheus-Rezeption cf. Roessli (2002); Geerlings (2005) sowie Markschies (2005), der (90 f.) darauf verweist, dass die christliche Orpheus-Rezeption nie so weit gegangen ist wie die jüdische: Ein christlicher orphischer Hymnus ist nicht bekannt. 64 Garezou (1994) 97: „Le roi David selon un schéma ,orphique‘.“

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22) und in jüdischer Tradition als Autor des Psalmenbuches verstandenen Königs David an. Unklar ist, ob auch der Orpheus von Dura Europos letztlich König David darstellen sollte. Das ist sehr gut möglich. Wichtiger aber als diese Frage scheint mir der Ansatz von Hans G. Kippenberg zu sein, der nach der „Sinnerwartung seitens der jüdischen Betrachter“ fragt: „Welche Konzeption […] vermittelte das Orpheusbild einem jüdischen Betrachter?“65 Kippenberg vermutet, durchaus auch vom jüdisch-orphischen Gedicht her argumentierend, dass wer „Orpheus im Kontext einer Synagoge sah – ob Jude oder nicht –, der sollte in jüdischem Gesetz und Unterweisung eine uralte Weisheit sehen, die vor den Augen der Öffentlichkeit verborgen weitergegeben worden war. Er sollte die Annahme teilen, die auch die Pseudepigraphen ihm nahe legten (und die natürlich längst nicht alle anerkannten): dass schon Orpheus die wahre Religion des Mose gelehrt und im geheimen weitergegeben habe.“ Entsprechend wollten die jüdischen Orpheus-Bilder wie auch die jüdisch-orphische Dichtung die jüdische Tradition als „uralte, esoterische Wahrheit“ darstellen66. Kippenberg greift hierbei auf die Interpretation von Erwin R. Goodenough zurück, korrigiert sie aber auch: Goodenough hatte aus der Orpheus-Darstellung in Dura Europos eine jüdische Sympathie für Mysterien gelesen67. Kippenberg variiert Goodenoughs Deutung dahingehend, dass er den Hintergrund der Orpheus-Ikonographie weniger in einer jüdischen Mystik als in einer „diffuse[n] Rückzugsbewegung jüdischer Gläubiger aus einem äußerlichen, institutionellen, politischen Verständnis ihrer Religion“ sieht68. Mir scheint nun zwar weder eine mystische noch eine esoterische Absicht zugrunde zu liegen. Ich teile aber Kippenbergs Lesung dahingehend, dass die Orpheus-Figur in der jüdischen Ikonographie für „uralte Wahrheit“ steht. Die jüdischen Orpheus-Bilder teilen mit dem jüdisch-orphischen Gedicht die Absicht, die jüdische Tradition als eine alte und wegweisende präsentieren zu wollen69. Das Orpheus-Motiv wurde in hellenistischer und römischer Zeit in Literatur und Bild von Juden auf ähnliche Art und Weise genutzt. Die Überzeugung, dass die Juden am Anfang des Wissens standen und insbesondere die Griechen nur Spätankömmlinge waren, ist in der jüdischhellenistischen Literatur verbreitet. Das jüdisch-orphische Gedicht ist hier65 66 67 68 69

Kippenberg (1990) 235. Kippenberg (1990) 241. Goodenough (1984) 89–104. Kippenberg (1990) 241. Walter (1983) 231 verweist mit Recht auf den „erheblichen zeitlichen und geographischen Abstand“ zwischen den jüdischen Orpheus-Darstellungen in Literatur einerseits und Ikonographie andererseits, und sie dürften auch nichts direkt „miteinander zu tun haben“. Das aber schließt nicht aus, dass diese Darstellungen nicht auf einer ähnlichen Absicht beruhen.

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für ein Beispiel. Flavius Josephus gibt augenzwinkernd zu bedenken, dass Moses im Grunde hätte Dinge erfinden können – wer wollte es denn nachprüfen, lebte er doch „vor 2000 Jahren, einer solch weit entfernten Zeit, dass ihre [der Griechen] Dichter nicht einmal ihre Theogonien, geschweige denn Taten oder Gesetze der Menschen dahin zu verlegen wagten“70. Herausgebildet hat sich dieser Anspruch geistiger und kultureller Überlegenheit aber nicht erst im flavischen Rom des 1. Jahrhunderts n. Chr., sondern im ptolemäischen Alexandrien. Alexander, so eine jüdische Legende, soll die Juden persönlich in der Stadt angesiedelt haben71. Dass es sich hierbei um eine jüdische Fiktion handelt, ist allgemeiner Konsens72. Der Versuch, sich mit den Griechen bzw. mit dem großen hellenistischen Herrscher zu verbinden, wird erneut offenbar. Der Altersbeweis geht auch hier mit dem Bestreben nach einer Verknüpfung mit Griechenland einher. Dass Juden schon sehr früh in Alexandrien wohnhaft und recht gut in der Gesellschaft integriert waren, kann andererseits nicht bestritten werden73. In der ptolemäischen Zeit, in der der Autor des pseudo-orphischen Gedichts, Aristobulus und Artapanus in Ägypten, wohl in Alexandrien, wirkten, machten die Juden einen beträchtlichen Teil der Bevölkerung aus (über Zahlen und Proportionen kann man höchstens Vermutungen anstellen74). Juden dienten in der lokalen Armee, hatten Beamtenstellen inne und übten überhaupt alle üblichen Berufe aus. In religiöser Hinsicht wurden den Juden unter den Ptolemäern keine Schranken gesetzt: Zwar gibt es gerade aus Alexandrien (wie auch aus Rom, der anderen „jüdischen“ Metropole der Antike) keine archäologischen Spuren von Synagogen, aber literarische Quellen belegen eine Großzahl jüdischer Gotteshäuser in und um Alexandrien wie in manch anderen Orten Ägyptens. Nicht wenige dieser Synagogen waren dem ptolemäischen Herrscherhaus gewidmet75. Synagogen konnten gar als Asyle gelten, wodurch ihnen ein Privileg zukam, das sonst für heidnische Tempel bestimmt war76. In ptolemäischer und auch lange in römischer Zeit hatten die Juden Alexandriens keine Repressalien zu befürchten. Sie waren „Alexandriner“, auch wenn umstritten ist, was genau ihr politischer Status war. In diesem Umfeld blühte die jüdische Literatur: Jüdische Autoren verfassten philosophische Traktate, Belletristik, Epen, Theaterstücke und Geschichtsschreibung. In Alexandrien fühlte sich wohl ein großer Teil der 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

Ios. ant. Iud. 1,16. Ios. c. Ap. 2,33–44. Barclay (1996) 28. Gruen (2002) 68–70. Williams (1998) 13 f. Runesson et al. (2008) 171–217. Gruen (2002) 69.

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Juden daheim: Philon spricht später von „unserem Alexandrien“77. Artapanus konnte sich, wie gesehen, offenbar nur schwerlich vorstellen, dass der biblische Joseph unfreiwillig nach Ägypten gekommen sein sollte78. Dies ist, wie vor allem Erich S. Gruen überzeugend gezeigt hat79, eine selbstbewusste jüdische Diaspora-Literatur. Zwei weitere Beispiele, die erneut um die Frage kreisen, woher Wissen stammt, können dies verdeutlichen: Der sogenannte Aristeas-Brief sowie Aristobulus. Der Aristeas-Brief, wiederum ein pseudepigraphischer jüdischer Text, berichtet, dass in der großen Bibliothek Alexandriens anfangs die Gesetzesbücher der Juden gefehlt hätten. Der Pseudepigraph lässt von dieser Lücke die dann in Auftrag gegebene Übersetzung der hebräischen Bibel ins Griechische abhängig machen. In Wirklichkeit dürfte diese Übersetzung, die Septuaginta, viel eher die Folge eines philologischen Bedürfnisses der ägyptischen Juden gewesen sein, die in ihrer Mehrheit im 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr., als die hebräische Torah ins Griechische zu übertragen begonnen wurde, des Hebräischen nicht mehr kundig waren. Auch der Aristeas-Brief ist schwierig zu datieren und zu lokalisieren: Er dürfte aus dem Alexandrien des 2. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. stammen80. Im Text kommt der Bibliothekar Demetrios zu Wort, der einen Brief an den ptolemäischen König schreibt, in dem er zu einer Übersetzung der Torah rät: Denn diese Gesetzgebung sei eine recht philosophische und reine, ja göttliche81. Nach der erfolgten Übersetzung wollte der Bibliothekar dem Werk einen „leicht zu erkennenden“ Platz in der Bibliothek zuweisen (θῶμεν εὐσήμως)82. Der Autor dieses fiktiven Briefes macht die Torah zum Desiderat der alexandrinischen Bibliothek. Hinter dem rührigen heidnischen Bibliothekar steht auch hier eine jüdische Stimme, die nicht nur die Wichtigkeit jüdischer Tradition unterstreicht, sondern die Nichtjuden sich auch an der jüdischen Lehre orientieren lässt: Letztlich ist auch hier Moses der Lehrer der Heiden. Der Autor des Aristeas-Briefs wünscht sich einen Wissenstransfer vom Judentum zum Hellenismus. Dass dies bislang eine Fiktion blieb – dass die paganen Autoren die Torah nicht kennen –, wird mit der Heiligkeit des Textes83, derer sich die Heiden also bewusst gewesen seien, erklärt: Deswegen hätten diese sich gescheut, die Torah und die Juden zu 77 78 79 80 81 82 83

Phil. Leg. 150. Siehe oben S. 475. Gruen (1998). Barclay (1996) 445 mit weiterer Literatur; Honigman (2003) 11. Aristeas-Brief 31. Aristeas-Brief 32. Aristeas-Brief 31: διὰ τὸ ἁγνήν τινα καὶ σεμνὴν εἶναι τὴν ἐν αὐτοῖς θεωρίαν. Der Autor des Briefes beruft sich dabei auf Hekataios von Abdera, wobei umstritten ist, welcher Text genau gemeint sein könnte: cf. Meisner (1973) 50 Anm. 31.

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erwähnen. Warum diese Scheu gegenüber einer übersetzten Version geringer sein würde, wird freilich nicht deutlich. Man sollte indes wohl auch die spielerische Seite dieser Ansprüche auf ursprüngliches und wegweisendes Wissen nicht unterschätzen. In ähnliche Argumentationsnöte wie der Autor des Aristeas-Briefs gerät auch Aristobulus, jener erste jüdische Religionsphilosoph aus dem 2. Jahrhundert v. Chr., bei dem sich die überarbeitete Version des jüdisch-orphischen Gedichts findet: Auch Platon ist unserer Gesetzgebung gefolgt, und es ist deutlich, dass er sich durch alles, was in ihr dargelegt ist, durchgearbeitet hat. Schon vor Demetrius aber, vor der Herrschaft Alexanders und der Perser, ist die Geschichte vom Auszug der Hebräer, unserer Landsleute, aus Ägypten und von allem, was ihnen widerfuhr, sowie die Landnahme und die detaillierte Darlegung der gesamten Gesetzgebung von anderen übersetzt worden. Es ist also völlig klar, dass der vorgenannte Philosoph vieles entnommen hat; er war nämlich sehr gelehrt, wie auch Pythagoras, der vieles von uns in seine eigene Lehre übernommen hat84.

Platon und Pythagoras haben sich nach Aristobulus an die jüdische Torah angeschlossen. Weil Platon und Pythagoras vor der Zeit, in der die Übersetzung der Torah ins Griechische vonstatten ging, lebten, muss Aristobulus von einer früheren griechischen Übersetzung ausgehen. Der Wunschgedanke, dass griechisches Wissen sich aus jüdischem Vorwissen ergeben habe, stieß sich mit der Beobachtung, dass die Griechen lange Zeit gar kein besonderes Interesse an den Juden und am Judentum zeigten. Der Autor des Aristeas-Briefes versucht dieses Desinteresse mit einer Scheu vor der heiligen Schrift der Juden zu erklären, aus der sich ja dann doch durchaus ein Interesse ergeben würde. Flavius Josephus ärgert sich gegen Ende des 1. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. dar über, dass die Juden in den frühen Schriften der Griechen kaum erwähnt werden. Diesen geringen Bekanntheitsgrad der Juden versucht er zum einen damit zu erklären, dass sie in Palästina weit von der Küste entfernt lebten und keinen Handel trieben. So konnten sich die Juden, schreibt Josephus, in der Welt nicht bekannt machen. Hinzu komme die vom jüdischen Gesetz verlangte Separation, die es erschwerte, dass die Juden von den Griechen früh zur Kenntnis genommen werden konnten85. Tatsächlich werden die Juden in der griechischen Literatur erst ab dem späten 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr. sporadisch erwähnt (zum ersten Mal ausführlicher bei Hekataios von Abdera86). Weder Platon noch Aristoteles verweisen auf Jüdisches87; und in römischer Zeit kommt z. B. auch 84 85 86 87

Clem. Al. strom. 1,22,150. Ios. c. Ap. 60 f. Bei Diod. 40,3,1–8. Bei Aristoteles ist an einer Stelle vom Toten Meer die Rede: Meteorologica II, 359a (hierzu: Stern 1974, 6 f.).

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Cicero in seinem Werk De natura deorum nicht auf das Judentum zu sprechen. Tacitus stützt sich in seinem Exkurs über die Juden in den Historien auf eine Vielzahl von Quellen, aber explizit weder auf die Septuaginta noch auf andere jüdische Belege88. Der erste eindeutige pagane Verweis auf die Torah findet sich bei einem Autor wohl aus dem 1. Jahrhundert n. Chr., dessen eigentlicher Name nicht bekannt, aber unter dem Namen Longin überliefert ist. In seinem Werk Über den Hohen Stil wird aus dem biblischen Schöpfungsbericht zitiert89. Hier findet sich das erste biblische Zitat bei einem heidnischen Autor: etwa 400 Jahre nach Platon. Jüdisch-hellenistische Autoren – der jüdische Pseudo-Orpheus, Artapanus, Aristobulus, Pseudo-Aristeas, später auch Flavius Josephus – erfinden einen jüdischen „Wissenstransfer“, den es in dieser ausschließlichen Richtung nicht gegeben hat. Es ist möglich, dass vereinzelte pagane Autoren exaktere Kenntnisse vom Judentum hatten – vielleicht auch aus direkten Quellen –, als dies aus ihren Schriften unmittelbar ersichtlich wird90. Auf eine tiefgreifende Befruchtung der griechischen Philosophie und Kultur durch die jüdische Lehre, wie sie von den genannten, vor allem in Alexandrien wirkenden jüdischen Schriftstellern dargestellt wird, deutet aber nichts hin. Welches Ziel verfolgten diese fast schon spielerisch daherkommenden Erklärungen jüdischer Erstgeburt, und an wen richteten sie sich? Wichtiger als die Betonung der Ursprünglichkeit dürfte der Wunsch nach einer (auch genealogischen) Verbindung mit der griechischen Kultur gewesen sein. Platon und Aristoteles von Moses abhängen, Orpheus zu einem Schüler von Moses werden zu lassen: Dies sind Konstruktionen, die attraktive Andockungsmöglichkeiten boten. Juden versuchten, ihre jüdischen Geschichten mit jenen der Griechen zu verbinden. Der Begriff des „Synkretismus“ wird diesem Phänomen genauso wenig gerecht wie „Assimilation“ und „Akkulturation“. Vielmehr erfanden diese antiken Diaspora-Juden ihren eigenen jüdischen Hellenismus, in dem das eigene Jüdische mit der gesuchten Verwandtschaft mit den Griechen einhergehen konnte91. Und so heiratete Abrahams Enkelin Herakles. Die jüdisch-hellenistische Literatur wird oft etwas vorschnell und pauschal als jüdische Apologetik, im Sinne einer Verteidigung gegen Angriffe von außen, bezeichnet. Flavius Josephus’ Schrift Gegen Apion ist gewiss ein Beispiel solcher Apologetik, gerichtet gegen einen Apion oder einen Apollo88 89 90 91

Tac. Hist. 5,2–13. „Longin“, De Sublimitate 9,9. Cf. hierzu die Vermutungen bei Speyer (1986) und Hilhorst (1999). Gruen (2002) 227: „They modeled Hellenism to their own design, underscoring rather than covering up distinctiveness, and placing a premium on moral, intellectual, and even cultural superiority.”

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nius Molon, die den Juden u. a. auch fehlende Kreativität vorwarfen92. Bei den diskutierten Texten aus dem jüdischen Alexandrien erhält man indes den Eindruck, dass es hierbei nicht zuletzt um einen innerjüdischen Diskurs ging93. Antihellenistischer Polemik, wie sie etwa in den Makkabäerbüchern greifbar ist, wird in einem Text wie dem jüdisch-orphischen Gedicht mit einer gleichsam dialektischen, Verbindung und Superiorität zusammenführenden Argumentation begegnet. In späteren Jahrhunderten finden sich in der jüdischen Geistesgeschichte gelegentlich recht ähnliche Mechanismen: Die eingangs erwähnte Textstelle aus Jehuda Halevis Kusari, die so sich auch in der jüdisch-hellenistischen Literatur finden könnte, ist hierfür ein Beispiel.

Literaturverzeichnis Barclay (1996). – John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE–117 CE) (Berkeley/Los Angeles 1996). Barclay (2002). – John M. G. Barclay, „Manipulating Moses: Exodus 2.10–15 in Egyptian Judaism and the New Testament“, in: Robert P. Carroll (ed.), Text as Pretext: Essays in Honour of Robert Davidson (Sheffield 1992) 28–46. Bernabé (2004). – Alberto Bernabé, Poetae epici Graeci: Testimonia et fragmenta, Pars II: Orphicorum et Orphicis similium testimonia et fragmenta, Fasciculus I (München/Leipzig 2004). Borca (2003). – Federico Borca, Luoghi, corpi, costumi. Determinismo ambientale ed etnografia antica (Rom 2003). Brenner (2008). – Michael Brenner, Kleine jüdische Geschichte (München 2008). Cotton/Price (2001). – Hannah M. Cotton/Jonathan J. Price, „A Bilingual Tombstone from Zo’ar (Arabia)“, ZPE 134 (2001) 277–283. CPJ. – Victor A. Tcherikover/Alexander Fuks, Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum (Cambridge 1957/1964). Derda (1997). – Tomasz Derda, „Did the Jews Use the Name of Moses in Antiquity?“, ZPE 115 (1997) 257–260. Eisler (1925). – Robert Eisler, Orphisch-dionysische Mysteriengedanken in der christlichen Antike (Leipzig/Berlin 1925, ND Hildesheim 1966). Fraesdorff (2005). – David Fraesdorff, Der barbarische Norden. Vorstellungen und Fremdheitskategorien bei Rimbert, Thietmar von Merseburg, Adam von Bremen und Helmold von Bosau (Berlin 2005). Freudenthal (1875). – Jacob Freudenthal, Hellenistische Studien: Alexander Polyhistor und die von ihm erhaltenen Reste jüdischer und samaritanischer Geschichtswerke (Breslau 1875). Garezou (1994). – Maria-Xeni Garezou, „Orpheus“, in: LIMC 7,1 (1994) 81–105. Geerlings (2005). – Wilhelm Geerlings, „Das Bild des Sängers Orpheus bei den griechischen Kirchenvätern“, in: Raban von Haehling (ed.), Griechische Mythologie und frühes Christentum (Darmstadt 2005) 254–267. 92 Ios. c. Ap. 2,148. 93 Tcherikover (1956) hat den Begriff der jüdischen Apologetik in diesem Sinne geöffnet.

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Goodenough (1964). – Erwin R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, Bd. 9: Symbolism in the Dura Synagogue 1 (New York 1964). Graf (1974). – Fritz Graf, Eleusis und die orphische Dichtung Athens in vorhellenistischer Zeit (Berlin/New York 1974). Graf (1987). – Fritz Graf, „Orpheus: A Poet Among Men“, in: Jan Bremmer (ed.), Interpretations of Greek Mytholog y (London/Sidney 1987) 80–106. Graf (1993). – Fritz Graf, Greek Mytholog y: An Introduction (Baltimore 1993). Graf (1996).– Fritz Graf, „Orpheus“, „Orphic literature“, „Orphism“, in: Oxford Classical Dictionary (Oxford/New York ³1996) 1078 f. Graf/Johnston (2007). – Fritz Graf/Sarah Iles Johnston, Ritual Texts for the Afterlife: Orpheus and the Bacchic Gold Tablets (London/New York 2007). Gruen (1998). – Erich S. Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Berkeley 1998). Gruen (2002). – Erich S. Gruen, Diaspora: Jews amidst Greeks and Romans (Cambridge, Mass./London 2002). Hachlili (1988). – Rachel Hachlili, Ancient Jewish Art and Archaeolog y in the Land of Israel (Leiden etc. 1988). Henrichs (1985). – Albert Henrichs, „Zur Genealogie des Musaios“, ZPE 58 (1985) 1–8. Hilhorst (1999). – André Hilhorst, „The Noah Story: Was It Known to the Greeks?“ in: Florentino García Martínez/Gerard P. Luttikhuizen (edd.), Interpretations of the Flood (Leiden 1999) 56–65. Holladay (1977). – Carl R. Holladay, Theios Aner in Hellenistic Judaism: A Critique of the Use of this Category in New Testament Christolog y (Missoula 1977). Holladay (1996). – Carl R. Holladay, Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, Bd. 4: Orphica (Atlanta 1996). Holladay (1998). – Carl R. Holladay, „Pseudo-Orpheus: Tracking a Tradition“, in: Abraham J. Malherbe et al. (edd.), The Early Church in Its Context (Leiden etc. 1998) 192–220. Holladay (2002). – Carl R. Holladay, „Hellenism in the Fragmentary Hellenistic Jewish Authors: Resonance and Resistance“, in: James Kugel (ed.), Shem in the Tents of Japhet. Essays on the Encounter of Judaism and Hellenism (Leiden etc. 2002) 65–91. Honigman (2003). – Sylvie Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria: A Study in the Narrative of the Letter of Aristeas (London/New York 2003). Horbury/Noy (1992). – William Horbury/David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco-Roman Eg ypt (Cambridge 1992). Jacobson (2006). – Howard Jacobson, „Artapanus judaeus“, JJS 57 (2006) 201–221. Kippenberg (1990). – Hans Gerhard Kippenberg, „Pseudikonographie: Orpheus auf jüdischen Bildern“, in: Visible Religion. Annual for Religious Iconography 7 (Leiden 1990) 233–249. Koskenniemi (2002). – Erkki Koskenniemi, „Greeks, Egyptians and Jews in the Fragments of Artapanus“, JSP 13 (2002) 17–31. Lanfranchi (2006). – Pierluigi Lanfranchi, L’Exagoge d’Ezéchiel le Tragique. Introduction, texte, traduction et commentaire (Leiden/Boston 2006). Lüderitz (1983). – Gert Lüderitz, Corpus jüdischer Zeugnisse aus der Cyrenaika mit einem Anhang von J. M. Reynolds (Wiesbaden 1983). Markschies (2005). – Christoph Markschies, „Odysseus und Orpheus christlich gelesen“, in: Vöhler/Seidensticker (2005) 69–92. Meisner (1973). – Norbert Meisner, Aristeasbrief. Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistischrömischer Zeit 2 (Gütersloh 1973).

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Nodet (²1992). – Etienne Nodet, Flavius Josèphe, Les Antiquités Juives. Livres I à III. Texte, traduction et notes (Paris ²1992). Noy (1995). – David Noy, Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe, vol. 2: The City of Rome (Cambridge 1995). Noy et al. (2004). – David Noy et al., Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis, Bd. 1: Eastern Europe (Tübingen 2004). Riedweg (1993). – Christoph Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation eines orphischen Hieros Logos. Beobachtungen zu OF 245 und 247 (sog. Testament des Orpheus) (Tübingen 1993). Riedweg (2008). – Christoph Riedweg, „Literatura órfica en ámbito judío“, in: Alberto Bernabé/Franscesc Casadesús (edd.), Orfeo y la tradición órfica. Un reencuentro, Religiones y mitos 280 (Madrid 2008) 379–392. Roessli (1999). – Jean-Michel Roessli, „De l’Orphée juif à l’Orfée écossais: Bilan et perspectives“, Nachwort zu John Block Friedman, Orphée au Moyen Age (Fribourg 1999) 285–345. Roessli (2002). – Jean-Michel Roessli, „Convergence et divergence dans l’interprétation du mythe d’Orphée. De Clément d’Alexandrie à Eusèbe de Césarée“, RHR 209 (2002) 503–513. Runesson et al. (2008). – Anders Runesson et al., The Ancient Synagogue from Its Origins to 200 C. E. A Source Book (Leiden/Boston 2008). Speyer (1986). – Wolfgang Speyer, „Spuren der ‚Genesis‘ in Ovids Metamorphosen?“ in: Ulrich Justus Stache et al. (edd.), Kontinuität und Wandel: Lateinische Poesie von Naevius bis Baudelaire. Franco Munari zum 65. Geburtstag (Hildesheim 1986) 90–99. Stern (1974). – Menachem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism, Bd. 1 ( Jerusalem 1974). Tcherikover (1956). – Victor A. Tcherikover, „Jewish Apologetic Literature Reconsidered“, Eos 48 (1956) 169–193. Touati (1994). – Charles Touati, Juda Hallevi, Le Kuzari. Apologie de la religion méprisée (Louvain/Paris 1994). Vöhler/Seidensticker (2005). – Martin Vöhler/Bernd Seidensticker (edd.), Mythenkorrekturen: Zu einer paradoxalen Form der Mythenrezeption (Berlin/New York 2005). Walter (1983). – Nikolaus Walter, „Pseudepigraphische jüdisch-hellenistische Dichtung: Pseudo-Phokylides, Pseudo-Orpheus, Gefälschte Verse auf Namen griechischer Dichter“, in: Werner Georg Kümmel (ed.), Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit, Bd. 4.3 (Gütersloh 1983) 173–276. Weiss (2003). – Zeev Weiss, „The House of Orpheus, Another Late Roman Mansion in Sepphoris“, Qadmoniot 126 (2003) 94–101 (Hebr.). West (1983). – Martin L. West, The Orphic Poems (Oxford 1983). Williams (1997). – Margaret H. Williams, „Jewish Use of Moses as a Personal Name in Graeco-Roman Antiquity – a Note“, ZPE 118 (1997) 274. Williams (1998). – Margaret H. Williams, The Jews among the Greeks & Romans: A Diasporan Sourcebook (Baltimore 1998).

Mopsos and Cultural Exchange between Greeks and Locals in Cilicia* carolina lópez-ruiz

The figure of Mopsos has received recent attention, due to the appearance of the name in new inscriptions from Cilicia and also the increasing interest on Greek and Near Eastern contacts1. In the last decades, the study of Greek and Near Eastern myth as a sub-field has thrived2. This is due, in part, to the increase of sources produced by the reading of new Near Eastern texts and archaeological research, and in part by a growing interest (both intellectual and institutional) in interdisciplinary approaches and cultural dialogue between eastern and western cultures. Wake-up calls, such as the widely broadcasted one by Edward Said in his Orientalism, have made the academic establishment more open to cross the traditional barriers between the “Orient” and Greece, and to understand better the productive relationship between civilizations on these two sides of the imaginary line between east and west. Myths, as stories that people hold onto to reflect their ideas about the world around them, about their past, their religion, their identity and values, are one crucial source to help us understand and transcend cultural barriers. In other words, in a world, such as the Greek one, in constant contact with other peoples, we can study how the myths of others are adopted and creatively transformed into “their own myths” (this is in part thanks to the *

1 2

Part of this paper was presented at the conference “Le mythe et ses interprétations: réévaluations de théories anciennes” (October 2008, Fondation Hardt, Vandœuvres, Genève). I thank the audience there for their comments. I also thank Jan Bremmer for allowing me to read his paper on travelling seers before it was published, and Mary Bachvarova for her help with some specific points regarding the Hittite sources. E. g., Finkelberg (2005) 151–153, Bremmer (2008), Öttinger (2008), Lane Fox (2008) 224–239. Some recent studies in this comparative field include Bachvarova (2002) and (2005), Bremmer (2008), Burkert (1992) and (2004), Haubold (2002–2003), Lane Fox (2008), López-Ruiz (2006) and (forthcoming), Morris (1992), Noegel (2006), Penglase (1994), West (1997), among others.

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fact that, among all linguistic and literary manifestations, myths are easily translatable without loosing their structural meaning)3. Thus myths, along other “artifacts” from the past, are witnesses of cultural interaction and “identity-shaping”. With the advances of archaeology and literary comparative studies, a more fluid and flexible approach to Greek and Near Eastern cultural exchange is emerging, one that takes into consideration both the literary phenomenon and the historical context in which exchange of stories, along with artistic models, material goods, and technologies occurred at different levels (not only intellectual but day-to-day personal contact) and in multiple directions in the eastern Mediterranean. In Greek culture this is especially noticeable towards the end of the Iron Age (“Dark Age”) and the early archaic periods (coinciding with the so-called “orientalizing period”)4. I will first summarize what we know about Mopsos in Greek traditions. Then I will do the same with the less well-known epigraphic sources from Asia Minor, to finish by clarifying some points regarding the sources for Mopsos and add my voice to the debate on the direction(s) in which this figure might have circulated. The goal of this paper is not to revise in detail the sources and scholarship on this legendary figure, but to contribute to the task of contextualizing the case of Mopsos within the broader historical question of cultural exchange between Greeks and the Levant in general and in the area of Cilicia in particular.

Mopsos the seer in classical sources The seer Mopsos is represented in scattered Greek sources as a rival and defeater of Calchas, the bird-watcher of the Achaean contingent at Troy, in a contest at Claros, south of Colophon in Asia Minor5. Legend makes him a descendant of Teiresias, the ever-present seer in the Theban saga. Mopsos, we are told, was born of Teiresias’ daughter, Manto (probably a fictitious personification of “prophecy”). Manto in turn is said to have ended up in Claros (south of Colophon, in the Ionian coast of Asia Minor) after the destruction of Thebes by the Epigonoi. Mopsos was born from her and the ruler of Claros, the Cretan Rhakios6 (or else conceived by Apollo himself). This Mopsos, according to Greek sources, established a new oracle at Claros 3 4 5 6

In Lévi-Strauss’ words, “myth is the part of language where the formula traduttore, tradittore reaches its lowest truth-value” (1955, 430). See a longer discussion of this model in López-Ruiz (forthcoming), esp. ch. 1. Hes. fr. 278 (Melampodia) quoted by Strabo (Merkelbach/West 1999). Cf. Burkert (1983) 117–119. See discussion on the name Rhakios below. The tradition of Mopsos as an Argonaut makes him a Thessalian, son of Ampyx (this figure might be a different one

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where he had defeated Calchas (who died or killed himself right then)7, and then continued his periplous south-eastwards towards Cilicia. Strabo reports that, “some of his men stayed in Pamphylia, while others scattered in Cilicia and Syria and even as far as Phoenicia”8. The foundation of Colophon (to which realm Claros belonged) is attributed to this Mopsos, but also is that of Mallos in Cilicia to both him and Amphilochos, another famous seer, who engaged in yet another prophecy contest with Mopsos (probably a doublet of the other one), in which they killed each other, leaving in the city respective cults and oracles9. The use of the name Mopsos was productive in East Cilician toponyms, as attested in the towns of Mopsuhestia (“Mopsos’ hearth”) and Mopsukrene (“Mopsos’ spring”), attested after the 4th century BC10. Thus his name is beyond doubt linked to the area of Cilicia and Neo-Hittite or Aramean cities of the Iron Age. Other Mopsoi appear in Greek myth, also seers, connected with different local traditions and probably local doublets and variants of the same character11.

Mopsos in Cilicia: the epigraphical sources Archaeological findings (more specifically, epigraphical) have been unusually generous in this case, offering one of the first historical proofs of a character of Greek legend of the Iron Age if not earlier. In 1945–1947, German archaeologist Helmuth T. Bosset and his team found a long bilingual Phoenician-Luwian (Hittite Hieroglyphic) inscription dated most probably to the

7 8

9 10 11

conflated with the seer son of Manto). Cf. Öttinger (2008) 63, point 2.2. See also Lane-Fox (2008) 224 f. for more discussion of this genealogy. Strab. 14.1.27 quotes Hesiod’s Melampodia about the divination competition. Strab. 14.4.3 quoting Callisthenes, Alexander’s historian (4th century BC). In the manuscript tradition the text reads Callinus (the 7th century BC elegiac poet from Ephesos), but a palimpsest shows that Callisthenes was the original reference (see edition of palimpsest in Aly [1956] and textual criticism in Aly [1957]; cf. new edition of Strabo by Radt). Strabo had first mentioned Herodotos about the Pamphylians coming from Troy with Chalcas and Amphilochos (cf. Hdt. 7.91 about the Hypachaeans). For the traditions connected with Mopsos in Pamphylia, which was called “Mopsopia” by some historians (Theopomp. FGrH 115 F 103; Plin. nat. 5.96), see Lane Fox (2008) 232 f. See Strab. 14.5.16 about the foundation of Mallos, mentioning Sophocles as one of those who situate the fight between the seers there. For Mopsuhestia and Mopsucrene, see RE 16.1 (1933) 243–251; cf. Theopompos FGrH 115 F 103 (cited by Photius). See details in Astour (²1967) 54–57; cf. more recently Finkelberg (2005) 151, Lane Fox (2008) 236 f., Bremmer (2008) 141. Mopsos the Lapith (e. g., in Hes. scut. 181), Mopsos and Moxos the Lydian (preserving the Luwian-Lydian version of the name, see below), etc.

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8th century BC near Karatepe, at the border of Cilicia (today in Turkey) with Syria12. In the inscription, a local leader called Azatiwatas claims to have helped king Awarikus in his ascent to the throne. This Awarikus, in turn, is said to be the “king of the Danuniyim” in the Phoenician text, and “king of the city of Adana” in the mirror Luwian text, and, what concerns us here, to belong to “the house of Muksas”, rendered in the Phoenician as MPSH, i. e., Mopsos13. More recently, the “lineage of Mopsos” (’shph mpsh) has surfaced yet in another bilingual (Luwian-Phoenician) inscription from Çineköy, in the same area, offering further evidence of the connections between this figure and a dominant dynasty in Cilicia. The inscription reads: “[I am] Warikas, son of […], descendant of [Muka]sas, king of Hiyawa.”14 Besides these inscriptions, the name is preserved in Lydian onomastics as Moxos 15, and a man named Muksu appears already in the Late Bronze Age in the Hittite letter to Madduwattas (ca. 1400), in association, it seems, with the region of Ahhiyawa16. On the Greek side, the earliest attestation of this name, in fact, also goes back to the Late Bronze Age, as two Linear B texts, one from Pylos and one from Knossos, bear the personal name mo-ko-so, although the origin or status of the person cannot be deduced from the texts17. Not surprisingly, scholars have admitted that these Cilician inscriptions have “made a historical contribution of unusual importance by transforming for the first time a figure of Greek legend, Mopsos, into an undeniable his12 On the proposed dates (ranging from 9th to 7th century), see Finkelberg (2005) 151 n. 33. For the Karatepe Inscription, see KAI 26 and Gibson (1971–1982) 41–64; Bron (1997); and recent complete edition in Çambel (1999–2000) vol. 2. Mpsh appears for the first time in line 16 ff. Very little is known about Cilicia in the period of the Neo-Hittite states, beyond the information provided by this three-part inscription (which allowed the decipherment of Luwian). 13 The expression “house of Mopsos/Muksas,” has been compared with the mention of the “house of David” (byt dwd) in the famous inscription from Tel Dan in northern Israel, at about the same period, also corroborating the existence and political importance of the Israelite legendary figure, Bremmer (2008) 1, 142. On the Tel Dan inscription see Athas (2003) and (2006) and Lemaire (2004). 14 Following Öttinger (2008) 65. See Tekoglu/Lemaire (2000), esp. 968, 970, 990. The inscription was discovered in 1997 and is safely dated to the 8th century. For the historical interpretation of the inscription, see ibid. 1003 f. See also transliteration, translation, and discussion of the Çineköy inscription in Lipinski (2004) 127 f., who dates it to 735 or perhaps earlier. 15 The Lydian historian Xanthos makes “Moxos” travel as far south as Ashkelon. FGrH 765 F 17. See Astour (²1967) 55 f. and Finkelberg (2005) 151 f. for more discussion of the sources. Cf. also Vanschoonwinkel (1990), Bremmer (2008) 142. 16 Öttinger (2008) 64 f. 17 KN X 1497 and PY Sa 774 (in Gen.: mo-ko-so-jo). Ventris/Chadwick (1956) 99 interpret it as a personal name identical with later attested Mopsos although of unknown derivation and origin.

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torical personality”18. In Finkelberg’s view, “the importance of establishing the Mopsos-Muksas correspondence lies first of all in that it gives us reason to suppose that other traditions relating to the migrations of Greek heroes may also have a historic core”19. The case of Mopsos/Muksas, therefore, needs to be placed into a broader context, as the intensity of Greek and Levantine interaction is being slowly revealed in the region of Cilicia, where there was a productive contact of Aegean, Northwest Semitic (e. g., Phoenician and Aramaean) and Neo-Hittite (esp. Luwian) peoples in the aftermath of the Late Bronze Age collapse and during the Iron Age. Only now that mythographic and historical accounts can be interpreted side by side with archaeological and epigraphical evidence, we can start glimpsing the complexity of this fascinating multi-cultural horizon.

Mopsos: between legend and history, between East and West The figure of Mopsos in Greek epic is, as the above-mentioned variety of sources shows, one of the most vivid survivals of the cultural ties between the early Greeks and the area of Cilicia-North Syria-Phoenicia, also visible in other mythological and historical-archaeological sources20. In this case, the multi-directional nature of the links is notorious: Mopsos is presented as a Greek in origin establishing himself in Cilicia, where such a figure is independently attested in local sources. In turn, later Greek sources reflect local Cilician traditions about the figure’s activities in the region (so his presence there made its way back to Greek texts). To complicate things, Greek myth ties his lineage to Thebes (as a descendant of the seer Teiresias), which arguably projects on him the Theban prehistoric associations of both autochthony and Levantine origins through the saga of Kadmos. The linguistic panorama and the entangled traditions about the seer and founder are so complex that scholarship fluctuates between taking Mopsos as an originally Anatolian figure and as a Greek one21. As mentioned above, the name (if not necessarily referring to the same figure known later) is 18 Barnett (1975) 365, cited by Finkelberg (2005) 152. 19 Finkelberg (2005) 152. 20 I have discussed the importance of Northwest Semitic elements in the formation of Greek cosmogonic traditions as a result of cultural encounters in Syrio-Phoenicia and Cilicia in the Iron Age in López-Ruiz (2006) and (forthcoming). 21 Astour (1967) 6 ff. concludes that “Mopsos is clearly a local Anatolian character”; Bremmer (2008) 143 estimates that the Greeks adopted the name from the Phoenicians and that this happened in Cilicia; Öttinger (2008) esp. points 5 and 6, however, advocates the Greek origin of the name, as does Finkelberg (2005) 152 n. 36. See discussion below.

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already attested in Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age. This is not, in itself, proof of its Anatolian origin. Besides the counter-attestation of the name in Mycenaean, other Greek names such as Alexandros (Alaxandus)22 and Eteokles (Tawakalawas, Mycenaean *Etewoklewas)23 are attested in Hittite texts, as is the term Ahhiyawa in Hittite and Egyptian sources referring to a Greek territory/ethnic group (see below). The mention of Muxas in this Hittite source is, furthermore, associated precisely with Ahhiyawa. Moreover, the linguistic evidence supports the Greek origin of the name, which would have arrived in Anatolia as a foreign word Muksu-/Muksa-, according to the form attested in the Hittite and Luwian texts. As Öttinger has pointed out, if the name was Anatolian (say, Hittite), it would have been rendered differently, e. g., Mu-ku-ssu/Mu-ku-ssa-, not Muksu/Muksa24. A key factor for the analysis of this puzzle is the correspondence between the form in Greek and the Phoenician forms, Mopsos and MPSH, both rendering the middle consonant of the name as a labial stop /p/, in contrast with the Hittite and Luwian versions of the name with a velar stop /k/. With the help of historical linguistics, this apparent disjunction between the oldest Greek attestations (mo-qo-so) and the later ones (Mopsos) disappears. As Öttinger points out, the labiovelar kw in *Mokwso-, still attested in Mycenaean, explains the different results in Hittite-Luwian (Moks-) and later Greek (Mops-). It is the Phoenician MPSH, therefore, which follows the rendering of the name by Greek speakers in Cilicia, with the expected later Greek development of the labiovelar as labial /p/25. It is tempting to hypothesize a real or popular etymology connecting the name of Mopsos in Greek with the root ops-, which presents this kind of phonetic variation in historical times (e. g., Gr. opsomai, “to see,” cf. Latin oculos, “eyes,” both derived from a labiovelar *kw), although formations of this root with a prefixed m- are not attested26. It is at least possible that Greek speakers would have drawn such connection, whether linguistically real or not, given Mopsos’ role as “seer” in Greek tradition. 22 23 24 25

Öttinger (2008) 65, point 5. Niemeier (2005) 18 and references. Öttinger (2008) 65, points 5 and 6. See Öttinger (2008) 65 (esp. points 5–6) and Finkelberg (2005) 152 n. 36. This development is well known in the history of Greek language, cf. for example Mycenaean a-to-ro-ko (“man”) and later Attic anthropos, or e-ko (“horse”) and later hippos, in other Indo-European languages retaining the velar quality, e. g., Latin equus. Bremmer (2008) 143, however, thinks the difference indicates that the Greeks “derived the spelling Mopsus from the Phoenicians”, while the Mycenaean documents reflect the Hittite-Luwian name with /k/. 26 See Chantraine under opopa for derivations of this root. For more details on the names of Mopsos in the Greek, Semitic, and Luwian attestations and the linguistic relation between them, see Lipinski (2004) 122.

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This brings us to another problem. Is there any indication that the Anatolian Mopsos of the early sources was a seer? As far as I know, the epigraphical evidence mentions him only as eponym of a dynasty, whereas he is a seer (and founder) in Greek sources. It is possible that the brief epigraphical sources (by chance or intentionally) omit information about the religious role of this founding ruler as a seer, if he had such a role. The foundations of cities in the area such as Mopsuhestia and Mopsukrene, however, seem to be connected in the local narratives (collected by Greek sources) with the activities of the famous seer in the region. But then again, the sources for these traditions are late and could reflect a Hellenizing integration of local traditions of city foundations (Mopsos as ruler/founder) and of Greek traditions of Mopsos as a legendary post-Trojan War seer. If Lane Fox is right in suggesting that the name Mopsuhestia could be a Greek reinterpretation of Hittite hesti, a ritual place27, as Greek “altar”, we would have a good example of a Greek reinterpretation of an Anatolian name associated with religious practices, which could indicate the Anatolian religious connotations of the figure. However, this is also problematic, as we would expect the Anatolian form of the name to retain the velar version of the consonant, namely, Moxuhesia or the like, as other names in the region (unless the Greek not only reinterpreted -hesti as -hestia but Moxu- as Mopsu-). For instance, the name in its Anatolian version was productive in Lydia as well, as it is attested in a 4th century BC inscription from Ephesos in reference to inhabitants of Sardis, and the same name seems to lie behind the Phrygian city of Moxoupolis and perhaps the Phrygian tribe of the Moxonaoi/Moxeanoi28. In any case we are still left with the problem that the association with Mopsos the seer in this case might have been Greek. Be that as it may, as Bremmer has recently pointed out, the two functions, seer and king/founder, need not be incompatible. Famous seers were not only capable of military leadership, but were also often associated with kingship (e. g., Amphilochos and Mopsos in their fight for kingship in Cilicia, Melampous at Argos, Ennomos and Merops in the Iliad, and many others). This feature is particularly clear in the oldest most legendary seers, probably reflecting pre-Homeric (Greek “Dark Age”/Iron Age) social models not anymore in place in later archaic and historical times, where their role is limited to the religious function29. The military or fighting skills of seers 27 Lane Fox (2008) 230. On the Hittite cult structure hesti/hesta, see Groddek (2001). 28 See Bremmer (2008) 142 f. for more details. 29 Bremmer (2008) 147 f. for more examples and references. For Melampous, see details in ibid. 144–146. As Bremmer (2008) 149 notes, the association of seers or prophets with kingship is also present in Israelite tradition, with figures such as Samuel, Alhija, Elija, Elisha, all close to kings but, like in archaic and historical Greece, not kings themselves. The case of the archon basileus in Athens might be a

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are also well represented in Greek tradition. Mopsos himself is represented as a boxer in archaic Greek art and other seers of the “heroic” era were attributed military skills (Helenus son of Priam, Amphiaraus). Even the participation and death in battle of historical seers is heard of, as in the case of Megistes at Thermopylae, Telenikos in the Athenian invasion of Egypt, and Stilbides, the seer of Nikias in the Sicilian expedition30. The inclusion of Mopsos in the Argonauts’ expedition also points in this direction (whether this Mopsos and the seer son of Manto belong to different traditions that conflated or are variants of an original seer Mopsos we cannot know)31. Can we then reconstruct (even if hypothetically) the trajectory of this Mopsos between Greece and Cilicia? We know that one Mopsos/Muksas (ruler and perhaps also a seer) founded a dynasty in the kingdom of Hiyawa, identical with Adana (in Phoenician). The founder of such dynasty could have been a Greek among those migrating eastwards after the collapse of the Mycenaean world, when the Greeks were still known as Achaeans (Ahhiyawa)32 – perhaps the same Greeks of Cilicia that Herodotos called Hypachaioi?33 Öttinger proposes, however, that there was no continuity between the Hittite Muksu and the Ahhiyawa known in Late Bronze Age sources, which most probably refer to a region (and person) in the Greek mainland, and the later MPSH/MKS in Cilicia. “Our” Mopsos would have therefore marked a change of dynasty at some point in the “Dark Ages”, becoming the eponymous founder of these rulers of Hiyawa/Adana34. The history of the attestation of Mopsos and the story of the seer and founder in Anatolia fits well into the general discussion of the connection of these and other traditions with the Greek dispersion at the end of the “Heroic Age”35. Especially relevant in this case might be Finkelberg’s discussion of

30 31

32 33

34 35

good example of this evolution as well, as the remnant of the religious function of a political/ruling figure. See Bremmer (2008) 137–139 for more examples and references. He was the son of Ampyx, and a renowned athlete and fighter. The oldest source is Pindar, Fourth Pythian Ode 189–191. A fragment of an archaic poem preserved in a papyrus (POxy. 53.3698) also confirms the antiquity of this tradition, besides some archaic artistic representations. See Bremmer (2008) 136 f. and Lane Fox (2008) 224 f. for more details. See discussion and references in Niemeier (2005) 16–20. Cf. Öttinger (2008) 65, Finkelberg (2005) ch. 7. Hdt. 7.91. These were Cilician descendants from some Cilix, a Phoenician son of Agenor – a doublet of Phoenician Baal? See Öttinger (2008) 66 and more references in n. 9. Cf. discussion already in Astour (²1967) 67–69. The Achaeans of Pamphilia, the Heniochi of Colchis, and the Achaioi of Colchis and Pontus might also fit this pattern. See Finkelberg (2005) 152 and n. 36. See Öttinger (2008) 65 and n. 9. See Finkelberg (2005) ch. 7; Öttinger (2008) 65 n. 7 suggests that Mopsos and his troops could have been part of the so-called “Sea Peoples”.

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the matrilinear transmission of kingship reflected in early Greek myths (cf. the case of Melampous winning a bride and kingdom for himself and his brother), which, she suggests, is paralleled in and perhaps derived from Anatolian practices36. Be that as it may, we do know that in Greek tradition the name was at some point, probably in the Iron Age (Greek “Dark Age”), attached to the function and figure of a famous seer, either a second-generation Greek (according to one tradition, his mother, not him, migrated to Anatolia) or a Thessalian (according to the sources that link him to the Argonauts’ saga)37. At any rate, Greek sources portray Mopsos as active in Ionia and Cilicia, though aspects of his political leadership can be hinted as well, while in Iron Age Cilician sources he appears only as the eponymous founder of a dynasty of rulers. The fact that in our Greek archaic sources it is the prophetic aspect of the figure that is emphasized might have to do with the loss of historical memory on the Greek side of the “political” aspects of the tradition, and also with the strong association of the area of Cilicia and surroundings with the practice of divination38. The figure of the mobile/travelling seer or religious specialist, as of other specialists (doctors for instance) is also well rooted in the eastern Mediterranean and the stories about Mopsos would have been easily understood as part of this pattern39. With time, these two aspects of the legend of Mopsos conflated and were integrated in local traditions as well, due to more intense Hellenization in the region in Hellenistic times, if the traditions about Mopsos collected by Strabo and others reflect local lore in which Mopsos is both a founder and a famous seer. Alternatively, the original founder of this dynasty might have been a famous seer as Greek myth would have it, fitting the “old pattern” where both functions were sometimes linked, as discussed above. In a brief outline, the trajectory of Mopsos that could explain what we see in the sources, might have been as follows: The Greek name was in use in Mycenaean Greece (also attested in Hittite in connection with main36 See Finkelberg (2005) ch. 4. 37 See n. 31 above. 38 Cf. later reflections of this in Cicero’s De divinatione where he mentions the Cilicians, Pisidians and Pamphylians among other Near Eastern peoples to practice divination emphasizing their strong belief in bird divination (1.1, cf. 1.41 f., 2.38) and in 1.15 (adding the Lydians) as regarding diviners in great esteem even as the Roman augurs neglected auspices. In 1.40 he mentions Mopsos and Amphilochos as kings of Argos and augurs who founded cities on the coasts of Cilicia. 39 See Bremmer (2008) ch. 8 for other seers, such as Melampous and Bileam in the Hebrew Bible, as well as other examples of services of foreign specialists required by kings and rulers throughout the Near East. On the role of religious specialists in the transmission of theogonic/cosmogonic stories, see also López-Ruiz (forthcoming) ch. 5. See also Burkert (1993).

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land Greece). In the post-Mycenaean migrations to Anatolia, Greeks settle in southern Asia Minor and are known as Achaeans (Ahhiyawa), among them probably Mopsos or his ancestors. A ruler (and seer?) called Mopsos/Muksas founds a dynasty in the region. The Greek and local traditions respectively reflect his religious and political feats in the area, although his identity as seer is dominant in Greek myth (see discussion about the sources above). This Mopsos is, in any event, the single oldest character of legend (Strabo calls the story of Mopsos a mythos 40) whose existence is now attested historically in the right area (i. e., that targeted by the myth), through a long period of time. He is a sort of “missing link”, if we will, between the worlds of legend/myth and history. The Mopsos case opens up a whole range of possibilities, since it proves that previously overlooked specific aspects of myths and legends might in fact be taken seriously if supported by new evidence and might have important bearings on our understanding of local traditions as well as of cultural interaction between the Greeks and their neighbors.

Ex occidente lux: Greek impact in Cilicia and the Levant Despite the increasing available sources, some classicists are still reluctant to see the abundant literary and archaeological evidence as an index of the lasting and productive presence of Greeks in the Levant (weather in smaller or bigger numbers we cannot know). For instance, in a recent book, Robin Lane Fox takes the stand that Greek “visitors” to Cilicia identified the local “House of Muksas” with their own Mopsos figure, the one connected with Greece and Claros41. That is, whatever the origin of this character of legend, the Greek and the Cilician testimonies should be kept apart, only conflating as a result of what Lane Fox calls “misunderstandings”. Going further into his interpretation of these sources, the same author asserts that “Mopsus’ southern career was the wishful interpretation of Greeks, including Euboeans, who were impressed by the names which locals in Cilicia told them. These Greeks were traders, not settlers or post-Trojan warriors.”42 This traditional approach denies the endless possibilities of human interaction in the region besides “trade”. First of all, trade leads to more than simple “misunderstandings”, allowing for complex situations and cultural encounters that go beyond the empty exchange of pots that Lane seems to envision. Moreover, increasing evidence of contact between Greeks and non-Greeks 40 Strab. 14.1.27 (before quoting Hesiod). 41 Lane Fox (2008) 224–239. 42 Lane Fox (2008) 233 f.; my emphasis.

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in the Mediterranean should be interpreted in a more nuanced way, as leading to all kinds of intimate contact between the parties, especially in areas such as North-Syria, Phoenicia, and Cilicia43. How does Mopsos fit into this picture? In fact it fits perfectly if we see it as a far from isolated case. The name of Mopsos is not the only Greek name attested in the epigraphic corpus of the Cilician cultural cross-roads. The name ’WRK (Warika/Awarikas or the like), which appears in the Karatepe inscription and in the Hieroglyphic-Luwian inscription of Çineköy, has been interpreted by some as a rendering of Greek Euarchos, a name attested in archaic Euboia. It is possible that the same name lies behind the Rhakios that appears as the father of Mopsos in Greek tradition and the Lakios sent by Mopsos as the founder of Phaselis, a Rhodian colony in Lycia44. The Danuniyim and Hiyawa/Ahhiyawa, in turn, inevitably recall the epic names by which the Greeks were known in Mycenaean and archaic times, i. e., the famous Homeric Danaans and Achaeans45. Besides the Cilician inscriptions, these two ethnonyms appear in Egypt in the 12th century BC royal inscriptions of Medinet Habu among the so-called “Sea Peoples”46. The Danaans, moreover, might appear in other Egyptian epigraphic sources. Amenhotep III (Amenophis) (1390–1352) mentions Keftiu (Crete) and Tanaja/Danaja (land of Danaas?) as territories he (or his ambassador) visited. In an inscription from 1437 BC, under Tuthmose III, there is a reference to tribute-bearing “Danaja”, who sent a gift of a drinking set in Kafta-work, i. e. Minoan craftsmanship47. The Philistines present some such case as well, where material culture shows unequivocally the Aegean component of a people settled in Palestine, coinciding with the agitation and movement of peoples ensuing the collapse of the Late Bronze Age centers48. In the little written evidence we have from the Philistines we find traces of Greek inherited traditions. Besides striking Aegean features of Philistine material culture, the scanty epigraphical evidence might show traces of common religious background, if Finkelberg is correct on the reading of PTNYH (Greek Potnia) in the

43 A variety of essays on cultural contact between Greeks, Hittites, and others, in Anatolia are in Collins/Bachvarova/Rutherford (2008). 44 The source is Philostephanos of Cyrene, quoted by Athenaeus 6.297e f., see Astour (²1967) 56. Cf. recently Schmitz (forthcoming a). Contra: Lane Fox (2008) 234. 45 See most recently Öttinger (2008), and previously, among others, Astour (²1967) ch. 1 on the “Danaans-Danunians”. On the Ahhiyawa and Achaeans, see Niemeier (2005) and references there. 46 On the Sea Peoples, see Finkelberg (2005) 152 and references to scholarship there. 47 See Latacz (2004) 130 f. and references there. Note that the Danaja appear to be under the authority of one king, according to this Egyptian source. 48 On the Philistines and their Aegean origin, see discussion in Finkelberg (2005) 154–159.

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controversial royal dedicatory inscription at Ekron49. The myth underlying the cult of the goddess Derketo-Atargatis (the “Syrian goddess”) in SyroPalestine, attested in historical times, has also been compared with the one attached to the Greek figure of Ino-Leukothea50. These are only a few detectable traces of the long-lasting impact of Greek culture in the Levant during the Late Bronze Age and the transition into the Iron Age, even if scarcely documented and of irregular intensity. The West to East current of cultural exchange is better documented for the Iron Age, and has been studied mostly through archaeological sources. For instance, the abundant presence of Geometric Greek pottery at Levantine centers such as Al-Mina, Tel Sukas, Tarsus, Ras al-Bassit, and Tyre, proves the active role of Greeks in Cilicia and Syro-Palestine, even if archaeologists differ in the way they interpret these findings, as reflecting more or less density of Greek residents51. In the case of Mopsos and the traces of “Achaeans” and “Danaans” in the region, epigraphical discoveries are bringing to light a type of evidence that could not be reflected in other types of material culture. Along these lines, new readings of existing epigraphical sources in the region are providing evidence of Greek language being used in the area, with the cultural implications that this carries. Thus, Philip Schmitz’s recent study of the epigraphic corpus of Cilicia reveals that other Greek names besides Mopsos, including those of a local divinity, lie behind so-far unsatisfactorily explained words in the Phoenician “separate inscriptions” from Karatepe. Thus Mopsos arises as the best documented case among other new pieces of evidence of the impact of Greek speakers in the region, including interference of Greek language in Phoenician language and official documents52. Literary and mythological comparative work, in other words, should be accompanied by careful consideration of the archaeological and historical evidence, and or contextualized within a new, more organic, model of cultural exchange in the region. It is, for example, important to keep in mind that traditions and technologies circulated in different directions, not only from East to West (even if for the Iron Age/archaic period this current seems to be stronger or at least better documented than the opposite one). These analogies, in turn, are the product of constant creative adaptations, 49 See discussion in Finkelberg (2006), where she also discusses Mopsos in the context of the Aegean migrations at the end of the Bronze Age to the Levant and the case of the Philistines. 50 Finkelberg (2006) 109–111. 51 See, for instance, Boardman (1990). A more skeptical evaluation of the data as suggesting little presence of Greeks despite the presence of pottery is in Waldbaum (1994) and (1997). 52 An advance of Schmitz’s innovative readings is in Schmitz (2008). His work in progress includes similar readings of words found in other texts in the region, such as in an Akkadian text found at Tarsus (Schmitz, forthcoming a and b).

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not of a static passive imposition of models. These adaptations are so frequent between the distinct cultures of the eastern Mediterranean because of millennia of fluid and intense interaction, slowly weaving a complex and firm matrix of shared taxonomies and models, thus facilitating the analogical connections and adaptations of all kinds of information. The Greeks joined this shared cultural milieu already in the Bronze Age and revived their participation in it as one more player during the end of the Iron Age and early archaic periods. The case of Mopsos indeed promises to be the object of more scrutiny as epigraphical evidence proliferates. This figure, between myth and history, epitomizes the cultural complexity of a region, Cilicia, where different linguistic and ethnic groups mingled for more than a millennium by the time we get to the Hellenistic and Roman sources, and where Greek, Anatolian, and Semitic elements fuse in complicated ways, thus blurring the traditional sharp division between Indo-European and Semitic cultures and their study.

References Aly (1956). – Wolfgang Aly, De Strabonis codice rescripto cuius reliquiae in codicibus Vaticanis Vat. Gr. 2306 et 2061 asservatae sunt. Corollarium adiecit Franciscus Sbordone (Città del Vaticano 1956). Aly (1957). – Wolfgang Aly, Strabons Geographika. Text, Übersetzung und erläuternde Anmerkungen (Bonn 1957). Astour (²1967). – Michael C. Astour, Hellenosemitica: An Ethnic and Cultural Study in West Semitic Impact on Mycenaean Greece (Leiden ²1967). Athas (2003). – George Athas, The Tel Dan inscription: A Reappraisal and a New Interpretation, Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Suppl. 360 (London 2003). Athas (2006). – George Athas, “Setting the Record Straight: What Are We Making of the Tel Dan Inscription?”, Journal of Semitic Studies 51.2 (2006) 241–255. Bachvarova (2002). – Mary R. Bachvarova, From Hittite to Homer: The Role of Anatolians in the Transmission of Epic and Prayer Motifs from the Near East to the Greeks (Diss. Chicago 2002). Bachvarova (2005). – Mary R. Bachvarova, “The Eastern Mediterranean Epic Tradition from Gilgamesh and Akka to the Song of Release to Homer’s Iliad ”, GRBS 45 (2005) 131–153. Barnett (³1975). – Richard David Barnett, “The Sea Peoples,” in: CAH 2.2 (³1975) 359–378. Boardman (1990). – John Boardman, “Al Mina and History”, OJA 9 (1990) 169–190. Bremmer (2008). – Jan Bremmer, Greek Religion and Culture, the Bible and the Ancient Near East, Jerusalem Studies in Comparative Religion 8 (Leiden 2008). Bron (1997). – François Bron, “Karatepe Phoenician Inscriptions”, in: The Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeolog y in the Near East 3 (1997) 268 f. Burkert (1983). – Walter Burkert, “Itinerant Diviners and Magicians: A Neglected Element in Cultural Contacts”, in: Robin Hägg (ed.), The Greek Renaissance of the 8th Century BC: Tradition and Innovation (Proceedings of the Second International Symposium at the Swedish Institute in Athens, 1–5 June, 1981) (Stockholm 1983) 115–119.

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Burkert (1992). – Walter Burkert, The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age (Cambridge, Mass. 1992). Burkert (2004). – Walter Burkert, Babylon, Memphis, Persepolis: Eastern Contexts of Greek Culture (Cambridge, Mass. 2004). Çambel (1999–2000). – Halet Çambel, Corpus of Hieroglyphic Luwian Inscriptions. Vol. 2: Karatepe-Arslantash (with a contribution by W. Röllig and tables by J. D. Hawkins), Untersuchungen zur indogermanischen Sprach- und Kulturwissenschaft 8 = Studies in Indo-European Language and Culture, n. s. 8 (Berlin/New York 1999–2000). Collins/Bachvarova/Rutherford (2008). – Billie J. Collins/Mary R. Bachvarova/Ian Rutherford (eds.), Anatolian Interfaces: Hittites, Greeks and Their Neighbours: Proceedings of an International Conference on Cross-Cultural Interaction, September 17–19, 2004 (Oxford 2008). Gibson (1971–1982). – John C. L. Gibson, Textbook of Syrian Semitic Inscriptions. Vol. 3: Phoenician Inscriptions Including Inscriptions in the Mixed Dialect of Arslan Tash (Oxford 1971–1982). Groddek (2001). – Detlev Groddek, “‘Mausoleum’ (E.NA4) und ‘Totentempel’ (E hista) im Hethitischen”, Ugarit-Forschungen 33 (2001) 213–218. Finkelberg (2005). – Margalit Finkelberg, Greeks and Pre-Greeks: Aegean Prehistory and Greek Heroic Tradition (Cambridge 2005). Finkelberg (2006). – Margalit Finkelberg, “Ino-Leukothea between East and West”, Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 6 (2006) 105–121. Haubold (2002–2003). – Johannes Haubold, “Greek Epic: A Near Eastern Genre?”, PCPhS 48 (2002–2003) 1–19. Lane Fox (2008). – Robin Lane Fox, Traveling Heroes: Greeks and Their Myths in the Epic Age of Homer (London 2008). Latacz (2004). – Joachim Latacz, Troy and Homer: Towards a Solution of an Old Mystery (Oxford 2004). Lemaire (2004). – André Lemaire, “‘Maison de David’, ‘maison de Mopsos’, et les Hivvites”, in: Chaim Cohen/Avi Hurvitz/Shalom M. Paul (eds.), Sefer Moshe: the Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume (Winona Lake, Ind. 2004) 303–312. Lévi-Strauss (1955). – Claude Lévi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth”, The Journal of American Folklore 68 (1955) 428–444. Lipinski (2004). – Edward Lipinski, Itineraria Phoenicia, Studia Phoenicia 18. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 127 (Leuven 2004). López-Ruiz (2006). – Carolina López-Ruiz, “Some Oriental Elements in Hesiod and the Orphic Cosmogonies”, Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 6 (2006) 71–104. López-Ruiz (forthcoming). – Carolina López-Ruiz, When the Gods Were Born: Greek Cosmogonies and the Near East (Cambridge, Ms. forthcoming). Merkelbach/West (1999). – Reinhold Merkelbach/Martin L. West (eds.), Fragmenta Hesiodea (Oxford 1999). Morris (1992). – Sarah P. Morris, Daidalos and the Origin of Greek Art (Princeton, N. J. 1992). Niemeier (2005). – Wolf-Dietrich Niemeier, “Minoans, Mycenaeans, Hittites and Ionians in Western Asia Minor: New Excavations in Bronze Age Miletus-Millawanda”, in: Alexandra Villing (ed.), The Greeks in the East (London 2005) 1–36. Noegel (2006). – Scott B. Noegel, “Greek Religion and the Ancient Near East”, in: Daniel Ogden (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to Greek Religion (London 2006) 21–37. Öttinger (2008). – Norbert Öttinger, “The Seer Mopsos (Muksa) as a Historical Figure”, in: Collins/Bachvarova/Rutherford (2008) 63–66.

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Penglase (1994). – Charles Penglase, Greek Myths and Mesopotamia: Parallels and Influence in the Homeric Hymns and Hesiod (London/New York 1994). Radt (2002). – Stefan Radt, Strabons Geographika (mit Übersetzung und Kommentar) (Göttingen 2002). Schmitz (2008). – Philip Schmitz, “Archaic Greek Words in Phoenician Script from Karatepe”, American Society of Greek and Latin Epigraphy Newsletter (October 1, 2008) 5–9. Schmitz (forthcoming a). – Philip Schmitz, “Interpreting the ‘Separate Inscriptions’ from Karatepe-Aslantas”. Schmitz (forthcoming b). – Philip Schmitz, “Archaic Greek Names in a Neo-Assyrian Cuneiform Tablet from Tarsus”. Tekoglu/Lemaire (2000). – Recai Tekoglu/André Lemaire, “La bilingue royale louitophénicienne de Çineköy”, CR AI 2000.3 (2000) 961–1006. Vanschoonwinkel (1990). – Jacques Vanschoonwinkel, “Mopsos: légendes et réalité”, Hethitica 10 (1990) 185–211. Ventris/Chadwick (1956). – Michael Ventris/John Chadwick, Documents in Mycenaean Greek (Cambridge 1956). Waldbaum (1994). – Jane C. Waldbaum, “Early Greek Contacts with the Southern Levant, ca. 1000–600 BC: The Eastern Perspective”, BASOR 293 (1994) 53–66. Waldbaum (1997). – Jane C. Waldbaum, “Greeks in the East or Greeks and the East? Problems in the Definition and Recognition of Presence”, BASOR 305 (1997) 1–17. Walcot (1966). – Peter Walcot, Hesiod and the Near East (Cardiff 1966). West (1997). – Martin L. West, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford 1997).

Sardanapal zwischen Mythos und Realität: Das Grab in Kilikien walter burkert

Sardanapal ist ein Produkt griechischer Tradition, ein Name, der schon im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bekannt und aussagekräftig ist. Herodot verspricht Assyrioi logoi (1,184), die er aber nicht ausgeführt hat. Er kennt immerhin und nennt wiederholt die Assyrerstadt Ninos, weiß, dass sie am Tigris lag, er nennt auch den gleichnamigen König, den angeblichen Gründer der Stadt. Wir wissen, dass der Stadtname aus assyrisch Ninua ziemlich treffend übernommen ist; der Name ist dann auf den mythischen Gründer übertragen. Dass Ninive von den Medern zerstört wurde, weiß Herodot (1,106,2). Auf den Untergang von Ninos bezieht sich die warnende Sentenz des Phokylides1: Eine kleine Stadt auf irgendeinem Berg sei besser als ein unvernünftiges Ninive. Das wäre um 600 v. Chr. zu datieren, kurz nach der Zerstörung der Stadt. Herodot kennt aber auch den Assyrerkönig Sardanapallos, von dem man Geschichten erzählte: Seinem unermesslichen Reichtum, im Schatzhaus gesammelt, rückte man mit unterirdischen Gängen zuleibe (2,150,3). Die schönste Schatzhausgeschichte hat Herodot allerdings dem Ägypter Rhampsinit vorbehalten. So steht Sardanapal eher etwas blass in der Reihe jener Könige aus der Nachbarschaft der Griechen, von denen man Geschichten erzählt – Rhampsinit-Ramses, Midas, Gyges, Kroisos und Kyros. Der Name Sardanapallos taucht auch in Aristophanes’ Vögeln auf (1021), hat also dem Athener Publikum von 414 etwas zu sagen. Da macht ein episkopos, ein ‚Revisor‘ aus Athen, sich lästig – er wird schließlich fort1

Fr. 8 West, zitiert bei Dion Chrys. or. 36,13 (Borysthenikos). Korenjak/Rollinger (2001) vertreten die These, Dions Zitat sei Pseudo-Phokylides aus jüdischer Quelle, von Dion aus Alexandrien mitgebracht. Doch die Art, wie Dion diesen Phokylides, als Gegenstück zu Homer, dem Proömium seiner Rede zugrundelegt, erweckt den Eindruck, dass man es mit einem vielleicht wenig beachteten Klassiker der griechischen Literatur zu tun hat. Das Zitat hat nichts zu tun mit den jüdisch beeinflussten Pseudo-Phokylidea.

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geprügelt; er beruft sich auf seine demokratische Wahl und muss dringend zurück nach Athen, um in der Volksversammlung Angelegenheiten des Pharnabazos zu regeln. „Was ist das für ein Sardanapallos?“ heißt es, als er auftaucht; das muss sich auf seine Ausstattung beziehen, sie hat wahrscheinlich mit seiner Rolle in der Perser-Diplomatie zu tun; man wird sich das irgendwie orientalisch, üppig-weichlich-weibisch vorstellen2. Denn mindestens eine der von Sardanapal erzählten Geschichten lässt sich noch fassen: Sein arcanum imperii brach, als einer sah, wie Sardanapal bei den Frauen saß und Wollarbeit machte. Die daraus folgende Verachtung führte zu seinem Sturz, „wenn denn wahr ist, was die Geschichtenerzähler (οἱ μυθολογοῦντες) so sagen“, schreibt Aristoteles (pol. 1312a1). Das klingt nicht nach einer bestimmten Quelle. Im Ktesias-Exzerpt des Diodor3 ist die Geschichte von der Wollarbeit ein offensichtliches Einsprengsel in eine einigermaßen durchdachte politisch-militärische Darstellung. Sie war also schon vor Ktesias im Umlauf. Sie kopiert evidentermaßen Älteres: Herakles mit Spindel im Dienst der Lyderkönigin Omphale – das ist im 5. Jahrhundert bezeugt4, dürfte aber irgendwie doch auf die Lyderzeit vor 547 zurückgehen. Der bewunderte orientalische Reichtum und die von Asien mitbestimmte Hochkultur wird schon im Fall der Lyder konterkariert durch die bezeichnende ‚Weichlichkeit‘ des Orientalen – was Herakles nicht hinderte, mit Omphale den Ahnherrn der lydischen Herakliden-Dynastie zu zeugen. Die Übertragung auf Sardanapallos lag nahe; auch Midas wurde dem gleichen Schema unterworfen5; in keinem Fall wird man nach historischer Faktizität suchen. Allgemein gilt Sardanapallos als die griechische Namensform des Assurbanipal, des glänzendsten Herrschers von Ninive (668–626). Er konnte als einziger Assyrerkönig lesen und schreiben und legte die berühmte Bibliothek an, von der die Keilschriftforschung zehrt. Sein Name war, genau genommen Assur-bân-aplu, ‚Gott Assur hat einen Erbsohn erschaffen‘. Er starb friedlich 626, 14 Jahre vor der Zerstörung Ninives. Weißbach stellt fest, Sardanapal müsste einem Shar-dân-aplu entsprechen, ‚Der König schafft Recht einem Erbsohn‘ – aber bezeugt ist ein solcher Assyrer nicht6. Man kann, mit Weißbach, ernsthaft bezweifeln, ob Sardanapallos irgend etwas mit Assurbanipal zu tun hat. Den Sardanapallos jedenfalls macht Ktesias zum letzten König des assyrischen Reichs, der sich beim Untergang von Ninive mit all 2 3 4 5 6

Dunbar (1996) 563 vermutet „rich Persian clothes“. Diod. 2,24,4 = FGrH 688 F 1,24, dazu F 1p. Omphale: Aischyl. Ag. 1040 f.; Soph. Trach. 248–257, 274–279; Ion F 19, F 17a– 33 TrGF; Kratinos F 259 PCG. Ausführlich Klearchos fr. 43a Wehrli = Athen. 515e–516b. Klearchos fr. 43a Wehrli = Athen. 515e–516b. Weißbach (1920). Es gibt einen Assurdânapli im 9. Jh. (RLA 1 [1932] 211).

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seiner königlichen Garderobe, mit Konkubinen und Eunuchen auf einem Riesen-Scheiterhaufen heroisch selbst verbrennt (FGrH 688 F 1q): „Und die Leute standen und staunten über den Rauch.“ Ktesias’ Geschichte Persiens hatte unverdienten Erfolg. Er lässt dem Perserreich ein Assyrer- und ein Mederreich vorausgehen. Seine Geschichte des Assyrerreichs – wir haben das Exzerpt bei Diodor7 – ist ein Skandal. Es stimmt so gut wie nichts. Ktesias hat eine Liste der Assyrerkönige über 1240 Jahre. Kein einziger Name dieser Liste lässt sich mit einem der historisch bekannten Assyrerkönige zur Deckung bringen; dafür sind einige Namen griechisch. Ktesias’ Chronologie ist Unsinn: das Ende von Ninive wäre – umgerechnet – 820 v. Chr. statt 612; der Anfang von Ninive liegt dann bei 2060 v. Chr. Immerhin, Ktesias wurde von Xenophon und Platon gelesen, seine Weltreichs-Abfolge inspiriert den Propheten Daniel; seine Pseudo-Chronologie gibt den Start für die Weltchronik des Eusebios. Was ein Geschichtsbild bestimmt, sind nicht die historischen Fakten. Am bekanntesten ist Sardanapallos bei den Griechen durch sein angebliches Grabepigramm, zwei Hexameter, die leicht auswendig zu lernen sind: So viel habe ich, wie ich gegessen und ausgetrunken habe und mit Erotik Angenehmes erfuhr – so vieles noch, Glückliches, ist alles noch übrig geblieben8.

Varianten betreffen vor allem das dritte Glied: hat er das Erotische ‚erfahren‘ (ἐδάην) oder ‚erlitten‘ (ἔπαθον), was dann nach passiver Homosexualität klingt, die als besonders verworfen und besonders lustvoll galt9; dann kann auch das ‚Trinken‘ durch aktives Sexspiel im Kontrast zum ‚Leiden‘ ersetzt werden: ‚was ich an schändlichem Übermut getrieben habe‘ (ἐφύβρισα, Plut. mor. 330F). Das Epigramm kannte Aristoteles, und er kritisierte es scharf: Was anderes könnte man auf das Grab eines Ochsen schreiben?10 Krates der Kyniker ‚verbesserte‘ es im Sinne strenger geistiger Tugend: Das habe ich, was ich gelernt und gedacht habe und mit den Musen Ehrwürdiges erfuhr; das viele Glückliche hat Einbildung an sich gerafft11. 7 Diod. 2,1–29 = FGrH 688 F 1. 8 Anth. Gr. 7,325: Τόσσ’ ἔχω, ὅσσ’ ἔφαγον τε καὶ ἐκπιον καὶ μετ’ ἔρωτος / τερπν’ ἐδάην; τὰ δὲ πολλὰ καὶ ὄλβια πάντα λέλειπται. 9 Siehe Dover (1978). 10 Cic. Tusc. 5,101; fin. 2,106; dazu Aristot. eth. Eud. 1216a16, eth. Nic. 1095b22. Die Cicero-Texte sind von Rose (fr. 90) Περὶ δικαιοσύνης zugewiesen, von Ross, nach Jaeger (1923) 265–267, dem Protreptikos (fr. 16), wobei fälschlich Stücke aus Strabon (unten Anm. 14 und 23) einbezogen sind. Vgl. Flashar et al. (2006) 212 f. 11 Anth. Gr. 7,32, vgl. Plut. de laude ipsius 546A: Ταῦτ’ ἔχω, ὅσσ’ ἔμαθον καὶ ἐφρόντισα καὶ μετὰ Μουσῶν / σεμν’ ἐδάην· τὰ δὲ πολλὰ καὶ ὄλβια τῦφος ἔμαρψεν. Ähnlich Chrysipp (Athen. 336F–337A: Ταῦτ’ ἔχω, ὅσσ’ ἔμαθον καὶ ἐφρόντισα καὶ μετὰ τούτων ἔσθλ’ ἔπαθον· τὰ δὲ λοιπὰ καὶ ἡδέα πάντα λέλειπται (hier wohl im Sinn: „liegt hinter mir in wesenlosem Scheine“).

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Ähnlich Chrysipp. Dass dieses Epigramm schon im 5. Jahrhundert bekannt war, lässt sich vermuten – es passt zu den sonstigen Spuren von Sardanapallos, zum Reichtum und zur Weichlichkeit. Auch gibt es einen gewissen Anklang im Spottepigramm des Timokreon auf sich selbst (Anth. Gr. 7,348), der als Zeitgenosse des Pindar und Bekannter des Themistokles in die erste Hälfte des 5. Jahrhunderts gehört. Die Abschiedsworte des Dareios in Aischylos’ Persern 12 sind eine eher vage, allgemeinere Motivparallele. Sardanapallos ist also eine Phantasiefigur mit quasimythischer Funktion im Diskurs von Griechen um Glück, Genuss und Vergänglichkeit. Ganz unerwartet aber brach Realität ein: Als Alexander im Frühjahr 333 mit seinem Heer den Taurus überschritt und nach Anchiale13 bei Tarsos kam, standen sie unversehens vor dem Grab des Sardanapal. Der uns vorliegende Bericht stammt von Aristobulos und ist in vierfacher Brechung überliefert, als Zitat bei Athenaios, kaum verändert bei Strabon und Arrian, variiert bei Apollodor14: Und da war, nicht weit weg, das Grabmal des Sardanapallos; auf dem, heißt es, stehe eine steinerne Statue, die die Finger der rechten Hand zusammenhält wie zum Schnalzen; geschrieben stehe darauf in assyrischer Schrift: Sardanapallos, Sohn des Anakyndaraxes, hat Anchiale und Tarsos erbaut an einem einzigen Tag. Iss, trinke, spiele, denn das andere ist nicht einmal dessen wert – des Schnalzens (ἀποκρότημα), meint er offenbar15.

Der erläuternde Zusatz zur Inschrift, die Erklärung der Gestik ist unverzichtbar und stand offenbar bei Aristobulos (Athenaios, Strabon); dann gehört dazu auch die weitere Auskunft der Übersetzer zu παῖζε (Arrian): „Sie sagten, dies sei mit dem assyrischen Wort etwas lockerer geschrieben.“16 Griechen verstanden den Wink: Im Apollodorzitat ist gleich ὄχευε eingesetzt, bei Plutarch (mor. 330E) etwas dezenter ἀφροδισίαζε. Das gröbste Wort verwendet, ohne Verweis auf Sardanapal, eine spätere Grabschrift aus Aizanoi in Phrygien17. 12 Aischyl. Pers. 840: ψυχῆι διδόντες ἡδονὴν καθ’ ἡμέραν; dazu Dornseiff (1929). 13 Die Formen ,Anchiale‘ und ,Anchialos‘ wechseln; später mit Zephyrion gleichgesetzt (RE 10A, 227 f.). 14 Aristobulos FGrH 139 F 9 = Athen. 530AB + Strab. 14,5,9 (rätselhaft ἔνιοι δὲ, del. Kramer, Radt) + Arr. an. 2,5,3, dazu Apollodor FGrH 244 F 303. 15 FGrH 139 F 9a = Athen. 530 AB Καὶ ἦν οὐ πόρρωι τὸ τοῦ Σαρδαναπάλλου μνημεῖον, ἐφ’ οὗ ἑστάναι τύπον λίθινον συμβεβληκότα τῆς δεξιᾶς χειρὸς τοὺς δακτύλους, ὡς ἂν ἀποκροτοῦντα. ἐπιγεγράφθαι δ’ αὐτῶι Ἀσσυρίοις γράμμασι· Σαρδανάπαλος Ἀνακυνδαράξου παῖς Ἀγχιάλην καὶ Ταρσὸν ἔδειμεν ἡμέρηι μιῆι. ἔσθιε πῖνε παῖζε· ὠς τἆλλα τούτου οὐκ ἄξια, τοῦ ἀποκροτήματος ἔοικε λέγειν. 16 Καὶ τὸ παῖζε ῥαιδιουργότερον ἐγγεγράφθαι ἔφασαν τῶι Ἀσσυρίωι ὀνόματι. 17 Le Bas/Waddington (1847–1873) Bd. 3, 266, Nr. 977 = CIG 3846l (3, p. 1070); nur erwähnt bei Cox et al. (1988) 300: ῎Ανθος τοῖς παροδείταις χαίρειν. Λοῦσαι, πίε, φάγε, βείνησον· τούτων γὰρ ὧδε κάτω οὐδὲν ἔχις.

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Auffallend ist die ionische Form ἡμέρηι μιῆι (Athenaios, Strabon). Sollte das auf eine weit zurückliegende Quelle, etwa der Herodot-Zeit, verweisen? Dann würde die ganze Erzählung mit der Versetzung in den Alexander-Zug Fiktion. Nun taucht aber die ionische Form nur in der Übersetzung aus ‚assyrischen Buchstaben‘ auf, mit denen man nicht wohl ionisch schreiben kann. Also kann nur ein Sprachspiel vorliegen: Das Ionische gibt den ‚asiatischen‘ Touch. Timotheos lässt in seinen ‚Persern‘ den verzweifelten Perser auf Ionisch jammern18. Unklar war den Lesern Aristobuls die beschriebene Handhaltung. Der beschreibende Text zwar ist deutlich: „Zusammenpressen der Finger der rechten Hand“, also Finger-Schnalzen mit einer Hand. Richtig verstanden ist das bei Klearchos, der offenbar den Aristoboulos-Text vor sich hat19. Aber das erklärende Wort ἀποκρότημα konnte verstanden werden als ,Beifall schlagen‘, also ‚Hände über dem Kopf zusammenschlagen‘, so Arrian, wohl nicht als erster. Plutarch steigert die gleiche Interpretation, er lässt das steinerne Bild, „das in barbarischer Weise sich selbst auf dem Kopf herumtanzt, mit den Fingern über dem Kopf sozusagen schnalzen“20. Dagegen haben schon Eduard Meyer und dann Weißbach die Geste aus der assyrischen Ikonographie überzeugend belegt21. Zwei weitere Variationen der Geschichte von Sardanapals Grabmal erfordern Diskussion: Ein gewisser Amyntas schreibt22: In Ninive gebe es eine hohe Aufschüttung, die Kyros niederreißen ließ bei seiner Belagerung, als er gegen die Stadt Rampen errichtete. Man sagt, die Aufschüttung stamme von Sardanapallos, dem König von Ninive, und darauf sei auf einer steinernen Stele in chaldäischer Schrift geschrieben, was Choirilos in metrische Dichtung übertragen hat. Der Text sei: „Ich war König, und solange ich das Licht der Sonne sah, trank ich, aß ich, hatte Sex, im Wissen, dass die Zeit kurz ist, die die Menschen leben, und diese auch noch viele Wechselfälle und schlimmes Leiden enthält; und von dem Guten, was ich hinterlasse, werden andere den Genuss haben. Deshalb ließ ich keinen Tag aus mit solcher Tätigkeit.“

Hier ist das Grabmal samt fremdsprachiger Inschrift nach Ninive verlegt; die Statue ist zu einer Stele geworden; der künstliche Hügel, auf dem die Stele stand, wird aber zugleich als längst zerstört gekennzeichnet, wobei 18 PMG 791,149: Ἰάονα γλῶσσαν ἐξιχνεύων. Antiochos von Kommagene schreibt Mithres statt des üblichen Mithras (indoiranisch ‚mitra‘). 19 Klearchos fr. 51d Wehrli = Athen. 529D. Auf Aristobulos weist insbesondere das Wort τύπος für die Statue. 20 De Alexandri Magni fortuna aut virtute 336C: ἐπορχουμένην ἑαυτῆι ὑποψοψοῦσαν. 21 Meyer (1892) 205, vgl. Meyer (1899) 541; Weißbach (1920) 2467; wenn Flashar (2006) 213 eine solche Statue im 7. Jh. für „nicht denkbar“ hält, hat er nur griechische, nicht assyrische und luwische Denkmäler im Auge. 22 FGrH 122 F 2 = Athen. 529E–530A „Über die stathmoi von Asien“, vgl. Jacobys Kommentar.

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die Vernichtung von Ninive offenbar dem Kyros zugeschrieben ist; für den Inhalt der hier viel längeren Inschrift ist auf einen griechischen Dichter verwiesen, Choirilos. Der Text des Choirilos erscheint in Versform in einem Chrysipp-Zitat, auch Strabon kennt ihn23. Was Amyntas bringt, ist also kein Originalzeugnis aus direkter Beobachtung, sondern sekundär zusammengesetzt aus dem Wissen, dass Ninive Assyrerhauptstadt war, und dem Text eines Choirilos; Amyntas setzt letztlich den Bericht von Amphiale voraus. Dann gibt es den Lexikoneintrag Σαρδαναπάλους bei Photios und Suda, genau übereinstimmend24: Im 2. Buch der Persika sagt Kallisthenes, es habe zwei Sardanapalloi gegeben, einen tatkräftigen und edlen, einen anderen, den Weichling. In Ninive steht auf seinem Grabmal folgendes: „Der Sohn des Anakyndaraxes hat Tarsos und Anchiale in einem Tag gebaut. Iss, trink, mach Sex (ὄχευε), denn das andere ist nicht einmal soviel wert“, d. h. des Schnalzens der Finger. Denn die Statue, die auf dem Grabmal steht, hält die Hände über den Kopf, wie um mit den Fingern zu klatschen. Dasselbe steht auch in Anchialos bei Tarsos geschrieben, das jetzt Zephyrion heißt.

Der Text der Inschrift stimmt genau mit Aristobulos überein, einschließlich des Ionismus ἡμέρηι μιῆι, nur dass παῖζε, wie bei Apollodor, durch ὄχευε verdeutlicht ist. Der falsche Gestus der Hände geht mit Arrian zusammen. Die Lokalisierung aber ist nun verdoppelt, Ninive und ebenso Anchialos. Mir scheint klar: Dieser Teil des Lexikoneintrags setzt Wissen zusammen und benützt dabei den Aristobul-Text; man beachte auch den Wechsel von indirekter zu direkter Rede. Hier wird Lexikon-Stoff angehäuft, wofür Aristobulos und auch Amyntas Vorgaben gesetzt haben. Die Quellenangabe „Hellanikos und Kallisthenes“ kann also nur für den ersten Satz gelten, den doppelten Sardanapal; in welchem Zusammenhang Hellanikos darauf zu sprechen kam, steht dahin. Wir haben soweit also eine einheitliche Überlieferung, mit Aristobulos als Grundtext25, sekundär angereichert einerseits durch den Choirilos-Text, andererseits durch die Versetzung nach Ninive. Weitere Ausläufer bis zu

23 SH Nr. 335 ‚Choirilos?‘ mit ausführlicher Dokumentation. Chrysipp bei Athen. 335F–336B; Strab. 14,5,9, der den Choirilos-Text mit den ‚umlaufenden‘ Versen, d. h. dem bekannten Zweizeiler kontrastiert; auch Anth. Gr. 16,27. 24 Nach Schol. Aristoph. Av. 1021 sprach Hellanikos von dem doppelten Sardanapal. Jacoby setzt, mit Fragezeichen, in den Lexikoneintrag Hellanikos ein: „Im zweiten Buch der Persika sagt Kallisthenes“, FGrH 124 F 34 (Kallisthenes) und 4 F 63 (Hellanikos). 25 Die Diskussion um Sardanapal hat ihre Spur auch bei Kleitarchos hinterlassen: Sardanapal sei „durch Alter“ gestorben, also gar nicht wie Ktesias erzählt (Kleitarchos FGrH 137 F 2). Jacoby (zur Stelle) meint, dass auch er die Geschichte von Anchiale erzählt hat.

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Stephanos von Byzanz26 und zur Chronik des Eusebios27 bringen nichts Neues. Wohl aber stellt sich nach dem langen Verhör der Zeugen endlich doch die Frage: Was ist realiter von dieser Geschichte zu halten? Ein unerwartetes, aber bemerkenswertes Ereignis während des Alexanderzugs – hat das so stattgefunden? Bei Anchiale angekommen, trifft man auf ein offenbar auffälliges, wohlerhaltenes Grabmal mit Statue, man hat Übersetzer zur Hand, die die Inschrift lesen und kommentieren, samt ihrem ‚etwas lockeren‘ Sinn. Soll man dies als eine reale Begebenheit mit einem realen Monument verstehen? Unter den älteren Studien ragen die von Eduard Meyer und von Franz Heinrich Weißbach heraus. Ihre Antwort ist ein klares ‚Ja‘. Zunächst das Monument: Auf dem Grab „steht ein steinerner typos, auf ihm ist geschrieben“ – das kann nur heißen: eine Statue mit Inschrift, die auf der Statue steht. Fälschlich ist gelegentlich in der Literatur von einem ‚Relief‘ die Rede28. Wo gibt es Statuen mit Inschriften? Abgesehen von einigen Fällen im archaischen Griechenland vor allem in Kilikien. Berühmt ist die große Bilingue von Karatepe; sie steht teilweise auf einer großen Statue – Götterstatue oder Herrscherstatue, da ist man sich nicht ganz sicher29. Dazu gekommen ist im Jahr 2000 eine neue Bilingue, die von Cineköy; da hat man eine Statue, die im Wagen fährt und wohl den König darstellt30. Beide Inschriften sind durch Überschneidung mit assyrischen Dokumenten sicher ans Ende des 8. Jahrhunderts datiert, etwa 720. Dazu kommen Inschriften von Sam’al – türkisch Zincirli –, seit Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts ausgegraben; eine, seit langem bekannt, steht auf einer Königsstatue31. Soeben, im Sommer 2008, wurde in Zincirli in einer Grabanlage in einem unteren Stockwerk des Palasts eine Statue gefunden, mit einer Aufsehen erregenden Inschrift32. Kurzum, der Bericht des Aristobulos führt in einen Bereich kilikischer Realitäten. Allerdings sind die hier genannten beschrifteten Statuen alle kurz vor 700 anzusetzen; dergleichen war also, als Alexander nach Kilikien kam, fast 400 Jahre alt. Aber Steinskulpturen sind von Dauer, und andere Dynasten waren nachgekommen. Was besagt die Angabe über ‚assyrische‘ Schrift? Weißbach, Kenner der Keilschrift, hat mit Selbstverständlichkeit einen Keilschrifttext vor Augen; er 26 27 28 29 30 31

S. v. Anchiale, mit Athenodoros FGrH 746 F 1. a. Abr. 1189: Gründung von Tarsos und Anchiale, Selbstverbrennung des Sardanapal. RE, s. v. Anchialos. KAI 26. Tekoglu/Lemaire (2000). KAI 214; ein Relief KAI 216; Götterbild aus Kalhu mit Inschrift: Strommenger (1962) Taf. 215. 32 Inschrift des Kuttamuwa, Museum Gaziantep, 8. Jh.; unveröffentlicht; angeordnet werden Toten-Opfer für die Seele (näbäs), „die im Stein ist“.

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zieht darum einen Text des Sanherib heran, der vom Aufstand in Kilikien im Jahr 796 handelt, von der Plünderung und Wiedergewinnung von Tarsos33. Eine griechische Quelle, in der Chronik Eusebs, bezieht sich vielleicht auf das gleiche Ereignis; sie spricht von einer Siegesstele des Sanherib34. Assyrische Keilschrift in monumentaler Verwendung ist aber aus Kilikien nicht bekannt; dazu ein Einwand, den sich Weißbach selber macht: Konnte denn zur Alexanderzeit außerhalb der Tempelschulen von Babylon – die allerdings fortbestanden – irgend jemand noch Keilschrift lesen? Weißbach meint, vielleicht hätte jemand noch sich an den Inhalt der Grabschrift erinnert – ein verzweifelter Ausweg. Der Text des Aristobulos setzt Interaktion mit den Übersetzern voraus. Im Peloponnesischen Krieg haben einmal die Athener beim Perser Artaphernes Briefe abgefangen in ,assyrischer‘ Schrift, wie Thukydides berichtet (4,50,2). Die waren mit Sicherheit auf Aramäisch verfasst, in der Verwaltungssprache des Perserreichs. Die Griechen konnten sie offenbar ohne weiteres in ihre Schrift und Sprache ‚umschreiben‘. Dementsprechend liegt es nahe, auch beim Monument von Anchiale an Phönikisch-Aramäisch zu denken. Um die Unterscheidung Phönikisch-Aramäisch haben sich die Griechen nicht gekümmert; die Schrift ist identisch. Die Inschriften von Zincirli gelten als aramäisch, die Bilinguen von Karatepe und Cineköy verwenden Phönikisch. Das semitische Stückchen im Korintherbrief des Apostels Paulus, des Mannes aus Tarsos, maran ata (1. Kor. 16,22), ist aramäisch. Was wichtiger ist: wir befinden uns gerade in Kilikien, gerade in der Alexanderzeit in einem Land der Zweisprachigkeit. Die Münzen von Tarsos im 5./4. Jahrhundert sind teils griechisch, teils aramäisch, teils auch in beiden Schriften ausgefertigt. Das gleiche gilt von Mallos, das der Sage nach von Mopsos und Amphilochos gegründet ist35. Die Dynastie von Karatepe nennt sich das ‚Haus des Mopsos‘. So ist festzustellen: der Bericht des Aristoboulos führt durchaus in einen Bereich kilikischer Realitäten. Was aber den Inhalt der Inschrift betrifft, ist ein neues Dokument dazugekommen, das Weißbach nicht kennen konnte: Westlich von Kilikien, in Ostlykien, in Asartash unweit Antalya, ist eine griechische Grabinschrift aufgetaucht, die Michael Wörrle 1998 und ausführlicher 2000 publiziert und kommentiert hat. Was für uns besonders wichtig ist: diese Inschrift ist nach epigraphischem Befund in die erste Hälfte des 4. Jahrhunderts zu setzen36. Sie ist also älter als der Alexanderzug, älter als die Entdeckung bei Anchiale. Sie ist griechisch und besteht aus drei Hexametern: 33 Weißbach (1920) 2467 f.; der Text: Luckenbill (1924) 61, Übersetzung Luckenbill (1926) §§ 286–289. 34 FGrH 685 F 5 = Eus. chron. (arm.) p. 17,23–18,26 K. 35 Head (²1911) 723 f. 36 Wörrle (2000) 26.

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Hier liege ich, verstorben, Apollonios Sohn des Hellaphilos. Ich wirkte gerecht, ich hatte ein angenehmes Leben, wie immer ich lebte, essend, trinkend und spielend. Geh und sei gegrüßt37.

Da haben wir diese Dreiheit von Essen, Trinken, vielsagendem ‚Spielen‘ auf einer realen Grabschrift im Ostlykien des 4. Jahrhunderts, mit genau den gleichen Worten, wie sie die Übersetzung der ‚assyrischen Buchstaben‘ von Anchiale zutage gefördert hat. Der Vatername Hellaphilos weist wohl darauf hin, dass die Familie dieses Apollonios erst kürzlich, wohl durch den Großvater, in die griechische Kultursphäre eingetaucht ist. Mit der griechischen Metrik ist der Verfasser des Epigramms nicht ganz im Reinen – Ἀπολλώνιος, δικαίως, ἐσθίων, aber was soll’s. Ἠργασάμην δικαίως klingt eher ungriechisch; semitisch sagt man, ‚Gerechtigkeit machen‘38. In der Familie des Hellaphilos wird man eher ein Luwisch-Lykisch gesprochen haben. Jedenfalls: Der Text des Grabgedichts ist nicht vom Amphiale-Text und auch kaum von den im Umlauf befindlichen Sardanapal-Versen abhängig; dem Epikur, der im Zusammenhang solcher Texte gern genannt wird, liegt all dies weit voraus. Vielmehr bestätigt die Inschrift in überraschender Weise den Realitätscharakter des Aristoboulos-Berichts und seine lokale Verwurzelung. Sie zeigt vor allem, dass die Charakteristik dieser Dreiheit als ‚Laster-Trias‘39 gar nicht zutrifft. Apollonios weiß sich ausgezeichnet durch sein ‚gerechtes Handeln‘; er hält nur zusätzlich fest, dass er ein glücklicher Mensch gewesen ist, mit Essen, Trinken, Spielen – wie ‚locker‘ immer man das auffasst. Man sollte offenbar eher von einer ‚Glückstrias‘ statt von einer ‚Lastertrias‘ sprechen. Was ist an den Sardanapal-Versen wirklich skandalös? Sie verbinden Trotz und Klage. Was ‚hat‘ der Tote vom reichen Leben? Das hat er, was er genossen hat; schade nur, dass so vieles, unkonsumiert, noch übrig blieb … Damit stehen wir in einer ganzen Welt von Parallelen, und zwar nicht nur bei Griechen und Römern. Wörrle hat eine Menge verzeichnet40. Herodot hat einen ägyptischen Beleg (7,78): eine Totenfigur wird beim ägyptischen Fest hereingebracht und der Spruch gesprochen: „Auf diesen schauend trinke und erfreue dich; Du wirst, wenn Du gestorben bist, so sein.“ Πῖνε τε καὶ τέρπευ – das ist keine große Weisheit, auch Trimalchio bringt bei seinem Gastmahl dergleichen auf, sogar mit selbstverfasstem Gedicht (Petron. 34,10). Von ferne klingt auch Paulus her, wenn er das Motto der Gottlosen formuliert: „Lasset uns essen und trinken, denn morgen sind wir tot“ (1. Kor. 37 Τῆδε θανὼν κεῖμαι, Ἀπολλώνιος ῾Ελλαφίλου παῖς. Ἠργασάμην δικαίως, ἡδὺν βίον εἶχον ἀεὶ ζῶν, ἐσθίων καὶ πίνων καὶ παίζων· ἀλλ’ ἴθι χαίρων. 38 casah zedaqa HAL, Bd. 3, 844b; 944b. 39 Wörrle (2000) 32. 40 Wörrle (2000) 32–36; Dover (1974) 175–180.

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15,32); zur Dreiheit wird’s beim reichen Kornbauern im Lukas-Evangelium (12,19), der zu seiner Seele sagt: „Iss, trink und habe guten Mut.“ (φάγε, πῖνε, εὐφραίνου.) Dazu Gottes Kommentar: „Diese Nacht wirst du sterben.“ Den vielleicht ältesten Beleg finde ich in der hebräischen Bibel: Beim Fest ums goldene Kalb, das anhebt, während Moses weit weg auf dem Berge ist, heißt es: „und das Volk setzte sich, zu essen und zu trinken; dann standen sie auf, um sich zu vergnügen“41. Der Tanz ums goldene Kalb ist todeswürdig in den Augen des zornigen Moses, doch wegen des Götzenbildes, laut Text, nicht wegen des ‚Spielens‘. Zum Vergleich lädt ein noch sehr viel älterer Text ein, die Rede der Siduri zu Gilgamesh, in der altbabylonischen Fassung des Gilgamesh-Epos42: Siduri, die Schenkin spricht zu Gilgamesh: Das Leben, das du suchst, wirst du nicht finden. Als die Götter die Menschheit schufen […], haben [sie] für die Menschheit den Tod bestimmt, das Leben haben sie in die eigenen Hände genommen. Du, Gilgamesh, lass deinen Bauch voll sein, […] täglich mach Freude, tanze und spiele Tag und Nacht. Lass dein Gewand sauber sein, lass deinen Kopf gewaschen, mit Wasser gebadet sein; sieh auf den Kleinen, der deine Hand hält; deine Frau erfreue sich immer wieder in deinem Schoß. Das ist die Bestimmung der Menschheit.

Das also ist der ganz positive Glücksentwurf in einem orientalischen Klassiker: ‚gefüllter Bauch‘, das Kind, die Frau auf dem Schoß, also Essen, Familie und Sex. Das Trinken ist hier nicht gesondert markiert. Das alles ist nicht tadelnswürdige Ausschweifung, das ist die Art von Glück, die dem Menschen in seiner Sterblichkeit immerhin möglich ist. Es fällt einem von hier aus erst auf, wie streng die griechische Ethik ist. Was dem sogenannten Orientalen als Summe des Wohllebens im Grunde harmlos war, erscheint den Griechen empörend. Die griechische Philosophie sieht sich berufen, vom Leben in Genuss, dem ἀπολαυστικὸς βίος, dringend abzuraten, ihn abzuwerten, ja zu verhöhnen. Da sind sich Aristoteles, Krates und Chrysipp durchaus einig: das Leben eines Sardanapal – Leben eines Ochsen. Es geht um ‚Selbstbeherrschung‘, ἐγκράτεια, dem Wort nach ein Akt von Machtausübung; der Begriff wird im 5. Jahrhundert als Bezeichnung dieses Ideals gebildet. Die Pädagogik steht gemeinhin bis heute auf dieser Seite. Als erster, der das literarisch wirksam formuliert hat, ist uns Prodikos bekannt, in Xenophons Nachgestaltung43: Herakles am Scheidewege. Der muss sich zwischen Ἡδονή und Ἀρετή entscheiden, und kein Philosophenjünger zweifelt, wie ein Herakles sich entscheiden wird. Dieser in der Schule seit je beliebte Text ist doch von hintergründiger Ironie: Der populäre Herakles ist sehr viel weniger zur ἐγκράτεια finster entschlossen; 41 2. Mos. 32,6. 42 Altbab. Version III 6–15, p. 279 George. 43 Xen. mem. 2,1,21–34 = Prodikos 84 B 2 Diels/Kranz.

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sein Essen und Trinken ist gewaltig, und seine sexuelle Potenz ist nicht minder rekordverdächtig44. Indem die Griechen einen solchen Herakles zu ihrem Ideal gemacht haben, gleichen sie die Einseitigkeit und Trübseligkeit der philosophischen Lehrer doch wieder aus. Der Text vom Goldenen Kalb gibt noch Anlass zu einer philologischen Bemerkung: Das ‚Spielen‘, das zum Essen und Trinken kommt, ist mit dem Stamm zahaq ausgedrückt, ‚lachen‘ – die Bibel versteht so auch den Namen Isaak (Jizchaq) –; für unsere Stelle gibt das Lexikon an: „sich (ausschweifend) belustigen“45. Es gibt aus Babylon, im British Museum zu sehen, eine nackte Frauenfigur, fast lebensgroß, und auf ihr steht in Keilschrift, König Assurbelkala habe sie „zu seinem Spaß anfertigen lassen“, mit eben diesem Wortstamm46. Es sieht so aus, als habe man hier das semitische Wort, das die Übersetzer in Anchiale mit παῖζε wiedergaben, nicht ohne auf seinen ‚lockeren‘ Nebensinn hinzuweisen. Soweit spricht alles dafür, dass mit der Geschichte von Anchiale von einer echten Kulturbegegnung in Kilikien, anhand eines realen Monuments, berichtet wird, freilich in einer Weise, dass, genau besehen, trotz Übersetzern das Missverstehen triumphiert. Zunächst: Die Datierung des Monuments ist, trotz der Parallelen aus dem 8. Jahrhundert, völlig offen. Der griechische Ortsname ,Anchiale‘ jedoch, den die Übersetzer herauslasen, kann in einem alten Text nicht wohl vorgekommen sein47. Seit wann gibt es griechische Ortsnamen in Kilikien? Hier muss die Übersetzung deutlich überarbeitet sein. Weit problematischer ist die Umschrift des Namens ‚Sardanapal‘. Dass irgendeinem der damals Beteiligten eine genauere Kenntnis des Assurbanipal einschließlich der richtigen Namensform Assur-bân-apli zugänglich war, ist ganz unwahrscheinlich. Wenn die ‚assyrischen Buchstaben‘ auf Aramäisch weisen, hatten die Übersetzer eine vielleicht vieldeutige Konsonantenfolge vor sich. SRDNPL muss es nicht gewesen sein48. Den Vatersnamen haben sie als ‚Anakyndaraxes‘ wiedergegeben, ,fremdländisches Urgestein‘49; Sardanapal aber wird identifiziert worden sein, indem ein Sprung in Bekanntes erfolgte: Die Bekanntschaft hat sich offenbar eben an jener Dreiheit des 44 Siehe Εur. Alc. 779–793: Trinken und ‚Kypris‘ (791). 45 Ex. 32,6; HAL 3, 955. 46 Assur-bêl-kala, 11. Jh., RLA 1 (1932) 207 f. mit Taf. 34; vgl. V 89; die Inschrift CAD 1, 332 s. v. alamgate, 16, 64 f. s. v. sahu: ina muhhi siahi. Jizchaq: Gen. 18,12; 21,6. 47 Der Name Μόψου ῾Εστία ist Theopomp FGrH 117 F 103 bekannt, gerade die lokale Überlieferung ist aber in der vorseleukidischen Zeit ganz unsicher (W. Ruge, in: RE 16, 243–250). 48 Vgl. Weißbach oben bei Anm. 6. Bezeugt ist ein Name SRND KAI 236,1 (= Sharruna’id.) 49 Weißbach hat auch mehrere Vorschläge, Anakyndaraxes assyrisch zu verstehen; die heutigen Luwier-Spezialisten könnten sicher noch weitere Vorschläge beibringen.

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Glücks aufgebaut, dieser Triade der Lust: Essen, Trinken und ‚Spielen‘. Man kannte doch Sardanapals Skandalverse: ἔφαγον, ἔκπιον, τερπν’ ἐδάην – hier nun ἔσθιε, πῖνε, παῖζε. Wer kann das sein, wenn nicht Sardanapal? Wie die neue Grabinschrift aus Lykien zeigt, war dies ein Missverständnis. Ärger ist das Missverständnis der Gestik jener Statue. Schon Eduard Meyer, dem Weißbach folgt, hat überzeugende Beispiele aus der assyrischen Ikonographie beigebracht, die eben dieses ‚Zusammenhalten der Finger der rechten Hand, wie zum Schnalzen‘ zeigen50. Nur: Dieser Gestus heißt akkadisch karabu und bedeutet ‚Anbeten‘ und ‚Segnen‘. Dies ist eines Hochgestellten, eines Königs würdig. Auf der Umdeutung als Schnippchen, Schnalzen der Verachtung aber beruht die ganze griechische Interpretation. Sie ist nicht durch den Text der Inschrift gestützt. Wie konnte eine solche Umdeutung zustande kommen? Auch Assyrer konnten die Verehrung des Königs durchaus durch ‚lockere‘ Deutungen entschärfen: Die Proskynese, die die Griechen so störte, klang bei ihnen wie ‚die Nase wischen‘51. Einleuchtender scheint, dass die Missdeutung spontan in der Begegnung der Griechen mit dem Monument entstand. War erst Sardanapal identifiziert, dann floss aus dem griechischen Zweizeiler die rechte Deutung: Ab mit Schaden – ist ja alles nichts wert. Nun weist ein Element der Tradition in der Tat über Aristobulos zurück, eine Bemerkung des Aristoteles: Ein solches Leben à la Sardanapal, Sohn des Anakyndaraxes, sei „noch blöder (ἀσυνετώτερον) als der Name des Vaters“52. Ἀσύνετος heißt ‚unverständlich‘ und ‚unverständig‘; der Name ist deutlich ungriechisch, und diese Unverständlichkeit verwendet Aristoteles für seine Pointe: was kann aus so einem Namen herauskommen? Nun, eben das Sardanapal-Epigramm, ein Leben, das „noch blöder als der Vatersname“ ist. Der Name ,Anakyndaraxes‘ stammt nicht aus Ktesias53. Er ist sonst immer mit der Episode in Kilikien verbunden. Nun kann aber Aristoteles das Werk des Aristobulos nicht gesehen haben; Aristoteles ist kurz nach Alexander gestorben; Aristobulos’ Werk frühestens 291/90, also 30 Jahre später erschienen54. Wenn also der Name Anakyndaraxes dem Aristoteles bekannt war, muss ihm die Geschichte von Anchiale mit dem übersetzten Text dieses Grabmals schon vor Aristobulos bekannt geworden sein. Hier wird man doch an Kallisthenes denken, dessen Alexandergeschichte Bruchstück blieb. Seine Katastrophe wird 327 datiert; aber die ersten Teile konnten doch seinen Onkel in Athen erreichen55. Kallisthenes war 50 51 52 53

Meyer (1892) 205; Weißbach (1920) 2467. AHw 522. Athen. 335F = Aristot. fr. 90 Rose; <ἢ> (Athenaios-Ausgabe) scheint mir notwendig. Sofern Kastor 250 F 1d Ktesias wiedergibt; hier heißt der Vater des Sardanapallos Akrazanes. 54 FGrH 139 Einleitung. 55 Persika in FGrH 124 F 34 könnte sich darauf beziehen.

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ein Historiker mit archivalischen Interessen; er hatte mit Aristoteles zusammen die Überlieferung von Delphi aufgearbeitet, hatte dabei gewiss auch mit Inschriften gearbeitet56. Und an Sardanapal waren beide interessiert. Man kann sich vorstellen, dass das philosophisch-historische Interesse des Kallisthenes die tatsächlichen Ereignisse von Anchiale mit bestimmt hat. Man nahm zur Kenntnis, dass ein Sardanapal nicht nur Wollarbeit bei Weibern verrichtet hat, und doch hat das mitgebrachte quasimythische Wissen um Sardanapal als Skandalfigur sich durchgesetzt, besonderes in der Interpretation der Gestik. Dank mehrfachem Missverständnis wird das Fremde als Bestätigung des eigenen vorgegebenen Mythos von Sardanapal genommen. Im Sardanapal-Skandal steckt der Riss einer partiellen Kulturbegegnung, die in Anchiale Ereignis wurde.

Literaturverzeichnis AHw. – Wolfram von Soden, Akkadisches Handwörterbuch (Wiesbaden 1965–1982). CAD. – Ignace J. Gelb et al. (edd.), The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago (Chicago 1956–). Cox et al. (1988). – C. W. M. Cox/A. Cameron/J. Cullen, Monuments from the Aezanitis, ed. by Barbara Levick et al., MAMA 9 (London 1988). Dornseiff (1929). – Franz Dornseiff, „Dareios und Sardanapal“, Hermes 64 (1929) 270 f. Dover (1974). – Kenneth Dover, Greek Popular Morality (Berkeley 1974). Dover (1978). – Kenneth Dover, Greek Homosexuality (New York 1978). Dunbar (1995). – Dan Dunbar, Aristophanes Birds (Oxford 1995). Flashar et al. (2006). – Hellmut Flashar/Uwe Dubielzig/Barbara Breitenberger, Aristoteles Fragmente, Bd. 1 (Berlin 2006). HAL. – Ludwig Köhler/Walter Baumgartner, Hebräisches und Aramäisches Lexikon zum Alten Testament (Leiden 1967–1990). Head (²1911). – Barclay V. Head, Historia Numorum (Oxford ²1911). Jaeger (1923). – Werner Jaeger, Aristoteles (Berlin 1923). Korenjak/Rollinger (2001). – Martin Korenjak/Robert Rollinger, „ΚΑΙ ΤΟΔΕ ΦΩΚΥΛΙΔΟΥ: Phokylides und der Fall Ninives“, Philologus 145 (2001) 195–202. Lanfranchi (2003). – Giovanni B. Lanfranchi, „Il ‚Monumento di Sardanapalo‘ e la sua iscrizione“, Studi Trentini di Scienze storiche 82 (2003) 79–86. Le Bas/Waddington (1847–1873). – Philippe Le Bas, Voyage archéologique en Grèce et en Asie mineure fait par ordre du gouvernement français pendant les années 1843 et 1844, Teil 2: Philippe Le Bas/William Henry Waddington, Inscriptions grecques et latines (Paris 1847–1873). Luckenbill (1924). – Daniel David Luckenbill, The Annals of Sennacherib (Chicago 1924). Luckenbill (1926). – Daniel David Luckenbill, Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylonia, Bd. 1 (Chicago 1926). Meyer (1892). – Eduard Meyer, „Sardanapals Grabschrift“, in: id., Forschungen zur Alten Geschichte, Bd. 1 (Halle 1892) 203–209. 56 SIG 3 275 = FGrH 124 T 23.

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Meyer (1899). – Eduard Meyer, „Nochmals Sardanapals Grabschrift“, in: id., Forschungen zur Alten Geschichte, Bd. 2 (Halle 1899) 541–544. Streck (1916). – Maximilian Streck, Assurbanipal und die letzten assyrischen Könige bis zum Untergang Niniveeh’s (Leipzig 1916). Strommenger (1962). – Eva Strommenger, Fünf Jahrtausende Mesopotamien (München 1962). Tekoglu/Lemaire (2000). – Recai Tekoglu/André Lemaire, „La bilingue royale louvitophénicienne de Cineköy“, CR AI (2000) 961–1007. Weißbach (1920). – Franz Heinrich Weißbach, „Sardanapal“, in: RE 1A,2 (1920) 2436–2475. West (1978). – Martin L. West, Theognidis et Phocylidis Fragmenta, Kleine Texte 192 (Berlin 1978). Wörrle (1998). – Michael Wörrle, „Leben und Sterben wie ein Fürst. Überlegungen zu den Inschriften eines neuen Dynastengrabes in Lykien“, Chiron 28 (1998) 77–83. Wörrle (2000). – Michael Wörrle, „Die Inschriften am Grab des Apollonios am Asartas von Yazir in Ostlykien“, Lykia 3 (1996/7; erschienen 2000) 224–238.

Biographical Mythology mary r. lefkowitz

By the time that ancient Greek poets wrote down the traditional stories about gods and heroes, these mythical narratives were no longer being created. Audiences would recognize and derive pleasure from the ways in which the poets told their own versions of the stories. A poet could expect that even a brief reference to a myth could make a point: When Priam tells Helen that as a young man he was summoned to fight against the Amazons (Il. 3.188 f.), it is a way of reminding her (and the audience) that he was once a great hero, like Bellerophontes (Il. 6.186). But no ancient writer says, and almost certainly no one knew, who first told the stories, or how or why they came into being. No modern theory can provide a satisfactory explanation for their creation1. Nonetheless, we can discern how new myths could be created by examining the non-traditional narratives that were invented in historical times. Among these are the so-called “lives” that biographers compiled for the great poets. Since the writers of these lives had little factual information to go on, they drew on the poets’ own words for such autobiographical data as they could discover. In the genres of poetry that by definition did not supply personal data, such as epic and drama, biographers were compelled to be more inventive. Their source materials were the stories the poets told, on the words the poets had put into their characters’ mouths, and on the comic poets’ parodies of the poets’ work2. The biographers then set what they found into larger the kinds of narrative structures that they found in traditional myths. The process of creation appears to have been fundamentally imitative. Biographers intended their narratives both to entertain and to educate. Although in the forms in which they have come down to us the

1 2

For a helpful survey of the strengths and limitations of such theories, see esp. Graf (1993) 1–56. On the biographers’ methods, see Momigliano (1971) 24–28, Lefkowitz (1981) passim, and Lefkowitz (2007) 101–105.

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biographies can hardly qualify as great literature, they can give us at least a partial idea of how and why mythological narratives were created. Biographers turned to traditional narratives in order to give lasting meaning to the new stories that they were creating. Mythological patterns provided a means of representing what is worthy of record, of making it memorable, and at least in an abstract sense, true, since ἀλήθεια is literally the ‘unforgettable’. Though biographers usually wrote in prose, by basing their narratives on myths they endowed them with some of the lasting qualities of poetry. They might have chosen to turn to myth even if they had had access to archives of factual information, because (as Aristotle observed) poetry is more philosophical and serious than history, in that poetry deals with the universal (τὰ καθόλου), but history with particulars (τὰ καθ’ ἕκαστον, poet. 1451b7). Such evidence as we now have suggests that the earliest biographers sought to represent poets as quasi-heroes, figures who possessed along with their greatness significant but fatal flaws, and who may have achieved fame in their lifetimes, but died ignominiously, often away from their homelands, like Heracles, Theseus, or Oedipus. It has recently been proposed that behind the biographies lies a very ancient Indo-European mythological pattern, the narrative of the poet as scapegoat, isolated and reviled by his contemporaries3. But even though myths often refer to rituals, poets are not treated like scapegoats in any of the extant “lives”. Although some poets were believed to have died in exile, none is specially costumed and formally driven out of his community with curses and imprecations4. The mythical figures whose stories most closely conform to the scapegoat pattern are Aesop and Marsyas, neither of whom is a poet. Unlike scapegoats, poets were worshiped after their deaths, like the great heroes of epic. The Athenian orator Alcidamas knew of several such cults in the late 5th or early 4th century: Archilochus in Paros, Homer in Chios, Sappho in Mytilene (Aristot. rhet. 2.23, 1398b11–17)5. Later sources refer to cults of Aeschylus in Gela, Hesiod in Orchomenos, Pindar at Delphi, and Sophocles in Athens6. Many affinities can be found between the lives of poets and the myths of heroes, provided that we do not seek to press analogies too closely, and 3 4 5

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Compton (2006). On scapegoat rituals see esp. Bremmer (2008) 175–196. Alcidamas (fr. 10 Avezzù = fr. 3 Muir) also mentions hero cults for Chilon in Sparta, for Pythagoras in Italy, and for Anaxagoras in Lampsacus (even though he came from Clazomenae). On heroic honors for philosophers, see also Chitwood (2004) 88. See Clay (2004) 9, 99, and 63 f., 78–80 on the archaeological evidence for the cult of Archilochus. On the hero cult of Sophocles, Connolly (1998) 15–20, and 21 for a complete list of heroized historical persons. For a map and list of poet heroes (including some prose writers) with actual and possible cults, see Clay (2004) 5, with evidence on 127–153.

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that we take full account of the different ways in which poets and warriors must be characterized. Repeated themes include extraordinary or uncertain parentage, early signs of talent, rejection, exile, and deaths that are either bizarre or antithetical to the poets’ individual lives. In part, poets were thought to resemble heroes because that is how they chose to represent themselves in their first-person statements. Hesiod points out that the Muses give a laurel branch to him, not to the other shepherds (theog. 29–31). Hesiod boasts that he won the tripod at the funeral games for Amphidamas (op. 656 f.). Poets also describe themselves as endangered. Pindar portrays himself as an athlete fighting against unnamed detractors. He is aware that his ability exposes him to envy (φθόνος). There is always the omnipresent danger that he might fail to please his patron or his audience7. The same tensions recur in narratives about poets who not speak directly to their audiences about themselves. Although they are admired for their talents, they have adversaries and critics, and audiences can be disturbed by their poetry. Although poets had only words for weapons, words had power to conceal or reveal the truth, to damage as well as sustain8. In their ability to help or harm, poets had an affinity with heroes, who could use their powers for both good and evil; Aristophanes’ heroes describe themselves as “the dispensers of evil and good” (οἱ ταμίαι τῶν κακῶν καὶ ἀγαθῶν, fr. 322 K.-A., PCG 7.2, 178). Heracles used his extraordinary strength to rescue his family, but then destroyed them. Supernatural stories about the poets were circulating by the early 6th century. Heraclitus uses an anecdote about Homer as an illustration of the limits of human understanding: “Humans are deceived in their understanding of appearances, particularly Homer, who was wiser (σοφώτερος) than all the Greeks. Boys delousing themselves deceived him when they said: ‘those we had seen and caught, we left behind, but those we did not see or catch, we bring’ ” (22 B 56, I 163 Diels/Kranz). Thucydides relates that Hesiod had been told by an oracle that he would be killed by some men in the sanctuary of Nemean Zeus (3.96.1). But so far as we know it was only in the 4th century that biographers began to place these anecdotes into the longer narratives. In the third book of the now lost treatise on On Poets Aristotle appears to have provided an account of Homer’s life (fr. 76 Rose = F 20.1 Gigon = 7 8

Lefkowitz (1991) 113–118. On the difficulties of distinguishing fact from fiction in first-person statements, see also Bowie (1993) 35–37. Both Pindar and Bacchylides call attention to the poet’s potential to disparage achievement: Pind. P. 2. 53–56: “but I must avoid the sharp tooth of slanders, for I have seen from far off hostile Archilochus in helplessness fattening himself on harsh-spoken hatred” cf. Bacchyl. 3.67–69; also P. 9.93–96, I. 5.43–45, N. 7.61–63, Bacchyl. 5.187–190, 13.199–207. See Lloyd-Jones (1990) 129, n. 78.

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Ps.-Plut. vit. Hom. 1.3 f.)9. His mother Critheis, a native of Ios, was a contemporary of Neleus the son of Codrus, legendary founder of Miletus, which would mean that the poet lived in the 11th century BC Critheis became pregnant by a divinity (ὑπό τινος δαίμονος) who danced along with the Muses10. She sailed to Aegina in order to avoid disgrace, but was captured by pirates and brought to Smyrna, then under Lydian rule, where the king Maeon, married her. She gave birth to a son near the river Meles, and died soon after. Maeon adopted the baby, who was named Melesigenes11. When the Lydians abandoned Smyrna to the Aeolians, the boy accompanied them (ὁμηρεῖν), and after that was called Homer. When he grew up and became a poet he asked the oracle about his parents and was told that his mother came from Ios, that he would die there, and to beware of a riddle from young men12. While on his way to a singing contest at Thebes, his ship brought him to Ios, and there he encountered the young men who asked him the riddle about the lice. When he could not solve the riddle, he died from depression (διὰ τὴν ἀθυμίαν). The people of Ios gave him a magnificent funeral, and wrote an epitaph for his tomb: “Here the earth covers the sacred head, the glorifier of heroes, divine Homer.” Aristotle’ account incorporates many elements found in myth and fairy tale. The poet, like many heroes, is the son of a divinity. His survival is ensured by a series of lucky coincidences, and he is warned by an oracle of the circumstances of his death. Because Aristotle’s narrative survives only in summary, we cannot know exactly what emphasis he would have given to the different sections of the story. But apparently he tried to set it in a historical context, and to provide a rationale for the poet’s change of name and his association with different places: why else explain that he “accompanied” the Lydians, or specify that his mother was sailing from Ios to Aegina and then brought to Smyrna? The story also needed to explain why the poet changed his name from Melesigenes to Homer, and to provide a framework for the oracles about his death, the riddle of the boys and lice, and the composition of his epitaph. According to Aristotle the poet dies because he has lost the knowledge that brought him fame during his lifetime. Heracles, the greatest 9 Text in Keaney and Lamberton (1996), with notes p. 57. 10 Normally the male god who accompanies the Muses is Apollo (e. g. scut. 201–206, Pind. P. 1.1 f.), the creator of this story may also have had in mind the passage in the Iliad where Hermes spies Polymele in the dance (Il. 16.181–183, cf. Hom. h. 5.117 f.). 11 In other versions of the story (e. g., Euagon of Samos, FGrH 535 F 2), Homer’s father is identified as the river-god Meles on the basis of the name Melesigenes (which actually must have meant “he who cares for his relatives”); see Graziosi (2002) 74 f. 12 Two versions of the oracle are given (also preserved as Anth. Pal. 14.65, 66).

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of all heroes, also dies in a way that negates his famous powers. He is killed not in a fair fight, but by a gift from his wife. In his Mouseion the 4th-century orator Alcidamas included the same basic elements in his account of Homer’s death (fr. 7 Avezzù = fr. 27 Muir)13. But Alcidamas’ narrative makes the poet seem more courageous than he appears to have been in Aristotle’s version14: οἱ δὲ ὁρῶντες αὐτὸν ἐσχεδίασαν τόνδε τὸ στίχον “ὅσσ’ ἕλομεν λιπόμεσθ’, ὅσ’ οὐχ ἕλομεν φερόμεσθα”, ὁ δὲ οὐ δυνάμενος εὑρεῖν τὸ λεχθὲν ἤρετο αὐτοὺς ὅ τι λέγοιεν. οἱ δέ ἔφασαν ἐφ’ ἁλείαν οἰ̣ χό̣μεν̣ ο[ι ἀγρ]εῦσαι μὲν οὑδέν, καθήμενοι δὲ φθειρίζεσθαι, τῶν δὲ φθειρῶν οὓς ἔλαβον αὐτοῦ καταλιπεῖν, οὓς δὲ οὐκ ἔλαβον ἐν τοῖς τρίβωσιν ἐναποφέρειν. ἀναμνησθεὶς δὲ τοῦ μαντείου [ὅτι] ἡ καταστροφὴ αὐτῷ τοῦ βίου ἧκεν, ποιεῖ εἰς ἑαυτὸν ἐπίγραμμα τόδε· ἐνθάδε τὴν ἱερὴν κεφαλὴν κατὰ γαῖα κάλυψε, ἀνδρῶν ἡρώων κοσμήτορα θεῖον ῞Ομηρον. καὶ ἀναχωρῶν πηλοῦ ὄντος ὀλισθάνει καὶ πεσὼν ἐπὶ τὴν πλευρὰν οὕτως, φασίν, τελεύτησεν. When they saw him, they improvised this line “those we caught we left behind and those we didn’t catch, we bring”. He could not find the meaning of what they said. They told him that they had been fishing and caught nothing, but that when they sat down to de-louse themselves, they left behind the lice they caught, but that those they didn’t catch they brought with them in their clothes. He remembered the oracle, that here was the conclusion of his life, and he wrote this epigram about himself: ‘here the earth covers the sacred head, the glorifier of heroes, divine Homer.’ After that he went where there was mud and fell on his side and thus (as they say) he died.

Although Heraclitus (at least as quoted) did not place his account of Homer’s failure to solve the riddle of the lice at a particular point in Homer’s life, Aristotle and Alcidamas explicitly linked the story to his death. But in Alcidamas’ account Homer remembers that an oracle had warned Homer that he would die when he no longer had the power to understand more than other mortals. He then has the presence of mind to compose his own epitaph. He dies quietly, after he has slipped and fallen in the mud. The anecdote has some elements in common with the story of the death of Heracles. The great hero had been told by his father Zeus that he would be killed by a dead person. He was only able to understand that riddle after it was too late, when he learned that his skin was being eaten away by the blood of the centaur Nessus, whom he had killed long before (Soph. Trach. 1159–1163). 13 On the contents of the Mouseion, see esp. Muir (2001) 19 f. 14 Text as emended and supplemented by Avezzù (1982) 50; cf. Renehan (1971) 85 f. On the translation, see Muir (2001) 39 and Edwards (2007) 52. The context for the anecdote may be preserved in the final section (18) of 1st-century AD Contest between Homer and Hesiod, which used Alcidamas’ Mouseion as one of its sources (14).

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Heracles dies a death that no ordinary mortal could endure, allowing himself to be burned alive. Alcidamas concludes his account of Homer’s life (περὶ Ὁμήρου) with a brief explanation of why he has written the biography. περὶ τούτου μὲν οὖν ποιεῖσθαι τὴν ἁρετὴν πειρασόμεσθα, μάλιστα δὲ ὁρῶντες τοὺς ἰσστορικοὺς θαυμαζομένους. Ὅμηρος γοῦν διὰ τοῦτο καὶ ζῶν καὶ ἀποθανὼν τετίμηται παρὰ πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις. ταύτη[ν] οὖν αὐτῷ τῆς παιδείας χάριν ἀποδιδό̣[ντες το γέ]νος αὐτοῦ καὶ τὴν ἄλλην ποίησιν δι’ ἀκ[ριβ]είας μνήμης τοῖς βουλομένοις φι[λοκαλ]εῖν τῶν Ἑλλήνων εἰς τὸ κοινὸν παραδῶμεν. On this we shall try to make our reputation, especially since we see that historians are admired. Indeed on account of this Homer both in life and in death has been honored by all mankind. So publishing this in thanks for the entertainment, let us hand down through accurate recollection his origin and his other poetry to the common possession of those Greeks who wish to be lovers of the beautiful.

Despite some uncertainties in the text it is possible to see that Alcidamas believes that through recollection of Homer’s life he was enhancing his own reputation (ἀρετή) as well as offering thanks to the great poet, for his entertainment and the beauty of his verse. Does Alcidamas mean by “his other work” (ἡ ἄλλη ποίησις) the many poems attributed to Homer in antiquity other than the Iliad and the Odyssey and does he imply that in his narrative he might have provided a context for them? If so, the chronology of Homer’s life in the Certamen and in the Herodotean Life of Homer might at least in part have had its origin in Alcidamas’ Mouseion15. Certainly in the 4th century the manner of Homer’s death and the verses associated with it were fixed elements in the narrative; so were the names Cretheis (or Critheis), Maeon, and Melesigenes plus the river Meles near Smyrna, but it was up to individual historians to supply the details of the narrative. In Aristotle Homer’s father had been an unnamed divinity, but in his version of the story the 4th-century historian Ephorus of Cyme avoids the supernatural. Maeon was the poet’s actual rather than adoptive father (Ps.-Plut, vit. Hom. 1.2 = FGrH 70 F 1); we might compare the way in which Herodotus portrays Io as a victim of a slaving raid by Phoenicians, without ever mentioning Zeus or Hera or the story of her metamorphosis, and says that Europa was abducted in a counter-raid, without any reference to Zeus’ disguising himself as a white bull (1.1.1). Ephorus accounts for the name Homer by claiming that the Cymeans and Ionians call those who are visually impaired “those who serve as hostages” (ὁμηρεύοντες), a “fact” not attested elsewhere; presumably Ephorus simply invented it to suit his purpose. Despite the presence of obvious fictions in their narratives, Alcidamas appears to be referring to other biographers, when he says that he “sees 15 On the connection between the Contest and Alcidamas’ Mouseion, see Muir (2001) 19 f.; Edwards (2007) 52 f.

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historians (ἱστορικοί) being admired.” Certainly Aristotle, Ephorus, and Alcidamas could be called historians in the sense that they conducted investigations, tried to make sense of their data, and (so far as they could) place events in an historical context, as Aristotle also did by dating Homer in the third generation after the Athenian hero Codrus. Like Herodotus and Thucydides, Alcidamas has ethical goals, which he makes explicit. He wants his memoir to be “a common possession of the Greeks.” The author of the Contest, which drew on Alcidamas’ Mouseion, also did that by connecting Homer physically to some of the Greek cities who had some claim on him. Although biographical historians (to use that term in the sense that Alcidamas uses it) relied on mythical patterns to provide a general narrative trajectory for the story of Homer’s life, they used information from his epics to give his story individuality. Phemius and the blind bard Demodocus were natural models. So were the traveling rhapsodes who performed the epics in the biographers’ own lifetimes; Homer in the biographers moves from city to city and dies far away from where he was supposedly born16. Archilochus’ biographers also drew on his poetry to reconstruct his life, at least so far as we can just from the fragments of biographical inscriptions about the poet that date from the Hellenistic period. That these accounts were inscribed on stone tablets and placed in the poet’s heroon indicates that such biographies had become an established means of memoralizing the poet’s achievements, even though they usually said more about what the poet was supposed to have done than about what he wrote. Sosthenes appears to have based his biography directly on quotations from Archilochus’ own works17. Mnesiepes’ biography, which dates to the 3rd century BC, begins with an account of how Archilochus discovered that he was a poet18. Like Alcidamas in his Life of Homer, who prefaces his account of Homer’s death with “as they say,” Mnesiepes distances himself from his sources (E1 col. II.20– 23): “Concerning the information that we wanted to have inscribed, this is what was passed down to us by the ancients and which we have worked on ourselves. For they say …” (περὶ δὲ ὧν ἠβουλήθημεν ἀναγράψαι, τάδε παραδέδοταί τε ἡμῖν ὑπὸ τῶν ἀρχαίων καὶ αὐτοί πεπραγματεύμεθα. λέγουσι γὰρ …). According to Mnesiepes, When Archilochus was a young man, he rose before dawn to take a cow to sell at the market. On his way, at a place called Slippery Rocks, he encountered nine women. He made fun of the women, who enjoyed his joking and offered to buy the cow. Then suddenly they disappeared (along with the cow) and all that remained was a lyre. Archilochus was dumbfounded, but when he recovered his senses he realized that these 16 See also Graziosi (2002) 60 f. 17 Text in Clay (2004) 116–118. 18 Text in Clay (2004) 105 f.

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were the Muses. He showed his father Telesicles the lyre, and Telesicles went to Delphi to ask the oracle about what had happened. The oracle at Delphi told him that the son who first greeted him when he returned to Paros would be immortal and famous (ἀθάνατος […] καὶ ἀοίδιμος); this was of course Archilochus (E1 col. II.24–57). In the story Archilochus appears to be both innocent and ignorant. He does not seem to have known that he had any talent as a poet, and he takes some time to realize that he has just experienced a theophany. One needs only to compare this scene with Hesiod’s description in the Theogony of his encounter with the Muses of Helicon. The poet immediately recognized the Muses when they appeared to him, handed him a laurel branch, and breathed into him a divine voice (26–34). He did not need to ask the oracle to explain who they were and what their gift to him might mean. Mnesiepes, and Sosthenes could draw on Archilochus’ poetry when they constructed their biographies, but only limited resources were available to the biographers of the great dramatists. They could employ victory lists and other inscriptions that mentioned the poets by name, but since the dramatists provided no direct information about themselves in their works, their biographers were compelled to turn to the dramas themselves in order to provide some kind of assessment of the dramatists’ personalities. Since these did not contain self-portraits or indeed any descriptions of what dramatists did in order to create their works, biographers turned to caricatures provided by the comic poets and statements in the dramas that might conceivably be supposed to represent the poet’s personal opinions. The results, so far as we can judge from the Lives that are preserved along with the manuscripts, were a strange combination of myth and satire, in which the poets are treated with both respect and condescension, and the presence of the gods less obvious than in the biographies of Homer and Archilochus. Like them, Aeschylus had been warned by an oracle: “a missile from heaven will kill you” (TrGF 3, T 1.38 f.). The poet died because he was hit on the head by a tortoise dropped on his head by an eagle. Certainly the story is not historical: despite its great comic potential, Aristophanes does not mention it in the Frogs. It has been thought that the anecdote about Aeschylus’ death might have been inspired by Teiresias’ prophecy to Odysseus in Aeschylus’ Psychagogoi (TrGF 3, F 275): “a heron flying overhead shall strike you with dung, the releasings of its stomach, and a spine from this sea grazer shall rot your aged brow, with its thinning hair.” But a death from the sea is more appropriate for Odysseus (Od. 11.134–136) than it is for Aeschylus. If a biographer chose to have Aeschylus killed by a tortoise dropped by an eagle, one cannot help wondering if he might have intended the story as a refutation of a philosophical topos. Exactly the same type of incident (a bald man’s head being broken by a tortoise dropped by an eagle) was used

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by the philosopher Democritus as an example of random luck (68 A 68, II 101 Diels/Kranz)19. Aeschylus’ biographers used the same eagle and tortoise story to make exactly the opposite point. By connecting it to the prophecy about the poet’s death, they turned the supposedly random incident into a confirmation of the power of the god. The lyre is the trademark of the poet; the sounding boards of lyres were made from tortoise shells20. The eagle is the bird of Zeus, and no poet celebrated that god’s powers more extensively than Aeschylus21. A verse commemorating his extraordinary death was inscribed on his tomb: “I died, struck on the brow from an eagle’s claws” (TrGF 3, T 1.66 f.). The citizens of Gela, where he died, gave him a public burial and heroic honors, and people involved in the theater offered sacrifices at his tomb (TrGF 3, T 1.40–47). Divine action plays an important role also in the ancient biographies of Euripides, although in more negative ways than in the Life of Aeschylus. According to his Vita, the poet was born on the same day as the battle of Salamis (TrGF 5.1, T 1.16–18). Euripides first trained as an athlete because his father had received an oracle that his son would win victories in crown contests (TrGF 5.1, T 1.4–6). He died and was buried in Macedonia, but had a cenotaph in Athens. Both the poet’s tombs were struck by lightning (TrGF 5.1, T 1.30–33, 38). In practice such places were set apart, and dedicated to Zeus22. Being struck by lightning could be interpreted as a sign of divine disfavor. In Euripides’ Phoenissae the hybristic Capaneus was struck by Zeus’ thunderbolt when attempting to scale the walls of Thebes (1172–1186)23. In Euripides’ Bacchae Semele’s sisters claimed that Zeus killed her with a lightning bolt because she lied about her relationship with him (30 f.). But later in that drama the house of the impious king Pentheus is struck by lightning, and the flame around Semele’s tomb flares up again (594–599)24. The manner of Euripides’ death, as reported by his earlier biographers, is yet another indication of divine disfavor. The Euripides Vita records that Philochorus in the 4th century and Eratosthenes in the third wrote about Euripides’ death (TrGF 5.1, T 1.30–33), but the earliest detailed account that we still possess is that of the biographer Satyrus of Callatis, dating from 19 On the influence of Tiresias’ prophecy on the eagle and tortoise story, see Hadjicosti (2005) 78–82. 20 On the connection, see Chitwood (2004) 49. 21 See Lloyd-Jones (1990) 243–249. 22 See Eur. Bacch. 10 f., with Dodds (1960) 62 f.; see also Eur. Suppl. 934 f., with Collard (1975) 2, 341. 23 According to the scholion on Eur. Phoen. 1173 (1, 374 Schwartz), Capaneus climbed a ladder holding two torches, one of which he claimed was thunder and the other lightning. Capaneus’ defiance of Zeus is also described in Aesch. Sept. 427–434, 444–446; see Hutchinson (1985) 133. 24 See esp. Seaford (1996) 150.

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the 2nd century BC, which is also summarized in the Vita. The story of the poet’s demise clearly was invented sometime after the production of Aristophanes’ Frogs in 399, because Aristophanes certainly would have wanted to say something about it, if he had known the story25. Satyrus is careful to warn his audience that what he is relating is unlikely to be strictly factual, since its source is old and garrulous men (F 6 fr. 39 col. 20 f.)26: τελευτῆς δὲ μάλα δυσχεροῦς καὶ ἰδίας ἔτυχεν, ὡς οἱ λόγιοί τε καὶ γεραίτατοι μυθεολο[γ]οῦσι Μακεδ[ό]νων·(B) Πῶς λέ[γουσιν;]·(A) ῎Εστ[ιν] ἐ[ν Μακεδονίαι] […] (Α) […] ὁ δὴ παρηιτήσατο· χρό[νωι δ’ ὕ]στερ[ον] ὁ μ[ὲν] Εὐρι[πί]δη[ς ἔτυ]χεν ἀπ̣ω̣τέ[ρω] τῆς πόλεως ἐν ἄλσει τινι καθ’ αὑτὸν ἐρημαζόμενος· ὁ δ’ Ἀρχέλαος ἐπὶ κυνηγίαν ἐξήιει· γενόμενοι δ’ ἔξω τῶν πυλῶν οἱ θηρευταὶ λύσαντες τοὺς σκύλακας προαφῆκαν, αὐτο[ὶ δ’ ἀ]πελείποντ[ο] κάτοπιν· ἐπιτυχόντες οὖν ο[ἱ̣ ] κύνες τῶι Εὐριπίδηι μονουμένωι διέφθειραν αὐτόν· ο[ἱ] δ’ ἐπιπαρεγενήθησαν ὕστερον· ὅθεν ἔτι καὶ νῦν λέγεσθαί φασιν [τ]ὴν παροιμί[α]ν ἐν τοῖς Μα[κ]εδόσιν ὡς ἔ[στ]ι̣ καὶ κυνὸς [δι]κη· καὶ γὰρ [ἐκ] τῶν σκ̣ υ̣[λάκων.] (A) The death he met was very difficult and idiosyncratic, according to the story that the story-tellers and the oldest men among the Macedonians tell. (B) What do they say? (A) There is in Macedonia […] and he interceded for them. Sometime later when Euripides happened to be off by himself in a certain grove outside of the city, Archelaus went out hunting with his dogs. When the hunters were outside the gates they let the dogs go and sent them out ahead, and they followed along after them. The dogs came upon Euripides when he was by himself and killed him, and the huntsmen came along later. They say that this incident is the source of a proverb still in use among the Macedonians, “There is justice even for a dog.”

The details in the missing section of the narrative can be supplied from the account of this same anecdote in the Euripides Vita (TrGF 5.1, T 1.60–64)27: ἐτελεύτησε δὲ τὸν τρόπον τοῦτον. ἐν τῇ Μακεδονίᾳ κώμη ἐστὶ καλουμένη Θρᾳκῶν διὰ τό ποτε κατῳκηκέναι ἐνταῦθα Θρᾷκας. ἐν ταύτῃ ποτὲ τοῦ Ἀρχελάου Μολοττικὴ κύων ἦλθεν ἀποπλανηθεῖσα. ταύτην Θρᾷκες, ὡς ἔθος, θύσαντες ἔφαγον. καὶ δὴ ὁ Ἀρχέλαος ἐζημίωσεν αὐτοὺς ταλάντῳ. ἐπεὶ οὖν οὐκ εἶχον, Εὐριπίδου ἐδεήθησαν ἀπολύσεως τυχεῖν δεηθέντος τοῦ βασιλέως. There was a town in Macedonia called the village of the Thracians because Thracians had once settled there. At some point a female Molossian hound belonging to Archelaus had strayed into the village. This dog the Thracians, as is their custom, sacrificed and ate. Accordingly Archelaus fined them one talent. Since they did not have the money, they asked Euripides to get them released from their debt to the king.

Told in this way, the story appears to relate a string of unfortunate coincidences that lead to the poet’s death. But behind it lies a mythical narrative, the death of Pentheus in one Euripides’ most powerful dramas, the Bacchae. 25 Scullion (2003) 396–400. 26 Text in Schorn (2004). 27 On the various accounts of Euripides’ death, see esp. Schorn (2004) 334–338.

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When Pentheus refuses to give due honor to the god Dionysus, his grandfather Cadmus warns him not to be like his cousin Actaeon, who impiously boasted that he was a better hunter than Artemis and so was torn to pieces by his own dogs (337–340). When later in the drama the still obdurate Pentheus goes to the mountains to spy on the women of Thebes as they celebrate the rites of Dionysus, the Bacchant women of the chorus address the women of Thebes as “the swift dogs of madness” (977). They call upon the goddess Justice to destroy Pentheus “the godless, lawless, wrongdoing (τὸν ἄθεον ἄνομον ἄδικον) earthborn son of Echion” (994 f.). Euripides was associated by biographers with his character Pentheus because of Aristophanes’ caricatures of the poet’s religious views28. In the Frogs Aristophanes portrays Euripides as praying to “different” and “personal” gods (890 f.). In the Thesmophoriazousae a woman accuses Euripides of “persuading people that the gods do not exist” (450 f.). Virtually the same charges were made against Socrates: in Plato’s Apolog y Socrates includes Aristophanes among his accusers, because he had portrayed him in his Clouds as a sophist scrutinizing the sky and searching beneath the earth: “his audience believes that such investigators do not believe in the gods” (οὐδὲ θεοὺς νομίζειν, 18c). Socrates’ accuser Meletus claimed that “Socrates does wrong by corrupting the youth and not believing in the gods in whom the city believes” (ἀδικεῖν τούς τε νέους διαφθείροντα καὶ θεοὺς οὓς ἡ πόλις νομίζει οὐ νομίζοντα, Plat. apol. 24c). The question of Euripides’ associations with supposedly atheistic philosophers was raised in Satyrus’ dialogue. In one fragment an interlocutor states that on at least two occasions Euripides voiced the ideas of Anaxagoras, who like Socrates was tried for impiety (ἀσέβεια, Diog. Laert. 2.12). According to the interlocutor, Euripides “summarizes with complete accuracy the world-view of Anaxagoras in three verses” when one of his characters asks by what name he might address Zeus, and also echoes Anaxagoras in the Trojan Women when Hecuba suggests that she might address Zeus as “the mind of mortals” (νοῦς βροτῶν, 886; F 6 fr. 37 col. 3), presumably because Anaxagoras had said that “mind put the universe in order” (Diog. Laert. 2.6 = 59 A 1, II 5 Diels/Kranz)29. Euripides also “was considered to have disgraced himself in the eyes of most people for admiring Socrates excessively” (F 6 fr. 38 col. 4). Since the Athenians executed Socrates, it was not unreasonable to suppose that because of his untraditional views Euripides also would have died a death appropriate to the impious, like that of the ἄθεος ἄνομος ἄδικος 28 See esp. Lefkowitz (1987) 149–166. 29 By putting these words into the mouth of Hecuba, Euripides was almost certainly criticizing Anaxagoras’ views; see Lefkowitz (1987) 163 f.; Schorn (2004) 214 f.

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Pentheus30. In the Bacchae Pentheus is alone, without his attendants, when the women tear him to pieces. In Satyrus’ account, the poet also happens to be by himself, and the dogs are sent on ahead without their keepers, even though ordinarily hunters did not allow dogs get too far ahead of them during a chase (e. g., Xen. cyn. 6.17). Although in Satyrus the dogs simply kill him (διέφθειραν), in the Vita “he is torn to shreds and eaten” (διεσπαράχθη καταβρωχθείς), as in a ritual σπαραγμός 31. In the Bacchae Pentheus could not have died the way he did without the participation of the god. Dionysus lures him to the mountain, and then bends a pine tree down to the ground so that he can place Pentheus on its top (ἔργματ’ οὐχὶ θνητὰ δρῶν, 1069). In Satyrus the poet, now an old man, is the victim of a hunting accident. By the end of the narration, only the outline of the Pentheus myth remains, barely visible behind the camouflage of realistic detail. The Theban women who are addressed as “dogs of madness” in the Bacchae (Λύσσας κύνες, 977) are transformed in Satyrus’ account into Macedonian hunting dogs, and the Theban women’s revenge becomes the revenge of the hunting dogs on the man who aided the persecutors of their canine ancestor. An explanation is provided for every aspect of the story: the villagers were disposed to kill rather than keep a valuable hunting dog because (although located in Macedonia) they just happened to be Thracians, who were known to worship Ares, one of the few gods to whom dogs were sacrificed32. Instead of serving as an illustration of what happens to those who do not honor the gods, the story has become the aition 30 The 3rd-century BC biographer Neanthes of Cyzicus (Diog. Laert. 9.4 = FGrH 84 F 25) may have deduced from Heraclitus’ own words (22 B 97, I 173 Diels/Kranz) that Heraclitus was devoured by dogs (κυνόβρωτος); see Fairweather (1973) 238; Chitwood (2004) 88–90; Schorn (2007) 145 f. Lucian’s remarks about being torn apart by Cynics (κυνικοί) inspired the story that he was torn apart by dogs (κύνες) because he blasphemed against Christians and Christ (Suda, s. v. L 683, I 3, 283 Adler); Lefkowitz (1987) 162. 31 In Dionysiac ritual animal victims were eaten raw (Eur. Bacch. 138); see Dodds (1960) 16–20; Seaford (1996) 37. But in the Bacchae there is no reference to Pentheus being eaten by the women who killed him; even though the women tore him limb from limb, his grandfather Cadmus is able to collect pieces of his body (1219–1221), and in the red-figured kylix by Douris (Fort Worth AP. no. 2000.02) maenads stand holding his upper body and pieces of his disjointed legs. When Agave invites the horrified chorus to take part in the feast, she supposes that she has killed a bull calf rather than her son (1184–85). 32 Spartan boys sacrifice a puppy to Enyalios, and Colophonians sacrifice a black female puppy to Hecate, according to Pausanias, 3.24.9, who knew of no other such sacrifices, but Clement of Alexandria records that the Carians sacrificed dogs to Ares ( protrept. 2.29.4); Frazer (1898) vol. 3, 336. The Thracians ate dogs, according to Sextus Empiricus, Pyrr. hypotyp. 3.225. On the evidence for dog-eating in general, see esp. Mainoldi (1981) 31; Roy (2007) 242–253.

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for what is said to be a Macedonian proverb, even though in fact it appears to have been an established saying: “Even dogs have avenging deities” (εἰσὶ καὶ κυνῶν Ἐριννύες)33. In providing such a rationalized account of Euripides’ death Satyrus was following in the footsteps of Alcidamas. Because biographers saw themselves (in Alcidamas’ words) as historians (ἱστορικοί), they presented mythical narratives with some degree of verisimilitude. Alcidamas was careful to say that it was not he himself, but other unnamed people, who told the story of Homer’s death (φασίν). Satyrus pointedly attributes the narrative of Euripides’ death to talkative old Macedonian storytellers (οἱ λόγιοί τε καὶ γεραίτατοι μυθεολο[γ]οῦσι Μακεδ[ό]νων, F 6 fr. 39 col. 20). But nonetheless both biographers relate the stories, as did Aristotle, and did their best to make them seem as credible as possible, adding the corroborative details that make fictional narratives more credible. In the biographical narratives, as in the histories of Herodotus and Thucydides, the gods no longer intervene directly in human life: all that remains is a sense of divine purpose, revealed through prophecy, as in Alcidamas’ narrative of Homer’s death, or in the oracle given to Euripides’ father that his son would win many victories. The biographies also succeed in making the poets seem flawed and vulnerable. The surviving narratives, summarized in the manuscript Vitae emphasize the poets’ weaknesses, their human failings, and negative reactions to their poetry. This deflationary trend began, as we have seen, in the 4th century. One source of inspiration, or at the very least one characteristic of the tendency, was Plato’s attack on poetry in the Ion and in the Republic. In Plato’s view Homer is merely an imitator, whose art rouses emotions but does not inspire rational thinking (rep. 605b–c). There is no place for him, or indeed for the tragic poets, in the ideal state that Socrates describes. As Socrates tells Glaucon (rep. 606e–607a): Οὐκοῦν, εἶπον, ὦ Γλαύκων, ὅταν ῾Ομήρου ἐπαινέταις ἐντύχῃς λέγουσιν ὡς τὴν ῾Ελλάδα πεπαίδευκεν οὗτος ὁ ποιητὴς καὶ πρὸς διοίκησίν τε καὶ παιδείαν τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων πραγμάτων ἄξιος ἀναλαβόντι μανθάνειν τε καὶ κατὰ τοῦτον τὸν ποιητὴν πάντα τὸν αὑτοῦ βίον κατασκευασάμενον ζῆν, φιλεῖν μὲν χρὴ καὶ ἀσπάζεσθαι ὡς ὄντας βελτίστους εἰς ὅσον δύνανται, καὶ συγχωρεῖν ῞Ομηρον ποιητικώτατον εἶναι καὶ πρῶτον τῶν τραγῳδοποιῶν, εἰδέναι δὲ ὅτι ὅσον μόνον ὕμνους θεοῖς καὶ ἐγκώμια τοῖς ἀγαθοῖς ποιήσεως παραδεκτέον εἰς πόλιν. When you encounter encomiasts of Homer who say that this poet has educated Greece and that for the daily life and education of human affairs he is worthy of study and that one should order everything in one’s life according to that poet, we should befriend and embrace these encomiasts for doing the best that they can, and agree that Homer is the most poetic and the first of the tragic poets, but at the same time we must understand that we can receive into our city only hymns to the gods and praise of noble men. 33 Schorn (2004) 341.

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In this passage Plato might be speaking of the conventional admiration that Alcidamas expresses in the conclusion to his account of Homer’s Life: “Homer both in life and in death has been honored by all mankind” (fr. 7 Avezzù = fr. 27 Muir)34. But at the same time Plato would have approved of Alcidamas’ biography because it reduces the poet’s stature to that of a traveling bard, feeble and vulnerable in his old age. In effect, all of the biographies of poets that we now possess appear to have been intended to keep readers from expressing too much admiration for their subjects. Plato would clearly have had no room for Euripides in the ideal state, if only because of his supposed atheism. It is because of this negative tendency that the patterns of the lives of the great heroes could serve as models for the lives of the great poets. Biographical myths, like heroic myths, were created both for aetiological and ethical purposes. They made use of local stories and geography, but at the same time sought to convey the messages about human life inherent in ancient Greek religion, which warned of the inevitable failure that followed even the greatest achievements. The process of creating narratives, although eclectic, was basically imitative, combining local details while at the same time adhering to well-established patterns; the heroic myths themselves might have been created in the much same ways. Although the biographers wrote in a simple and direct style with a verisimilitude characteristic of historical writing, just beneath the surface lie myths that retain the potency and the stern messages of the early religious narratives. Since one distinguishing quality of ancient Greek mythology is its power to endure, it follows that these biographies must be fundamentally mythical, because they have had such a lasting influence on later readers’ understanding of ancient Greek poetry. We still think of Homer more or less as Plato did, as a mimetic poet, whose words and thoughts are dictated by ancient tradition, rather than as a towering genius who transcended conventions and created epics that were not only longer but more enduring than anything created before or since. We still suppose that because Euripides was considered to be an atheist and a philosopher, his expressions of piety and patriotism are expressed ironically. It is time that we recognized how the apparently unprepossessing writers of literary biographies have continued to shape our thoughts, and to include their work in modern accounts of the history of mythography.

34 See above, n. 13, and cf. also Alcidamas fr. 10 Avezzù.

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Bibliography Avezzù (1982). – Guido Avezzù (ed.), Alcidamante: Orazioni e Frammenti, Bolletino dell’Istituto di Filologia Greca, Suppl. 6 (Rome 1982). Bowie (1993). – Ewen L. Bowie. “Lies, Fiction, and Slander in Early Greek Poetry”, in: Christopher Gill/Timothy Peter Wiseman (eds.), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World (Austin 1993) 1–37. Bremmer (2008). – Jan N. Bremmer, “The Scapegoat Between Northern Syria, Hittites, Israelites, Greeks, and Early Christians”, in: id., Greek Religion and Culture, the Bible and the Ancient Near East (Leiden 2008) 175–196. Chitwood (2004). – Ava Chitwood, Death by Philosophy (Ann Arbor 2004). Clay (2004). – Diskin Clay, Archilochos Heros: The Cult of Poets in the Greek Polis (Cambridge, Mass. 2004). Collard (1975). – Christopher Collard (ed.), Euripides, Supplices (Groningen 1975). Compton (2006). – Todd Compton, Victim of the Muses: Poet as Scapegoat, Warrior, and Hero in Greco-Roman and Indo-European Myth and History (Cambridge, Mass. 2006). Connolly (1998). – Andrew Connolly, “Was Sophocles Heroised as Dexion?”, JHS 118 (1998) 1–21. Dodds (²1960). – Eric Robertson Dodds (ed.), Euripides, Bacchae (Oxford ²1960). Edwards (2007). – Michael Edwards, “Alcidamas,” in: Ian Worthington (ed.), A Companion to Greek Rhetoric (Oxford 2007). Erler/Schorn (2007). – Michael Erler/Stefan Schorn (eds.), Die griechische Biographie in hellenistischer Zeit, Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 243 (Berlin 2007). Fairweather (1973). – Janet Fairweather, “The Death of Heraclitus”, GRBS 14.3 (1973) 233–239. Frazer (1898). – J. G. Frazer (ed.), Pausianas’s Description of Greece, vol. 1–6 (London 1898). Graf (1993). – Fritz Graf, Greek Mytholog y: An Introduction (Baltimore 1993). Graziosi (2002). – Barbara Graziosi, Inventing Homer: The Early Reception of Epic (Cambridge 2002). Hadjicosti (2005). – Ioanna L. Hadjicosti, “Death by a Turtle”, Eranos 103.2 (2005) 78–82. Hutchinson (1985). – Gregory O. Hutchinson (ed.), Aeschylus, Septem Contra Thebas (Oxford 1985). Keaney/Lamberton (1996). – John J. Keaney/Robert Lamberton (eds.), [ Plutarch], Essay on the Life and Poetry of Homer, American Philological Association, American Classical Studies 40 (Atlanta 1996). Lefkowitz (1981). – Mary R. Lefkowitz, The Lives of the Greek Poets (London 1981). Lefkowitz (1987). – Mary R. Lefkowitz, “Was Euripides an Atheist?”, SIFC ser. 2, 5 (1987) 149–166. Lefkowitz (1991). – Mary R. Lefkowitz, “The Poet as Hero”, in: ead., First-Person Fictions (Oxford 1991) 110–126. Lefkowitz (2007). – Mary R. Lefkowitz, “Visits to Egypt in the Biographical Tradition”, in: Erler/Schorn (2007) 101–113. Lloyd-Jones (1990). – Hugh Lloyd-Jones, The Academic Papers of Sir Hugh Lloyd-Jones. Greek Epic, Lyric, and Tragedy (Oxford 1990). Mainoldi (1981). – Carla Mainoldi, “Cani mitici e rituali tra il regno dei morti e il mondo dei viventi”, QUCC 37 (1982) 7–41. Momigliano (1971). – Arnaldo Momigliano, The Development of Greek Biography (Cambridge, Mass. 1971).

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Muir (2001). – John V. Muir (ed.), Alcidamas: The Works and Fragments (London 2001). Renehan (1971). – Robert Renehan, “The Michigan Alcidamas-Papyrus: A Problem in Methodology”, HSCPh 75 (1971) 85–105. Roy (2007). – James Roy, “The Consumption of Dog-Meat in Classical Greece”, in: Christopher Mee et al. (eds.), Cooking Up the Past (Oxford 2007) 342–353. Schorn (2004). – Stefan Schorn, Satyros aus Kallatis: Sammlung der Fragmente mit Kommentar (Basel 2004). Schorn (2007). – Stefan Schorn, “Periegetische Biographie – Historische Biographie: Neanthes von Kyzikos (FGrHist 84) als Biograph”, in: Erler/Schorn (2007) 115–156. Scullion (2003). – Scott Scullion, ‘”Euripides and Macedon, or the Silence of the Frogs”, CQ n. s. 53.2 (2003) 389–400. Schwartz (1887). – Eduard Schwartz (ed.), Scholia in Euripidem (Berlin 1887). Seaford (1996). – Richard Seaford (ed.), Euripides, Bacchae (Warminster 1996).

Imago mortis – imago vitae: Senecas Aufführung von Sokrates’ Tod – Repräsentation, Performance, Theatralität christoph auffarth 1. „Lebensbild“ – Rezeption einer antiken Vorstellung in der europäischen Religionsgeschichte Marianne Weber schrieb über ihren Mann eine Biographie, die sie „ein Lebensbild“ nannte1. Der plötzliche Tod des 56-Jährigen, nach langer Krankheitspause gerade wieder voll berufstätigen und zum Starprofessor avancierten Gatten machte die Gerüchteküche zu einem aufgebrachten Bienenkorb. Denn der Heidelberger Kreis um die Webers wusste um die Liebesaffäre, die Weber in München auslebte, während die Ehe mit Marianne sexuell unbefriedigend und kinderlos war und blieb: ein „Eisschrank“2. Dem stellte die in Heidelberg gebliebene Ehefrau sechs Jahre später das Lebensbild entgegen, in dem sie die Beziehung zwischen ihr und Max als „Gefährtenehe“ beschrieb. Das Lebensbild als ein Bewahren dessen, was einen Menschen ausmacht, nicht seine Schwächen, die Umstände seines Todes, sondern die Werte und Größe zu bewahren in der Form einer Biographie, eines Briefes, eines Gemäldes, wurde in der Frühen Neuzeit ein Genre ganz unterschiedlicher medialer Darstellungen3. Vorbild war ein Exempel in der Antike, das mehrfach 1 2 3

Weber (1926). Radkau (2005) 737–859. „Eisschrank“ 798. Ekstatische Liebesbeziehung mit Else Jaffé-von Richthofen, 794–800. Weber befürwortete den stoischen Selbstmord und forderte ihn von den Generälen der Niederlage, 817 f. Für die Anfänge Enenkel (2008), der auf die Vielfalt der literarischen Gestaltungen der Lebensbilder hinweist, ohne jedoch die visuellen Medien zu berücksichtigen. Das Thema habe ich in einem parallelen Aufsatz entfaltet, der Jan Bremmer gewidmet ist, einem Gelehrten, der gemeinsam mit Fritz Graf (nach und neben Walter Burkert) die Forschung zur griechischen Religion stimuliert und geprägt hat. Auffarth (2009a).

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‚aufgeführt‘ wurde: das exemplum Socratis; die berühmteste Aufführung wurde Senecas Tod. Der Maler, der für die Frühe Neuzeit diese Aufführung vor Augen führte, war Peter Paul Rubens. Er schuf das Gemälde des sterbenden Seneca. Er selbst war nur dank der Hilfe eines Humanisten und Arztes, Johannes Faber, gerade noch dem Tod entkommen und bedankte sich 1606 bei seinem Lebensretter mit einem launig-gelehrten Brief und einem Gemälde, auf dem er einen Hahn malte. Die Beischrift lautet: „Für (wiedererlangte) Gesundheit bringe ich, der schon verurteilt war, dem gelehrten Johannes Faber, Doktor der Medizin, meinem Asklepios, das gelobte Opfer gern und gebührend dar.“4 Das ist einerseits eine Anspielung auf den Tod des Sokrates, der sich so bedankte für die Gesundung von dem, was andere das Leben nennen, also ein Dank für den Tod und die Befreiung vom Körper zum wahren Leben der Seele. Seinen Freund Kriton bat der Athener Philosoph, nachdem er den Giftbecher getrunken hatte, zu den ihn die Athener verurteilt hatten, dem Asklepios ein kleines Opfer als Anerkennung zu opfern5. Eine letzte religiöse Tat des wegen Atheismus Verurteilten, die Platon an betonter Stelle nennt6. Doch weniger der Platonismus, sondern weit mehr die stoische Philosophie und damit Seneca bildete das Muster in Rubens’ Freundeskreis in Rom und dem in Holland7. So malte Rubens also in mehrfacher Anspielung das Bild des sterbenden Seneca (um 1610)8. Die Umprägung des antiken Musters des sterbenden Weisen durch die Konversionserzählung und Lebensbeichte im Pietismus als „Lebensbild“ mit ihren Wirkungen und Rezeptionen in der Europäischen Religionsgeschichte bis hin zu den Traktaten über die Bekehrung und das eigene Leben hintan stellenden kommunistischen Helden sei nur genannt9.

4 5 6 7 8 9

Im Kontext prägnant Hans Ost, „Geflügelte Worte“, FAZ 17. Mai 2008, S. 2. Plat. Phaid. 118a: „Kriton, wir schulden dem Asklepios einen Hahn. Opfert ihm den, und vergesst es nicht!“ Ὦ Κρίτων, […] τῷ Ἀσκληπιῷ ὀφείλομεν ἀλεκτρυόνα. ἀλλὰ ἀπόδοτε καὶ μὴ ἀμελήσετε. Das sind nahezu Sokrates’ letzte Worte. Zum Kontext (Atheismus, neue Götter, Asklepios) Auffarth (1995). Zur Verbindung des Sokrates mit dem delphischen Apollon (und damit die traditionelle griechische Religion bei Sokrates) s. Waldner (2008). Zum Neustoizismus in der Frühen Neuzeit s. Abel (1978). Weitere Nachweise Auffarth (2009a). Das Bild gehört in die Beschäftigung mit einer Bildergalerie aus Stichen nach antiken Büsten, die Johannes Faber auf der Grundlage der imagines illustrium des Fulvius Ursinus seit 1603 neu bearbeitete und herausgab. Enenkel (2008).

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2. Repräsentation und lebendes Bild in der Bildwissenschaft und Religionsästhetik Die folgenden Überlegungen gehören zu einer kulturwissenschaftlichen Erweiterung der Perspektive in der Analyse von Bildern. Die Emanzipation einer ‚Bildwissenschaft‘ aus der Kunstwissenschaft versteht das Einzelbild nicht mehr als isolierten Gegenstand, den sie entkontextualisiert in einem Museum als ästhetisches (im Sinne von Geschmacks-Bildung)10 Werk der Kunst begreift, das unter anderen Kunstwerken zu vergleichen und zu bewerten ist, sondern funktional: als ‚Repräsentation‘ für etwas. Die Methoden, die Aby Warburg und die von ihm in seiner Bibliothek mäzenatisch unterstützten Gelehrten entwickelten, entdeckten Bilder als Sprache einer Kultur und ihre transkulturellen, universalpsychologischen Ausdrucksmöglichkeiten. Die große Darstellung des Bildes „vor dem Zeitalter der Kunst“11, dann eine Bildanthropologie, eine Ausstellung wie die ‚Kunst zum Niederknien‘12 haben zu der interdisziplinären Arbeit an einer Bildwissenschaft geführt13, deren „zweite Bildwissenschaft“14 „Bilder als performative Elemente einer visuellen Kultur betrachtet, die in und durch Medien unsere Wahrnehmung und unser Handeln im Alltag beeinflussen“15. Also das Bild nicht nur in seiner Funktion als Objekt, sondern als Akteur in der Kommunikation, als ‚lebende‘16 Repräsentation einer nicht anwesenden Person. Die folgende Untersuchung steht im Zusammenhang mit anderen Arbeiten, in denen ich als Religionswissenschaftler eine oft nicht beachtete Dimension einbeziehe, die das Unsichtbare im Prozess der Kommunikation

10 Ästhetik galt lange als Kanon der ‚klassischen‘ Vorbilder guten Geschmacks (mit dem Randphänomen des Manierismus), d. h. als Exempel des ‚Schönen‘. Dass das Hässliche als Gegenbegriff mit dazu genommen werden muss, und eine umfassende Ästhetik als heuristisches Werkzeug haben in der Religionswissenschaft schon früh zur Diskussion gestellt Cancik/Mohr 1988. 11 Belting (1990), Belting (2001). Dabei wird einmal mehr nicht beachtet, dass in der Antike der kulturelle Sektor ‚Kunst‘ bereits zu finden ist, wie etwa die Ekphrasis, dazu Graf (1995). 12 Zur Düsseldorfer Ausstellung, s. Martin (2001). 13 Belting (2001), besonders „Medium – Bild – Körper“, 11–55. Ein erstes Kompendium Sachs-Hombach (2005). Die online-Zeitschrift Image. Zeitschrift für interdisziplinäre Bildwissenschaft 1 (2005). 14 Sachs-Hombach (2005), Belting (2007), wo er im Unterschied zu Belting (2001) den Plural „Bildwissenschaften“ verwendet. 15 Eine umfassendere Beschreibung der Bildwissenschaft muss einer anderen Arbeit vorbehalten bleiben (vgl. Auffarth 2006c). Hier nur der Verweis auf Bräunlein (2009) 771–810. 16 Leicht metaphorisch, aber glänzend beobachtet die „Lives and Loves“ der Bilder Mitchell (2008).

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berücksichtigt, das dort durch Performanz aktiv wird17. Was dort für Götterbilder zu bedenken war, untersuche ich hier an den römischen Ahnenmasken. Dabei geht es nicht um die Frage des Ursprungs von Bildern – es gibt sicher mehr als einen18 –, sondern um einen bestimmten historischen Konflikt in dem das ‚Lebensbild‘ konzipiert wurde von dem römischen Politiker und Philosophen Seneca. Nicht um eine transkulturelle Anthropologie also, sondern um eine spezifisch historische Situation, in der ein neues Konzept gegen eine mächtige Tradition gestellt wird. Diese Tradition des Toten-Bildes hat in der Tat eine lange Vorgeschichte, die in den ältesten erhaltenen Bildern schon zu greifen ist: Ein Verstorbener wird plastisch rekonstruiert über dem Totenschädel, mit offenen Augen, und bleibt so präsent in der Welt der Lebenden19. Mit dem hier zu diskutierenden Beispiel wird das genannte Problem der aktiv die Kommunikation suchenden Bilder um eine Dimension erweitert: Das Bild von Menschen kann über die verblassende Imagination im Gedächtnis hinweg einen Moment der Lebendigkeit fingieren, bewahren, revitalisieren, repräsentieren; im Zeitalter der technischen Reproduktion kann es dazu noch durch das Wieder-Ertönen der Stimme und die WiederBewegung der gefilmten Bewegungen der Menschen gesteigert werden. Im hier zu analysierenden Fall wird das Bild eines Verstorbenen, die imago mortis, überboten durch die imago vitae, das Lebensbild20. Damit verbunden ist ein anderes Problem der Kategorien: Imago ist auch das Wort für das Bild von Göttern, darunter auch das Kultbild. Inwieweit gehören die imagines der Ahnen zu den imagines der Götter, Vergöttlichten? Hier ändert sich die Grenze mit der Repräsentation der Monarchie und ihrem transpersonalen Anspruch auf Gültigkeit, also dem Anspruch, über den Tod des konkreten Herrschers hinaus für seine Nachfolger die gleiche Autorität transpersonal beanspruchen zu können21.

17 Auffarth (2006b), Auffarth (2008), Auffarth (2009c). 18 Zu einseitig Macho (2007) 182 f. 19 Die Statuen von cAin Ghazal („frühes 7. Jahrtausend vor Christus“) vorgestellt bei Salje (2004) 29–36, hier Abb. 2.1 und 2.2. Der über dem Totenschädel plastisch rekonstruierte Kopf hat geschlossene Augen, die Doppelfigur über Binsen geformt offene, leuchtende Augen. 20 Ganz knapp nur bei Belting (2001a) 177–181. 21 Diesen Zusammenhang hat Cancik (1996) vorzüglich herausgearbeitet. Grundlegend war die Untersuchung von Kantorowicz (1957/1990) sowie weitere Arbeiten des Mediävisten – in Kenntnis, aber auch deutlichem Unterschied zu Alföldi (s. u. Anm. 64). Zu Kantorowicz vorzüglich das Vorwort von Fried (1998) 7–45.

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3. Nur Adelige hinterlassen ein Bild: römische imagines Zunächst der Blick auf die römischen Ahnen-imagines 22: Das Bild der Ahnen wurde in den Adelshäusern gepflegt. Im Innenhof, im Atrium eines großen römischen Hauses, waren Schreine mit Fensterläden an den Wänden, in denen die Bilder der Ahnen verwahrt waren. Die Fenster wurden an Feiertagen geöffnet. Am Hausaltar wurde den lares geopfert23. Die Vorfahren früherer Generation in Gestalt ihrer Bilder im Atrium erhielten Fürsorge durch die lebende Generation, indem die Bilder zur Ruhe gelegt und wieder geweckt wurden (Verschließen der Fensterläden am Abend, Öffnen am Morgen), sie Blumen-Schmuck erhielten und Wohlgeruch durch Weihrauch. Nicht einfach zu klären ist das Verhältnis zwischen einer Abformung des Bildes des Verstorbenen, meist cera, Wachs(-Maske), genannt (schmolzen oder verformten die sich nicht in den sommerlich heißen Atrien?), und den veristischen Bildern auf den Statuen und den lares, die am Hausaltar verehrt wurden, sowie den manes, die in den Formeln der Grabsteine dis manibus immer genannt sind. Der Hausaltar wiederum ist nicht gleich zu setzen mit den ‚Grabaltären‘. Diese sind in der Regel nicht geeignet für ein Opfer, nicht nur kleiner als ein funktionaler Altar, sondern auch die Fläche zum Opfern in Form einer Gabe, gar erst eines Brandopfers, ist oft nicht zu gebrauchen24. Sie stellen vielmehr eine Markierung dar, in der Erinnerung und Fürsorge der Verstorbenen durch sakrale Rituale, die am Altar stattfinden können, dauerhaft geworden ist. Das einmalige Totenopfer ist verewigt, ständig präsent, auch wenn keiner der Angehörigen mehr es jetzt gerade und wieder ausführt. Die Girlande, der Kranz, das Bukranion hängt am Altar ein für alle Mal25. Die Herstellung des Bildes lässt sich etwa so rekonstruieren: Vom Verstorbenen wurde mit Gips ein ‚negativer‘ Abdruck des Gesichtes abgeformt, der dann mit Wachs ausgegossen wurde, ein ‚positiver‘ Abguss. Das Bild heißt daher oft cera. Daraus wurde ein Kopf in Gips hergestellt. Dieser diente einem Bildhauer für die Herstellung eines Bildes, oft in Marmor, das die Zeichen des eingetretenen Todes (aufgedunsen bzw. facies Hippocratica, ge22 Schneider/Mayer (1916); Friedländer (1922) Bd. 2, 360–369; Marquardt/Mau (²1886) 340–385. 23 Apul. met. 11, 26 – ohne adelige Herkunft – kehrt endlich wieder in sein Haus in Rom zurück, zu seinem väterlichen Lar (Singular) digredior […] patrium larem revisurus meum. 24 Altmann (1905), Gabelmann (1967), Boschung (1987), Dexheimer (1998), Spiliopoulou-Donderer (2002). Die Frage nach der Funktionalität ist nur knapp angesprochen, kommt aber immer zu einem negativen Ergebnis. 25 Diese These ist entfaltet in Auffarth (2008a). In wenigen Fällen lassen sich an einem Haken (Dübelloch noch erhalten) frische Kränze anhängen.

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schlossene Augen) wieder entfernte, ohne jedoch das Gesicht zu schönen26. Die Wachsmaske aber dürfte mit dem Leichnam verbrannt worden sein. Darin unterscheidet sich das römische Porträt ganz fundamental von den griechischen Bildnissen. Denn nicht ein ideales Bild eines Erwachsenen in vollem Saft wird da präsentiert, sondern ein Bild, das ‚ungeschminkt‘ die Persönlichkeit, auch schon reifer, ja greiser Persönlichkeiten zeigt: der Verismus römischer Bildnisse27. Was demgegenüber die „Maske“ (cera) bedeutet, die für die rituelle Aufführung in der pompa funebris benötigt wurde (nächster Abschnitt 3), muss wohl wiederum unterschieden werden, so dass man wohl einmal mit zwei tragbaren Gesichtern, also Masken, rechnen muss, eine auf dem Gesicht des Verstorbenen, eine für den Schauspieler, und daneben einer Marmorform28. Die Bedeutung von imagines in der römischen Kultur zeigt einen ausgezeichneten Platz in der Gesellschaft, der der clientela einer der große Familien Roms in einem halb öffentlichen Raum vor Augen geführt, der Öffentlichkeit aber je aus Anlass einer Bestattung in einer Aufführung performiert wurde29. Die clientes, die mit ihren Anliegen in das Haus der Familie kamen, betrachteten beim Warten auf das Gespräch im Atrium die bedeutenden Vorfahren des gerade aktiven Vertreters der Familie. Die Performance in der Öffentlichkeit wird gleich zu diskutieren sein. Das ius imaginis war ausschließlich Adelsfamilien vorbehalten30. Allerdings hat sich gezeigt, dass es keinen solch eindeutigen Rechtstitel gab31. Die Reduktion auf ausschließlich männliche Vertreter einer Familie, die ein höheres Amt im cursus honorum bekleidet hatten, hat sich nicht bewährt: Auch imagines von Frauen32, von Kindern33 sind belegt. 26 Anschauliche Beispiele bei Drerup (1980). 27 Zu den Begriffen Naturalismus, Verismus, s. Lahusen (1985). 28 Ablehnend (aber ohne Argumente) Drerup (1980) 111 zu den Anm. 119 genannten Vertretern der hier geäußerten Meinung. Polybios spricht nicht von „Wachs“. Das lateinische cera wird zumindest später metonym für Totenmaske, ohne dass das noch einen Bezug zur materiellen Konsistenz des ausgeformten Bildes haben muss. Zur Verwendung von Wachs Plin. nat. 35,6. (Lahusen 1984, Nr. 445). Der Schluss ist unausweichlich, dass die dauerhafte imago aus haltbarerem Material sein musste als (pures) Wachs. Benndorf (1878) mit dem damaligen Material, Schneider/Mayer (1916). 29 Pekáry (2008), Pekáry (2002), Rollin (1979), Daut (1975), Juncker (1951). 30 Der Begriff bei Cic. Verr. 5,36: ius imaginis ad memoriam posteritatemque prodendam, beginnend bei den Aediles. Flaig (22004a) 49–88 (Anm. auf den S. 263–268), Lahusen (1985), Schneider/Mayer (1916). 31 Seit Theodor Mommsen ihn geprägt hat (und gleichzeitig aufzeigte, dass es ein solches ius imaginis in den Quellen nicht als festes Privileg gibt), hat er die Autorität quasi einer Quelle erhalten, so bei den Spezialuntersuchungen Rollin (1979), Daut (1975). 32 Flower (1996), Flower (2002) 159–184. 33 Drerup (1980) Tafel 34, 1 f.

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4. Rituale mit den Masken und die lebenden imagines Die eben schon genannte ‚Aufführung‘ der Familie und ihrer sozialen und politischen Bedeutung für die res publica geschieht in einem Ritual34. Wenn nämlich einer aus der Generation starb, dann geleitete die ganze Familie die oder den Verstorbenen vom Wohnhaus der jetzt lebenden Generation hinaus zu dem Wohnhaus der Ahnen außerhalb der Mauern (extra urbem). In einer Prozession, der pompa funebris, bildeten in chronologischer Reihe die ältesten Ahnen bis zu den jüngst Gestorbenen das vordere Geleit, dann der Wagen mit dem aufgebahrten Toten, den es jetzt zu bestatten galt, dann folgten die Mitglieder der jetzt lebenden Generation. In der Aufführung verband sich zweierlei: die Betonung der Leistungen, die die Familie für die res publica eingebracht hatte, und damit repräsentativ die Aufführung der res publica insgesamt durch einen ihrer bedeutenden Teile. Polybios, der griechische Historiker in Rom, beobachtet eine pompa funebris, die für ihn die Überlegenheit und das Funktionieren der res publica im Vergleich zu den Monarchien zu zeigen vermag, mit denen Rom gerade im Krieg steht (bes. der 3. Makedonische Krieg 171–168)35. Die Taten, die die Familienmitglieder der Gemeinschaft geleistet haben, so meint Polybios beeindruckt, seien der Ansporn für die jetzige Generation, es ihnen gleich zu tun. Ich konzentriere mich auf die Art der Repräsentation der Verstorbenen, wie sie Polybios beschreibt. Normalerweise ist das Bild (ἡ εἰκών) gemeinsam mit den anderen Ahnenbildern an dem auffälligsten Ort des Hauses ausgestellt. Darum herum sind kleine hölzerne ‚Tempelchen‘ gerahmt (ξύλινα ναίδια περιτιθέντες)36 . Diese Bilder identifiziert Polybios mit einer Maske (Ἡ δ’εἰκών ἐστι πρόσωπον), die man lebenden Menschen aufsetzt, so dass diese im Trauerzug die ‚Person‘ des Toten repräsentieren 37. Lateinisch 34 Unter dem Stichwort ‚Memoria‘, ‚Repräsentation von Gruppe‘ und ‚Ritualisierte Politik‘ hat Egon Flaig über das Antiquarische hinaus wichtige Interpretationen zur Diskussion gestellt: Flaig (1995), Flaig (22004a). Dabei nimmt er den Begriff des ‚Sozialkapitals‘ von Pierre Bourdieu auf. 35 Pol. 6,53. Im gleichen 6. Buch analysiert Polybios auch die sog. Mischverfassung Roms als die stabilste Verfassung, die nicht mehr dem Kreislauf von Umsturz und Verfall von Monarchie/Tyrannis – Aristokratie/Oligarchie – Demokratie/Ochlokratie unterliegt, so dass sie auch die Niederlage von Cannae wegstecken konnte. 36 Zu ναός gibt es die Verkleinerungsformen ναίδιον außer in dieser Polybios-Stellen noch Strab. 8,6,21, der auch das Deminutiv ναίσκος kennt (14,1,4); neben ihm noch Ios. ant. Iud. 8,8,4. 37 Drerup (1980) 111 f. „Die Ahnen schritten nicht als lebendige Leichname dem Leichenzug voraus, wie dies des öfteren zu lesen ist, sondern wurden, was Polybius am Schluss ausdrücklich vermerkt, auf Wagen mitgefahren. Die πρόσωπα waren durch Gesichtsabdruck von Toten entstandene und in Lebendwirkung zurückverwandelte

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personam gerere heißt eine Rolle spielen, die durch eine Maske (persona) den Schauspieler in eine andere Person verwandelt 38. Polybios spricht von der Maske, die allerdings nicht einen Typ (wie in der Komödie ‚die Alte‘, ‚der Jüngling‘, ‚die Prostituierte‘, ‚der Bauer‘) darstellt, sondern spezifisch (διαφερόντως) gearbeitet ist auf Gleichheit (εἰς ὁμοιότητα) des Ahnen hin, einmal nach Größe und Körperbau, dann bezüglich der Formung des Gesichts und dann bezüglich der Unterschrift (κατὰ τὴν ὑπογραφὴν), gemeint ist der Titulus des Namens unter dem Gesicht des Ahnen39. Wenn sie ihn dann begraben und ihm die letzten Ehren erwiesen haben, stellen sie das Bild des Verstorbenen an der Stelle des Hauses, wo es am besten zu sehen ist, in einem hölzernen Schrein auf. Das Bild ist eine Maske, die spezifisch auf dieses Individuum mit erstaunlicher Treue die Bildung des Gesichts und seine Züge40 wiedergibt. Diese Schreine öffnen sie bei den großen Festen und schmücken die Bilder im Ehrgeiz und wenn ein angesehenes Glied der Familie stirbt, führen sie sie im Trauerzug mit und setzen sie Personen auf, die an Größe und Gestalt den Verstorbenen möglichst ähnlich sind. Diese tragen dann, wenn der Betreffende Konsul oder Praetor gewesen ist, Kleider mit einem Purpursaum, wenn Censor, ganz aus Purpur, wenn er aber einen Triumph gefeiert und dem entsprechende Taten getan hat, goldgestickte. Sie fahren auf Wagen, denen Rutenbündel und Beile und die anderen Insignien des Amtes, je nach der Würde und dem Rang, den ein jeder in seinem Leben bekleidet hat, voran getragen werden, und wenn sie zu den rostra gekommen sind, nehmen alle in einer Reihe auf elfenbeinernen Stühlen Platz. Man kann sich nicht leicht ein großartigeres Schauspiel denken für einen jungen Mann, der nach Ruhm verlangt und für alles Große begeistert ist. Denn die Bilder der wegen ihrer Taten hochgepriesenen Männer dort alle versammelt zu sehen, als wären sie noch am Leben und beseelt, wem sollte das nicht einen tiefen Eindruck machen? Was könnte es für einen schöneren Anblick geben?41

38 39

40 41

Wachsmasken, die zur Zeit des Polybius längst in Gebrauch waren. […] Die Lösung ist […], dass Kleiderpuppen mit den aufgesetzten Masken mitgefahren wurden und die, wie man hinzuzufügen hat, Polybius für lebend hielt oder seinem Publikum als Lebende vorführt.“ Bei Polybios wird nicht explizit gesagt, wem die Masken aufgesetzt werden. ‚Personen‘ hat Drexler in seiner Übersetzung hinzu gesetzt, aber Οὗτοι προσαναλαμβάνουσιν (§ 7) kann man nur von Menschen sagen, nicht von Puppen. Schließlich dass Polybios hier etwas missverstanden habe, trifft nicht seine Aussage über die ‚Lebendigkeit‘ der Ahnen. Schauspieler tragen die Masken: Diod. exc. 31,25,2; Suet. Vesp. 19. Zur ‚Maske‘ im griechischen Theater aus ganz leichtem Ziegenfell s. Seiterle (1984), Schlossmann (²1968), (darauf bezieht sich Drerup 112 Anm. 122). Zum religionswissenschaftlichen Kontext des Begriffs der ‚Person‘ wichtig Köpping (1998). Die Übersetzung von Hans Drexler (Bibliothek der Alten Welt, Zürich 1961) ist unzutreffend. Schneider/Mayer (1916) 1100 f. vermutete „Übermalung“ der Wachsmaske mit Farbe; Schminken. Als titulus verstanden bei Walbank (1957) Bd. 1, 737–740 (vgl. auch Plin. nat. 35,12). Zum Titulus weiter Flaig (1995) 118, Flaig (²2004a) 49 f. Siehe vorige Anm. Pol. 6,53,4–10: Μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα θάψαντες καὶ ποιήσαντες τὰ νομιζόμενα τιθέασι τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ μεταλλάξαντος εἰς τὸν ἐπιφανέστατον τόπον τῆς οἰκίας, ξύλινα ναίδια

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Dabei ist die Frage aufgetreten: Wenn bei der ‚Aufführung‘ der Familie in ihren ganzen Generationen die Amtsträger das Eindrückliche waren, wurden nicht weitere dazu fingiert? Die Untersuchung erweist: (1) Ehemalige Amtsträger, die die Ehefrau in die Familie einbrachte, waren nun auch Ahnen der Familie des Mannes. (2) So weit man weiß, gibt es kaum unterschobene fiktive Amtsträger42. Dank der Konkurrenz der Familien untereinander drohte eine scharfe Kontrolle. Über die Amtsinhaber gab es ja schriftliche Aufzeichnungen, an denen die anderen Familien nachprüfen konnten und dies sicher argwöhnend auch taten. (3) Wohl aber ist das Gegenteil bekannt: unliebsame Familienteile, von denen man sich distanzieren wollte, nicht mit in der Prozession auftreten zu lassen. Was Polybios beschreibt, ist eine öffentliche Performanz von römischer Geschichte und ihrer Erfolgsstrukturen in der Öffentlichkeit, indem eine römische Adelsfamilie in ihrer vollen Größe wieder hergestellt wird; ihre Geschichte wird Präsens, die jetzt lebende Generation ist nur der im Alltag gerade sichtbare Teil; in der pompa funebris wird das sonst unsichtbare oder nur der clientela im Atrium des Hauses der Familie halb öffentlich sichtbare Ganze aufgeführt, einschließlich der repräsentierten Ahnen. Indem die Aufführung auf der Bühne der rostra auf dem forum Romanum die Taten der Verstorbenen Amtsträger für die res publica, hervorhebt, führt die Repräsentanz der Familie zugleich die römische Republik auf. Polybios spricht von dem Eindruck, den diese Aufführung hinterlasse. Die Repräsentation der Ahnen wird durch οἱονει „als wären sie …“ in ihrer Differenz zur Realität begriffen: es sind Bilder. Aber „sie alle gleichzeitig zu sehen“ sporne die Jungen an, ihrerseits Ruhm zu erwerben: ἀνδρῶν εἰκόνας ἰδεῖν ὁμοῦ πάσας οἱονει ζώσας καὶ πεπνυμένας. „Als wären sie lebend und atmend“ durchbricht die Fiktionalität der Performanz nicht. Die Bilder

περιτιθέντες.  Ἡ δ’ εἰκών ἐστι πρόσωπον εἰς ὁμοιότητα διαφερόντως ἐξειργασμένον καὶ κατὰ τὴν πλάσιν καὶ κατὰ τὴν ὑπογραφήν. ⁶Ταύτας δὴ τὰς εἰκόνας ἔν τε ταῖς δημοτελέσι θυσίαις ἀνοίγοντες κοσμοῦσι φιλοτίμως, ἐπάν τε τῶν οἰκείων μεταλλάξῃ τις ἐπιφανής, ἄγουσιν εἰς τὴν ἐκφοράν, περιτιθέντες ὡς ὁμοιοτάτοις εἶναι δοκοῦσι κατά τε τὸ μέγεθος καὶ τὴν ἄλλην περικοπήν. ⁷ Οὗτοι δὲ προσαναλαμβάνουσιν ἐσθῆτας, ἐὰν μὲν ὕπατος ἢ στρατηγὸς ᾖ γεγονώς, περιπορφύρους, ἐὰν δὲ τιμητής, πορφυρᾶς, ἐὰν δὲ καὶ τεθριαμβευκὼς ἤ τι τοιοῦτον κατειργασμένος, διαχρύσους. ⁸Αὐτοὶ μὲν οὖν ἐφ’ ἁρμάτων οὗτοι πορεύονται, ῥάβδοι δὲ καὶ πελέκεις καὶ τἆλλα τὰ ταῖς ἀρχαῖς εἰωθότα συμπαρακεῖσθαι προηγεῖται κατὰ τὴν ἀξίαν ἑκάστῳ τῆς γεγενεμένης κατὰ τὸν βίον ἐν τῇ πολιτείᾳ προαγωγῆς. ⁹ Ὅταν δ’ ἐπὶ τοὺς ἐμβόλους ἔλθωσι, καθέζονται πάντες ἑξῆς ἐπὶ δίφρων ἐλεφαντίνων. Οὖ κάλλιον οὐκ εὐμαρὲς ἰδεῖν θέαμα νέῳ φιλοδόξῳ καὶ φιλαγάθῳ· ¹⁰ τὸ γὰρ τὰς τῶν ἐπ’ ἀρετῇ δεδοξασμένων ἀνδρῶν εἰκόνας ἰδεῖν ὁμοῦ πάσας οἱονει ζώσας καὶ πεπνυμένας τίν’ οὐκ ἂν παραστήσαι; Τί δ’ ἂν κάλλιον θέαμα τούτου φανείῃ; 42 Flaig (1995) 135–140.

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werden nicht „beseelt“43, sie werden nur zu Repräsentanten von Menschen, die früher gelebt und geatmet haben: Das Tempus ist Vergangenheit, nicht Gegenwart. Eine Vergangenheit zu haben, ist Vorrecht der großen adeligen Familien, die zugleich die res publica repräsentieren. Durch das System der clientela können sich weite Teile der Bevölkerung identifizieren mit einem dieser tragenden Teile und damit mit der Ideologie der Adelsherrschaft. Der Aufstieg eines homo novus, eines zwar adeligen, aber noch ohne Vorgänger in einem der Ämter der res publica, bedurfte einer Hilfestellung durch eine andere Familie mit Ahnen und ihren Bildern44. C. Marius soll in einer Rede vor dem im Senat versammelten alten Adel seine eigenen Heldentaten dem Prestige durch Ahnen entgegengehalten haben. Jetzt seht, wie ungerecht sie sind. Was sie aufgrund fremder Tüchtigkeit sich anmaßen, das räumen sie aufgrund meiner nicht ein: natürlich weil ich Ahnenbilder nicht habe und weil mein Adelsstand neu ist; den sich erworben ist sicher besser als überkommenen verdorben zu haben45. […] Ich kann nicht der Gewähr wegen Ahnenbilder, nicht Triumphe oder Konsulate meiner Vorfahren vorzeigen, jedoch, wenn es die Lage fordern sollte, Ehrenspeere, Abzeichen, Orden, andere militärische Geschenke, außerdem Narben vorn am Körper. Das sind meine Ahnenbilder, das mein Adel, nicht durch Erbschaft hinterlassen, wie jener jenen, sondern Dinge, die ich durch meine so zahlreichen Mühen und Gefahren erworben habe46.

Umgekehrt verloren römische Familien auch einen Ahnen, wenn ein Verbot ausgesprochen wurde, weil er der res publica Schaden angetan habe: Tacitus hebt hervor, dass die beiden Caesarmörder nicht in der pompa funebris laufen durften, ihr Fehlen aber umso mehr auffiel47.

43 Drexlers Übersetzung. Zum religionswissenschaftlichen Begriff ‚Postmortale Existenz‘, der nicht von vornherein platonisch-christliche Kategorien verwendet, s. u. Anm. 50). 44 Die Beispiele C. Marius, hier mit der berühmten Stelle Sall. Iug. 85,25 u. 29 f. (Übersetzung Karl Büchner, Stuttgart 1971), oder Cicero (vgl. Verr. 5,180) s. Flaig (1995) 128 f., 143 f. Flaig (²2004a) 60 f. 45 Sall. Iug. 85,25: nunc videte, quam iniqui sint. quod ex aliena virtute sibi arrogant, id mihi ex mea non concedunt, scilicet quia imagines non habeo et quia mihi nova nobilitas est, quam certe peperisse melius est quam acceptam corrupisse. 46 Sall. Iug. 85,29 f.: non possum fidei causa imagines neque triumphos aut consulatus maiorum meorum ostentare, at, si res postulet, hastas, vexillum, phaleras, alia militaria dona, praeterea cicatrices advorso corpore. hae sunt meae imagines, haec nobilitas, non hereditate relicta, ut illa illis, sed quae ego meis plurumis laboribus et periculis quaesivi. 47 Tac. ann. 2,32; 3,76; Suet. Nero 37. Weiteres bei Flaig (²2004a) 91–94.

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5. Aufstieg neuer Eliten ohne das ius imaginis Die Bürgerkriege des 1. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. hatten die alten Eliten dezimiert; die persönliche Herrschaft der Sieger, wie Sulla, Pompeius, Caesar und Antonius, führten zur Entmachtung und Dezimierung alter Familien, soweit sie Feinde oder Konkurrenten waren. Neue Mitglieder wurden in den Senat gesetzt, auch Provinziale. Daneben wurde eine soziale Gruppe immer wichtiger, die über wirtschaftlichen Aufstieg vom Sklaven zum Millionär werden konnten, die Freigelassenen (liberti) 48. Aber es war ihnen verwehrt, sich wie die Adeligen in Form einer Statue in der Öffentlichkeit zu präsentieren49. Die ‚postmortale Existenz‘ ist an Bedingungen gebunden, die sie nicht besitzen50. In der frühen Kaiserzeit fand man eine Darstellungsform, die die Darstellung der Verstorbenen ermöglichte, ohne dem fehlenden ius imaginis zuwider zu laufen: Reliefs, nicht Statuen, als Ausschnitt mit Kopf und einem Teil des Oberkörpers, nicht als Ganzfigur. Die Einfallsstraßen Roms waren gesäumt von Hunderten von Gräbern, auf denen die Inschriften die Erfolgsstories Einzelner, aber auch als ganze Straßenzüge die Erfolgsstory des ,Goldenen Zeitalters‘ der Zeit des Augustus sichtbar machten51. Die Gräber lassen hinter einer Rahmung in einem Ausschnitt die Verstorbenen sehen, als schauten sie aus einem Fenster eines kleinen Hauses. Nicht ganz geklärt ist die Frage, warum manche dieser Bildnisse den Oberkörper nicht bis zur Fensterbank darstellen, sondern auf die Arme verzichten, also die Form, die als ‚Büste‘ im klassizistischen Stil dann in Europa zum typischen Bildnisstil der Porträts wurde. Das Amt der (seviri) Augustales ermöglichte es den Freigelassenen ein hohes städtisches Amt zu übernehmen, parallel zu dem ordo der Decurionen52. Dabei war eine der Aufgaben der als Verein organisierten Augustales die Verehrung des genius bzw. numen Augusti 53. Damit übernehmen sie eine Aufgabe aus den Adelshäuser, die dort die Familienmitglieder ihren Vorfahren und Ahnen leisten. Wie in den Häusern der großen Adelsfamilien die Ahnen kleine Aufmerksamkeiten erhalten, Blumenkränze, der Wohlgeruch des Weihrauchs, Licht, ein paar Tropfen von Wein vergossen vor den Ahnen 48 Hahn (1998) 646–650 nennt die rechtlichen und sozialen Bedingungen sowie die einschlägige Literatur. 49 D’Ambra (2002) 223–246, Wrede (1981). 50 Gladigow (1980), Gladigow (1998). Senecas Familie ist da zwar nahe dran, aber sie gehören eben nicht zu den Bild-Trägern. 51 Zanker (1975) 267–315, D’Ambra (2002) 223. 52 Vittinghoff (1990) 182–196; 207 f. 53 Vittinghoff (1990) 207, die Arbeiten von Duthoy (1978) und Ladage (1971) zusammenfassend: „Sein anfänglicher Zweck scheint die Verehrung des genius oder numen Augusti gewesen zu sein.“

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in ihrer Repräsentation als naturgetreue Bilder in kleinen Holzschreinen, so geben die Augustales ihrem ‚Familien‘-Oberhaupt, das nicht anwesend ist, aber repräsentiert wird durch die imagines der führenden Mitglieder des Kaiserhauses, den Augusti und Augustae, Σεβαστοὶ und Σεβασταὶ, kleine Gaben. Das Opfer an der imago wird zusammengefasst mit ture ac vino „mit Weihrauch und Wein“54. Damit wird eine rituelle Institution, die allein dem Adel vorbehalten war, nunmehr in einen halböffentlichen oder gar öffentlichen Raum übertragen, ist dort aber dem Herrscherhaus vorbehalten55. Die Opferrituale, die dort dargebracht werden, sind die ‚kleinen‘, nichtblutigen Opfer, nur ausnahmsweise auch blutige Opfer. Gaben schenken die Menschen der Provinzialstadt, besonders solche, die durch die Freilassung einen kleinen oder großen Aufstieg römischen Bürgern verdanken. Die konkrete Patron-Klient-Beziehung wird generalisiert: Ganz Rom und der ganze Weltkreis sind zur Klientel des herrschenden Kaiserhauses geworden.

6. Die imagines der (lebenden) römischen Kaiser Bislang war die Rede von imagines in dem speziellen Sinne der Ahnenbildnisse; das Wort bezeichnet aber noch weitere Bildnisse, von der Plastik allgemein zum Bild der Götter, einschließlich des Kultbildes einer Gottheit56. Die Unterschiede verschwimmen bei den imagines der römischen Kaiser und ihrer Familienmitglieder57. Augustus hat diesen Prozess vorangetrieben, wie auch sonst bei Augustus in einer Mischung von Tradition und Traditionsbruch. Für die Aufführung der julisch-claudischen Familie im agmen imaginum bzw. in der pompa funebris 58 gab es mehrere Anlässe. Als 9 v. Chr ein Stiefsohn namens Drusus beigesetzt wurde, verzichtete Augustus auf alle Ahnen aus den verschwägerten Familien. „Er löste das Kaiserhaus aus der genealogischen Verflechtung mit anderen aristokratischen Familien heraus.“59 Auffällig war die Platzierung der imago des Adoptiv-Vaters C. Iulius Caesar. Augustus ließ ihn in der Performanz seiner Familie nicht an dem Platz laufen, der ihm in der Reihenfolge in der Seniorität seiner Familie zuge54 Berühmt die Stelle im Christenbrief des Plinius epist. 10,96,5. Die weiteren Belege sind zusammengestellt bei Clauss (1999) 221–223, Weihrauch als ‚Voropfer‘ 321 f. Hohe Preise für Weihrauch und staatliche Hilfen Liv. 30,17,6. Literatur zu Weihrauch bei Auffarth (2008a). 55 Zu der Aufstellung der imagines des julisch-claudischen Kaiserhauses, s. Boschung (2002). Zum forum Augustum s. Flaig (²2004b) 95. 56 Zum Problem ‚Kultbild‘ Auffarth (2009b), Gordon (1979). 57 Cancik/Cancik-Lindemaier (2001). 58 Flaig (1995), Flaig (²2004b) 94–98, Giuliani (2008) 143–159. 59 Tac. ann. 3,5. Das Zitat Flaig (1995) 147.

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standen hätte, sondern hob ihn daraus hervor. Caesar war ja divus (‚vergöttlicht‘); Octavian/Augustus ließ ihn daher in der pompa funebris des Drusus gar nicht mitlaufen im Zug der Ahnen. Er war kein Toter. Bei seinem eigenen Begräbnis 14 n. Chr „lief Augustus“ an der Spitze des Zuges vor allen Ahnen, die der Seniorität nach hätten vor ihm laufen müssen60; ihm werden vom Senat honores calestes beschlossen, nicht nur einfaches Totenritual und fortdauernder Kult61. In dem Leichenzug der Iunia 22 n. Chr kann man durchaus eine semantische Herausforderung des Kaiserhauses sehen62. Das war der letzte Zug aus nicht-kaiserlichem Hause63. In der Frühzeit der ‚monarchischen Repräsentation‘64 – Imagines von (lebenden) Kaisern – Julisch-claudische Familie: Tiberius weigert sich, als man ihn bittet, sein Bild zu vervielfältigen und zu Lebzeiten zu verehren65. So etwa in dem Schreiben auf die Anfrage aus Gytheion (auf der Peloponnes), die baten, zu seinen Lebzeiten ein Bild von ihm in den Tempel des Kaiserkultes stellen zu dürfen66. Dagegen verbietet der Kaiser sogar, ihn als dominus anzusprechen67. Tacitus hat in den Annales 4,37 f. eine Rede komponiert, in der Tiberius es ablehnt, in ihm mehr als einen Menschen zu sehen68. Allerdings war der Präzedenzfall Pergamon, für das der Kaiser nach einem Erdbeben entschiedene und großzügige Hilfe geleistet hatte, offenbar der Anlass, dass Tiberius in der Asia weit mehr kultische Einrichtungen für seine Verehrung erhielt als seine Nachfolger und fast ebenso viele wie Augustus69. Nero als Epiklese des griechischen Gottes-Monarchen Zeus: Als Nero den Griechen die Freiheit wieder schenkte, erweiterte ein lokaler Priester die Inschrift für Zeus Eleuthereus um die Epiklese ‚Neron‘70. 60 Cass. Dio 56,34. 61 Die fasti Antiates, Amiternini und Oppiani maiores verzeichnen das. Philologisch mit dem synchronen Vergleichsmaterial Cancik (1996) 228 f. 62 Flower (1996) 253. 63 Lahusen (1985) 268. 64 Zu diesem Begriff und seiner Darstellung bei Andreas Alföldi (1895–1981). Bei Alföldi (1934–1935) fehlt m. W. eine wissenschaftsgeschichtliche Bearbeitung, die das Problem in den Zusammenhang der Diktaturen der Mitte des 20. Jh. stellt. Beachtenswert Cancik (1975), Fried (1998), vgl. oben Anm. 21. Zum Problem der vormodernen monarchischen Repräsentation arbeitet die Forschergruppe „Sakralmonarchie im europäischen und arabischen Hochmittelalter“. 65 Taeger (1957–1960) Bd. 2, 261–281. 66 Ehrenberg/Jones (²1955) 80 f. 67 Suet. Tib. 27; Tac. ann. 2,87. Dazu die Belege für δεσπότης /dominus allein für Gott reserviert: Auffarth (2003) 303 mit Anm. 61–64; 291 Anm. 26. 68 Koestermann (1965) Bd. 2, 130–133. Zu den Menschen als Tempel Gottes, Auffarth (2006) 70. 69 Price, Rituals (1984) 58. 70 Die Inschrift von Akraiphiai SIG 3 814 ist analysiert bei Auffarth (2003) 283–317; Text 294–297. Bergmann (1998) 140–144.

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Stück um Stück zeigt sich hier das Übertreten einer Tabu-Schwelle: Die adulatio schlug um in eine adoratio des Kaisers, aus Schmeichelei und Speichelleckerei wurde Verehrung, wie sie nur einem Gott gebührt. Tacitus geht in seiner Kritik so weit, der Kaiserkult nehme den Göttern den Kult weg71. Nero war nicht der erste, der die transpersonale Metapher des Sonnengottes für seine Monarchie beanspruchte. Bereits bei Augustus ist der Sonnenaspekt des Apollon ein Symbol, dann besonders bei Caligula72. Aber Neros Kolossalstatue mit fast 30 Metern Höhe sprengte alles bisher Dagewesene73. Seine Nachfolger ließen publikumswirksam – dem Tyrannenanspruch widersprechend – das Flavische Amphitheater bauen nächst diesem Ort, das deshalb den Namen Colosseum erhielt. Eine Steigerung des Majestätischen stellt der thronende Gott als GötterMonarch dar. Mit dem Zeus-Bild des Phidias in Olympia war ein Typus geschaffen, der „das angemessene Bild für den höchsten Gott“ darstellte74. In unmittelbarer Antwort darauf war im Metroon, dem Tempel neben dem Zeustempel von Olympia, ein Gebäude für den Kaiserkult der julisch-claudischen Familie umfunktioniert worden mit einem Kolossalbild des Augustus, noch von gemäßigter Kolossalität75; die Inschrift rühmt ihn: Ἠλῆιοι θεοῦ υἱοῦ Καίσαρος Σεβαστοῦ Σωτῆρος Ἑλλήνων τε καὶ τῆς οἰκουμένης πάσης. Die Eleier des Sohnes Gottes, des Caesar Augustus, Retters der Griechen und der gesamten bewohnten Erde76.

Augustus war es auch, der für immer den Platz auf der Rostra in Rom auf einer sella curulis einnahm: eine Sitzstatue in Marmor77. Caligula wird der – misslungene – Versuch zugeschrieben, das Kultbild aus Olympia nach Rom

71 Tac. ann. 1,10,6. Nihil deorum honoribus relictum, cum [sc. Augustus] se templis et effigie numinum per fl amines et sacerdotes coli vellet. Cancik (1996). 72 Auffarth (2003) 295: SIG3 814, Zeile 34; 297 Anm. 41. 73 Bergmann (1993), Rekonstruktion S. 26. Zu Kolossalität s. Cancik (1990). 74 Auffarth (2006). Pékary (2008). Zum archäologischen Befund in Olympia Bäbler (2000) 217–238. 75 Das Sitzbild des Zeus misst über 12 Meter Höhe (Herrmann 1972, 147: „12,37 m Höhe ohne Basis“). Die Statue des Augustus mit Szepter und Blitzebündel ist nur zweieinhalb mal die Größe eines Menschen. Hitzl (1999) 34–38 gibt das Maß an: „Gesamthöhe 4,50 m“. 76 Olympia V, Nr. 366. Hitzl (1999) 21–24. 77 Tac. ann. 4,67; Vell. 2,61,3. Weiteres bei Schneider (1914), zu den Statuen auf der Rostra bes. 460 f. Der Caesaren-Tempel in der Caesaren-Stadt Caesarea in Palästina präsentiert i. J. 10 v. Chr. den thronenden Zeus von Olympia als „Augustus“, die ebenso berühmte Statue der Hera von Argos als „Roma“ Ios. bell. Iud. 1,414; 15,339. Cancik (1996) 230 f.; Lichtenberger (2009) 71–98, bes. 74 f.

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auf den Palatin zu versetzten78. Aber wohl erst Konstantin konnte es wagen, beide Ansprüche zusammen zu erheben: die Kolossalität und majestätischer Thron. In Rom stand eine kolossale Sitzstatue – Gegenstück zur Sonnenkaiser-Statue in Konstantinopel auf der Säule79. Einen gewissen Präzedenzfall und enorme Provokation bildet die öffentliche Aufstellung einer Statue im Zentrum Roms: die Venus vom Esquilin. Vordergründig war das eine nackte Aphrodite, aber die beigefügten ägyptischen Details machten daraus eine Figur, in der man Kleopatra sehen konnte, sehen sollte80. Allerdings sind die Porträts, die von Kleopatra in Rom zu sehen waren, mit dem Gesicht der Götterstatue nicht so ähnlich, dass die Vergleichbarkeit eine eindeutige Identifizierung unausweichlich gemacht hätte.

7. Tacitus über den Tod des Seneca Der römische Geschichtsschreiber Tacitus gibt eine ausführliche Erzählung über den Tod des Seneca in seinen Annales ab exitu divi Augusti, geschrieben rund 50 Jahre nach dem Ereignis des Jahres 55 n. Chr.81. Sowohl der in sich abgeschlossene Text als auch der Kontext, sein Kontrapunkt in anderen Sterbeszenen und die Stellung im Werk82 machen die Miniatur zu einem zentralen Focus, in dem die großen Themen von Tacitus’ Werk gebündelt erscheinen83. Tacitus hat scharfe Kritik an Seneca geübt, sein Tod aber wird zu einem einzigartigen Gegenbild von Menschenwürde und Selbstachtung, mit dem Tacitus dem Weisen ein Denkmal setzt84. Aber es wäre nicht Tacitus, wenn das Bild auch nicht wieder ironisch gebrochen wäre. 61. Seneca antwortete Natalis, als der zu ihm geschickt sich im Namen Pisos beschwerte, dass er nicht zu einem Besuch vorgelassen worden sei: Zur Entschuldigung habe er Rücksicht auf seine Gesundheit und Verlangen nach Ruhe angeführt. Warum er das Leben eines unpolitischen Menschen höher stellen solle als seine 78 Suet. Cal. 22; Cass. Dio 59,28,3; Ios. ant. Iud. 19,1. 79 Presicce (2007) 117–131. Zur Konstantinsäule demnächst die Diss. von Oliver Züchner. 80 Die These begründet Andreae et al. (2006). Im Katalog sind die Porträts vorgestellt. Ein Zwischenglied fehlt allerdings in der Argumentation: Die Gesichtszüge der Venus-Statue sind nicht nach diesen Porträts der Kleopatra identifizierbar. 81 Zum Text: Koestermann (1968) Bd. 4, 296–309 (philologischer Kommentar), Cancik-Lindemaier (1983/2006) 297–304, Veyne (1993) 211–232, Kyle (2008) 401–404. 82 Das hat in aller Ausführlichkeit Brinkmann (2002) 103–130 getan. Das kann im Rahmen eines Aufsatzes hier nicht wiederholt werden. 83 Syme (1958), Jens (1956) 391–420. 84 Tac. ann. 15,60–64 (Übersetzung von Hildegard Cancik-Lindemaier [1983], für c. 61 eine eigene).

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eigene Sicherheit, gebe es keinen Grund. Überhaupt habe er nie zu Höflichkeiten geneigt. Wer wüsste das besser als Nero, der Senecas Freimut öfter erfahren habe als sklavischen Gehorsam. Als der Tribun das berichtete in Gegenwart der Poppaea und des Tigellinus – sie waren für den Kaiser die engsten Vertrauten –, fragt dieser, ob Seneca freiwillig den Tod plane. Der Tribun versicherte, er habe keine Zeichen von Angst, kein bisschen Depression aus seiner Rede oder in seiner Miene bemerkt. Ja, dann müsse er noch mal hingehen und den Tod ankündigen. Der Tribun sei aber nicht auf dem gleichen Weg zurückgegangen, den er gekommen war – so der Bericht des Fabius Rusticus –, sondern habe einen Umweg zum Präfekten Faenius gemacht. Er erklärte ihm, was der Kaiser befohlen habe, und habe ihn gefragt, ob er gehorchen solle. Der beschwor ihn, das ja auszuführen. Fatal, dass alle Feiglinge waren! Der Tribun Silvanus gehörte ja auch zu der Verschwörung, die einmal angetreten war, Rache zu nehmen an den Verbrechen, und jetzt selbst sich an ihnen beteiligte! Ihn noch einmal zu sehen und zu sprechen, sparte er sich. Er schickte einen von den Centurionen zu ihm hinein, der ihm das letzte Unvermeidliche befahl85. 62. Jener erschrickt nicht. Er verlangt nach seinem Testament; und als der Offizier es verweigert, wendet er sich an seine Freunde und erklärt: Da er gehindert werde, ihren Verdiensten Dank abzustatten, hinterlasse er ihnen, was er als einziges noch, aber doch als Schönstes habe – das Bild seines Lebens. Wenn sie dessen eingedenk seien, würden sie den Ruhm des rechten Wissens als Frucht so beständiger Freundschaft davontragen. Zugleich ruft er ihren Jammer, bald durch Argumente, bald eindringlicher, wie einer, der zur Ordnung mahnt, zur Festigkeit zurück; er fragt, wo die Anweisungen der Philosophie seien, wo der durch so viele Jahre meditierte Kalkül gegen das Bedrohliche? Wem denn Neros Grausamkeit unbekannt gewesen sei? Es bleibe auch nichts anderes übrig nach der Tötung von Mutter und Bruder, als dass er den Mord an seinem Erzieher und Lehrer hinzufüge86.

85 61. ¹Seneca missum ad se Natalem conquestumque nomine Pisonis, quod a visendo eo prohiberetur, seque rationem valetudinis et amorem quietis excusavisse respondit. cur salutem privati hominis incolumnitati suae anteferret, causam non habuisse; nec sibi promptum in adulationes ingenium, idque nulli magis gnarum quam Neroni, qui saepius libertatem Senecae quam servitium expertus esset. ²ubi haec a tribuno relata sunt Poppaea et Tigellino coram, quod erat saevienti principi intimum consiliorum, interrogat an Seneca voluntariam mortem pararet. tum tribunus nulla pavoris signa, nihil triste in verbis eius aut vultu deprensum confirmavit. ergo regredi et indicere mortem iubetur. ³tradit Fabius Rusticus, non eo quo venerat itinere redisse tribunum, sed fl exisse ad Faenium praefectum, et expositis Caesaris iussis an obtemperaret interrogavisse, monitumque ab eo ut exsequeretur, fatali omnium ignavia. nam et Silvanus inter coniuratos erat augebatque scelera, in quorum ultionem consenserat. voci tamen et aspectui pepercit intromisitque ad Senecam unum ex centurionibus, qui necessitatem ultimam denuntiaret. 86 62. ¹Ille interritus poscit testamenti tabulas; ac denegante centurione conversus ad amicos, quando meritis eorum referre gratiam prohiberetur, quod unum iam et tamen pulcherrimum habeat, imaginem vitae suae relinquere testatur, cuius si memores essent, bonarum artium famam fructum constantis amicitiae laturos. ²simul lacrimas eorum modo sermone, modo intentior in modum coercentis ad firmitudinem revocat, rogitans ubi praecepta sapientiae, ubi tot per annos meditata ratio adversum imminentia? cui enim ignaram fuisse saevitiam Neronis? neque aliud superesse post matrem fratremque interfectos, quam ut educatoris praeceptorisque necem adiceret.

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63. Wie er dies und dergleichen, sozusagen allgemein, abgehandelt hat, umarmt er seine Gattin und, gegenüber seiner augenblicklichen Tapferkeit ein wenig weich geworden, fordert und bittet er, sie solle ihren Schmerz mäßigen und nicht auf ewig bewahren; sie solle vielmehr in der Betrachtung eines Lebens, das in Mannestugend geführt sei, mit ehrbarer Tröstung die Sehnsucht nach dem Gatten ertragen. Jene dagegen besteht darauf, dass auch ihr der Tod bestimmt sei, und fordert dringend die Hand, die sie durchstoßen solle. Da sagt Seneca, ihrem Ruhme nicht entgegenstehend und zugleich aus Liebe, um nicht zu Misshandlungen die zurückzulassen, die er einzig liebt: „Des Lebens Besänftigungen hatte ich dir gewiesen; du willst lieber die Zierde des Todes; ich werde dir das Beispiel, das du geben willst, nicht neiden. Möge die Festigkeit dieses so tapferen Dahingehens bei uns beiden gleich sein, mehr Ruhm in deinem Ende.“ Danach öffnen sie mit dem Eisen durch denselben Schnitt die Arme. Senecas Körper war alt und infolge karger Ernährung abgemagert; er gestattete dem Blut deshalb nur ein langsames Entweichen; so lässt er auch die Adern der Schenkel und Kniekehlen aufschneiden. Von wilden Qualen erschöpft, rät er der Frau, in ein anderes Gemach sich zurückzuziehen, damit er nicht durch einen Schmerz den Mut der Gattin breche und seinerseits durch den Anblick ihrer Pein zur Schwäche im Leiden abgleite. Auch im letzten Augenblick noch stand ihm seine Formulierungsgabe zu Gebote, und er überlieferte mehreres den Schreibern, die man hinzugerufen hatte; da dies in seinen Worten veröffentlicht ist, brauche ich es nicht zu referieren87. 64. Nero jedoch, ohne eigenen Hass gegen Pompeia Paulina, und damit nicht üble Nachrede über seine Grausamkeit sich breitmache, befiehlt, ihren Tod zu verhindern. Auf Geheiß der Soldaten binden Sklaven und Freigelassene ihr die Arme ab, stillen das Blut: Es ist nicht ganz sicher, ob sie bewusstlos war. Denn der Pöbel ist ja schnell bereit, das Schlechtere anzunehmen – es fehlte nicht an Leuten, die meinten, solange sie Neros Unversöhnlichkeit fürchtete, habe sie den Ruhm eines gemeinsamen Todes mit ihrem Gatten erstrebt; dann aber, als eine günstigere Aussicht sich ihr bot, sei sie den Verlockungen des Lebens erlegen. Sie lebte danach noch wenige Jahre in rühmlichem Gedenken an den Gatten. Ihr Gesicht und ihre Glieder waren von fahler Blässe; daraus war zu ersehen, dass viel von ihrem Lebensgeist entwichen war.

87 63. ¹Ubi haec atque alia velut in commune disseruit, complectitur uxorem, et paululum adversus praesentem fortitudinem mollitus rogat oratque temperaret dolori neu aeternum susciperet, sed in contemplatione vitae per virtutem actae desiderium mariti solaciis honestis toleraret. illa contra sibi quoque destinatam mortem adseverat manumque percussoris exposcit. ²tum Seneca gloriae eius non adversus, simul amore, ne sibi unice dilectam ad iniurias relinqueret, „Vitae“, inquit, „delenimenta monstraveram tibi, tu mortis decus mavis: non invidebo exemplo. sit huius tam fortis exitus constantia penes utrosque par, claritudinis plus in tuo fine.“ post quae eodem ictu brachia ferro exsolvunt. Seneca, quoniam senile corpus et parco victu tenuatum lenta effugia sanguini praebebat, crurum quoque et poplitum venas abrumpit; saevisque cruciatibus defessus, ne dolore suo animum uxoris infringeret atque ipse visendo eius tormenta ad inpatientiam delaberetur, suadet in aliud cubiculum abscedere. et novissimo quoque momento suppeditante eloquentia advocatis scriptoribus pleraque tradidit, quae in vulgus edita eius verbis invertere supersedeo.

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Als indes das Sterben andauert und langsam sich dahinzieht, bittet Seneca den Statius Annaeus, der sich ihm schon lange durch seine treue Freundschaft und ärztliche Kunst bewährt hatte, er möge das Gift holen, das längst schon vorgesehene, mit dem die ausgelöscht wurden, die von einem öffentlichen Gericht in Athen verurteilt waren. Es wurde herbeigebracht; er schlürfte es vergeblich, denn die Glieder waren ihm schon kalt und der Körper verschlossen gegen die Wirkung des Giftes. Schließlich stieg er in ein Bassin mit heißem Wasser; er besprengte die zunächst stehenden Sklaven und fügte hinzu, er spende diese Flüssigkeit Jupiter, dem Befreier. Darauf, ins Bad getragen und durch dessen Dampf entseelt, wird er ohne jede Bestattungsfeierlichkeit verbrannt. So hatte er es vorgeschrieben in seiner Aufzeichnung damals schon, als er – noch überreich und übermächtig – seine letzten Dinge bestellte88.

8. Imago mortis – imago vitae. Das exemplum Socratis und seine römische Performance Seneca gehörte zu den Familien, denen kein Recht auf Bilder zustand. Wiewohl in Cordoba geboren, könnte die Familie der Annaei doch römischer sein als einfache spanische Provinzler89. Tacitus hat in seinem Geschichtswerk Seneca als dem Lehrer und Kanzleramts-Chef des Nero schwere Vorwürfe gemacht90. Die Ambivalenz zwischen der zweifelhaften und umstrittenen Art des Machtpolitikers auf der einen, des überlegenen Weltweisen auf der anderen Seite ist aber aufgewogen durch die Szene seines Todes, die den äußeren Zwang nicht das tangieren lässt, was den Weisen ausmacht. Im Tod erweist sich, dass Senecas Weisheit nicht Sarkasmus eines Lebemanns war, sondern die Quintessenz 88 64. ¹At Nero nullo in Paulinam proprio odio, ac ne glisceret invidia crudelitatis, iubet inhiberi mortem. hortantibus militibus servi libertique obligant brachia, premunt sanguinem, incertum an ignarae. ²nam, ut est vulgus ad deteriora promptum, non defuere qui crederent, donec inplacabilem Neronem timuerit, famam sociatae cum marito mortis petivisse, deinde oblata mitiore spe blandimentis vitae evictam; cui addidit paucos postea annos, laudabili in maritum memoria et ore ac membris in eum pallorem albentibus, ut ostentui esset multum vitalis spiritus egestum. ³Seneca interim, durante tractu et lentitudine mortis, Statium Annaeum, diu sibi amicitiae fide et arte medicinae probatum, orat provisum pridem venenum, quo damnati publico Atheniensium iudicio extinguerentur, promeret; adlatumque hausit frustra, frigidus iam artus et cluso corpore adversum vim veneni. is postremo stagnum calidae aquae introiit, respergens proximos servorum addita voce, libare se liquorem illum Iovi liberatori. exim balneo inlatus et vapore eius exanimatus, sine ullo funeris sollemni crematur. Ita codicillis praescripserat, cum etiam tum praedives et praepotens supremis suis consuleret. 89 Hispaniensis, nicht Hispanus. Vgl. Syme (1958) Appendix 80, Griffin (2008) 25. 90 Brinkmann (2002) hier bes. 76–90. Tac. ann. 14,53–56 lässt Tacitus, Nero und Seneca aufeinander treffen, wobei es zum Zerwürfnis zwischen den beiden kommt. Das Gespräch ist zugleich die Peripetie in den Nero-Büchern der Annalen.

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der Unerschütterlichkeit des aus seinem Inneren heraus sich selbst bestimmenden Menschen. Der Tod des Seneca verweist auf die andere berühmte Szene, den Tod des Sokrates, verändert sie aber in der Aufführung spezifisch. Griechisch ist die Partitur; römisch die Performanz91. Die Unterscheidung eines Prae-Textes von der Performanz ist eine wichtige methodische Erkenntnis der letzten Zeit. Für die antike Literatur und ihre Kontextualisierung in Lebensbezüge ist weniger die Metapher von geschriebener Partitur und musikalischer Aufführung oder von Libretto und Theater oder von Klassiker und Aktualisierung geeignet. Unter ‚Texten‘ spielt das Ritual eine besondere Rolle. Ritual (und insbesondere das römische Ritual) galt lange als das Unveränderbare, das, wenn es nicht exakt in der richtigen Weise durchgeführt, so oft wiederholt werden muss, bis es gültig ist. Das ist aber nur die eine extreme Möglichkeit, die durch Sakralität gesichert werden kann. Dem gegenüber kann Ritual, auch religiöses Ritual, sehr frei in seiner Aufführung gehandhabt werden. Für die Liturgie hat sich die Varianz, also die ‚interrituellen‘ Bezüge, als hermeneutisches Modell für Performanz und der Rezeption erwiesen 92. Akteur und Publikum kennen als Beteiligte aus vielfachen Performanzen den Ablauf des Rituals, das über die – im Unterschied zur modernen Dekontextualisierung eines gesonderten Ortes der Aufführung in Opernhaus, Liederhalle oder Theater – Einbindung in Alltagsvollzüge und Bestätigung der Ordnung der Gesellschaft und des Lebens, manchmal sogar des Kosmos realisiert wird. Wenn der Ablauf variiert wird, dann ist die Varianz der entscheidende Träger einer Mitteilung. Obwohl im Fall des Todes des Seneca das gleiche Stück gespielt wird – und es ist auch ein „gelebtes Platonzitat“93, aber mehr als das –, ist die römische Performanz eines dem Publikum bekannten Stücks grundlegend verschieden. Der Bezug auf die imagines im Fall Senecas und nicht auf die Befreiung der Seele aus der Leiblichkeit in die ideale Welt im Falle des Sokrates verändert die Bedeutung des Rituals grundsätzlich. Also nicht: ein Scheitern der Sokrates-Imitation94, sondern eine römische Neu-Inszenierung. Man muss das Vorbild kennen, um das Neue, das Römische darin zu erkennen. Sokrates als Vorbild, das exemplum Socratis, hat Seneca in seinen eigenen Schriften immer wieder beansprucht und mit seinen Gesprächspartnern eingeübt. Wie schon bei früheren römischen Adaptationen griechi91 Negativ als Spiel einer Theater-Rolle bewertet es Woodman (1993) (hier zitiert nach Brinkmann 2002, 100 Anm. 307): „Seneca’s suicide is to be seen as role-playing performance.“ 92 Zu Intertextualität und Interritualität Auffarth (2007), Bierl (2007). 93 So die glückliche Formulierung Cancik-Lindemaier (1983) 299. 94 So Gärtner (1996) 155.

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scher Philosophie zu einer ‚römischen Philosophie‘, besonders in der frühen Kaiserzeit95, so ist das Bild des Sokrates ständig präsent. Auch in der dreidimensionalen Bildform kann man die Bezüge wieder erkennen – der sprichwörtlichen Hässlichkeit des Sokrates zum Trotz. Der asketische Typ des Pseudo-Seneca ist ein frühneuzeitliches (Miss-)Verständnis96. Unter den zahlreichen intertextuellen Bezügen hebt Seneca besonders die Pragmatik der Philosophie des Sokrates hervor97: Seine ‚Lebensführung‘98 ist ihm wichtiger als die Lehre99. Obwohl die Schriften und Lehre der Philosophen wie Heilige Bücher in einer Andacht ehrfürchtig zu achten sind100, ist die Realisierung der Philosophie als Ethik der zentrale Punkt, in dem aus griechischer Spekulation römische Philosophie wird101. So kann Seneca die beiden Catones und andere Politiker auf einer Ebene mit Sokrates, Platon und Zenon als vorbildlich anpreisen102. Nun aber das Drama der Sterbeszene des Seneca bei Tacitus103. Der Bezug auf Sokrates ist mehrfach explizit von Tacitus angesprochen. Aber es gibt doch auch ein Problem. Denn die Schritte, zum Tode zu kommen, sind dreifach und nur der zweite ist sokratisch, Warum aber beginnt es nicht mit der Aufführung des Sokrates-Dramas und endet nicht damit? Der erste Schritt ist das Öffnen der Pulsadern, der zweite das sokratische Gift und der dritte das Ersticken in der Sauna. Eine immer weichere Variante, 95 Döring (1979), Zanker (1995). 96 Grundlegend mit dem Katalog sämtlicher Doppelhermen herausgearbeitet von Gauer (1996): Der ‚Pseudo-Seneca‘ muss Aristophanes sein. Ich danke Werner Gauer für ein Gespräch. Zur Rezeption in der Frühen Neuzeit und zu der Diskussion in der modernen Forschung Auffarth (2009a) und Brinkmann (2002) 91–99. 97 Grundlegende Diskussion bei Döring. Herausragend bleibt Cancik (1967). Hadot (1969). 98 Zum pietistischen Begriff der ‚Lebensführung‘ und seiner charakteristischen Umformung bei Max Weber (Ich werde von Gott geführt – ich führe mein Leben nach festen [ursprünglich: religiösen] Prinzipien) Auffarth (2009a). 99 Sen. epist. 6,5: plus ex moribus quam ex verbis Socratis traxit. 100 Sen. dial. 7,26,7 (vgl. epist. 52,10) „Ehrt die Tugenden wie ihr Gottheiten verehrt, ihre Lehrer wie Priester, wenn die Heiligen Schriften vorgelesen werden, dann verharrt andächtig in Heiligem Schweigen!“ et ipsam [sc. virtutem] ut deos ac professores eius ut antistites colite et, quotiens mentio sacrarum litterarum interuenerit, fauete linguis! 101 Auf diesen Schritt und damit darauf, dass die römische Philosophie mehr ist als „Seneca für Manager“, hat besonders Gregor Maurach verwiesen. Sokrates habe den ersten Schritt dahin getan (Sen. epist. 71). Oder schon das berühmte Wort des Cicero (Tusc. 5,4,10), Sokrates habe „als erster die Philosophie vom Himmel heruntergeholt und in den Städten angesiedelt und sogar in die Häuser eingeführt“. 102 Sen. epist. 64,9 f. und öfter, Döring (1979) 19–23. 103 Döring (1979) 37–42, Brinkmann (2002) 85–154, Griffin (2008), Schunck (2008). Die völlig gespaltene Bewertung der Szene in der Forschung ist dargestellt bei Brinkmann (2002) 100–103.

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vom Schneiden mit dem Eisen über die allmähliche Lähmung des Körpers bis zum Dahinschwinden des Atems im Schwitzbad104. Da ist zum einen das exemplum Catonis, der Bezug zum Konkurrenzkampf zwischen Caesar und Cato, in dem Cato zwar die Macht verliert, aber den Ruhm gewinnt, bevor Caesar von anderen ermordet, Macht und Ruhm verliert; so zeichnete Senecas Neffe Lucan die beiden Antipoden105. Schritt zwei, das SokratesDrama, ist aber das Entscheidende, was Seneca schon vorbereitet hatte. Er bittet seinen Arzt, der Schierlingsbecher steht schon lange vorbereitet da. Als Bedeutung setzt Tacitus/Seneca hinzu: nicht „ein solches Gift, wie es auch in Athen …“, sondern „er schluckt das Gift, das in Athen den politisch Verurteilten verabreicht wurde“. Wie bei Sokrates ist erst der Tod die entscheidende Prüfung. Aber während Sokrates den Tod als Befreiung der Seele zu ihrer wahren Bestimmung wünscht106, legt der Seneca des Tacitus die Bedeutung des Todes anders aus. Das kann man an dem kleinen religiösen Ritual erkennen, das scheinbar nebenher, aber in der Stellung als letzte Tat, als Vermächtnis, bedeutsam eingefügt ist: das Opfer. Bei Platon ist es Asklepios, dem der sterbende Philosoph einen Hahn zu opfern aufträgt107. Asklepios ist der Heilgott, also heilte er durch den Tod den Sokrates von einer Krankheit, dem Leben. Bei Senecas Sterbeszene spendet er dem Iupiter Liberator eine Libation108. Wiewohl die Leiblichkeit des alternden Seneca und seiner Frau mehrfach hervorgehoben ist, ist doch kein Gedanke an die Metapher ‚Körper als Grab‘ im Sinne Platons hier angesprochen. Seneca benötigt nicht metaphysische Hilfskonstruktionen für seine Philosophie als meditatio mortis 109. Die Freiheit ist ein Leitbegriff in der Szene: Nero kenne Senecas libertas von vielen Gelegenheiten. Der Philosoph entschließt sich aus freiem Willen zum Tod. Jupiter Liberator ist eine politische Aussage: Während der oberste Herrscher willkürlich und mit Zwang seine Herrschaft auszuüben sucht, ja selbst sich 104 Eine gute Erklärung habe ich nicht gefunden. Maurach (1990) 512 denkt, es entsprach eben dem tatsächlichen historischen Ablauf. 105 Schon bei Sallust begonnen. Kurz diese Linie Wolfgang Will, „Caesar“, in: DNP 2 (1997) 921. 106 Wichtige Einschränkungen zum ‚Sokratischen Selbstmord‘ bei Warren (2001) 91–106. 107 Wie oben Anm. 5. 108 Tac. ann. 15,64. libare se liquorem illum Iovi liberatori. Die gleiche Libation bei Thraseas Tod, Tac. ann. 16,35,1: libamus Iovi Liberatori. In der Sterbeszene des Sokrates ist die Libation ein ironisches Element: Sokrates fragt, ob man vom Giftbecher den Göttern eine Libation spenden dürfe. Da das keiner Antwort bedarf (natürlich darf man die Götter nicht vergiften), fährt er fort: „Aber wenigstens beten darf ich zu ihnen“ (Phaid. 117b). – Der Witz der griechischen Szene darf nicht in der römischen Performanz vorkommen. 109 Cancik-Lindemaier (1983) 302.

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zum Sonnen-Gott erhebt, lässt sich der Politiker Seneca nicht zur Verschwörung hinreißen110, der Philosoph nicht zwingen. Er bewahrt seine Freiheit – und damit vorbildlich für andere republikanisch Denkende – unter höchster Drohung und Gewalt. Auch im erzwungenen Tod bleibt er ein freier Mensch. Die meditatio mortis 111, die innere Vorbereitung auf den Tod bereits in der Zeit höchster Macht und größten Reichtums, zeigt sich an der Tatsache, dass er längst die letzten Dinge geregelt hatte112. Der Historiker (der sein Enkel hätte sein können) kennt zweifellos die Schriften des Seneca bestens, ohne sie genau zu zitieren. Die glatte Eloquenz des Politikers und Philosophen Seneca ist nicht seine Sache, nicht ohne Kritik spricht er von dem Diktieren eines ganzen Schwalls von letzten Worten. Auf die kommt es aber hier nicht an. Zu der Inszenierung seines Todes gehört auch die Bestimmung, er wolle „ohne jede Bestattungsfeierlichkeit verbrannt werden. So hatte er es vorgeschrieben“113. Damit sind wir auf der Ebene, die der Öffentlichkeit die Bedeutung des gerade Verstorbenen in der Aristokratie der libera res publica vor Augen führt: in der pompa funebris. Wohl hätten Seneca keine Ahnen vorauslaufen können in der Form der imagines maiorum. Aber die laudatio funebris hätte Rom das Leben des Seneca beispielhaft vor Augen führen können. Man stelle sich eine Rede seines Neffen Lucan vor!114 Seneca verzichtet auf den trotzigen Widerspruch, er ist zum Privatmann geworden, weil der Diktator die Öffentlichkeit zur verlogenen Schau der Macht pervertiert hat. Damit rückt Tacitus ihn ab von den inszenierten Selbsttötungen anderer, aber auch in gewolltem Kontrapunkt zu dem bewusst intentionslosen, lässigen Sterben des Petronius, der als Epikuräer alles Schwere, Ernste vermied115. Man kann wohl nicht die eine Sterbeszene gegen die andere ausspielen; bei aller Ironie und Doppelbödigkeit des Tacitus und seinem programmatischen Wort im 110 Tac. ann. 15,65,1. Man erwartete, dass Seneca nach dem Sturz Neros die Herrschaft übernehmen könnte und sollte. Cass. Dio 62,24 f.‚ glaubt, Seneca habe die Verschwörung geplant und betrieben. 111 Bes. Sen. epist. 54,2; 70. Aufgenommen bei Hier. epist. 60,14; 127,6 und von dort als Teil des mönchischen Lebens rezipiert; in der frühen Neuzeit besonders von Protestanten. 112 Ann. 64,4: codicillis praescripserat, cum etiam tum praedives et praepotens supremis suis consuleret. 113 Tac. ann. 15,64,4: sine ullo funeris sollemni crematur. 114 Gemeinsam mit Thrasea (vgl. dessen Rede ann. 15,19) gewürdigt: Tac. ann. 16,17. 115 Tac. ann. 16,19; im Kontext c. 17–20. Es folgt neben anderen der Tod des Thrasea, den Tacitus mit den Worten einführt: virtutem ipsam excindere concupivit, „jetzt ergriff ihn die Lust, die Tugend selbst auszulöschen“. M. E. sollte man das nicht auf die beiden dann folgenden Selbsttötungen engführen, sondern die beiden sind stellvertretend genannt für die Unzahl von Morden und Selbstmorden unter Nero in der römischen Elite.

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Leben des Agricola gegen die Theatralität des Sterbens116 und gegen das Genre der exitus bzw. magnae mortes 117, so hat doch jede dieser Szenen, und erst recht in ihrer Gesamtheit, eine Würde des Widerspruchs zur Diktatur des Nero, die sog. stoische Opposition118. Seneca vermied den öffentlichen Auftritt; nach seiner Resignation vom Regierungsamt hat sich Nero verändert, hat sich Seneca geläutert119. Die Sterbeszene des Seneca zeigt „das Scheitern des Tyrannen“!120 Denn eines bleibt als ‚letztes Wort‘: die imago vitae. Wenn man die Begrifflichkeit nicht von ihrer späteren Rezeption her versteht (‚Lebensbild‘ und ‚Erbaulichkeit‘)121, sondern von ihrer Bedeutung für die res publica und ihrem Bedeutungswandel hin zur Selbstdarstellung der Macht in der Dynastie während der frühen Kaiserzeit, dann ist Senecas Verzicht auf die öffentliche Darstellung – imago als Kurzformel für dieses Ritual – die grundlegende Aussage: Nicht das Schmeicheln des Tyrannen, nicht das Stürzen des Tyrannen, nicht die öffentliche Repräsentation der Macht sind in der Tyrannis bedeutsam, sondern die imago vitae: dauerhaft, Teil einer großen Tradition und nicht mehr einer Familie, memoria und exemplum zugleich.

9. Imago vitae – „Das lebende Bild“ Das symbolische Kapital einer der großen Familien Roms zeigt sich in dem öffentlichen Aufführen der Bilder. Während die Ahnen, die eine imago hinterließen, sonst in dem halböffentlichen Atrium der Familie den clientes vor Augen stand, wurde das Einholen eines verstorbenen Familiengliedes zu den anderen Ahnen zum Anlass, die Bedeutung der Familie für die res publica aufzuführen und damit das symbolische Kapital in der Öffentlichkeit zu zeigen. Symbolisches Kapital nennt man das Kapital, das man vererbt bekommt und sich erwirbt durch das Ansehen einzelner Familienmitglieder, wie viele Menschen man kennt und auf deren Unterstützung man rechnen kann, durch Statussymbole und durch eigene Kompetenzen, die man etwa durch Bildung

116 117 118 119

Tac. Agr. 42,3 f. Plin. epist. 5,5,3; 8,12,4. Koestermann (1963–1968) zu ann. 15,63,1. Veyne (1993) 211–232, bes. 229 Anm. 1. Dies mein Einwand zu Schunck (2008), der S. 121 wertet: „Deshalb hat er [Tacitus] in seiner [Senecas] Todesszene ein Denkmal gesetzt, wie er es verdient hat. Zwar als letztlich tragische Figur […], aber doch auch als Scheinheiliger und als eitler Angeber, dem es […] bei Tacitus gerade nicht gelingt, sein allzu tugendhaftes Selbstbildnis in die Ewigkeit zu retten.“ 120 Cancik-Lindemaier (1983) 299. 121 ‚Lebensbild‘ s. Auffarth (2009a). ‚Erbaulich‘, gleichfalls pietistischer Wortschatz für οἰκοδομή, Auffarth (2006).

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erwirbt122. Für Rom lässt sich der Begriff erhellend verwenden, da dort die Akkumulation dieses ‚Kapitals‘ auf adelige Familien begrenzt ist und nur über Generationen erworben werden kann, andererseits auch dann nicht verloren geht, wenn persönlich unfähige und uncharismatische Glieder der Familie das Kapital nutzen. Die imagines maiorum sind die vorweisbare und unverlierbare Währung dieses Kapitals. Im entstehenden Prinzipat ändert sich das symbolische Kapital durch die massiven Eingriffe und die Definitionsmacht der Kaiser und ihrer Familie. Die an symbolischem Kapital relativ arme Familie der Iulii gewinnt an Kapital, indem religiöse und mythische maiores vorgebaut werden, die Venus als genetrix der Familie, Iulus als Stammvater und Bindeglied zum troianischen Erbe; Iulius Caesar als vergöttlichter Ahn, der die pompa funebris anführt. Andrerseits wird zugleich der Raum ‚Öffentlichkeit‘ massiv umgestaltet und neu abgegrenzt. Die kaiserliche Familie sucht einen qualitativen Sprung durch Abgrenzung von den ebenbürtigen, bisher konkurrierenden Familien, indem sie mit den Göttern den himmlischen Kultbereich teilt, ja konkurriert, und damit gleichzeitig den Kult der Toten-Memoria entwertet123. Seneca hat diesen Bereich der Repräsentation aufgegeben, die ‚Öffentlichkeit‘ ist so sehr dem Zwang der Kaiser unterworfen, dass nur deren Regeln dort gelten. Ein öffentliches Begräbnis heißt, die kaiserliche Macht zu akzeptieren und durch affirmierende Wiederholung selbstverständlich werden zu lassen. Seneca setzt ein anderes entgegen: die imago vitae. Sie lebt nicht von kaiserlichen Gnaden, sondern von der Weiterführung seines Lebensentwurfes durch die Ehefrau, die Freunde, von den Werten der virtus und der res publica, die die maiores zur Weltgeltung gebracht haben. Literatur macht sie zu einem monumentum, das cera et aere perennius wird. Vielleicht ein Privileg derer, die Literatur verfassen können, von Intellektuellen. Aber sicher auch ein trotziges Entgegensetzen von Werten gegen die Faktizität der Macht und dem Gesetz vom Anhäufen oder Verlieren der Macht. Ein Nein letztlich zu der Allmacht des Todes, dem Vergessen und der Gleichgültigkeit eines Lebens in Würde. Für die Bildwissenschaft ergibt sich in der römischen Ahnenmaske ein Beispiel für die Repräsentation von Personen in der Gesamtaufführung der historischen und gegenwärtigen Familie. Das performative Element sticht deutlich hervor. Gegenüber der römischen Tradition, die die imago maiorum 122 Nagel (2006) 12–26; 180 f. (zusammenfassende Grafik). Der Begriff ist vor allem von Pierre Bourdieu eingeführt worden als Erweiterung der materialistischen Kapitaltheorien. Paul Veyne und Egon Flaig haben ihn für die Altertumswissenschaft ausgebaut. In der Soziologie ein wichtiger Begriff, den v. a. Hartmut Esser entfaltet. 123 Cancik (1996) 230–232.

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auf adelige Familien begrenzt, beklagen Tacitus und Seneca die Perversion: Was in der libera res publica im Wettstreit um die besseren Taten für die Republik allen zu Gute kam, das ist jetzt fast zum Monopol des Kaiserhauses degeneriert, zumal durch dessen Anspruch, in einer anderen Liga zu spielen, im Verein mit den Göttern. Dem stellt Seneca nun das Konzept der imago vitae entgegen. Auf den ersten Blick eine Verinnerlichung, dass das Bild in der Erinnerung der Freunde lebt. Auf den zweiten Blick aber steht Seneca nun in einer Linie mit einem ganz anderen Adel, dem der Philosophen und Gelehrten. Auch diese erhalten ihre materiellen Bilder, in einem eigenen Genre, dem hellenistischen Porträt, hier potentiell auch als Ganzkörperstatue. An eben diesem Punkt setzt dann die Rezeption des ‚Lebensbildes‘ in der Frühen Neuzeit ein.

10. Bibliographie Abel (1978). – Günter Abel, Stoizismus und Frühe Neuzeit: Zur Entstehungsgeschichte modernen Denkens im Felde von Ethik und Politik (Berlin/New York 1978). Abel (1985). – Karlhans Abel, „Seneca: Leben und Leistung“, in: ANRW 2,32,2 (1985) 653–775. Abel (1991). – Karlhans Abel, „Die taciteische Seneca-Rezeption“, in: ANRW 2,33,4 (1991) 2597–2688. Alföldi (1934–1935). – Andreas Alföldi, „Die Ausgestaltung des monarchischen Zeremoniells am römischen Kaiserhofe“, MDAI(R) 49 (1934) 1–118; „Insignien und Tracht der römischen Kaiser“, MDAI(R) 50 (1935) 1–171 (ND u. d. T.: Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreiche, Darmstadt 1970). Altmann (1905). – Walter Altmann, Die römischen Grabaltäre der Kaiserzeit (Berlin 1905). Andreae et al. (2006). – Bernard Andreae et al., Kleopatra und die Caesaren (Katalog zur Ausstellung des Bucerius-Kunst-Forums) (München 2006). Auffarth (1995). – Christoph Auffarth, „Aufnahme und Zurückweisung ‚Neuer Götter‘ im spätklassischen Athen: Religion gegen die Krise, Religion in der Krise“, in: Walter Eder (ed.), Die athenische Demokratie im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr.: Vollendung oder Verfall einer Verfassungsform? (Stuttgart 1995) 337–365. Auffarth (2003). – Christoph Auffarth, „Herrscherkult und Christuskult“, in: Hubert Cancik/Konrad Hitzl (edd.), Die Praxis der Herrscherverehrung in Rom und seinen Provinzen (Tübingen 2003) 283–317. Auffarth (2006a). – Christoph Auffarth, „Euer Leib sei der Tempel des Herrn: Religiöse Sprache bei Paulus“, in: Dorothea Elm-von der Osten/Jörg Rüpke/Katharina Waldner (edd.), Texte als Medium und Refl exion von Religion im Römischen Reich, Potsdamer altertumswissenschaftliche Beiträge 14 (Stuttgart 2006) 63–80. Auffarth (2006b) – Christoph Auffarth, „Das angemessene Bild Gottes. Der Olympische Zeus, antike Bildkonvention und die Christologie“, in: Natascha Kreutz/Beat Schweizer (edd.), Tekmeria. Archäologische Zeugnisse in ihrer kulturhistorischen und politischen Dimension. Beiträge für Werner Gauer (Münster 2006) 1–23. Auffarth (2006c) – Christoph Auffarth, „Bild“, in: Wörterbuch der Religionen (Stuttgart 2006) 75 f.

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Auffarth (2007). – Christoph Auffarth, „Ritual, Performanz, Theater. Die Religion der Athener in Aristophanes’ Komödien“, in: Bierl (2007) 387–414. Auffarth (2008). – Christoph Auffarth, „Teure Ideologie – billige Praxis. Die ‚kleinen‘ Opfer in der römischen Kaiserzeit“, in: Evtychia Stavrianopoulou/Axel Michaels/ Claus Ambos (edd.), Transformations in Sacrificial Practices: From Antiquity to Modern Times, Performanzen 15 (Münster 2008) 147–170. Auffarth (2009a). – Christoph Auffarth, „Living Well and Living On: Martyrdom and the imago vitae in the Early Modern Age“, in: Jitse Dijkstra/Justin Kroesen/Yme Kuiper (edd.), Myths, Martyrs, and Modernity: Studies in the History of Religions in Honour of Jan N. Bremmer (Leiden 2009, im Druck) Auffarth (2009b). – Christoph Auffarth, „The Materiality of God’s Image and the Ancient Christology“, in: Jan N. Bremmer/Andrew Erskine (edd.), The Gods of Ancient Greece: Identities and Transformation (Liverpool 2009, im Druck) Bäbler (2000). – Balbina Bäbler, „Der Zeus von Olympia“, in: Hans-Josef Klauck (ed.), Dion von Prusa, Die Olympische Rede, Sapere 2 (Darmstadt 2000) 217–238. Belting (1990). – Hans Belting, Bild und Kult: Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem Zeitalter der Kunst (München 1990). Belting (2001). – Hans Belting, Bildanthropologie: Entwürfe für eine Bildwissenschaft (München 2001). Belting (2001a). – Hans Belting, „Bild und Tod. Verkörperung in frühen Kulturen“, in: Belting (2001) 143–188. Belting (2007). – Hans Belting, Bilderfragen: Die Bildwissenschaften im Aufbruch (München 2007). Benndorf (1878). – Otto Benndorf, Antike Gesichtshelme und Sepulcralmasken (Wien 1878). Bergmann (1993). – Marianne Bergmann, Der Koloss Neros, die Domus Aurea und der Mentalitätswandel im Rom der frühen Kaiserzeit. Trierer Winckelmannprogramme 13 (Mainz 1993) 1–37; Tafel 1–5. Bergmann (1998). – Marianne Bergmann, Die Strahlen des Herrschers: Theomorphes Herrscherbild und politische Symbolik im Hellenismus und in der römischen Kaiserzeit (Mainz 1998). Bierl (2007). – Anton F. Bierl/Rebecca Lämmle/Katharina Wesselmann (edd.), Literatur und Religion. Bd. 1: Wege zu einer mythisch-rituellen Poetik bei den Griechen, MythosEikonPoiesis 1 (Berlin/New York 2007). Binder/Effe (1991). – Gerhard Binder/Bernd Effe (edd.), Tod und Jenseits im Altertum, Bochumer Altertumswissenschaftliches Colloquium 6 (Trier 1991). Boschung (1987). – Dietrich Boschung, Antike Grabaltäre aus den Nekropolen Roms, Acta Bernensia 10 (Bern 1987). Boschung (2002). Dietrich Boschung, Gens Augusta. Untersuchungen zu Aufstellung, Wirkung und Bedeutung der Statuengruppen des julisch-claudischen Kaiserhauses, Monumenta Artis Romanae 32 (Mainz 2002). Bräunlein (2009). – Peter Bräunlein, „Ikonische Repräsentation von Religion“, in: Hans G. Kippenberg/Jörg Rüpke/Kocku von Stuckrad (edd.), Europäische Religionsgeschichte (Göttingen 2009) 771–810. Brinkmann (2002). – Michael Brinkmann, Seneca in den Annalen des Tacitus (Diss. Bonn 2002). Cancik (1975). – Hubert Cancik, „Christus Imperator. Zum Gebrauch militärischer Titulaturen im römischen Herrscherkult und im Christentum“, in: Heinrich von Stietencron (ed.), Der Name Gottes (Düsseldorf 1975) 112–130 (ND in: Cancik 2008, Bd. 2, 265–281).

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Literatur und Kunst

Iolaos martin west

Herakles’ sidekick. That is how we usually think of Iolaos; and that is how he first appears in literature, when Hesiod tells us what became of the Lernaean Hydra (theog. 316–318): καὶ τὴν μὲν Διὸς υἱὸς ἐνήρατο νηλέϊ χαλκῶι ᾽Αμφιτρυωνιάδης σὺν ἀρηϊφίλωι ᾽Ιολάωι ῾Ηρακλέης βουλῆισιν ᾽Αθηναίης ἀγελείης. But Zeus’ son slew it with merciless bronze, Amphitryoniades, together with warlike Iolaos – Herakles, guided by Athena driver of armies.

In art too it is at the killing of the Hydra that Iolaos first appears; but then he turns up in many other scenes as Herakles’ companion, sometimes driving his chariot, often accoutred as a warrior1. In the pseudo-Hesiodic Scutum, in which Herakles fights an epic-style combat against the brigand Kyknos, Iolaos serves as his charioteer and dialogue partner. In the prologue of Euripides’ Herakleidai he speaks with pride of having assisted him in most of his exploits (6–8): ἐγὼ γὰρ αἰδοῖ καὶ τὸ συγγενὲς σέβων, ἐξὸν κατ’ ῎Αργος ἡσύχως ναίειν, πόνων πλείστων μετέσχον εἷς ἀνὴρ ῾Ηρακλέει. For I, from respect and honouring the kinship bond, when I could have lived quietly at Argos, was the one who shared in most of his toils with Herakles2.

Originally, we should suppose, Iolaos was an independent hero who did noteworthy deeds on his own account. Perhaps he shared some of Herakles’ characteristics and then, as Herakles’ fame and cult spread, was subordinated to him and drawn into his mythology3. His name is related to that of 1 2 3

See Maria Pipili, in: LIMC 5.1, 686–696 s. v. Iolaos (and her succeeding article on his Etruscan form ‘Vile’, 696–701). Cf. Eur. Heracl. 88; Paus. 1.19.3; 8.14.9; 45.6. Cf. Wilamowitz (²1895) vol. 1, 50 n. 85; (1922) 47.

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Ioleia/Iole, the daughter of Eurytos for whom Herakles sacked Oichalia; she became the wife of Hyllos and so ancestress of the Herakleidai. Iolaos himself acted as the protector of the Herakleidai after their father’s death, killing their persecutor Eurystheus4. Perhaps Iolaos and Ioleia, or rather Violavos and Violava, once made a pair, or were male and female variants of a single mythical figure (like Danaos and Danae), and then became annexed to Herakles in different ways appropriate to their sex. Iolaos is not only Herakles’ charioteer or comrade in arms but also his nephew, the son of his half-twin brother Iphikles5. Iphikles is another who did nothing of note, and Wilamowitz saw him as an empty stopgap figure serving only to father Iolaos6. However, he enjoyed a hero cult at Pheneos in Arcadia (Paus. 8.14.9 f.), and we may suspect that he too was once a figure of independent significance, perhaps an old doublet of Herakles himself. The divergent names could be reconciled by making them twin sons of Alkmene; one of them was exalted as the son of Zeus, while the other remained only the son of Amphitryon and was relegated to inferiority and relative obscurity. He provided, however, a convenient point of attachment for Iolaos to be brought into the family7. At all events, by the Late Geometric and Archaic periods Iphikles is more or less a nobody. Iolaos is a good deal more than a nobody, but he is always a Number Two, tagging along with Herakles and accomplishing nothing much by himself. At the funeral games for Pelias he won the chariot race, but Herakles won the pankration8. Only after Herakles’ death did he briefly come into his own, defending the Herakleidai against Eurystheus and beheading the tyrant. For this engagement, however, it was necessary for him to return from the dead or at any rate undergo rejuvenation, which suggests that it was a relatively late development of the saga that did not fit comfortably with existing traditions9.

4 5 6 7

8 9

Pind. Pyth. 9.80, Eur. Heracl. passim, Strab. 8.6.19, Paus. 1.44.10. The story of Herakles’ and Iphikles’ birth is told in [Hes.] scut. 1–56, 87–94; cf. Pind. Pyth. 9.84–88, Nem. 1.35 f. References as in n. 3. Cf. Robert (1920–1926) 616 f. Schweitzer (1922) 227 thought that Herakles and Iphikles had originally been a typical pair of heroic twins, “die ‘Dioskuren’ der dorischen Argiver”. Theodosios and Choiroboskos (Gramm. Gr. 4.1, 9.1,9; 190.24) give forms of Herakles’ name in the dual, perhaps purely theoretical; but if they ever existed in use, they might have stood for “the Herakles pair”, i. e. Herakles and his brother, according to the ancient usage discussed by Wackernagel (1877). Ibycus (Stesich.?) PMGF S176; Paus. 5.17.11 (the Cypselus chest); Hyg. fab. 273.10 f. According to Paus. 5.8.3 he won similarly at Olympia in the games that Herakles established after his defeat of Augeas. Pind. Pyth. 9.80 f. with Schol. 137a, c; Eur. Heracl. 851–858.

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Clearly Iolaos was a good man to have at your side in a crisis, but his mythical record of independent achievement remains modest. In spite of this he enjoyed a lively heroic cult in several places, notably at Thebes and in the West, in Sicily and Sardinia10. Why? What did he mean to those who honoured him in these cults? Usually we have no means of answering such questions about the attitudes of participants in ancient religious activity. In the case of one of the Iolaos cults, however, we are more fortunately placed. We have a considerable portion of the poetic works of one of his Theban admirers, Pindar, and among them we find several passages in which he is honorifically mentioned11. Even without Pindar we should have an inkling of Iolaos’ status in 5thcentury Boeotia. The Boeotian in Aristophanes’ Acharnians begins his first utterance with ἴττω ῾Ηρακλῆς (860) and his second with νεὶ τὸν ᾽Ιόλαον (867), just as on the modern English stage a Yorkshireman might announce himself with a “By Gum” or an Irishman with a “Begorrah”. Athenians evidently perceived asseverations by Herakles and Iolaos as typical of Boeotians. Of course, these might have been merely fossilized expressions, not implying any live interest in Herakles or Iolaos. We must look to Pindar for clearer evidence. He refers to Iolaos in no less than eight passages. In none of them, remarkably, does Herakles appear beside him. His connection with Herakles is certainly presupposed: in fr. 169a.44–49 Herakles goes alone, as instructed, to see Eurystheus, while Iolaos stays in Thebes building a grave-mound for Amphitryon. In Pyth. 9.79–83 we learn that Iolaos after killing Eurystheus was himself buried in that same grave with Amphitryon his grandfather. But Pindar systematically avoids showing him as an appendage to Herakles. When he relates Herakles’ exploits, as in fr. 169a.6–36, he leaves Iolaos out of them. When he speaks of Iolaos, he lets him appear as a hero in his own right, not as one standing in Herakles’ shadow. There is a striking example at Nem. 3.36–39 in a passage about the glories of the Aiakidai: Λαομέδοντα δ’ εὐρυσθενής Τελαμὼν ᾽Ιόλαι παραστάτας ἐὼν ἔπερσεν· καί ποτε χαλκότοξον ᾽Αμαζόνων μετ’ ἀλκάν ἕπετό οἱ, οὐδέ νίν ποτε φόβος ἀνδροδάμας ἔπαυσεν ἀκμὰν φρενῶν. And mighty Telamon destroyed Laomedon as comrade in arms to Iolaos; and another time in pursuit of the Amazons’ bronze-bow strength he followed him, nor did man-mastering fear ever check his keen spirit. 10 Kroll (1916); Farnell (1921) 139, 411 n. 80; Schachter (1981–1994) vol. 1, 30 f.; vol. 2, 25–27; 64–65. 11 Cf. Fehr (1936) 21–23; Bernardini (1990).

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That war on Laomedon had always been Herakles’ enterprise, both in Pindar and before him12. But in the Third Nemean Herakles, who (as Dissen noted) has already been praised in an earlier passage (21–26), is replaced by Iolaos. What is more, Telamon is called Iolaos’ παραστάτας, implying that the latter was the greater champion of the two. Again, in the Seventh Isthmian Pindar asks Thebes which chapter of her epichoric mythology she takes most pleasure in: was it the birth of Dionysos, or that of Herakles? Was it the wisdom of Teiresias, or (9) Iolaos’ skill with horses? And the list goes on. Here again Iolaos stands on his own, separate from Herakles, as one of Thebes’ past glories. His epithet ἱππόμητις in that passage recalls his fame as a charioteer. In Isthm. 1.17 he is praised as the greatest of Theban charioteers, and in Isthm. 5.32 he is ἱπποσόας, “horse-speeding”. But this latter allusion needs to be set in its context. The Ode is for an Aeginetan victor in the pankration. He has earned his tribute of song (Isthm. 5.26–35): καὶ γὰρ ἡρώων ἀγαθοὶ πολεμισταί λόγον ἐκέρδαναν· κλέονται δ’ ἔν τε φορμίγγεσσιν ἐν αὐλῶν τε παμφώνοις ὀμοκλαῖς μυρίον χρόνον, μελέταν δὲ σοφισταῖς Διὸς ἕκατι πρόσβαλον σεβιζόμενοι· ἐν μὲν Αἰτωλῶν θυσίαισι φαενναῖς Οἰνεΐδαι κρατεροί, ἐν δὲ Θήβαις ἱπποσόας ᾽Ιόλαος γέρας ἔχει, Περσεὺς δ’ ἐν ῎Αργει, Κάστορος δ’ αἰχμὰ Πολυδεύκεός τ’ ἐπ’ Εὐρώτα ῥεέθροις, ἀλλ’ ἐν Οἰνώναι μεγαλήτορες ὀργαί Αἰακοῦ παίδων τε. For among the heroes too the good fighters won repute: they are celebrated both with lyres and with the pipes’ omni-voiced clamour time untold, and have exercised the poets as by Zeus’ favour they enjoy reverence – at the Aetolians’ bright sacrifices the strong sons of Oineus, and at Thebes the horse-speeding Iolaos has honour, and Perseus at Argos, and Κastor’s spear and Polydeukes’ by Eurotas’ streams, but in Oinone (Aegina) the great-hearted tempers of Aiakos and his sons.

12 Hom. Il. 5.638–642, 648–651, cf. 20.145–148; [Hes.] cat. 43(a).63 f., 165.9–13; Herakles with Telamon, Pisander fr. 10 West; the skolion PMG 899; Pind. Nem. 4.25, Isthm. 5.36 f., 6.27–31, cf. fr. 140a.66.

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Pindar here lists in parallel a series of local heroes, all of whom are apparently the subjects of “reverence” (σεβιζόμενοι) and of songs sung on ritual occasions. If they are introduced as “fighters”, πολεμισταί, it is to match the pankratiast who is the recipient of the Ode. The Theban hero chosen is not Herakles, despite his success in the pankration at the Games for Pelias, but horse-speeding Iolaos. The reason is, I think, that although Herakles was born at Thebes, had members of his family buried there, and was worshipped there, he was not in Pindar’s eyes a specifically Theban hero but rather a Panhellenic one, whereas Iolaos was specific to Thebes13. The implication that Iolaos was celebrated in songs is confirmed by another passage where he is put beside the Dioskouroi (Pyth. 11.58–62): εὐώνυμον, κτεάνων κράτιστον, χάριν […] ἅ τε τὸν ᾽Ιφικλείδαν διαφέρει ᾽Ιόλαον ὑμνητὸν ἐόντα καὶ Κάστορος βίαν σέ τε, ἄναξ Πολύδευκες, υἱοὶ θεῶν. The blessing of a good name, the best of possessions […] which distinguishes that son of Iphikles, Iolaos, who is praised in song, and mighty Κastor and thee, lord Polydeukes, sons of gods.

True, it is not quite clear whether the reference is just to narrative poetry about events in which Iolaos played a part (which would on the whole be exploits of Herakles) or to something more closely integrated with a hero cult. That he had such a cult is not in question. As already mentioned, he had a joint tomb with Amphitryon. It was located outside the Proitid Gate in the north-east of the city. Here was situated τὸ τοῦ ᾽Ιολάου τέμενος, where Alexander made his camp on arriving from Onchestos in 335 (Arr. an. 1.7.7). Here stood, at least in Hellenistic times, a gymnasium with stadium called the Iolaeion. And here an annual festival took place at which young men competed in athletic contests14. The scholia to Pindar repeatedly refer to the games as the Iolaeia, while stating that they were also called Herakleia. Didymus acknowledged only the latter designation (Schol. Pind. Nem. 4.32), and it is only as Herakleia that they appear in the victors’ dedications and theoric inscriptions, which begin in the second half of the 4th century; presumably Iolaeia was the older name and gave way to the other because Herakles was increasingly acknowledged as the more important of the two heroes. As presiding hero of the games, Iolaos was liable to be seen as a model for the young men who took part in them. There was no mythical authority 13 Cf. Robert (1920–1926) 617, “Er ist in Theben außerordentlich volkstümlich, wird von Pindar als der für diese Stadt charakteristische Heros bezeichnet”. 14 Pind. Ol. 9.98 f. with Schol. (148d, l), Nem. 4.20 with Schol. (21c, 32).

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for his being a great athlete, part from his expertise as a charioteer. But we have seen that in the Fifth Isthmian his image is stretched to suit the pankratiast, and in the First Isthmian – where once again he is paired with Κastor – it is enlarged more comprehensively. This time the victor is a Theban, one Herodotos. Pindar says he wants to set him in a song fitting for Κastor or Iolaos (Isthm. 1.17–31): κεῖνοι γὰρ ἡρώων διφρηλάται Λακεδαίμονι καὶ Θήβαις ἐτέκνωθεν κράτιστοι, ἔν τ’ ἀέθλοισι θίγον πλείστων ἀγώνων καὶ τριπόδεσσιν ἐκόσμησαν δόμον καὶ λεβήτεσσιν φιάλαισί τε χρυσοῦ, γευόμενοι στεφάνων νικαφόρων· λάμπει δὲ σαφὴς ἀρετά ἔν τε γυμνοῖσι σταδίοις σφίσιν ἔν τ’ ἀσπιδοδούποισιν ὁπλίταις δρόμοις, οἷά τε χερσὶν ἀκοντίζοντες αἰχμαῖς καὶ λιθίνοις ὁπότ’ ἐν δίσκοις ἵεν. οὐ γὰρ ἦν πενταέθλιον, ἀλλ’ ἐφ’ ἑκάστωι ἔργματι κεῖτο τέλος. τῶν ἁθρόοις ἀνδησάμενοι θαμάκις ἔρνεσιν χαίταις ῥεέθροισί τε Δίρκας ἔφανεν καὶ παρ’ Εὐρώται πέλας, ᾽Ιφικλέος μὲν παῖς ὁμόδαμος ἐὼν Σπαρτῶν γένει, Τυνδαρίδας δ’ ἐν ᾽Αχαιοῖς ὑψίπεδον Θεράπνας οἰκέων ἕδος. For they among the heroes were the chariot-drivers born the greatest at Lacedaemon and Thebes, and at games they set their hand to the most contests and adorned their homes with tripods and cauldrons and bowls of gold, tasting the crowns of victory: their excellence shines manifest both in naked stadion-races and in the shield-thudding races in armour, and in how their arms hurled spears and threw in the stone discus events; for the pentathlon did not exist, but for each accomplishment a separate result was set. Many a time, their hair bound with all the garlands of these events, they appeared by Dirke’s streams and beside the Eurotas, Iphikles’ son being of one people with the Sown Men’s breed, and the Tyndarid dwelling among Achaeans in the high-grounded seat of Therapne15.

15 Translation adapted from that of Instone (1996) 81–83.

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As Herodotos’ victory was in the chariot race, it would have been sufficient to refer to Iolaos’ acknowledged supremacy in that department. It is as charioteers that he and Kastor are introduced. But then in Pindar’s hands they suddenly flower into all-round athletic champions: paradigms not just for this particular victor but for all Theban or Spartan contestants at games. The hero’s image, then, is only partly determined by mythical data. It mutates in response to the ideals and aspirations of those whom he serves as a role model. In Pindar the primary context is agonistic. Yet in the Fifth Isthmian the pankratiast’s hero counterparts are not athletes but real-life fighters, πολεμισταί. Martial arts had martial applications, and we may suspect that Iolaos was held up to the Theban youth as an exemplar not just of athletic but of military prowess. Whenever his uncle Herakles had called on him, he had proved his worth. He was the paradigm of the young man who stands by his older comrade in the line of battle and gives him every support. That bond with the older man easily developed into an erotic one. When Iolaos is portrayed as Herakles’ ἐρώμενος, this is a reflection of a social reality. It is attested that in the 4th century male lovers plighted their troths at Iolaos’ tomb16. Now I turn away from Pindar, and perhaps from Thebes, to consider a fragment of a cult song, or perhaps it is a complete song, in which Herakles and Iolaos appear together. It is ascribed unconvincingly to Archilochus (fr. spur. 324 West). It is preserved in scholia both to Pindar and to Aristophanes, in the first case in elucidation of Pindar’s allusion to “the song of Archilochus voiced at Olympia, the triply-ringing Kallinikos ” (Ol. 9.1 f. τὸ ᾽Αρχιλόχου μέλος φωνᾶεν ᾽Ολυμπίαι, καλλίνικος ὁ τριπλόος κεχλαδώς), in the second case in connection with choral cries of τήνελλα καλλίνικος at the close of the Acharnians and Birds 17. It runs: τήνελλα καλλίνικε χαῖρε ἄναξ ῾Ηράκλεις (or ῾Ηράκλεες), αὐτός τε καὶ ᾽Ιόλαος, αἰχματὰ (or -μητὰ) δύω.

Eratosthenes, most likely in his work on Comedy, claimed that this was what Pindar was referring to in Ol. 9.1. Probably, however, Pindar was alluding only to a custom of acclaiming a victor at Olympia with the shout τήνελλα καλλίνικε or καλλίνικος, repeated three times. The meaningless word τήνελλα was the verbal equivalent of a flourish on the auloi or a strum on the lyre, preparatory to the cry of “Fine victor!”, the whole thing being analogous to our triple “Hip-hip: hooray!” It was doubtless a traditional popular prac16 Aristot. fr. 97. Cf. Plut. Pelop. 18.5, de frat. amore 492c, am. 761d. 17 Schol. Pind. Ol. 9.1a, c, f, k; Schol. Aristoph. Ach. 1230, Av. 1764; Suda τ 518; West (²1989–1992) vol. 1, 104–106.

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tice, not peculiar to Olympia. For Pindar to take Archilochus as its inventor, it will have been sufficient that Archilochus somewhere used the words τήνελλα καλλίνικε or καλλίνικος 18. Pindar need not have known the verses about Herakles and Iolaos. And Eratosthenes need not have known them under Archilochus’ name; he may have assigned them to him on the strength of the Pindar passage. In metre and manner the piece is unlike any Archilochus known to us, and it is hard to imagine in what circumstances he might have composed it. It might then have been as a consequence of Eratosthenes’ discussion that it was included in the Alexandrian edition of Archilochus. It seems there to have been appended at the end of the Epodes, after another piece with a cultic association and of questioned authenticity, the Iobacchoi 19. Where did it come from, and what was it for? Eratosthenes called it a hymn. It is more accurately described as an acclamation, evidently to be chanted by a crowd or a group on a ritual occasion at which Herakles paraded in triumph accompanied by Iolaos20. The two heroes may have been represented in effigy or impersonated by living men. Where might such a custom have existed? I do not know, but let us review a few possibilities. (1) Schol. Aristoph. Av. 1764 curiously describes the verses as an ephymnion that Archilochus uttered for Herakles after the Augeas labour: τὸ τήνελλα μίμησίς ἐστι φωνῆς κρούματος αὐλοῦ ποιᾶς ἀπὸ τοῦ ἐφυμνίου οὗ (ὃ?) εἶπεν ᾽Αρχίλοχος εἰς τὸν ῾Ηρακλέα μετὰ τὸν ἆθλον Αὐγέου 21.

It was after defeating Augeas that Herakles founded the Olympic Games (Pind. Ol. 10.24–77, Apollod. 2.7.2). Nobody can have supposed that Archilochus was present on that occasion, so there seems to be a confusion of two alternative propositions: that the verses are by Archilochus, or that they originated at Olympia at the time of the founding of the Games. One possibility, then, is that they were traditional at Olympia in some celebration of the mythical foundation by Herakles, and that Pindar did after all have

18 Cf. von Sybel (1871) 201; Wilamowitz (1921) 286 n. 4. Perhaps Archilochus used the exclamation in an iambic trimeter and ironically, in the same tone as when he congratulates Lykambes on his (disgraceful) daughters: ὦ τρι]σμακά[ριος ὅστις […] / τοι]αῦτα τέκ[να (fr. 60.6 f.). 19 Hence the silly story in Schol. Aristoph. that Archilochus composed it to celebrate his own victory at Paros in a competition for a hymn to Demeter (= the Iobacchoi, fr. 322 f.): Lasserre (1950) 269–271. 20 The vocative in line 2 with the switch into the nominative in line 3 makes a fine example of the so-called Vā´yav Índraś ca construction common to Greek and Vedic, as seen in the Homeric Ζεῦ πάτερ […] ᾽Ηέλιός τε (Il. 3.276 f.). Cf. West (2007) 306 f. 21 So EΓ: μετὰ τὸν ἆθλον αὐτοῦ V: μεγίστων ἄθλων αὐτοῦ R.

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them in mind at Ol. 9.1. Iolaos, however, does not appear to have any place at Olympia. (2) If the ascription to Archilochus predates Eratosthenes, a conceivable reason for it would be that the home of the custom was Paros. In late Hellenistic times there existed there a priesthood of Herakles Kallinikos. The man attested as holding it is Sosthenes son of Prosthenes, the man who restored and extended the inscribed monument to Archilochus22. But he is much too late to account for the association of the acclamation with the poet. The use of the dual in the third line is against an Ionian origin, as the dual had long gone out of use in Ionic. There is no evidence for Iolaos on Paros, and if there were, we should expect him to appear as ᾽Ιόλεως. (3) In Attica Iolaos had an altar in the Herakleion at Kynosarges (Paus. 1.19.3), while at Porthmos (Sounion) he received annually, as ᾽Ιόλεως, a holocaust sheep from the Salaminioi23. In the Phaleron district there was a Herakleion at which an association of four villages held γυμνικοὶ ἀγῶνες. The occasion was noted for a peculiar warlike song and dance accompanied by the auloi and performed as an Epinikion for Herakles24. We have here (and only here, so far as I know) positive evidence for a ritual in which Herakles was celebrated in song as a victor25. And it is said to have had a martial character, which is in accord with the description of Herakles and Iolaos as αἰχμητά. If this was where our acclamation was at home, there is no problem about how it came to the knowledge of Eratosthenes, who spent many years at Athens. On the other hand Iolaos is not mentioned in connection with the Four-village Dance, and if he occurred there it should have been in the Attic form ᾽Ιόλεως. (4) What about Thebes, where we know Iolaos was prominent? At this point it may be noted that the second line of the piece finds a parallel in an archaic epigram from Metapontum, CEG 396 (late 6th century): χαῖρε Ϝάναξ ῞Ηρακλες· ὅ τοι κεραμεύς μ’ ἀνέθεκε· δὸς δέ Ϝ’ ἰν ἀνθρόποις δόξαν ἔχεν ἀγαθ<ά>ν. 22 IG 12(5).234. Cf. Gossage (1951) 218. 23 SEG 21 (1965) no. 527.85 (363/2 BCE). 24 Poll. 4.99 ἦν δὲ καὶ κῶμος εἶδος ὀρχήσεως καὶ τετράκωμος, ῾Ηρακλέους ἱερὰ καὶ πολεμική; 4.105 ὁ δὲ τετράκωμος, τὸ τῆς ὀρχήσεως εἶδος, οὐκ οἶδα εἴ τι προσῆκον ἦν τοῖς ᾽Αθήνησι τετρακώμοις, οἳ ἦσαν Πειραιεῖς Φαληρεῖς Ξυπεταίονες Θυμοιτάδαι; Tryphon ap. Athen. 618c; Hesych. τ 626 τετράκωμος· μέλος τι σὺν ὀρχήσει πεποιημένον εἰς ῾Ηρακλέα ἐπινίκιον; Steph. Byz. ᾽Εχελίδαι· δῆμος τῆς ᾽Αττικῆς, ἀπὸ ᾽Εχέλου ἥρωος· οὗτος δ’ ἀπὸ Ἕλους τόπου μεταξὺ ὄντος τοῦ Πειραιέως καὶ τοῦ τετρακώμου ῾Ηρακλείου, ἐν ὧι τοὺς γυμνικοὺς ἀγῶνας ἐτίθεσαν τοῖς Παναθηναίοις; Parker (1996) 328 f. 25 As for Hesych. κ 481, Καλλίνικος· ὄνομα κύριον. καὶ εἶδος ὀρχήσεως ἐπὶ τῆι τοῦ Κερβέρου ἀναγωγῆι. ἢ νικητής, I suspect that the victory dance on the bringing up of Cerberus derives from an interpretation of Eur. Herc. 681/686.

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Here the vocative of Herakles’ name appears in a short form that is also attested in some late texts26; perhaps it was the original form in the acclamation. More importantly, the parallel suggests that the χαῖρε ἄναξ transmitted in the acclamation represents χαῖρε Ϝάναξ, and that we have to do with a dialect in which initial digamma was preserved27. This would certainly suit Thebes (and rule out Attica). (5) The coincidence with the Metapontum epigram might be a pointer towards Magna Graecia. Diodorus tells us that Iolaos was honoured with τεμένη and heroic cults in many Sicilian cities (4.30.3), and he gives a fuller account of how Herakles and Iolaos were worshipped in his own home town of Agyrion (4.24). Herakles was honoured there with no less enthusiasm than the Olympian gods, with an annual ἀγὼν γυμνικὸς καὶ ἱππικός. Iolaos had his own temenos and annual rites. All the boys of the town grew their hair for him until, on coming of age, they could propitiate him with a handsome sacrifice. Here, as in Pindar’s Fifth Isthmian, he appears as an ephebic icon. We come back to the acclamation of Herakles and his nephew as αἰχματά, spearmen. It reflects not so much their mythic exploits as their paradigmatic role as patrons of the young warriors of the city, whose typical weapon was the spear. A traditional hexameter couplet attributed to Terpander (fr. 5 Gostoli) celebrated Sparta as a place ἔνθ’ αἰχμά τε νέων θάλλει καὶ μῶσα λίγεια καὶ Δίκα εὐρυάγυια καλῶν ἐπιτάρροθος ἔργων.

We have seen that Iolaos had this iconic status in more than one place: at any rate at Thebes and in Sicily, possibly also in Attica. A young man could not aspire at once to become Number One. But he could play his part as a worthy Number Two.

26 Cf. Zwicker (1913) 518 f.; Schwyzer (1939) 580; LSJ. 27 In that case we must also assume Fιόλαος or FιόλαϜος; the digammas are attested in vase inscriptions as well as being implied by epic and Pindaric hiatuses. This affects the metrical analysis, for which I now propose: τήνελλα καλλίνικε· 2ia^ χαῖρε Ϝάναξ ῞Ηρακλες, D – (enoplian) αὐτός τε καὶ Fιόλα(Ϝ)ος, αἰχματὰ δύω. enneasyllable + ia The first line is an iambic dimeter catalectic. The second may be taken as a dactylic hemiepes with contraction of the second biceps in the proper name, and the third as an aeolic enneasyllable (like a glyconic with an extra syllable at the front), extended by an iambic metron. Or it could be regarded as a loose iambic trimeter with an anapaestic third foot.

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Bibliography Bernardini (1990). – Paola A. Bernardini, “Iolao in Pindaro: un Eracle minore?”, in: Albert Schachter (ed.), Essays in the Topography, History and Culture of Boeotia, Teiresias Suppl. 3 (Montreal 1990) 119–123. Farnell (1921). – Lewis Richard Farnell, Greek Hero Cults and Ideas of Immortality (Oxford 1921). Fehr (1936). – Karl Fehr, Die Mythen bei Pindar (Diss. Zürich 1936). Gossage (1951). – A. J. Gossage, “The Family of Prosthenes at Paros”, RhM 94 (1951) 213–221. Instone (1996). – Stephen Instone, Pindar. Selected Odes (Warminster 1996). Kroll (1916). – Wilhelm Kroll, “Iolaos”, in: RE 9 (1916) 1843–1846. Lasserre (1950). – François Lasserre, Les Epodes d’Archiloque (Paris 1950). Parker (1996). – Robert Parker, Athenian Religion. A History (Oxford 1996). Robert (1920–1926). – Carl Robert, Die griechische Heldensage (Berlin 1920–1926). Schachter (1981–1994). – Albert Schachter, Cults of Boiotia, BICS Suppl. 38 (London 1981–1994). Schweitzer (1922). – Bernhard Schweitzer, Herakles (Tübingen 1922). Schwyzer (1939). – Eduard Schwyzer, Griechische Grammatik, vol. 1 (München 1939). von Sybel (1871). – Ludwig von Sybel, “Zu dem Kallinikos des Archilochos und den Pindarscholien”, Hermes 5 (1871) 192–204. Wackernagel (1877). – Jacob Wackernagel, “Zum homerischen Dual”, ZVS 23 (1877) 302–310 (= id., Kleine Schriften, vol. 1, Göttingen 1954, 538–546). West (²1989–1992). – Martin L. West, Iambi et Elegi Graeci (Oxford ²1989–1992). West (2007). – Martin L. West, Indo-European Poetry and Myth (Oxford 2007). Wilamowitz (²1895). – Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Euripides Herakles (Berlin ²1895). Wilamowitz (1921). – Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Griechische Verskunst (Berlin 1921). Wilamowitz (1922). – Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Pindaros (Berlin 1922). Zwicker (1913). – Hanns Zwicker, “Herakles”, in: RE 8 (1913) 516–528.

The Libation of Oinomaos* milette gaifman

Two armed men stare each other in the eye, one leans on his spears as the other holds out a libation bowl atop an altar and in front of a pillar of a god, and above them, in between the two, hovers a hollow-eyed head of a decapitated man. This is the image seen in fig. 2, which is set at the heart of the vase painting illustrated in fig. 1. This scene is depicted on a south-Italian amphora from Ruvo, which was attributed to the Varrese Painter and dated to ca. 360–330 BC1. As the labels above the portrayed protagonists indicate, these are mythological figures known from the foundational myth of Olympia2; the bearded figure with the crested helmet on the right is Oinomaos and the clean-shaven man in Lydian dress on the left is Pelops. The inscription ΔΙΟΣ indicates that the pillar on which it is written belongs to Zeus. The head above the pillar in the center is identified as Periphas, presumably one of the suitors of Oinomaos’ daughter Hippodameia3. The round shallow vessel with the distinctive mound in the middle is the phiale, a type of bowl, which is most closely associated with the ritual of pouring out liquids, the act of libation4. *

1

2 3

4

My thanks to Christine Walde and Ueli Dill for the opportunity to contribute to this volume. I have benefitted from conversations with John Ma about this paper and from comments made by Jas’ Elsner on an earlier draft. I am particularly grateful to Fritz Graf for his guidance over the years and for the ongoing dialog about myths, rituals and visual representations. British Museum F331. Further bibliography: Walters/Smith/Forsdyke (1893) vol. 4, 164–166; Ritschl (1866); Cook (1914–1940) vol. 1, 36–40, pls. IV–V; Séchan (1926) 453 f., fig. 129; Trendall/Cambitoglou (1978) vol. 1, 338, no. 5, pls. 109.2–4; Säflund (1970) 135; Metzler (1985–1986) 100, fig. 2; Montanaro (2007) 885–887. On the myth see Lacroix (1976), Triantis (1994). The name Periphas is not attested in the surviving textual accounts of the myth. Pausanias however, lists Perias as one of Hippodameia’s suitors (Paus. 6.21.11). The resemblance between the two names supports the general consensus that the depicted head belongs to one of Hippodameia’s suitors. On the phiale see e. g. Luschey (1939), Bothmer (1962), Cardon (1978–1979); on libations see e. g. Graf (1980), Lissarague (1995), Simon (2005).

The Libation of Oinomaos

Fig. 1: Apulian Red-Figure Amphora, British Museum F331 (face a). Copyright for all images: © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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Fig. 2: Detail – Apulian Red-Figure Amphora, British Museum F331 (face a).

We witness here the moment at which king Oinomaos, facing his rival Pelops, is about to make an offering before the pillar of Zeus. According to the usual narrative, Oinomaos, ruler of Pisa, feared the oracle, which predicted that he would find his death upon the marriage of his daughter5. In order to escape this fate Oinomaos made victory in a chariot race against himself the condition for the wedding of Hippodameia, trusting that he would never lose because of his divine horses, which he had received as a gift from Ares. Looking directly at him is the young man who eventually won the competition, the girl’s hand, as well as the entire kingdom. This is the competitor whose victory brought about the end of Oinomaos’ life. Above the two is a head of a contender who lost in a previous race. This is an uncanny visual reminder of the deathly fate that awaited the loser in the competition, and an echo of the tradition that the heads of losing suitors were displayed on the walls of the king’s palace6. 5

6

This is the version found in the principle textual sources for the myth: Apollod. epit. 2.4–7; Diod. 4.73. Notably, Apollodorus quotes another version according to which Oinomaos was in love with his own daughter and therefore sought to prevent her marriage. Apollod. epit. 2.5

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The two main protagonists are flanked by the other players in the story: the coveted Hippodameia on the far left, is dressed in elaborately decorated garments and jewelry as she is led towards the central scene by an unidentified woman, presumably a nurse or possibly her mother7. The royal charioteer Myrtilos, who according to the later versions of the myth facilitated Pelops’ victory, stands behind Oinomaos8. Despite the damage to the lower parts of this figure, we can see a wand held in his right hand and in his left, the remains of what could be identified as a wreath9. Looking back towards his master, the young man turns his body in the direction of two additional figures, Aphrodite and Eros, the gods whose domain is love and marriage, a reference to the outcome of the race. The two divinities are depicted on the far right. The seated goddess is dressed in flowing chiton and himation and adorned with jewelry. She holds a string attached to a wheel – the iynx –, an instrument known for its magical powers in the realm of erotic seduction10. Aphrodite turns her gaze upwards and gestures towards the smaller winged figure of Eros, who flies above her. The goddess’ companion holds a libation bowl in his left and extends it in her direction while holding a fillet in his right. Finally, in the area above the figures to the left of the pillar, we find further reminders of past competitions. In the space above Hippodameia and her attendant we see a head in a Phrygian cap, which is identified as ΠΕΛΑΓ, presumably Pelag(on), a name attested as one of Hippdameia’s suitors11. Further to the right, hang a pilos – a traveler’s hat – and a sword, which possibly belongs to the beheaded Periphas. Altogether this complex scene assembles in a single frame a variety of aspects pertaining to the myth – the main protagonists, past suitors, gods, and attendants. All of these are arranged around the moment when Oinomaos is about to offer a libation. At the level of the known narrative of the 7 The anonymous figure has often been identified as Sterope, Hippodameia’s mother (Paus. 5.10.6), who was portrayed on the east pediment at Olympia. See e. g., Walters/ Smith/Forsdyke (1893) vol. 4, 165; Cook (1914–1940) vol. 1, 38. 8 While Diodorus does not detail how Myrtilos helped Pelops, Apollodorus asserts that Myrtilos did not insert the linchpins in the boxes of the wheels of the king’s chariot; a number of scholiasts (e. g. Schol. Apoll. Rhod. Argonautica I) relate that Myrtilos replaced the linchpins with wax. According to a dominant earlier tradition Pelops (e. g. Pind. O. 1.75 f.) was the possessor of winged horses. On this latter version of the story see Lacroix (1976) 334–337. 9 Notably, some of the publications reproduce the vase in its restored state – e. g. Séchan (1926) fig. 129, and do not reflect which parts were restored and which ones are genuine. 10 For the identification of the wheel as the iynx, see Gow (1934). Further on the powers of the iynx see e. g. Pirenne-Delforge (1993), Faraone (1993–1994), Johnston (1995). 11 Paus. 6.21.11.

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myth, the set of characters presented here suggests that we are faced with the point in the plot prior to the race between Pelops and Oinomaos. The specific moment can be inferred from two literary sources, which relate that Oinomaos performed a sacrifice to Zeus – the main patron deity of Olympia – every time he was about to race against one of his daughter’s suitors12. We can therefore suggest that the scene portrays the libation which was performed as part of the sacrificial offering performed in honor of Zeus before Oinomaos’ ultimate competition13. Once we have identified the particular mythological event, we can compare it with other renditions of this scene and examine the degree to which it agrees with and diverges from other textual and visual accounts of the story. In this case in particular, the vase invites the comparison with a better-known rendition of the moments prior to the famous mythological race, namely the east pediment of the temple of Zeus at Olympia14. However, beyond iconographic identification and the placement of this vase painting within the broader nexus of other textual and visual representations of the myth, this depiction with its unique features – which include eerie heads of dead men, a magical wheel, and a pillar inscribed with a name of a divinity – invites to be examined in its own right. In this paper I offer a closer look at this image as a tribute to the scholarship and teaching of Fritz Graf, whose observations over many years regarding the nature of Greek myths guide the approach I adopt here. As Graf has pointed out, in their essence Greek myths made valid statements about everything upon which human existence depends15. As such, Greek myths inevitably mutated; with changes in human conditions, myths could never stay fixed. Not only by their very nature do Greek myths deny the possibility of a single version of a story, but they constitute a rich web of variants, which were transmitted in a variety of ways, only to survive into the modern age in texts and images. The specific meaning of each version of a myth is therefore inseparable from its particular chronological and geographical contexts. From this perspective, a vase painting of a mythological event, such as the one on the amphora from Ruvo, cannot be approached only as 12 Diod. 4.73; Paus. 5.14.6. 13 The vase is comparable with an Apulian volute krater, Sir John Soane’s Museum 101 L, which was attributed to an artist belonging to the followers of the Baltimore Painter, where Oinomaos extends a libation bowl above the altar, while Pelops carries the sacrificial victim. See Trendall/Cambitoglou (1978) vol. 2, 931, no. 119; Triantis (1994) cat. no. 13. 14 On the east pediment Ashmole/Yalouris/Frantz (1967); Säflund (1970) with further examples of imagery on vases. For other vases see Séchan (1926) 452–456, Triantis (1994) 20 f., Schauenburg (2002) 9–15, Taplin (2007) 199 f. 15 See Graf (1993) 2 f.

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an illustration or a supplement of other accounts of a mythological plot16; images of myths painted on vases are not ancillary to texts, or more monumental visual representations of the same stories, but like other mediators of myths (e. g. storytellers, texts, grand scale monuments of visual arts), they articulate constitutive statements on some aspect of human experience17. Vase paintings of myths function within a unique framework; obviously, imagery on Greek vases differs fundamentally from textual media. In addition to the intricate problem of the relationship between images and texts, an ongoing scholarly preoccupation18, images on pots are distinct from other visual representations such as panel paintings, or architectural sculptures, as they form a complex set of relations, between a general known narrative of a myth and a variety of contexts. First, a number of subjects are frequently painted on the surfaces of a single vessel, often within the same or adjacent visual fields. As a result, a particular mythological subject is juxtaposed with other themes, both mythological and non-mythological. In being painted on the same object the different scenes are inevitably linked so that the juxtapositions that are formed suggest possible associations between the different subjects. Second, mythological vase paintings are painted on objects, which could be used, at least potentially. The possible uses of a single pot are varied and are not mutually exclusive; the same vessel could serve as container, implement, decoration, or an offering, at least theoretically. For example, a krater could have been used to mix wine, as a centerpiece at a banquet, and thus offered a cue for conversation and perhaps social behavior19, and it could also function as a grave offering20. A vase painting with mythological themes forms a link between its subject and the pot’s variety of possible uses in its original context. Consequently the depicted myth acquires different meanings that are related to this variety of contexts and are not mutually exclusive. Altogether we find an intricate set of connections between the general mythological plot, the particular visual version of the vase, the variety of other subjects depicted on the same pot, as well as the possible uses and

16 Oliver Taplin (2007) for instance, is careful to note possible connections between certain vases and tragedies rather than approach one as the illustration of the other. 17 On the constitutive nature of myths see Veyne (1988), Graf (1993) 1–8. 18 The classic work Lessing (1766); more recent discussion, see e. g. Goldhill/Osborne (1994), Shapiro (1994), Giuliani (2003), Stansbury-O’Donnell (1999), Small (2003), Steiner (2007). 19 See Lissarrague (1990) particularly 1–46. 20 See for instance the case of a krater in the Archaeological Museum of Naples 127 929, analyzed by François Lissarrague (1985). For a historiographic account of approaches to Greek vase paintings in general, see Schnapp (1985).

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contexts. The ubiquity of mythological vase paintings need not undermine the complexity of these conceptual associations. Rather, it reveals the degree to which, the ideas articulated by such imagery were embedded in daily experience, through widely circulated painted pottery. Generally, in approaching images of myths on vases we are at a disadvantage; in many cases we lack very basic information regarding patrons, makers, owners, vase’s actual use, its users and audiences. We are however, in possession of some fundamental parts of the puzzle. First, it is worth reminding ourselves that we can analyze imagery in its own right, by applying visual analysis, which seeks possible meanings and significances in antiquity, and goes beyond iconographic identification, taxonomic classification and possible attributions. Second, a variety of scenes in fully preserved vases demands an examination as a whole, as parts of the same object. Against the difficulty of finding the connection between the images on the sides of a pot, which is not always apparent, we need to at least consider the possible existence of such connections. Third, recent scholarly avenues shed new light on the question of original contexts; ongoing archaeological and archival works provide us with new information regarding some of the missing links in the ‘life-cycles of Greek pots’, and help reconstruct the frameworks in which vase paintings were made, used and viewed21. In this paper I examine the mythological scene depicted on the amphora from Ruvo, as an example of the general approach I outlined here. I explore the image’s possible meanings through visual analysis, which focuses primarily on compositional strategies and the relations between the different visual elements. I begin by approaching this scene as an independent visual articulation of the myth, move on to analyze its relations to the other depictions on the same vase, and conclude with the examination of its possible significances in its original context in antiquity. The examination offered here reveals a number of subjects tackled in Fritz Graf ’s wide ranging scholarship, which pertain to this vase painting: not only Greek mythology in general, but also libations, the role of inscribed stelai in rituals, magic, oaths, and the perceptions of the dead22. Here we shall see the story of Pelops and Oinomaos presented as a myth about love, death and the intricate bond between them.

21 For instance, Andrea Montanaro’s recent examination of the archaeological excavations in Ruvo, Apulia, provides illuminating information on specific funerary contexts, groupings of vases as well as ideas regarding local production and its relation to imports. See Montanaro (2007). 22 Fritz Graf ’s contribution to these subjects is vast, see for instance: Graf (1980), (1987), (1993), (1997), (2001), and (2005).

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The independent image: The inevitability of love and death Let us return to the image of Pelops and Oinomaos. As we saw, the king’s offering takes place in front of the pillar of Zeus, whose centrality is underscored not only by the head of Periphas above, but also by the radiating frontal female head on the amphora’s neck, which is painted in white. The two heads echo each other and form a nearly direct line with the pillar beneath them, accentuating the symmetrical arrangement of the composition. Hippodameia on the far left parallels Aphrodite on the right, while the young lady’s companion on the left is in the same position as Myrtilos on the right. This composition underscores the known affinities between the figures. The future bride on the left corresponds with the goddess, who is not only associated with love in general, but also known as the motivating source for marriage and the role model for young brides as the ultimate embodiment of female beauty and erotic attractiveness23. Similarly, the two helpers are set against each other compositionally; the princess’ attendant on the left parallels the king’s charioteer and the facilitator of the events that are about to take place. Along the same scheme, in the center, the two main protagonists are juxtaposed as the current king faces the future one. There are further parallels. The central group of Pelops and Oinomaos in front of Zeus’ pillar invites the comparison with Eros and Aphrodite on the far right, shown in fig. 3; in both the extended libation bowl is set at the heart of a meeting between two figures that face each other. At the same time, the two encounters contrast each other in a variety of ways. Oinomaos holds out the phiale in his left hand and extends it towards the right, whereas Eros holds it in the opposite direction. Pelops and Oinomaos are of a similar height, and stand on the same ground line, whereas the miniature Eros approaches the seated and larger Aphrodite from above. These formal distinctions emphasize a more fundamental one; the confrontation in the center is between two mortals whereas the meeting on the right is between two divinities. This fundamental difference is correlated with the specific placement of the phiale in each case. Eros holds out the phiale in the open air in Aphrodite’s direction. Oinomaos offers his bowl in a setting of ritual specifically. In contrast to Eros, the king’s libation is not offered to a visible acknowledging divinity, in an undefined setting. Rather, it is about to be performed in a sanctuary of the god, at an altar and in front of a pillar. This inscribed monument, which as we saw forms the central axis of the entire composition, indicates that Zeus owns not only the pillar itself, but also the entire site, which is known to be the sanctuary of the god, 23 See e. g. Delivorrias/Berger-Doer/Kossatz-Deissmann (1984), Rosenzweig (2004).

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namely Olympia. Furthermore, the sophisticated play with image and word conveys that Zeus is the possessor of the event that is about to take place. The libation bowl in Oinomaos’ hand is positioned right in the middle of the inscription ΔΙΟΣ and above the altar. This placement creates a strong visual link between the phiale, which cuts across the inscribed word and the divinity’s name. The physical recipient of the offering is the sacrificial platform, the altar. The genitive case emerges as more than the signifier of Zeus’ possession of the pillar, but also of the bowl itself, the altar below, the setting, and by extension of the ritual act. This visual tactic, which associates the vessel with the inscribed monument and deploys a basic element of Greek grammar, presents the libation offered by Oinomaos as belonging to Zeus. The great father of the gods literally owns the main ritual act, and yet he is not represented in human form. Johannes Adolph Overbeck, the great German classical archaeologist, who introduced the notion of aniconism to modern scholarship24, noted in 1866 that the inscribed pillar here is an aniconic monument25; the pillar designates the presence of Zeus in the scene without a figural image of the god26. However neither Overbeck nor other scholars who noted the pillar as the focal point of an imageless worship and an indicator that the divinity is present27, acknowledged that we find here in a single frame the aniconic pillar of Zeus and the fully figural images of Eros and Aphrodite set side by side28. Together the figural and the non-figural form different visual strategies of indicating divine presence in an image and demonstrate a variety of ways of differentiating between humans and gods within a single frame. The anthropomorphic Eros and Aphrodite are distinguished from the mortals in the scene in their attitude and size29. They are the only ones who disregard the main libation scene. Aphrodite is the only seated figure, while Eros is the 24 Johannes Adolph Overbeck (1826–1895) defined and explicated the notion of aniconism in 1864. See Overbeck (1864). 25 In 1866, Overbeck was invited by his colleague at the university in Leipzig, Friedrich Wilhelm Ritschl to contribute to Ritschl’s study of the Ruvo amphora in a lengthy footnote, where Overbeck affirmed: “wir haben in dieser Stele ein höchst interessantes Beispiel eines anikonischen Agalma des Zeus anzuerkennen”. See Ritschl (1866) 801 f. 26 For further examples of other aniconic pillars in contemporary vases see Moret (1979), Gaifman (forthcoming b). 27 E. g., Cook (1914–1940) vol. 1, 36–40, pls. IV–V; Séchan (1926) 453 f., fig. 129; Trendall/Cambitoglou (1978) vol. 1, 338, no. 5, pls. 109.2–4; Säflund (1970) 135; Metzler (1985–1986) 100, fig. 2. 28 For further examples of such juxtaposition of the aniconic and the figural see Gaifman (forthcoming b). 29 Generally, on great size of gods as a visualization of divine power see Gordon (1979), and for a more detailed discussion, see Gaifman (forthcoming a).

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Fig. 3: Detail – Apulian Red-Figure Amphora, British Museum F331 (face a).

only one flying. The goddess is larger than all the depicted participants in the event; had she been standing she would have revealed her greater height. Eros on the other hand, is marked apart by his wings and smaller size. In contrast to this pair, Zeus is an entity known for its centrality in this setting, and yet his appearance and attitude remain entirely undefined. This juxtaposition of figural divinities and the aniconic pillar correlates with and underscores specific traits of the gods in the context of the myth.

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The pillar, a concrete monument, is set steadfastly in the ground, which forms the core of the entire scene and emphasizes Zeus’ centrality and his continuous presence at the site of Olympia. The god was offered a sacrifice prior to each race in the past and is still honored in the races. In the Greek imagination of the 4th century BC, Olympia was, is and will always remain the sanctuary of Zeus. By contrast, Eros and Aphrodite, who do not feature as the main protagonists in the story are in a marginal position in relation to central scene; they can be seen properly only from a side view of the amphora. Furthermore, the presence of these divinities is momentary. Their fully naturalistic figures suggest that they can come and go as they please; Eros’ wings carry his body while the fillet he carries undulates in the air, and Aphrodite gestures to him with two lifted fingers and a raised head. The two appear as if caught off-guard at a transient moment. They were not necessarily present in the past, when the suitors failed to win Hippodameia’s hand. This time around they are present, when love and marriage are about to be realized. These divinities’ disregard for the main event while they confer on the side as Aphrodite holds the instrument of erotic seduction – the iynx – resonates with further details of the known narrative, namely the conditions which enabled Pelops’ victory that are reported in some of the later versions of the myth. The texts diverge in the details; Diodorus Siculus reports that Pelops was seduced by Hippodameia’s beauty, and convinced Myrtilos into helping him win the race30. Apollodorus on the other hand, provides a more intricate plot in which Hippodameia, seduced by the demeanor and beauty of Pelops, persuaded Myrtilos to help the suitor. Being in love with the princess himself, the charioteer agreed and tampered with the king’s chariot by not inserting the linchpins in their boxes31. In both versions erotic attraction plays a major role in changing what has become the normal course of events. The image on the vase does not correspond with a specific variant. Rather, it presents the persuasive powers of love aided by the charioteer as the forces, which tilted the pendulum and saved Pelops from death. Eros in the upper part of the right side of the scene occupies the same area as the heads of the killed suitors on the left. This composition presents erotic love as the balancing force, which counteracts deadly fate. Myrtilos is shown as a bridging figure. The charioteer who stands behind his master, pays his token of devotion to the gods of love, extending the wreath and at the same time he turns his gaze directly towards the center, so that he faces Pelops, who will become winner thanks to his help. The scheming divine powers of erotic seduction helped by the servile Myrtilos, altered the expected outcome of the game. 30 Diod. 4.73.5. 31 Apollod. epit. 2.6 f.

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As we saw, the phiale at the heart of the exchange between Eros and Aphrodite echoes the libation bowl in the central confrontation of Oinomaos with Pelops. This juxtaposition demands further examination of the possible significance of the two extended phialai specifically. Let us turn to the possible meanings of libations, the ritual with which these vessels are most strongly associated32. Generally, in Greek antiquity, libations were performed on a variety of occasions – in the beginning and ending of animal sacrifice, during purifications, at visitations to tombs, and at symposia. Furthermore, libations are particularly associated with the entrance into a covenant, which is witnessed by divinities. The Greek word spondai, the plural form of sponde (libation), encapsulates this link, for it is also the term for an obligating contract between different parties33. Conceptually, libations articulated boundaries in time and space, such as the division between pure and impure, the limit between world of the dead and the realm of the living, or the entrance into a obligating contract. From this variety of roles for libations, the entrance into a binding agreement witnessed by divinities is particularly relevant to the known narrative of the Olympia myth. In the story, Oinomaos has formulated the terms for the race that are detailed in Diodorus Siculus’ text as follows: should the suitor win the race, he would marry Hippodameia, whereas should he lose, he would be put to death34. Obedience to the rules of the game is the key upon which all events, past and future depend; previous suitors were killed, whereas the current contender tries his luck, trusting that victory in the competition will bring the desired marriage. Graf ’s note that the principle role of an oath is the assertion of the validity of a particular statement, is pertinent here35; the ritual prior to the race assured the participating parties’ commitment to these conditions, and constituted a type of an oath. We see here a visual reference to this particular aspect in the story. This image does not contradict the tradition that Oinomaos sacrificed before the competition; animal sacrifice, a ritual that is attested as part of taking an oath, would include libations36. Rather, the phiale in Oinomaos’ hand specifically emphasizes the ritual, which as we saw is strongly associated with the entrance into binding agreements. The Ruvo amphora uses the libation bowl 32 On libations and phialai see n. 4 above. 33 Simon (2005) 237. For a detailed account of spondai and treatises, see Baltrusch (1994) 92–188. 34 Diod. 4.73.3. 35 Graf (2005) 237. 36 Graf (2005). For instance we see both the phiale and the animal about to be sacrificed in an image of the same scene, Sir John Soane’s Museum 101 L, Trendall/ Cambitoglou (1978) vol. 2, 931.

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in the king’s hand as a sophisticated means to represent this core aspect of the myth visually. The inscription on the pillar which sandwiches the vessel at the heart of the scene, is the main organizing principle of both the image and the narrative of the myth. The decapitated heads above the pillar and the coveted wife convey the tension between the desired prize – the bride – and the deadly end, which awaits a losing suitor, according to the conditions, which are made in the name of Zeus. When we turn from the central confrontation between Pelops and Oinomaos to the meeting of Eros and Aphrodite we see that mortals and immortals interact similarly. Eros approaches Aphrodite with accoutrements familiar from rituals, the phiale and the fillet. The goddess on her part acknowledges him with her overt gesture and gaze. The place of these cultic implements at the heart of this meeting present them as parts of the exchange, which facilitate the communication between the two divinities. The setting of this encounter in the same frame as the central meeting of Pelops and Oinomaos may seem to support the prevalent notion in scholarly literature that images of gods performing rituals, particularly holding out libation bowls constitute models for human behavior in cult practice37. Here, however, neither exchange is depicted as the template of the other; the two are set side by side. The juxtaposition of the two meetings, which center around the phiale conveys a tension central to the story and makes a fundamental religious statement. Although gods resemble humans in their appearance and modes of behavior, there is an unbridgeable gap. Here, specifically, the libation of Oinomaos, which assured the conditions for the competition that proved advantageous for the king in the past and resulted in his victory, is no guarantee for the future. Although Oinomaos is the ruler who sets and confirms the rules of the game, he is in an inferior position. The king faces a rival who clings to his spears. Unaware of the divine powers that confer behind his back, he extends the libation bowl, a gesture which has a double meaning here: obedience to the agreed terms, and the veneration of Zeus the guarantor of the rules. Despite the king’s best intentions, his opponent hangs on to his arms and Zeus’ response to his offering remains unknown. Eros and Aphrodite by contrast, clearly acknowledge each other. While the goddess is approached with ritual implements, and therefore appears as Eros’ intended recipient, her gesture suggests that they are in the midst of a mutual exchange. The libation of Oinomaos may resemble Eros’ offering, and yet the king is powerless. Even the greatest of rulers, who is equipped with god-given horses, cannot escape his fate. 37 E. g., Simon (1953); Himmelmann (1998) 103–138. Against this notion see Veyne (1990); for a summary and detailed discussion of the debate, see Patton (2009) 121–159.

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Overall, in contrast to other versions of the myth, on the Ruvo amphora there is no reference to horses, races, or competitions. Furthermore, whereas the inscribed pillar marks the setting as the sanctuary of Zeus, there is no further indication that the setting is Olympia specifically. Rather than a statement about the history of Olympia, competitions or the meanings of games, we find here a presentation of the myth as a tantalizing story where love and death are inseparable, and neither can be overcome by mortals. In the attempt to prevent his daughter’s marriage, fearing his own death, Oinomaos offered a libation to Zeus as an assurance of the conditions of the race in which love and death were put on the balance. As the heads of the suitors above the striding figure of Hippodameia remind us, the road towards the realization of erotic desire entailed the risk of losing one’s own life. It was the forces of Aphrodite and Eros, which countered the prospects of death. Eventually, marriage was realized, and yet with it, the man who conceived the rules of the game found his own death. Men, even the most powerful ones, are bound to the limits of their own mortality and cannot overcome the divine powers of love.

The image in context: The victory of love for the dead Looking at the other parts on the Ruvo amphora we find the themes of love and death as well. In contrast to the labeled mythological scene with its clearly identifiable subject, the figures in the adjacent panels are unidentified and the themes – visitation to a tomb, and a meeting of youth and a maiden – resemble similar imagery on comparable vases38. The generic and anonymous nature of these paintings confirms the centrality of the image of the Olympia myth. At the same time, the examination of the different surfaces of the vessel reveals not only thematic but also visual links, which ultimately add further layers of meanings to the mythological image. Let us first turn to the panel immediately below the depiction of Pelops and Oinomaos. This image of offerings at a tomb runs continuously around both sides of the vase. The grave monument in the center of the visual field is composed of a vase on top an ionic column, which is set above a quadrangular base. Despite the damage to the amphora, we can see figures extending gifts towards the tomb on either side. On the better-preserved left side, below Pelops in the upper panel, there is a seated woman dressed in sinuous 38 For instance, these subjects recur in the repertoire of the works attributed to Varrese Painter and his school. See Trendall/Cambitoglou (1978) vol. 1, 335–358, specifically for offerings at tomb see, e. g., 344 no. 43 pl. 112.1 (Bari 6109); 338 no. 3 pl. 108.2 (Bonn 99); for encounter of youth and maiden see e. g. 348 no. 100 pl. 113.1 (Matera 9691); 351 no. 142 pl. 113.5 (London Market).

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garments and adorned with elaborate jewelry. In her left she holds out an open box and a fillet in the direction of the grave while in her right hand she has a musical instrument known as the Apulian sistrum 39. Further to the left there are two more women, one holds a pyxis and the other a bird. The boxes, the sistrum, as well as the bird all belong the domain of women, and are commonly found in imagery associated with nuptials40. The fillets on the other hand provide the scene with a ritualized air. We see the formal offering at the tomb of gifts, which are often brought to brides and maidens. The thematic link between the two panels of this face of the amphora, whereby both engage with the themes of death and marriage is underscored visually. The grave monument with its wider base and ionic column is aligned with and structurally resembles the altar and the pillar of Zeus41. The structures that are one above the other, form a nearly straight vertical axis, which is emphasized by the frontal head on the amphora’s neck and Periphas’ head in the upper image. This placement of the two central points of ritual attention, which associates Oinomaos’ libation to the honors paid to the dead, sets the mythological scene in a new light. While the rules guaranteed by the king’s offering posited either death or marriage, so that these two fundamental aspects of life were in binary opposition, the depicted offering to the dead shows the reverse; gifts of love and marriage are brought to the dead. The opposing poles become complimentary. Although the competition, which was motivated by the wish to marry, brought about death, the dead are not forgotten, but are presented with wedding gifts. The web of connections between the amphora’s parts encompasses the other face as well, illustrated in fig. 4. In the middle of the upper panel we see an encounter between a young man and a woman. The youth on the left is nude, crowned with a wreath. He sits on a garment and has a staff in his right hand. In his left he holds out a shallow bowl in the direction of the young woman, who faces him. The dish in the young man’s hand strongly resembles a phiale although it is somewhat larger than the libation bowls depicted on the amphora’s other face, and contains small fruit. The maiden on the right leans on a pillar beside her. In her left she holds a fillet while turning towards the young man and extending a crown in his direction right 39 On this musical instrument see Salapata (2002) with further bibliography. 40 See e. g. Oakley/Sinos (1993), Oakley (1995), Lissarrague (1995), Salapata (2002). 41 Note, this kind of juxtaposition is not unique. On a comparable Apulian amphora, Geneva Private Collection M. C. Inv. V., attributed to the Baltimore Painter, and dated to the last quarter of the 4th century BC, we find a similar alignment. In the upper panel we see the myth of Pelops and Oinomaos, image of the altar of Zeus, which is aligned with a tomb, at the heart of a scene of offerings at the grave, painted in the image below. See Trendall/Cambitoglou (1991) 279 no. 40h and detailed discussion Schauenburg (2002) 9–13.

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Fig. 4: Apulian Red-Figure Amphora, British Museum F331 (face b).

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above his bowl. Between the two there is a fillet and above them a bird holding a fillet by its claws. The bird can be identified as an iynx – a wryneck –, which like Aphrodite’s magic wheel is known for its powers in the realm of erotic seduction42. The flying iynx confirms that the depicted moment of proffering between the two young people is a romantic occasion. The maidens and youths who approach the central pair from either side further confirm this identification. To the right of the main encounter, we see a young man with only a chlamys loosely falling off his back carrying a mirror. Behind him walks a young woman holding an arybalos. On the other side, behind the seated youth, we see a young woman bringing flowers and a bunch of grapes. Further to the left, stands a youth who rests his left leg on a rock, as he holds out an open wreath in both hands. The objects brought to the central pair are standard gifts of nuptials: a mirror, flowers, and perfume. Although this is not a wedding scene – the maiden is not veiled as brides usually are, and there is no allusion to her transference to the groom’s home –, the fillets and the wreaths suggest that this is some form of a ritualized event. This encounter, which takes place under the wings of the bird of love, and framed by youths and maiden bearing gifts from the realm of Aphrodite, emerges as a form of formalized moment of courtship. The lower panel on this face is the continuation of the scene of offerings to the grave depicted on the other side of the vase. Here, in the center right below the main seated youth of the upper panel we see a winged youthful male figure, presumably Eros, marching towards the left who carries a bowl with fruit, similar to the one extended by the youth in the panel immediately above. Behind him strides a young woman carrying branches and a nude youth who holds a mirror in his right. Perched on this young man’s left hand is an iynx, while behind him there is a running female figure holding a wreath in her left. Behind this maiden, immediately below the amphora’s handle, we see another young woman, who turns towards the other side of the amphora, and the scene of offering at the tomb. As in the upper panel here too there are striding figures, which belong to Aphrodite’s domain. The thematic links between the two images on this side of the amphora are emphasized visually. The extended bowls of fruit as well as the youths carrying mirrors resemble each other and are set one above the other. Similarly, the maiden who leans on the pillar is similar to the figure who marches behind Eros; both young women have their head in profile with hair pulled back in a bun. The female head depicted on the amphora’s neck, which shares the same features further underscores this correspondence. The two panels together associate further the idea of honors paid to the dead and the realm 42 Aristotle describes the iynx as a rare bird with two fingers in the front and two in the back. Aristot. hist. an. 2.12 (504a). See Gow (1934), Nelson (1940), PirenneDelforge (1993) 282–284, Böhr (2000).

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of love and seduction; similar figures bring the same objects to a couple in the midst of a love encounter, and to a tomb. As a whole, this face of the amphora echoes the main mythological scene not only in its themes but also in some of its visual elements. The extended bowls with fruit resemble the phialai on the other face. We see the shallow bowl at the center of the exchange between the youth and the maiden on one side of the vase, and between Pelops and Oinomaos on the other. Furthermore, Eros holds out the libation bowl towards Aphrodite, while the same divinity is shown carrying a similar shallow dish of fruit offerings in the procession to the grave. The pillar which supports the maiden in the upper panel resembles Zeus’ pillar at the heart of the image of the Olympia myth. Finally, the iynx is presented as a bird repeatedly, while on the other face of the vase the iynx is shown in the form of a magical wheel attached to the string held by Aphrodite. Along with these similarities we find clear differentiations. The libation bowl in the hand of Oinomaos is clearly a phiale, with the distinct mound in the middle, and is presented at the heart of the main ritual, whereas the shallow bowl in the youth’s hand is a dish for offering fruit. While the two pillars are similar, one is clearly identified as belonging to Zeus, whereas the other is partially draped and serves as a prop. Similarly, the iynx is shown within the mythological context as a unique instrument held by the goddess of love, whereas on the other side it is a free flying bird. These resemblances and distinctions create a tension between the anonymous imagery and the mythological scene, which stands out not only in its inscriptions but also in other details; for instance, in contrast to the other female figures on the vase, Hippodameia is the only figure with loose hair and richly decorated clothes. Similarly, Pelops and Oinomaos are distinguished from the other male figures in their carefully crafted armor and dress. The world of myth is depicted as marked apart, far beyond the regions of the mundane; it belongs to remarkable protagonists: a beautiful princess, a brave young hero, or a stubborn king. At the same time, the two realms have sufficient affinities so that one can be imagined as part of the other. The freeflying birds could be conceived as the equivalents of Aphrodite’s unique instrument, and a mere pillar can evoke an aniconic monument of a god, which was set the heart of a central Greek sanctuary. In this context, the figure of Eros is the most striking. On one side of the amphora the divinity is an identified protagonist who changes the course of events, and whose divine nature is conveyed by his smaller size and ability fly, whereas on the other face of the vase, apart from his wings, the god resembles and behaves like the depicted mortals; he marches with his feet firmly on the ground and his height and pose resemble those of the youths and maidens behind him. Eros takes part in the myth, and at the same time, he can be an unidentified honorer of the dead. Altogether, we find here a visual statement on the

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relationship between the mythical and the mundane, one can be envisioned as part of the other. These links between the different paintings on the amphora open the way for further interpretations of the unidentified scenes in light of the plot of the myth. The encounter between the maiden and the youth can be viewed as a moment of courtship between Pelops and Hippodameia. Alternatively it could be a depiction of any of the other suitors who tried their luck, but failed. Similarly, the scene of honors paid to the dead can be associated with another part of the narrative, which appears in Pausanias’ description of the grave of Hippodameia’s suitors in Pisa. Pausanias reports that Oinomaos did not pay proper respect to the dead suitors and only later on Pelops raised a monument in their honor. This grand memorial was not only a token of the young king’s respect for those who failed in the task, which he accomplished, but also a gift to his bride Hippodameia43. The image of offerings at the tomb could be interpreted as a reflection of the idea that the suitors who died in the name of love eventually received proper homage and respect from Pelops. Furthermore, the depiction of wedding presents brought to a grave resonates with Pausanias’ note that the tomb itself was a mark of the young king’s devotion to his new wife. These readings of the unlabeled scenes are attractive; yet they cannot be confirmed. Consequently, the generic imagery is layered with further possible meanings and a standard occasion is presented as something that could be mythical potentially, but not necessarily. The subject of homage to the dead is relevant not only to the myth, but also to the amphora’s original context. Like most vases of its kind, it was found in all likelihood in a tomb, specifically in the necropolis of Ruvo44. The obvious connection between the vessel’s ultimate use and its funerary imagery is underscored by the image of the tomb, particularly by the depicted vase. Although it is not exactly the same as the amphora on which it is depicted, their silhouettes resemble each other, especially the slender 43 Paus. 6.21.9. 44 Andrea Montanaro lists the amphora under finds from a tomb at the so-called La Zetta in the necropolis of Ruvo. Notably, although in his detailed account he provides the vase’s history of ownership, he does not provide full documentation of the vase’s original location when it was found. It appears that Montanaro’s listing is based on Giuseppe Sanchez’s records of finds from Ruvo dating to the 1830’s, in which the amphora is mentioned in association with another vase for which there is full documentation of the original findspot, in this particular tomb. This second vase is a volute krater attributed to the Darius Painter, (Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg Inv. B4323), with a depiction of the same mythological subject. Even if this is merely a conjecture on Montanaro’s part, it is most likely that the amphora discussed here was found in a tomb, and that the probability is very high that it was from this area of Ruvo. See Montanaro (2007) 31–44, 883–888.

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handles at the side of the neck. Consequently, the depicted vase emerges as analogous to the real amphora, which at least theoretically could have served a similar purpose and could have crowned a tomb. We see here an example of a self-reflexive image, which proclaims the connection between the pot’s role and the imagery on its surfaces visually. The paintings are presented as directly related to and consequently as a visual commentary on the realities of funerary customs for which the amphora was used. In this light, it is possible to relate the images on the vase as reflective of the identity of the deceased, to whom the amphora was originally offered, possibly someone who may have died before marriage. These paintings however, are not only possible reflections of a person’s biography, but more significantly make a poignant statement on the proper honor of the dead, the purpose for which the amphora served originally. As we saw, Oinomaos offers the libation while the head of the decapitated Periphas hangs above him. This is a reference not merely to the suitor’s deathly fate, but also an uncanny reminder of Oinomaos’ mistreatment of the deceased. The king asserted his victory and power by disgracing the dead. At the same time, he is shown here as he is about to perform a ritual which would normally take place during visitations to tombs. Oinomaos makes the offering to Zeus specifically, at an altar and in front of the god’s pillar, and yet his libation is visually associated with the dead – Periphas’ head hangs above him and a grand funerary monument is set right below. We are reminded here of Oinomaos’ offence; although he made the offering to the great god, he failed to perform his duties towards fellow mortals, those who were killed. In this particular moment we see the great ruler about to perform the libation prior to the race, which will bring his demise. The man who disgraced the dead is finally about find his own end, thanks to Aphrodite and Eros. The divinities of love however, not only scheme behind the king’s back but are also the gods who inspire and participate in proper homage to the dead. The youths, the maidens, the objects they carry, and the birds which all belong to Aphrodite’s realm in addition to the god himself, Eros, participate in the procession offerings to the tomb. Once the vase is seen in its context, as a testament of the honors paid to the deceased, the mythological painting turns from a general visual proposition about love and death to a poignant statement with immediate relevance. Unlike Oinomaos, those who offered the amphora did not forget their loved ones; they performed their proper duties. Through this sophisticatedly painted vase, which tells a story of how not to mistreat the dead, they proclaimed a never-ending love to the departed, in imagery of scenes of love and gift giving to the dead. The dedicators of this amphora positioned themselves among the youths and the maidens in the victorious realm of Eros and Aphrodite, and could therefore hope for a less tragic end than the one that befell Oinomaos.

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*** All the meanings of the libation of Oinomaos depicted on the Ruvo amphora are valid. It can be seen the beginning of the sacrifice to Zeus, as the enactment of the king’s commitment to the conditions of the race, and as a statement about the proper homage to the dead, which the grand ruler himself did not pay. In all cases, the fundamental property of the portrayed ritual remains germane. Like the depicted transitory instant, the libation itself articulates boundaries in time and space. Appropriately, this depiction of the libation was offered at the meeting place between the dead and the living, and simultaneously it was a powerful token of affection, a rendition of the transformational moment, when the powers of love, which may not have succeeded in the past, are just about to become victorious over the fate of death.

Works Cited Ashmole/Yalouris/Nikolaos (1967). – Bernard Ashmole/Nikolaos Yalouris/Alison Frantz, Olympia. The Sculptures of The Temple of Zeus (London 1967). Baltrusch (1994). – Ernst Baltrusch, Symmachie und Spondai. Untersuchungen zum griechischen Völkerrecht der archaischen und klassischen Zeit (8.–5. Jahrhundert v. Chr.), Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte 43 (Berlin 1994). Böhr (2000). – Elke Böhr, “Der Wendehals. Ein seltener Vogel auf griechischen Vasen”, Antike Welt 31 (2000) 343–353. Bothmer (1962). – Dietrich von Bothmer, “A Gold Libation Bowl”, The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 21 (1962) 154–166. Cardon (1978–1979). – Caro Cardon, “Two Omphalos Phialai”, The J. Paul Getty Museum Journal 6 (1978–1979) 131–138. Cook (1914–1940). – Arthur Bernard Cook, Zeus, vol. 1–3.2 (Cambridge 1914–1940). Delivorrias/Berger-Doer/Kossatz-Deissmann (1984). – Angelos Delivorrias/Gratia Berger-Doer/Annelisa Kossatz-Deissmann, “Aphrodite”, in: LIMC 2.1 (1984) 2–151. Faraone (1993–1994). – Christopher Faraone, “The Wheel, the Whip and Other Implements of Torture”, CJ 89 (1993–1994) 1–19. Gaifman (forthcoming a). – Milette Gaifman, “Framing Divine Bodies in Greek Art”, in: Verity Platt/Michael Squire (eds.), Framing the Visual in Greek and Roman Art (Cambridge, forthcoming). Gaifman (forthcoming b). – Milette Gaifman, “The Absent Figure of the Present God”, in: Verity Platt/Georgia Petridou (eds.), Epiphany. Envisioning the Divine in the Ancient World (Leiden, forthcoming). Giuliani (2003). – Luca Giuliani, Bild und Mythos. Geschichte der Bilderzählung in der griechischen Kunst (München 2003). Goldhill/Osborne (1994). – Simon Goldhill/Robin Osborne, Art and Text in Ancient Greek Culture, Cambridge Studies in New Art History and Criticism (Cambridge 1994). Gordon (1979). – Richard L. Gordon, “The Real and the Imaginary. Production and Religion in the Graeco-Roman World”, Art History 2 (1979) 5–34.

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Gow (1934). – Andrew Sydenham Farrar Gow, “ΙΥΓΞ, ΡΟΜΒΟΣ, Rombus, Turbo”, JHS 54 (1934) 1–13. Graf (1980). – Fritz Graf, “Milch, Honig und Wein. Zum Verständnis der Libation im griechischen Ritual” in: Perennitas. Studi in onore di Angelo Brelich (Rome 1980) 209–221. Graf (1987). – Fritz Graf, “Apollon Lykeios in Metapont”, Praktika tou h’ diethnous synedriou ellenikes kai latinikes epigraphikes 2 (1987) 242–245. Graf (1993). – Fritz Graf, Greek Mytholog y. An Introduction (Baltimore 1993). Graf (1997). – Fritz Graf, Magic in the Ancient World, Revealing antiquity (Cambridge, Mass. 1997). Graf (2001). – Fritz Graf, “Der Eigensinn der Götterbilder in antiken religiösen Diskursen” in: Gottfried Boehm (ed.), Homo Pictor, Colloquium Rauricum 7 (München/ Leipzig 2001) 227–243. Graf (2005). – Fritz Graf, “Oath”, in: ThesCR A 3 (2005) 237–246. Himmelmann (1998). – Nikolaus Himmelmann, Reading Greek Art (Princeton, N. J. 1998). Johnston (1995). – Sarah Iles Johnston, “The Song of the Iynx. Magic and Rhetoric in Pythian 4”, TAPhA 125 (1995) 177–206. Lacroix (1976). – Léon Lacroix, “La légende de Pélops et son iconographie”, BCH 100 (1976) 327–341. Lessing (1766). – Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, Laokoon. Oder über die Grenzen der Mahlerey und Poesie. Mit beyläufigen Erläuterungen verschiedener Punkte der alten Kunstgeschichte (Berlin 1766). Lissarague (1995). – François Lissarague, “Un rituel du vin: la libation”, in: Oswin Murray/Manuela Tecusan (eds.), In Vino Veritas (London 1995) 126–144. Lissarrague (1990). – François Lissarague, The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet. Images of Wine and Ritual (Princeton, N. J. 1990). Lissarrague (1985). – François Lissarrague, “Naples 127 929: Histoire d’un vase”, Dialoghi di Archeologia 3 (1985) 77–88. Lissarrague (1995). – François Lissarrague, “Women, Boxes, Containers. Some Signs and Metaphors”, in: Ellen D. Reeder (ed.), Pandora. Women in Classical Greece (Baltimore, Md. 1995) 91–101. Luschey (1939). – Heinz Luschey, Die Phiale (Bleicherode am Harz 1939). Metzler (1985–1986). – Dieter Metzler, “Anikonische Darstellungen”, Visible Religion 4–5 (1985–1986) 96–113. Montanaro (2007). – Andrea C. Montanaro, Ruvo di Puglia e il suo territorio. Le necropoli. I corredi funerari tra la documentazione del XIX secolo e gli scavi moderni, Studia archaeologica (“Erma” di Bretschneider) 160 (Rome 2007). Moret (1979). – Jean Marc Moret, “Un ancêtre du phylactèr. Le pilier inscrit des vases italiotes”, Revue archéologique 1 (1979) 3–34. Nelson, (1940). – Grace W. Nelson, “A Greek Votive Iynx-Wheel in Boston”, AJA 44 (1940) 443–456. Oakley (1995). – John Howard Oakley, “Nuptial Nuances. Wedding Images in NonWedding Scenes of Myth”, in: Ellen D. Reeder (ed.), Pandora. Women in Classical Greece (Baltimore, Md. 1995) 63–73. Oakley/Sinos (1993). – John Howard Oakley/Rebecca H. Sinos, The Wedding in Ancient Athens, Wisconsin Studies in Classics (Madison 1993). Overbeck (1864). – Johannes Adolf Overbeck, “Über das Cultusobjekt bei den Griechen in seinen ältesten Gestaltungen”, Berichte über die Verhandl. der königl. sächsischen Akad. d. Wiss. zu Leipzig, Phil.-hist. Klasse 16 (1864) 121–172.

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Patton (2009). – Kimberley C. Patton, Religion of the Gods. Ritual, Paradox, and Refl exivity (Oxford/New York 2009). Pirenne-Delforge (1993). – Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, “L’iynge dans le discours mythique et les procédures magiques”, Kernos 6 (1993) 277–289. Ritschl (1866). – Friedrich Wilhelm Ritschl, “Pelops-Vase von Ruvo”, in: Friedrich Wilhelm Ritschl’s Kleine philologische Schriften, vol. 1: Zur griechischen Litteratur (Leipzig 1866) 795–814. Rosenzweig (2004). – Rachel Rosenzweig, Worshipping Aphrodite. Art and Cult in Classical Athens (Ann Arbor 2004). Säflund (1970). – Marie-Louise Säflund, The East Pediment of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia. A Reconstruction and Interpretation of Its Composition, Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology 27 (Göteborg 1970). Salapata (2002). – Gina Salapata, “The ‘Apulian Sistrum’. Monotone or ‘Melodic’ ” in: Ellen Hickmann/Anne Draffkorn Kilmer/Ricardo Eichmann (eds.), Archäologie früher Klangerzeugung und Tonordnung = The Archaeolog y of Sound. Origin and Organisation (Rahden/Westf. 2002) 415–428. Schauenburg (2002). – Konrad Schauenburg, Studien zur unteritalischen Vasenmalerei IV/V (Kiel 2002). Schnapp (1985). – Alain Schnapp, “Des vases, des images et de quelques-uns de leurs usages sociaux. Historique de la réception des vases grecs dans la culture moderne”, Dialoghi di Archeologia 3 (1985) 69–75. Séchan (1926). – Louis Séchan, Etudes sur la tragédie grecque dans ses rapports avec la céramique (Paris 1926). Shapiro (1994). – Harvey Alan Shapiro, Myth into Art. Poet and Painter in Classical Greece (London/New York 1994). Simon (1953). – Erika Simon, Opfernde Götter (Berlin 1953). Simon (2005). – Erika Simon, “Libation”, in: ThesCR A 1 (2004) 236–253. Small (2003). – Jocelyn Penny Small, The Parallel Worlds of Classical Art and Text (Cambridge, UK/New York 2003). Stansbury-O’Donnell (1999). – Mark Stansbury-O’Donnell, Pictorial Narrative in Ancient Greek Art, Cambridge Studies in Classical Art and Iconography (Cambridge/New York 1999). Steiner (2007). – Ann Steiner, Reading Greek Vases (Cambridge/New York 2007). Taplin (2007). – Oliver Taplin, Pots & Plays. Interactions between Tragedy and Greek VasePainting of the 4th Century BC (Los Angeles 2007). Trendall/Cambitoglou (1978). – Arthur Dale Trendall/Alexander Cambitoglou, The Red Figure Vases of Apulia, vol. 1–3 (Oxford 1978). Trendall/Cambitoglou (1991). – Arthur Dale Trendall/Alexander Cambitoglou, Second Supplement to The Red-Figured Vases of Apulia, BICS Suppl. (London 1991). Triantis (1994). – Ismène Triantis, “Oinomaos”, in: LIMC 7.1 (1994) 19–23. Veyne (1988). – Paul Veyne, Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? An Essay on the Constitutive Imagination (Chicago 1988). Veyne (1990). – Paul Veyne, “Image de divinités tenant une phiale ou patère. La libation comme ‘rite de passage’ et non pas offrande”, Mètis 5 (1990) 17–29. Walters/Smith/Forsdyke (1893). – Henry Beauchamp Walters/Cecil Harcourt Smith/ Edgar John Forsdyke, Catalogue of the Greek and Etruscan Vases in the British Museum (London 1893).

Penélope en la Odisea 1 juan antonio lópez férez

De los ochenta y tres pasajes en que Penélope aparece dentro de la Odisea 2, selecciono los más destacados, apoyándome, asimismo, en otras secuencias donde se la menciona como reina, esposa de Odiseo o madre de Telémaco. Mi intención es subrayar algunos detalles que nos ayuden a definir y entender tal personaje mítico desde distintos puntos de vista. 1. La primera que menciona a la reina de Ítaca es la diosa Atenea, la que tanto protege a Odiseo y Telémaco, e, incluso a la propia heroína en varias ocasiones; transformada en Mentes, caudillo de los tafios, le dice a Telémaco entre otras cosas: Mas no linaje anónimo, para después, los dioses te concedieron, pues tal te engendró Penélope3.

Ahora bien, en el diálogo entre la diosa y Telémaco oímos algo que nos llama verdaderamente la atención: el joven sostiene, refiriéndose a Odiseo: 1 2

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Elaborado dentro del Proyecto HUM2006-08548 de la Dirección General de Investigación (Ministerio de Educación y Ciencia). Según el TLG (32.2000). Naturalmente habría que añadir los contextos en que aparece citada, simplemente, como «esposa», «madre», «reina», etc. La indicación […] quiere decir que, por brevedad, prescindo de texto innecesario para mi propósito. Las traducciones, versales, son mías, lo más literales y ajustadas posible. Od. 1.222 s.: οὐ μέν τοι γενεήν γε θεοὶ νώνυμνον ὀπίσσω / θῆκαν, ἐπεὶ σέ γε τοῖον ἐγείνατο Πηνελόπεια. El nombre propio Penélope (Πηνελόπεια) corresponde al tipo de los nombres parlantes (Cf. Euriclea = «de amplia fama»). Se ha explicado como un derivado de «oca salvaje» (πηνέλοψ). A pesar de todo, la evolución semántica no está bien justificada. West (Heubek et al., 1988–1992, vol. 1) ha señalado que el pato es monógamo a lo largo de toda su vida, tanto en su variante doméstica como en la salvaje. Ese hecho natural se refleja en las culturas china y rusa, según las cuales tal ave es el modelo de la fidelidad marital.

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Mi madre afirma que soy de ése, mas yo no lo sé. Que, en modo alguno, nadie, por sí, su estirpe conoció4.

De tales palabras cabe deducir que Penélope le decía a su hijo quién era su padre, y eso sucedería con frecuencia5. Con todo, más interesante, en mi opinión, es la duda del joven sobre quién era su progenitor6. En contexto próximo, Telémaco le revela a Atenea algunos detalles significativos sobre los poderosos pretendientes que desean casarse con su madre, y, entre tanto, arruinan su palacio: Ésta, ni rehúsa la odiosa boda, ni fin puede ponerle; y éstos, comiéndoselo, arruinan mi hogar. Y, rápidamente, me destrozarán también a mí mismo7.

Telémaco, pues, está muy preocupado por su palacio y hacienda, importándole mucho menos la boda de su madre. Por su lado, Atenea le aconseja al muchacho ordenarles a los pretendientes que se dispersaran; asimismo, le da instrucciones acerca de Penélope: Y a tu madre, si el ánimo la impulsa a casarse, que se marche al palacio de su padre muy poderoso. Ellos boda prepararán y dispondrán dote muy mucha, cuanta es natural que acompañe a querida hija8. 4 5 6

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Od. 1.215 s.: μήτηρ μέν τέ μέ φησι τοῦ ἔμμεναι, αὐτὰρ ἐγώ γε / οὐκ οἶδ΄· οὐ γάρ πώ τις ἑὸν γόνον αὐτὸς ἀνέγνω. En el plano sintáctico φησί es un presente general, atemporal: es decir, Penélope lo afirma en todo tiempo (antes, ahora y, quizá, después). El término γόνος es polisémico en los poemas homéricos: puede ser el hijo y también el progenitor (masculino o femenino), referente tanto a humanos como a animales. En la Odisea hay otros textos sorprendentes en esa línea de pensamiento. Así, Od. 2.274 s., donde Atenea sostiene que si Telémaco no fuera hijo de quien era, se le notaría, pues no sería capaz de realizar ciertas proezas. Od. 1.249–251: ἡ δ΄ οὔτ΄ ἀρνεῖται στυγερὸν γάμον οὔτε τελευτὴν / ποιῆσαι δύναται· τοὶ δὲ φθινύθουσιν ἔδοντες / οἶκον ἐμόν· τάχα δή με διαρραίσουσι καὶ αὐτόν. La segunda acción de Penélope (tras la de «afirmar») consiste en que no «rechaza», no «rehúsa», formulada mediante un presente general que, con esa forma, sólo lo tenemos dos veces en los poemas, y en ambas ocasiones atribuidos a la reina: aquí y en Od. 16.126. Una señal reveladora de la astucia de la reina es su ambigüedad, pues ni dice que no, ni está en su poder (δύναται) evitar la boda. El adjetivo στυγερός, presente 25 veces en Od., se atribuye en cuatro ocasiones a la posible boda de Penélope: 1.249; 16.126; 18.272; 24.126; por lo demás, califica, por ejemplo, a la enfermedad (14.235), la muerte (24.414) y las Erinis (20.78). En Od. 16.126–128, Telémaco, sin reconocer a su padre, le dice estas mismas palabras. Lo que, por lo demás, resulta sorprendente, pues el joven estaba hablando con un desconocido, y no era apropiado contarle intimidades del seno familiar; en 18.272 la propia reina menciona el «odioso matrimonio». Od. 1.275–278: μητέρα δ΄, εἴ οἱ θυμὸς ἐφορμᾶται γαμέεσθαι, ἂψ ἴτω ἐς μέγαρον πατρὸς μέγα δυναμένοιο

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Del pasaje se desprenden varios detalles que precisarían de una explicación detenida: Telémaco ya tiene edad suficiente9 para tomar decisiones por su cuenta; el palacio y los servidores del mismo le correspondían a Telémaco, no a su madre; en cambio, no le pertenecía el reino del país, pues, en palabras de Eurímaco, los dioses no habían decidido todavía quién sería el rey de Ítaca10; además, son los familiares de Penélope, concretamente su padre, los que tienen que preparar el nuevo matrimonio y asegurar la dote para la novia, aunque aquí se trate de la esposa de un rey casada desde hacía más de veinte años. Pues bien, la diosa le aconseja a Telémaco ir a Pilo y Esparta e informarse, a partir de Néstor y Menelao, respectivamente, de si su padre vivía: si era así, debería esperar un año más su vuelta, pero, si había muerto, convenía que le dedicara una tumba y preparara las exequias; y, por otro lado, debía entregar su madre a un varón11. En el plano de los mortales es el autor del poema el primero en mencionar el nombre de Penélope, cuando afirma que el aedo Femio estaba cantando el funesto regreso de los aqueos desde Troya: De éste, en la planta superior, el inspirado canto puso en sus mientes la hija de Icario, prudente Penélope. Y la elevada escalera de su palacio descendió; no sola: junto a ésta dos servidoras seguían. Y ella, cuando llegó a los pretendientes, divina entre las mujeres, οἱ δὲ γάμον τεύξουσι καὶ ἀρτυνέουσιν ἔεδνα πολλὰ μάλ΄, ὅσσα ἔοικε φίλης ἐπὶ παιδὸς ἕπεσθαι. El padre de Penélope es Icario (nombrado como tal 18 veces en la Odisea; menos en una ocasión, lo encontramos como genitivo posesivo: κούρη Ἰκαρίοιο), hermano de Tindáreo (padre verdadero de Clitemnestra y de Cástor, y, putativo, de Helena y Polideuces). Esta parte del discurso de Mentes (Atenea) resulta extraño por varias razones. Aunque el texto homérico, en este pasaje, indica que «ellos» (οἱ δέ), los parientes de la novia, se encargarán de preparar la dote de la misma, era costumbre, en cambio, que los pretendientes (o el novio) se la ofrecieran a la novia o a sus parientes. Relevante para nosotros resulta que en esta secuencia casarse (propiamente, «tomar esposo», pues ese es el sentido de γαμέεσθαι, en voz media), es un acto libre, deliberado, intencionado, de la reina, y no resultado de imposición alguna. 9 En Od. 11.448, Agamenón, dialogando con Odiseo en el Hades, afirma que, cuando partieron hacia Troya, Penélope, la joven esposa del rey de Ítaca, tenía un niño junto a su pecho (πάϊς δέ οἱ ἦν ἐπὶ μαζῷ), es decir, en tal ocasión amamantaba a Telémaco. El joven, por tanto, tendría algo más de veinte años en los momentos en que se sitúan los hechos en el poema (si contamos los diez años de la guerra más los otros diez que Odiseo erró por el mar antes de llegar a su tierra patria). 10 Od. 1.401: ὅς τις ἐν ἀμφιάλῳ Ἰθάκῃ βασιλεύσει Ἀχαιῶν. 11 Od. 1.292: καὶ ἀνέρι μητέρα δοῦναι. Nos extraña que las divinidades, que tan bien conocen el pasado, presente y futuro, se muestren, al menos en apariencia, tan poco informadas en casos como éste.

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se detuvo junto al pilar del techo bien labrado, ante sus mejillas llevando brillante velo. Y una servidora fiel a cada lado se puso. Y llorando, dijo, luego, al divino aedo12.

Cabe subrayar, en primer lugar, la fórmula περίφρων Πηνελόπεια, repetida una y otra vez, con algunas variantes, a lo largo de la Odisea. Nótese el intensivo περι-, seguido de un elemento -φρων que hallamos en términos como el homérico φρήν y el posterior σωφροσύνη 13, tan importante, sobre todo, en filosofía. El epíteto alude, pues, a la «muy sensata» Penélope, es decir, a alguien que tiene la cordura y sensatez en alto grado y por ellas destaca de modo especial. Por otra parte, señalemos que la reina, mientras los pretendientes permanecen en la gran sala (el mégaron), pasaba la vida en la planta superior; y, además, cuando se presenta ante ellos lo hace acompañada de 12 Od. 1.328–336: τοῦ δ΄ ὑπερωϊόθεν φρεσὶ σύνθετο θέσπιν ἀοιδὴν κούρη Ἰκαρίοιο, περίφρων Πηνελόπεια· κλίμακα δ΄ ὑψηλὴν κατεβήσετο οἷο δόμοιο, οὐκ οἴη, ἅμα τῇ γε καὶ ἀμφίπολοι δύ΄ ἕποντο. ἡ δ΄ ὅτε δὴ μνηστῆρας ἀφίκετο δῖα γυναικῶν, στῆ ῥα παρὰ σταθμὸν τέγεος πύκα ποιητοῖο, ἄντα παρειάων σχομένη λιπαρὰ κρήδεμνα· ἀμφίπολος δ΄ ἄρα οἱ κεδνὴ ἑκάτερθε παρέστη. δακρύσασα δ΄ ἔπειτα προσηύδα θεῖον ἀοιδόν. La fórmula περίφρων Πηνελόπεια, en nominativo, aparece 44 veces en la Odisea, más otra, con distinta estructura métrica, referida al mismo personaje como reina; además, otros seis ejemplos en dativo, lo que hace un total de 51 pasajes (Debemos destacar el elemento prepositivo [περι-] como intensivo: «muy», «en gran manera». Cf. Chantraine, 886). En Homero merecen también ese adjetivo formulario, en la misma posición métrica, Egialea, la hija de Adrasto (una vez) y Euriclea (cuatro apariciones). El adjetivo fue poco usado en el griego posterior: desde el siglo VIII hasta finales del IV a. C. lo tenemos en Himnos homéricos (1, atribuido a Perséfone), Hesíodo (4), Arquíloco (1), Esquilo (2), la Miniada (1), Demócrito (1), Corina (1), Teócrito (1), Crantor (1), y Timón (1). Otra fórmula para mencionar a la heroína es ἐχέφρων Πηνελόπεια (siete veces; tres en nominativo y cuatro en otros casos). De las nueve ocasiones en que ἐχέφρων está registrado en los poemas homéricos, en ocho lo tenemos en la Odisea, donde las únicas personas que merecen el calificativo son Penélope y Odiseo: éste en una secuencia y por boca de Atenea, disfrazada de mujer hermosa y alta (Od. 13.332). Fuera de Homero, y hasta el siglo IVa. C., sólo Hesíodo lo recoge una vez. Y, por último, otra fórmula: ἀμύμονι Πηνελοπείῃ (Od. 24.194). Creo significativo que, de las ciento quince secuencias del adjetivo ἀμύμων registradas en los poemas homéricos, tan sólo tres hagan referencia a representantes del sexo femenino: Una Náyade anónima, madre de Satnio (Il. 14. 444), la hija de Menelao (Od. 4.4) y Penélope. 13 A partir de Teognis, Demócrito, Eurípides y Tucídides. Y, durante el IV a. C., en todos los grandes filósofos.

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dos servidoras. Sin duda revelador del modo de ser de la reina es la compañía de esas dos mujeres, una a cada lado, a modo de protección, compañía y testimonio del comportamiento de su señora; no menos significativo es acudir ante los pretendientes con las mejillas recubiertas con un velo brillante14. También merece un comentario detenido el calificativo δῖα γυναικῶν, presente once veces en la Odisea, de las cuales nueve se refieren a Penélope, y las dos restantes a Helena15. Singular interés tiene la indicación de que habló «llorando»16 al aedo, por la emoción y la tristeza causadas por el contenido del canto que aquél estaba entonando. En esta ocasión, Penélope interviene ante todos, porque estaba molesta con el canto del aedo; a éste le pide que entone otra canción, y que los pretendientes beban en silencio: Y deja ese canto triste, que, siempre, en el pecho, mi corazón aflige, pues fuertemente me llegó sufrimiento inolvidable. A tal persona añoro, acordándome siempre de un varón, cuya fama es amplia por la Hélade y en medio de Argos17. 14 El mismo verso formulario (ἄντα παρειάων σχομένη λιπαρὰ κρήδεμνα) lo encontramos en Od. 16.416; 18.210; 21.65. El sustantivo denomina también los velos que se quitaron Nausícaa y sus acompañantes para jugar a la pelota (6.100), y se aplica, asimismo, a la corona (= las torres) de Troya (13.388). 15 El carácter divino de la misma es reconocido en varias fuentes, y hay quienes quieren ver en ella una verdadera diosa. En la Ilíada encontramos cuatro veces la fórmula; tres referidas a Helena y la otra a Alcestis, que, para algunos comentaristas, fue una divinidad ctónica, infernal. En resumen, las tres mujeres que en los poemas homéricos merecen esa fórmula son muy especiales; dos son ciertamente «divinas», y la otra está muy por encima de las «humanas» de cada día. 16 El participio δακρύσασα lo encontramos sólo cuatro veces en la Odisea, y de ellas tres van referidas a Penélope, que rompe en llanto antes de abrazar a su hijo (Od. 17.38) y cuando se dispone a hacer lo mismo con su esposo (Od. 23.207); son momentos distintos los tres, pero indicadores, cada uno por separado, de su propensión a las lágrimas. Un simple examen numérico del tema δακρυ- en los poemas nos da el siguiente resultado: Il. 71, Od. 80. En ésta última sólo los cantos 3, 6, 9 y 15 están libres de lágrimas. Los más mencionados a propósito de sus lágrimas son Penélope (21), Odiseo (20), los compañeros del héroe, solos o con él (6), Telémaco (5), etc. Como datos curiosos, Odiseo se refiere a quien llora por estar borracho (Od. 19.122); Helena, por otro lado, conocía una droga que, echada en el vino, le impedía llorar incluso a quien hubiera perdido a sus padres o le hubieran matado un hermano o un hijo ante sus propios ojos (Od. 4.223). 17 Od. 1.340–344: ταύτης δ΄ ἀποπαύε΄ ἀοιδῆς λυγρῆς, ἥ τέ μοι αἰὲν ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλον κῆρ τείρει, ἐπεί με μάλιστα καθίκετο πένθος ἄλαστον. τοίην γὰρ κεφαλὴν ποθέω μεμνημένη αἰεὶ ἀνδρός, τοῦ κλέος εὐρὺ καθ΄ Ἑλλάδα καὶ μέσον Ἄργος.

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La nota más relevante de este pasaje es la añoranza que la heroína siente por su esposo18. A su vez, Telémaco manifiesta su enfado por la intervención de su madre; la manda a su habitación, a la parte de arriba, a ocuparse del telar y la rueca19, y a que les ordene a las sirvientes hacer sus tareas. El joven, añade: La palabra preocupará a los varones todos, y especialmente a mí, de quien es el poder en la mansión20.

Estos dos versos nos indican con claridad la separación tajante entre la esfera de actuación de los varones y la propia de la mujer. La palabra, el relato vivo, el μῦθος 21, corresponde a los varones. Penélope subió a su habitación y se puso a llorar por su esposo, hasta que Atenea derramó dulce sueño sobre sus párpados22. Ante las palabras de Telémaco, nos dice el aedo, los pretendientes armaron alboroto y todos deseaban acostarse en el lecho junto a Penélope23.

18 Es la primera vez que nos encontramos ποθέω en primera persona del singular del presente de indicativo, lo que no vuelve a ocurrir hasta Estesícoro y Píndaro. Además, es la única secuencia homérica de μεμνημένη, en femenino, forma registrada, de nuevo, mucho más tarde, en Esquilo. Por otro lado, Ἑλλάδα, presente diez veces en Homero (no, en nominativo, que sólo aparece a partir de Esquilo y Píndaro), no significa todavía el espacio geográfico conocido después como «Hélade», «Grecia», sino que corresponde más bien al norte de tal país, en general. Argos, por su lado, es sinónimo de Peloponeso. Por cierto, la fórmula καθ΄ Ἑλλάδα καὶ μέσον Ἄργος la tenemos cuatro veces en la Odisea. 19 West (Heubeck et al., 1988–1992, vol. 1) ha señalado que hilar y tejer es la ocupación femenina por excelencia en los poemas homéricos, sin excluir ninguna categoría social ni económica (llegado el momento, Circe, Calipso, Helena, Andrómaca, Arete, Penélope, etc. practican esas labores). La habilidad en la producción textil es un don de Atenea, muy importante para la economía familiar. 20 Od. 1. 358 s.: μῦθος δ΄ ἄνδρεσσι μελήσει / πᾶσι, μάλιστα δ΄ ἐμοί· τοῦ γὰρ κράτος ἔστ΄ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ. La ruda y juvenil intervención de Telémaco no se compadece con la situación de la mujer en la Odisea. Piénsese en Helena (Od. 4.121 ss.) y Arete (Od. 7.14 ss.), que participan activamente en la conversación surgida tras la cena en sus respectivos palacios. 21 Limitándome al singular, creo digno de subrayar el número de ejemplos en nominativo, sujeto, dentro de la Odisea (16) a diferencia de la Ilíada (5); en cambio, ésta prevalece con mucho sobre la anterior en el acusativo (93 – 64). 22 Conviene señalar que Penélope tenía serios problemas con el sueño; además, le sobrevenían malos ensueños; ella misma afirmará en Od. 23.18 s. que no había dormido bien desde el día en que su esposo había partido hacia la devastadora Ilio. 23 Od. 1.366: πάντες δ΄ ἠρήσαντο παραὶ λεχέεσσι κλιθῆναι.

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2. En el canto segundo, por boca de Antínoo24, nos informamos de que Penélope recurría a astucias25, pues se acercaba ya el cuarto año desde que a todos los pretendientes les daba esperanzas y hacía promesas, enviándoles recados, mientras en su mente maquinaba otra cosa. Tramando un engaño (δόλον)26, había levantado un gran telar en palacio, preparando un sudario para Laertes; pero, de día tejía, mientras por la noche destejía lo hecho; una de las esclavas reveló lo que ocurría; descubierto todo, la reina había tenido que acabar el sudario a la fuerza. Antínoo le pide a Telémaco que ordene a su madre casarse con quien su padre le aconsejara y a ella misma le agradara27; afirma, además, que Atenea le ha concedido a Penélope ciertas cualidades: ser entendida en trabajos femeninos muy bellos, ingenio excelente y astucias28; ninguna de las aqueas reúne tales condiciones, ni tampoco ninguna de entre las antiguas29. De esta somera descripción comprendemos que se trata de una mujer excepcional, fuera de lo común, pues estamos ante una protegida de la diosa Atenea. Telémaco contesta que no puede echar del palacio a su madre contra su voluntad, cuando su padre (Odiseo), vivo o muerto, está ausente; no quiere mandar a su madre a casa de su abuelo (Icario), pues sufriría males de parte de éste, y, además su madre invocaría a las odiosas Erinis30 al marcharse de la mansión; y, por último, él merecería el repudio de las gentes. 24 Od. 2.85 ss. 25 Od. 2.88: ἀλλὰ φίλη μήτηρ, ἥ τοι περὶ κέρδεα οἶδεν. 26 Od. 2.93: ἡ δὲ δόλον τόνδ΄ ἄλλον ἐνὶ φρεσὶ μερμήριξε. Ya en Il. 23.725 es un rasgo del modo de ser de Odisea (δόλου δ΄ οὐ λήθετ΄ Ὀδυσσεύς). Cf., además, Od. 8.494 (ὅν ποτ΄ ἐς ἀκρόπολιν δόλον ἤγαγε δῖος Ὀδυσσεύς), con referencia al Caballo de madera. 27 Od. 2.113 s.: μητέρα σὴν ἀπόπεμψον, ἄνωχθι δέ μιν γαμέεσθαι / τῷ ὅτεῴ τε πατὴρ κέλεται καὶ ἁνδάνει αὐτῇ. Puede pensarse que se habla aquí de dos tipos distintos de matrimonio: el impuesto por el padre (o los parientes) y aquel en que la mujer se casa con quien ella prefiera. En Od. 2.194 ss., Eurímaco, otro de los pretendientes, le aconseja a Telémaco que ordene a su madre regresar al palacio de su padre; ellos le prepararán la boda y le darán ricos regalos (En Od. 2. 196 s. se repiten los mismos versos que hemos visto en 1.277 s. Es decir, tenemos de nuevo los consejos que Mentes [Atenea] le daba a Telémaco). 28 Od. 2.116–118: τὰ φρονέουσ΄ ἀνὰ θυμόν, ἅ οἱ περὶ δῶκεν Ἀθήνη, / ἔργα τ΄ ἐπίστασθαι περικαλλέα καὶ φρένας ἐσθλὰς / κέρδεά θ΄ … 29 Menciona a Tiro (madre de Esón y Feres, entre otros; unida a Posidón engendró a Pelias y Neleo), Alcmena (esposa de Heracles) y Micena (heroína epónima de Micenas). 30 Od. 2.13 s.: ἐπεὶ μήτηρ στυγερὰς ἀρήσετ΄ ἐρινῦς / οἴκου ἀπερχομένη. Las diosas vengadoras de los crímenes de sangre, especialmente los familiares, tan relevantes en Tragedia; aquí, serían las encargadas de castigar las injusticias que pudieran cometerse en el seno del hogar y fueran provocadas por un familiar. Aparecen en los dos poemas (Il. 7, Od. 5); a veces son nombradas en singular (Il. 3; Od. 1).

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Otro detalle significativo nos lo aporta el propio Telémaco, cuando, decidido a ir a Pilo y Esparta, le encarga a Euriclea que no le diga nada de ello a su madre, hasta que pasaran once o doce días, para que aquélla no marchitara, llorando, su hermosa piel31. 3. En el canto cuarto, a Penélope le flaquean las rodillas y el corazón, y los ojos se le llenaron de lágrimas, cuando supo que los pretendientes querían matar a su hijo32; da muestras de carácter firme y severo, afirmando que, si hubiera estado despierta, Telémaco no se habría ido en la nave, a no ser que la hubiera dejado muerta en palacio33; suplica a Atenea Atritona que salve a su hijo y aleje a los pretendientes34. El aedo relata que la reina lanzó un grito ritual y la diosa oyó su súplica35; aquélla yacía en el piso superior, sin tomar comida ni bebida, y le sobrevino dulce sueño mientras meditaba sobre los peligros que acechaban a su hijo. Atenea le envió, mientras dormía, la imagen de Iftima, su hermana, para decirle que a Telémaco no le pasaría nada; en sueños, Penélope le preguntó por Odiseo – si vivía o había muerto –, pero, a eso, la visión no contestó. 4. Interesante, sin duda, es lo que leemos en el canto quinto, cuando Calipso – que, tras salvar a Odiseo, lo ha tenido ya como amado compañero de lecho durante siete años, prometiéndole la inmortalidad – indica que el héroe anhelaba ver a su esposa, de la que estaba deseoso todos los días36. 5. Avanzado el poema, en el canto undécimo, Odiseo, una vez llegado a Hades, le pregunta a su madre (Anticlea) por Penélope: si permanecía junto al niño y lo conservaba todo a salvo, o si la había tomado por esposa el mejor de los aqueos37. La madre le contesta38 que Penélope permanecía todavía en el palacio con el ánimo afligido, pues las noches se le consumían entre dolores, y los días, en medio de lágrimas. Es la primera vez que el héroe pregunta por su esposa. Conviene subrayar el interés de Odiseo por conocer si Penélope seguía en la mansión sin haberse casado con ningún aqueo, y, además, si lo conservaba todo. La 31 Od. 2.376. 32 Od. 4.703 ss. Es increíble que la reina no hubiera advertido la ausencia de su hijo: es una convención poética. 33 Od. 4.734. 34 Od. 4.762 ss. 35 Od. 4.767: ὣς εἰποῦσ΄ ὀλόλυξε, θεὰ δέ οἱ ἔκλυεν ἀρῆς. 36 Od. 5.209 s.: ἱμειρόμενός περ ἰδέσθαι / σὴν ἄλοχον, τῆς τ΄ αἰὲν ἐέλδεαι ἤματα πάντα. 37 Od. 11.177–179. 38 Od. 11.181–183.

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importancia dada a la conservación del patrimonio es relevante tanto aquí como en otros lugares de éste poema homérico. Pero más importante, dentro de este canto, es el diálogo del héroe fecundo en recursos con el rey de hombres, Agamenón. Éste le dice que ha muerto a manos de Egisto y Clitemnestra; y le da el siguiente consejo: Por tanto, ya, jamás con tu mujer seas bondadoso, ni le cuentes todo el relato que tú sepas bien. Mas, una parte díla; y la otra, esté oculta39.

Es decir, no conviene decírselo todo a la esposa, sino mantener siempre en secreto una parte de la verdad. El rey de hombres, con todo, le advierte que no morirá por culpa de su mujer, la prudente Penélope, a la que, cuando marcharon a la guerra, dejaron como joven esposa40, con un niño pequeño en su pecho41. Por otro lado, le da otro consejo a Odiseo: A ocultas, no a las claras, hacia la patria tierra, dirige la nave. Ya no hay confianza en las esposas42.

6. En el canto decimotercero, ya en Ítaca, Palas Atenea se le aparece a Odiseo en verdadera epifanía, y lo envuelve en una nube para hacerlo irreconocible, no fuera que su esposa, los pretendientes y amigos lo reconocieran antes que los pretendientes pagaran sus excesos43. La propia diosa nos transmite los sentimientos del héroe, afirmando que otro cualquiera habría marchado hacia su palacio para ver a su mujer e hijo: Mas para ti, en modo alguno, es grato saber ni informarte, hasta que hayas probado a tu esposa, que, en verdad, sentada está en palacio y lamentables siempre se le consumen noches y días, derramando lágrimas44. 39 Od. 11.441–443: τῶ νῦν μή ποτε καὶ σὺ γυναικί περ ἤπιος εἶναι / μηδ΄ οἱ μῦθον ἅπαντα πιφαυσκέμεν, ὅν κ΄ ἐῢ εἰδῇς, / ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν φάσθαι, τὸ δὲ καὶ κεκρυμμένον εἶναι. 40 Od. 11.447: ἦ μέν μιν νύμφην γε νέην κατελείπομεν ἡμεῖς. 41 Od. 11.448. Cf. n. 9. 42 Od. 11.455 s.: κρύβδην, μηδ΄ ἀναφανδά, φίλην ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν / νῆα κατισχέμεναι, ἐπεὶ οὐκέτι πιστὰ γυναιξίν. Precisamente, en Od. 24. 192–202, Agamenón subraya la fidelidad de Penélope, contraponiéndola a la terrible acción de Clitemnestra. 43 Od. 13.189–193. 44 Od. 13.335–338: σοὶ δ΄ οὔ πω φίλον ἐστὶ δαήμεναι οὐδὲ πυθέσθαι, πρίν γ΄ ἔτι σῆς ἀλόχου πειρήσεαι, ἥ τέ τοι αὔτως ἧσται ἐνὶ μεγάροισιν, ὀϊζυραὶ δέ οἱ αἰεὶ φθίνουσιν νύκτες τε καὶ ἤματα δάκρυ χεούσῃ. La intención de «probar» al cónyuge la tiene también Penélope, como tendremos ocasión de ver.

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Atenea le insta a castigar a los pretendientes que llevaban ya tres años mandando en palacio, molestando a su esposa y dándole regalos de boda, aunque ella permanece gimiendo siempre por el regreso de Odiseo, dándoles a todos esperanzas y promesas y enviándoles recados, mas proyectando otras cosas en su interior. A, continuación, la divinidad lo transformó para que pareciera indigno a todos: pretendientes, esposa e hijo45. 7. Eumeo, el primer ser humano con quien el héroe de Ítaca habla tras haber llegado a su tierra patria, sostiene, en el canto decimocuarto, ante el anciano (Odiseo, en realidad) que ningún vagabundo que llegara a Ítaca contando mentiras persuadiría a Penélope ni a su hijo46; y añade que la prudente Penélope le llamaba a veces, cuando alguna noticia llegaba a la ciudad. 8. Atenea, en el canto siguiente, le dice a Telémaco (dormido en el palacio de Menelao) que es ya hora de regresar, pues el padre y hermanos de Penélope la empujaban a casarse con Eurímaco, que a todos aventajaba en hacer regalos y aumentar la dote; además, le advierte que tenga cuidado para que su madre no se lleve nada del palacio, pues la mujer gusta de acrecentar el hogar de aquel con quien se casa, olvidándose de sus primeros hijos y su fallecido esposo47. Llegado el momento oportuno, Telémaco, mientras habla con el adivino Teoclímeno, afirma de su madre lo siguiente: Jamás con frecuencia, a los pretendientes, en palacio, se muestra, mas, lejos de éstos, en la planta superior teje su telar48.

Además, le aconseja al adivino que vaya a casa de Eurímaco, a quien los itacenses contemplan como un dios: Pues es, con mucho, óptimo varón y ansía muchísimo casarse con mi madre y tener la dignidad de Odiseo49.

9. En el canto decimosexto, Telémaco, por consejo de Atenea, visita a Eumeo, para informarse de lo que sucedía en palacio:

45 Od. 13.402 s. 46 Od. 14.122 ss. En cambio, el propio Odiseo cuenta mentiras incesantes, de modo sucesivo, a Atenea, Eumeo y Penélope. 47 Od. 15.10–23. 48 Od. 15.516 s.: οὐ μὲν γάρ τι θαμὰ μνηστῆρσ΄ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ / φαίνεται, ἀλλ΄ ἀπὸ τῶν ὑπερωΐῳ ἱστὸν ὑφαίνει. 49 Od. 15.521 s.: καὶ γὰρ πολλὸν ἄριστος ἀνὴρ μέμονέν τε μάλιστα / μητέρ΄ ἐμὴν γαμέειν καὶ Ὀδυσσῆος γέρας ἕξειν.

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Por ti aquí he llegado, para verte con mis ojos y oír tu relato: si, en palacio, mi madre permanece o ya algún otro de los varones la tomó por esposa, y el lecho de Odiseo, por falta de ropas, teniendo malas telarañas está50.

Algo después, Telémaco le cuenta a Eumeo las dudas que embargaban a su madre: Y, a mi madre, su ánimo en sus mientes vacila: si allí mismo, conmigo, permanece y cuida el palacio, el lecho de su esposo respetando pudorosa y el rumor del pueblo, o si seguirá de entre los aqueos al mejor varón que la pretenda en palacio y le aporte muchísimas cosas51. 50 Od. 16.31–35: σέθεν δ΄ ἕνεκ΄ ἐνθάδ΄ ἱκάνω, ὄφρα σέ τ΄ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἴδω καὶ μῦθον ἀκούσω, ἤ μοι ἔτ΄ ἐν μεγάροις μήτηρ μένει, ἦέ τις ἤδη ἀνδρῶν ἄλλος ἔγημεν, Ὀδυσσῆος δέ που εὐνὴ χήτει ἐνευναίων κάκ΄ ἀράχνια κεῖται ἔχουσα. De la importancia del «lecho» en la Odisea, nos da alguna noticia la comparación numérica con la Ilíada: 49 y 26 apariciones respectivamente. Además, es en el poema que revisamos donde tenemos, con dicho término, los dos primeros ejemplos de genitivo posesivo: Od. 8.269 s. (de Hefesto) y el ejemplo presente. No es expletiva la mención de las «telarañas» (ἀράχνια), mencionadas dos veces en la Odisea: la primera secuencia la hallamos en 8.280, a propósito de los hilos que, elaborados de modo insuperable por Hefesto, envolvieron a Afrodita y Ares cuando, llevados de la pasión amorosa, yacían en el lecho; la segunda aparición la tenemos aquí. Por cierto, las «telarañas» aparecen en la literatura griega antes que las «arañas», no registradas hasta Hesíodo; si las primeras son bien conocidas por los cómicos del V, resultan un vocablo más bien prosaico en esa época y no las emplean los trágicos; las segundas, en cambio, sí aparecen en los tres grandes tragediógrafos. 51 Od. 16.73–77: μητρὶ δ΄ ἐμῇ δίχα θυμὸς ἐνὶ φρεσὶ μερμηρίζει, ἢ αὐτοῦ παρ΄ ἐμοί τε μένῃ καὶ δῶμα κομίζῃ, εὐνήν τ΄ αἰδομένη πόσιος δήμοιό τε φῆμιν, ἦ ἤδη ἅμ΄ ἕπηται, Ἀχαιῶν ὅς τις ἄριστος μνᾶται ἐνὶ μεγάροισιν ἀνὴρ καὶ πλεῖστα πόρῃσιν. Penélope no sabe si respetar la ausencia de su esposo (la cama, dice el texto) y, asimismo, el rumor de las gentes o seguir a un aqueo que reúna varias condiciones: ha de ser el mejor entre los pretendientes que había en palacio y, además, traerle muchísimos regalos. La insistencia en los bienes materiales es una constante en todo el poema. Un comentario extenso merecería la noción de la «fama del pueblo» (δήμοιό τε φῆμιν), donde cabe entender el genitivo como subjetivo; la construcción con ese sustantivo la tenemos cuatro veces en la Odisea. En esta línea de pensamiento conviene recordar lo que leemos en Hesíodo, op. 763 s.: φήμη δ΄ οὔ τις πάμπαν ἀπόλλυται, ἥντινα πολλοὶ / λαοὶ φημίξουσι· θεός νύ τίς ἐστι καὶ αὐτή.

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Telémaco, que todavía no sabe que está hablando con su padre, le cuenta al mendigo extranjero la situación del palacio: pretenden a Penélope cuantos nobles dominan en las islas cercanas y en Ítaca. Después, una vez que el héroe se dio a conocer y le confirmó que era su padre, el joven le contó detalles precisos: eran ciento ocho pretendientes, más diez auxiliares; sería inútil enfrentarse a todos ellos juntos. Entonces, Odiseo le pidió a su hijo que no le contara a nadie quién era realmente: ni a Laertes, ni al porquerizo, ni a ninguno de los sirvientes, ni a la propia Penélope52. No todos los pretendientes tenían la misma actitud hacia Penélope. En efecto, Antínoo, si es que habían de marcharse de Ítaca, les recomienda, lo siguiente: Desde su palacio cada uno preténdala persiguiéndola con regalos. Y ésta, luego, se casaría con quien le traiga muchísimo y resulte destinado53.

En cambio, el aedo mismo, hablando de Anfínomo, soberano Aretiada, nos suministra una información preciosa: y muchísimo a Penélope ayudaba con sus palabras, pues de buenas mientes estaba dotado54.

Advertimos, pues, un detalle de gran valor y significado: son las palabras, los relatos de Anfínomo los que resultaban atractivos a ojos de Penélope; es decir, no era nada material lo que atraía a la heroína, sino la palabra humana. No volvemos a encontrar nada parecido en toda la Odisea. 10. Cuando, en el canto decimoséptimo, Telémaco llega al palacio, la prudente Penélope salía de su habitación: Y, en torno a su hijo, echó sus brazos llorando, y besóle la cabeza y ambos luceros hermosos55. 52 Od. 16.303: μήτ΄ αὐτὴ Πηνελόπεια. 53 Od. 16.390–392: ἀλλ΄ ἐκ μεγάροιο ἕκαστος / μνάσθω ἐέδνοισιν διζήμενος· ἡ δέ κ΄ ἔπειτα / γήμαιθ΄ ὅς κε πλεῖστα πόροι καὶ μόρσιμος ἔλθοι. 54 Od. 16.397 s.: μάλιστα δὲ Πηνελοπείῃ / ἥνδανε μύθοισι· φρεσὶ γὰρ κέχρητ΄ ἀγαθῇσιν. 55 Od. 17.38 s.: ἀμφὶ δὲ παιδὶ φίλῳ βάλε πήχεε δακρύσασα, / κύσσε δέ μιν κεφαλήν τε καὶ ἄμφω φάεα καλά. El aoristo de κύσσε nos permite extraer algunas conclusiones sobre los afectos familiares de los héroes homéricos. Es el verbo usado para la idea de «besar», como señal de respeto o cariño. La Ilíada sólo lo presenta tres veces (6.474: Héctor a su hijo; 8.371: Tetis a Zeus le besa las rodillas; 24.478: Príamo a Aquiles, las manos). La Odisea, en cambio, lo ofrece en catorce textos (5. 463: Odiseo besa la fértil tierra; 13. 354: el mismo hecho; 14.279: Odiseo, en la ficción, besa las rodillas del rey de Egipto; 16.15: Eumeo le besa la cabeza a Telémaco; 16.21: Eumeo besa a Telémaco,

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El hijo le cuenta a su madre cómo se marchó a Pilo ocultamente, sin decir nada. Después, le ordenó bañarse, ponerse ropa limpia, subir al piso superior con sus criadas y prometerles hecatombes a los dioses por si Zeus quería llevar a cabo obras de castigo. La madre obedece: subirá al piso superior a acostarse en el lecho que le resulta rico en gemidos, siempre lleno de lágrimas, desde que Odiseo se marchó a Ilio en unión de los Atridas56. El adivino Teoclímeno le dice a la reina que Odiseo ya ha regresado, conoce las malas acciones y va sembrando la muerte para los pretendientes. Penélope le agradeció tales palabras y le prometió recompensas en caso de resultar verdaderas57. Posteriormente, el mendigo (Odiseo) llega al palacio en compañía de Eumeo. Antínoo, uno de los principales pretendientes, cuando el pordiosero solicitaba algo para comer, le arrojó un escabel, dándole en la espalda. Penélope estaba en la planta superior, sentada en su dormitorio; no había visto al pobre, mas, cuando oyó los golpes dados al forastero58, maldijo a Antínoo y deseó que Apolo le alcanzara de la misma forma. La reina llamó a Eumeo y le pidió que le ordenara al mendigo subir y contarle si había oído hablar de Odiseo o lo había visto; afirma, además, que no había un hombre como Odiseo para apartar a los pretendientes de su hogar. sin más detalles; 16.190: Odiseo besa a su hijo; 17.39: es el pasaje ofrecido, en el que por primera vez se habla de un beso dado por Penélope; 19.417: Anfítea, abuela materna de Odiseo, le besa a su nieto la cabeza y los dos hermosos luceros (= ojos); 21.225: Odiseo les besa a Eumeo y Filetio, fieles servidores, la cabeza y las manos (en el verso anterior, ambos le habían abrazado: ἀγαπαζόμενοι); 23.87: Penélope piensa si, poniéndose a su lado, le besaría la cabeza a su esposo, y le cogería las manos (ἦ παρστᾶσα κύσειε κάρη καὶ χεῖρε λαβοῦσα); 24.236: Odiseo vacila en besar y abrazar (κύσσαι καὶ περιφῦναι) a su padre; 24.320: Odiseo besó a su padre abrazándolo (κύσσε δέ μιν περιφύς); 24.398: Dolio besó a Odiseo en el brazo, junto a la muñeca. He dejado para el final, 23.207 s., pues es el pasaje más explícito acerca de la reacción emocional de la heroína hacia su esposo: «Y, llorando, luego, corrió directa, y en torno puso sus brazos, / en el cuello, a Odiseo, y le besó la cabeza y dijo.» δακρύσασα δ΄ ἔπειτ΄ ἰθὺς κίεν, ἀμφὶ δὲ χεῖρας / δειρῇ βάλλ΄ Ὀδυσῆϊ, κάρη δ΄ ἔκυσ΄ ἠδὲ προσηύδα. En este último texto advertimos que se repiten varias acciones aparecidas en 17.38 s.: llorar, de emoción, sin duda; echar los brazos en torno (allí se decía πήχεε, aquí χεῖρας. En contextos como éste χείρ no es simplemente «mano», sino, por metonimia, «brazo», es decir, toda la extremidad superior); allí se menciona la cabeza κεφαλή, aquí el sustantivo κάρη puede aludir a la cabeza, en general, y al rostro, en particular; en el caso del hijo, Penélope le besa, además, los ojos, algo que no aparece cuando se trata de Odiseo. 56 Od. 17.101–106. 57 Od. 17.151–165. 58 Od. 17.492 s.

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En tal momento, Telémaco estornudó fuertemente y todo el palacio resonó de modo terrible. Penélope, entonces, supo que se llevaría a cabo la muerte de los pretendientes y rióse59. El astuto héroe le replica a Eumeo que es mejor evitar la violencia de los pretendientes y esperar a que se ponga el sol; entonces, sentada junto al fuego60, Penélope podría preguntarle por su esposo. 11. Esperaríamos el diálogo de los esposos en el canto siguiente, el cual, en virtud de una retardación poética, sirve de transición. Por un lado, Odiseo, recibe de Anfínomo dos panes y vino en copa de oro; el héroe le recomienda que se marche; sólo a éste se lo dice, pues era el predilecto de la reina. De otra parte, este canto nos aporta dos noticias de alto valor con respecto a Penélope. La diosa Atenea61 le puso en la mente mostrarse ante los pretendientes para ensancharles muchísimo el deseo y, al mismo tiempo, ser mucho más respetada que antes por su esposo e hijo. Atenea le infundió sueño y le otorgó dones: le limpió el rostro y la hizo más alta, más fuerte y más blanca que el marfil. Penélope, acompañada de sus servidoras, se presentó ante los pretendientes llevando un brillante velo ante las mejillas: De éstos, allí mismo, las rodillas se soltaron, y, con deseo, entonces, su ánimo hechizó, y todos desearon, junto a ella, en su lecho acostarse62.

Además, a Eurímaco que la elogiaba por su forma, estatura y sano juicio, la reina le replicó con lo que Odiseo, al partir hacia la guerra, le dijera: Cuando veas ya que al hijo le sale barba, cásate con quien quieras, dejando tu palacio63.

59 Od. 17.542: γέλασσε δὲ Πηνελόπεια. Es la primera vez que la reina se ríe en la Odisea. De la segunda y última risa de la heroína se nos indica que fue sin motivo (18.163: ἀχρεῖον δ΄ ἐγέλασσεν). Aparte de Penélope, el único que se ríe es el corazón de Odiseo (9.413). En cambio, en la Ilíada se ríen Zeus (21.389), Hera (15.101), Atenea (21.408), Ctón (Tierra) (19.362), y Héctor-Andrómaca (6. 471). 60 La Odisea no nos informa sobre la estación del año en que suceden estos hechos, pero debemos suponer que fuera un tiempo invernal, o frío al menos, pues la acción de sentarse junto al fuego al caer el sol parece apuntar en esa dirección. 61 Od. 18.158 ss. 62 Od. 18.212 s.: τῶν δ΄ αὐτοῦ λύτο γούνατ΄, ἔρῳ δ΄ ἄρα θυμὸν ἔθελχθεν, / πάντες δ΄ ἠρήσαντο παραὶ λεχέεσσι κλιθῆναι. Russo (Heubeck et al., 1988–1992, vol. 3) ha señalado que es el único pasaje homérico en que se habla de la flojedad de las rodillas por causa del deseo erótico. 63 Od. 18.269 s.: αὐτὰρ ἐπὴν δὴ παῖδα γενειήσαντα ἴδηαι, / γήμασθ΄ ᾧ κ΄ ἐθέλῃσθα, τεὸν κατὰ δῶμα λιποῦσα. Es probable que Penélope se inventara tales palabras de su esposo, como una treta más para diferir su matrimonio. En todo caso, a Telémaco le habría salido barba antes de los veinte años bien cumplidos que, por lo menos, tendría entonces.

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Añade la astuta Penélope que su «odioso matrimonio está cerca»64, recriminándoles a los pretendientes que no llevaran vacas y rico ganado para que lo celebraran los amigos de la novia, ni a ésta le trajeran ricos regalos, en vez de comerse sin pagar una hacienda ajena. Las palabras de la heroína hicieron el efecto deseado, pues el aedo nos informa que cada uno de los pretendientes envió un heraldo para que le mandaran regalos65. 12. En el canto decimonoveno tiene lugar el primer diálogo de Penélope con el mendigo (Odiseo). Es de noche; la reina, sentada junto al hogar, pide una silla para el forastero y le pregunta quién es y de dónde viene. Aquél le contesta que puede preguntarle cualquier cosa menos eso. Penélope, en cuarenta versos66, abre su corazón ante el desconocido; afirma que los inmortales aniquilaron su excelencia, en figura y cuerpo67, cuando los argivos se embarcaron hacia Ilio; los pretendientes están arruinando su hogar; con la nostalgia de Odiseo se le está consumiendo el corazón; el engaño del sudario – que le vino por inspiración divina – duró tres años, pero finalmente las esclavas la delataron; ahora no puede demorar más la boda; sus padres la impulsan a casarse; su hijo se irrita porque los pretendientes están devorando sus víveres. Así, pues, le pide de nuevo al mendigo que le diga cuál es su linaje. El pordiosero, por su lado, en treinta y ocho versos68, sostiene que es un cretense llamado Etón69; había visto en Cnoso a Odiseo, adonde éste había llegado arrastrado por los vientos desde el cabo Málea; le ofreció víveres; y, al cabo de trece días, el de Ítaca partió hacia Troya con los suyos. Penélope lloraba mientras lo escuchaba70; él, entre tanto, ocultaba sus propias lágrimas con engaño. La reina quiere probar71 si dice la verdad: le pregunta cómo eran las ropas que llevaba Odiseo y cómo era él mismo. El mendigo da indicaciones precisas (manto, broche, bordado, túnica). La reina asiente en todo; les ordena a las sirvientes que lo laven, pero el extranjero no lo acepta, a no ser que una anciana se encargue de lavarle los pies; no quiere descansar en ningún lecho, sino que prefiere dormir en el suelo. Od. 18.272: στυγερὸς γάμος. Od. 18.290 s. Od. 19.124–163. Od. 19.124: ἦ τοι μὲν ἐμὴν ἀρετὴν εἶδός τε δέμας τε. Od. 19.165–202. Od. 19.183: Αἴθων «el ardiente, inflamado». Sólo aquí aparece como nombre propio de persona. En la Ilíada (8. 185) sirve para denominar a uno de los caballos de Héctor. 70 Od. 19.204. 71 Od. 19.215: πειρήσεσθαι. La idea de prueba (πεῖρα) es esencial en el reconocimiento mutuo de los esposos. 64 65 66 67 68 69

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Penélope le ordena a Euriclea que le lave los pies72. Cuando la anciana nodriza reconoció la cicatriz que, en cierta ocasión, un jabalí le hiciera a su señor, inmediatamente supo que estaba lavando a Odiseo; mas éste le ordenó que no dijera nada. La reina le expone sus dudas al extranjero73: padece inmensa pena, pues, atendiendo a sus obligaciones durante el día, por la noche no logra conciliar el sueño; como la hija de Pandáreo, la amarilla Aedón74, no sabe si permanecer allí por vergüenza al lecho conyugal y a las habladurías de la gente o irse con el mejor de los aqueos, pues Telémaco, que ya es mayor, desea que su madre se marche del palacio, indignado por los bienes que devoran los pretendientes. Le pide al mendigo que le interprete un sueño: veinte gansos muertos por una gran águila, la cual, con voz humana, le dijo que los gansos eran los pretendientes y que ella había regresado como su propio esposo. Penélope le contó también que les preparaba a los pretendientes el certamen del arco y las hachas. Añade que, si el extranjero, sentado junto a ella en la sala, quisiera deleitarla, el sueño no se le vertería sobre los párpados. Pero, dado que no es posible que los humanos estén sin dormir, la reina se dispone a subir al piso de arriba para acostarse en el funesto lecho, siempre regado con sus lágrimas desde que Odiseo partiera hacia la innombrable Ilio. Nos sorprende, sin duda, la familiaridad con que la reina habla con el extranjero, un desconocido de quien casi lo único que sabía era que había visto a Odiseo. En cambio, ella le cuenta sus sueños, sus intimidades, sus propósitos matrimoniales, sus dudas, el certamen que preparaba, etc. Es muy difícil admitir que Penélope hubiera abierto tanto su pecho de no tener la certeza de que quien la escuchaba era un varón de toda confianza.

72 Es un momento clave para la anagnórisis del héroe. Efectivamente, Euriclea será la primera persona que, poco después, reconozca a Odiseo por la cicatriz de su pie. El héroe le pide que guarde silencio. Antes, cuando el mendigo entraba en el palacio, lo reconoció el viejo perro Argos, lleno de pulgas, que enderezó cabeza y orejas al ver cerca a su amo, y, moviendo la cola, dejó caer las orejas para morir poco después. Cf. Od. 17.290–304. 73 Od. 19.509–553. 74 Penélope menciona el mito de Aedón, hija de Pandáreo, la cual dio muerte, por equivocación, a su hijo Ítilo: Aedón fue transformada en «ruiseñor». Ninguna otra fuente antigua nos habla de este mito. Quizá hay cierta confusión entre Pandáreo y Pandión (padre de Procne y Filomela), y de Ítilo con Itis (hijo de Tereo y Procne). Si Aedón, sin quererlo, acabó con la vida de Ítilo cuando pretendía matar al hijo de su hermana, Penélope no quisiera causar la muerte de Telémaco a manos de los pretendientes. De ahí su vacilación entre seguir como hasta entonces y casarse de nuevo.

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13. Penélope, en el canto vigésimo, se despierta y, tras cansarse de llorar, le pide a Ártemis que le quite la vida con una flecha, o que un vendaval la arrebate y la arroje en la desembocadura del Océano, como cuando los huracanes se llevaron a las hijas de Pandáreo75; desea hundirse en la odiosa tierra y ver a Odiseo, sin tener que satisfacer los deseos de un hombre inferior a aquél. Además, había tenido un mal sueño: que a su lado dormía un hombre tal como era su esposo al partir hacia Troya76. Agelao, uno de los pretendientes77, le aconseja a Telémaco que le pida a su madre casarse con quien fuera el mejor y le hiciera más regalos, para que él pudiera poseer los bienes de su padre, mientras ella cuidaba la mansión de otro. Con todo, Telémaco replicó que no retrasaba la boda de su madre, sino que la exhortaba a casarse y le daba incontables regalos78; no obstante, le daba vergüenza expulsarla del palacio contra su voluntad. 14. El canto vigésimo primero nos cuenta que Atenea le había inspirado a la prudente Penélope la preparación del arco y el hierro. Ella misma les llevó a los pretendientes tales instrumentos, presentándose ante ellos con un brillante manto ante las mejillas. Telémaco habla de los propósitos de su madre: Mi madre, afirma, aun siendo prudente, que seguirá a otro, abandonando esta mansión79.

El joven, tras hacer un elogio de su madre80, se ofrece a participar en la prueba: si gana, Penélope se quedaría en el palacio. Pues bien, mientras los pretendientes van fracasando con el arco, la reina les pide que no le censuren al mendigo querer tenderlo y le dice a Eurímaco algo que nos llama poderosamente la atención: 75 Od. 20.61–90. Ninguna otra fuente nos habla de las hijas de Pandáreo. Los especialistas no están de acuerdo ni en el número ni en los nombres de las mismas. Una, desde luego, es Aedón, ya mencionada. Nos cuenta Homero que, muertos sus padres, las huérfanas, muy protegidas por Hera, Ártemis y Afrodita, fueron arrebatadas por las Harpías y entregadas a las Erinis para que fueran sus sirvientas. 76 Si Euriclea, nada más ver al mendigo, afirmó que nadie había tan parecido a Odiseo, eso mismo debió de pensar la reina, hasta el punto de verlo en sus sueños nocturnos. 77 Od. 20.322 ss. 78 Od. 20.339–344. Con respecto a Od. 2.130–145, ahora es una novedad la referencia a los numerosos regalos entregados a la madre. 79 Od. 21.103 s.: μήτηρ μέν μοί φησι φίλη, πινυτή περ ἐοῦσα, / ἄλλῳ ἅμ΄ ἕψεσθαι νοσφισσαμένη τόδε δῶμα. Como adjetivo, πινυτός, salvo en una ocasión, está reservado para la reina en la Odisea. Así lo afirman el alma de Agamenón (11.445), Telémaco (20.131; 21.103) y Odiseo (23.361). 80 Od. 21.102 ss. Ni en Pilo, Argos, Micenas ni Ítaca existe mujer tal como ella.

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¿Esperas que, si el extranjero el gran arco de Odiseo tendiera, en sus manos y fuerza confiado, a su casa me llevaría y su esposa me haría?81

Es un modo irónico de negar la posibilidad de casarse con el extranjero aunque éste venciera en la prueba. Ahora bien, la reina sostiene que, si el pordiosero lograba superar los difíciles requisitos, le daría personalmente algunos regalos: manto y túnica, entre ellos. Telémaco, molesto quizá por las palabras de Penélope pronunciadas ante todos, interviene de modo tajante: le ordenó a su madre retirarse a sus habitaciones y atender el telar y la rueca, pues el arco había de ser asunto de los varones82. La reina subió a su aposento, donde lloró por Odiseo y se quedó dormida. 15. En el canto vigésimo segundo, Odiseo que, tras dar muerte a Antínoo, se ha dado a conocer a los demás pretendientes, les recrimina que, estando él vivo, intentaran seducir a su esposa83. Acabada la matanza de los pretendientes, Telémaco no es partidario de despertar a su madre84, pero Odiseo, una vez ahorcadas las doce sirvientas – entre cincuenta – que no le habían sido fieles a Penélope, le dio a Euriclea la orden de que la reina se presentara en el mégaron al mismo tiempo que las sirvientes85. 16. Euriclea, en el canto siguiente, sube y despierta a Penélope, diciéndole que Odiseo había venido y dado muerte a los pretendientes. La reina la toma por loca, afirmando que los dioses le habían dañado la mente; además, sostiene que nunca había dormido de tal manera desde que su esposo se hubo marchado a la funesta Ilio86. Euriclea insiste: Telémaco sabía desde hacía tiempo que su padre estaba en palacio. Penélope salta del lecho y la abraza, preguntándole por lo sucedido. La anciana nodriza cuenta que las mujeres no habían visto nada, pues estaban en sus habitaciones mientras los varones permanecían en el mégaron. La reina duda otra vez: No es verdadero este relato, como lo cuentas, mas uno de los inmortales mataba a los ilustres pretendientes87. 81 Od. 21.314–316: ἔλπεαι, αἴ χ΄ ὁ ξεῖνος Ὀδυσσῆος μέγα τόξον / ἐντανύσῃ χερσίν τε βίηφί τε ἧφι πιθήσας, / οἴκαδέ μ΄ ἄξεσθαι καὶ ἑὴν θήσεσθαι ἄκοιτιν; 82 Salvo la referencia al arco (τόξον), la estructura formularia es la misma ya vista en el texto apuntado en n. 20. 83 Od. 22.38: αὐτοῦ τε ζώοντος ὑπεμνάασθε γυναῖκα. En realidad, los pretendientes no sabían que el héroe de Ítaca estuviera vivo. 84 Od. 22.431. 85 Od. 22.482 s. 86 Od. 23.18 s. 87 Od. 23.62 s.: ἀλλ΄ οὐκ ἔσθ΄ ὅδε μῦθος ἐτήτυμος, ὡς ἀγορεύεις, / ἀλλά τις ἀθανάτων κτεῖνε μνηστῆρας ἀγαυούς.

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La heroína, en efecto, afirma que Odiseo había perdido su regreso lejos de Acaya y que había perecido. Euriclea, enfadada, le replica entre otras cosas: tu ánimo siempre es desconfiado. Mas, ¡ea!: otra señal evidente he de decirte88.

Dos elementos de singular relevancia se nos presentan en estos dos versos: de una parte el carácter desconfiado89 de la reina; de otra, la señal90 visible, palpable: la cicatriz que la anciana reconoció al lavarle los pies a Odiseo, aunque se viera obligada a guardar silencio. Euriclea afirma que, si miente, Penélope podría matarla. El aedo, a manera de experto psicólogo, nos comunica los pensamientos de la heroína, cuyo corazón estaba indeciso, ya que no sabía si interrogar a su esposo 91 desde lejos o colocarse a su lado, tomarle las manos y besarle la cabeza. Es decir, para Homero, la reina ya sabe que el mendigo es Odiseo. Penélope, en cambio, entró y se sentó junto a la pared situada al otro lado de donde estaba Odiseo, el cual, sentado, con la cabeza baja, esperaba que su fuerte esposa92 le dijera algo. Pero ella estuvo en silencio mucho tiempo: unas veces lo miraba fijamente al rostro, y, otras, no reconocía a quien llevaba ropas indignas sobre su cuerpo. Telémaco no puede contenerse más: ¡Madre mía!¡Mala madre! Manteniendo ánimo obstinado, ¿por qué estás tan alejada de mi padre, y no, junto a él sentada, con palabras le preguntas e interrogas?

88 Od. 23. 72 s.: θυμὸς δέ τοι αἰὲν ἄπιστος. / ἀλλ΄ ἄγε τοι καὶ σῆμα ἀριφραδὲς ἄλλο τι εἴπω. 89 Od. 23.72: ἄπιστος. Seis veces encontramos el adjetivo en los poemas homéricos. En la Ilíada tiene el sentido de «indigno de confianza, pérfido» (3.106: los hijos de Príamo; 24.63: Hera se lo atribuye a Apolo; 24.207: Hécuba lo afirma respecto de Aquiles). En la Odisea acompaña siempre a θυμός, con el valor de «incrédulo», «desconfiado» (Odiseo lo sostiene acerca de Eumeo (14.150; 391) a quien no consigue convencer ni siquiera mediante juramento; y, en la secuencia que estudiamos, es Euriclea la que no logra persuadir a Penélope, ni dándole la «gran prueba» ni siquiera ofreciéndose a morir, si mentía. 90 El sustantivo σῆμα, «señal, indicio», tendrá singular relevancia en el reconocimiento mutuo de los esposos. 91 Od. 23.86 s.: ἢ ἀπάνευθε φίλον πόσιν ἐξερεείνοι, / ἦ παρστᾶσα κύσειε κάρη καὶ χεῖρε λαβοῦσα. 92 Od. 23.92: ἰφθίμη παράκοιτις. De las 45 veces en que ἴφθιμος está registrado en los poemas, en 43 alude a seres humanos: sólo 9 en femenino, y de ellas 7 en la Odisea; en el verso ya visto y en 16.332 (relato del aedo) se atribuye a Penélope; digamos, asimismo, que la propia hermana de la reina se llama precisamente así, caso único en la épica homérica (4.797: Ἰφθίμῃ, κούρῃ μεγαλήτορος Ἰκαρίοιο).

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Ninguna otra mujer, de este modo, con ánimo firme de su marido se apartaría; el cual, tras sufrir muchos males, llegara en el vigésimo año a su patria tierra. ¡Mas siempre tu corazón más duro es que una piedra!93

En verdad, el adjetivo «obstinado, terco»94 es relevante, pues es el primero que emplea el propio hijo para calificar el ánimo de la reina, y será el último que ella misma utilice cuando hable de sí misma95. Penélope se excusa ante su hijo: tiene el ánimo asombrado dentro del pecho y no puede decir ni una palabra, ni interrogar al mendigo, ni siquiera mirarlo a la cara. Y añade:

93 Od. 23.97–103: μῆτερ ἐμή, δύσμητερ, ἀπηνέα θυμὸν ἔχουσα, τίφθ΄ οὕτω πατρὸς νοσφίζεαι, οὐδὲ παρ΄ αὐτὸν ἑζομένη μύθοισιν ἀνείρεαι οὐδὲ μεταλλᾷς; οὐ μέν κ΄ ἄλλη γ΄ ὧδε γυνὴ τετληότι θυμῷ ἀνδρὸς ἀποσταίη, ὅς οἱ κακὰ πολλὰ μογήσας ἔλθοι ἐεικοστῷ ἔτεϊ ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν· σοὶ δ΄ αἰεὶ κραδίη στερεωτέρη ἐστὶ λίθοιο. En el mismo contexto, pues, dos indicaciones sobre el modo de ser, el carácter de Penélope: obstinación (cf. el calificativo ἀπηνής, del que hablaremos en la nota siguiente) y corazón duro. Más abajo (23.172), Odiseo dirá que la reina tiene un corazón de hierro. De las cincuenta y seis veces que κραδίη aparece en los poemas homéricos es la única ocasión en que se compara la dureza del mismo con una piedra (En Od. 4. 293 Telémaco dice de su padre que tenía «corazón de hierro»: κραδίη γε σιδηρέη). Por su lado, sólo en la Ilíada, καρδίη está registrado tres veces, y, otras dos, un derivado: θρασυκάρδιος. A su vez, en Od. 19.494, Euriclea afirma que se mantendrá «cual dura piedra o hierro»: ἕξω δ΄ ὡς ὅτε τις στερεὴ λίθος ἠὲ σίδηρος. Homero conoce el hierro (σίδηρος lo hallamos citado en treinta y una secuencias; además, tenemos derivados de tal sustantivo en otros diecisiete textos), que empieza a ser usado históricamente después de la guerra de Troya: los héroes épicos, en cambio, utilizan normalmente armas de bronce. El hierro lo encontramos, con frecuencia, en comparaciones o excursos; pero, incluso referido al mundo de los héroes, se habla de la punta de hierro de una lanza (Il. 4.123); un cuchillo férreo (Il. 18.34); Penélope, aparte del arco, les trae el «grisáceo hierro» a los pretendientes en Od. 21.81; véanse, además, Od. 21.97; 114; 127; 24.168; etc. 94 Od. 23.97: ἀπηνέα (cf. 23.230), compuesto de ἀπο- y un inexistente * ἦνος, «rostro, cara», es decir, «que aparta (o vuelve) la cara, intratable, distante, frío». La Ilíada lo presenta seis veces; cinco la Odisea (aparte de los dos usos referidos al modo de ser de la reina, ésta lo emplea dos veces en el mismo verso, con carácter general en 19.329; y, además, Odiseo se lo atribuye a Eurímaco: 18.381). En los dos pasajes en que alude a Penélope, el adjetivo concuerda con θυμόν. Son las únicas secuencias homéricas en que hallamos esta distribución. 95 Od. 23.230: πείθεις δή μευ θυμόν, ἀπηνέα περ μάλ΄ ἐόντα.

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Si, de verdad, ya es Odiseo y a su mansión ha llegado, en realidad nosotros dos nos reconoceremos mutuamente, incluso mejor. Pues tenemos señales que, ocultas a los demás, nosotros dos conocemos96.

Hallamos aquí una información esencial acerca de cómo era la relación de los esposos antes que Odiseo partiera hacia la guerra. Ambos tenían «señales», indicios reveladores; sólo ellos dos las conocían, no los demás. El joven Telémaco busca el acercamiento mutuo de sus padres, pero la postura de su madre es demasiado firme. Odiseo entiende lo que está sucediendo: le pide a su hijo que la deje ponerlo a prueba97, pues, al verlo vestido de andrajos, no lo honra98, y, además, afirma que no es él. A continuación, por orden del héroe, todos se lavaron y se pusieron las túnicas. Mas el aedo añade un detalle de gran interés: Odiseo, una vez lavado por Eurínome, inicia el diálogo diciéndole a Penélope que quienes poseen las mansiones olímpicas le pusieron un corazón inflexible99; además, le pide a la nodriza Euriclea que le extienda100 el lecho para descansar, pues la reina tiene en sus mientes férreo corazón101. Penélope, queriendo probar a su esposo102, contesta de este modo:

96 Od. 23.107–110: εἰ δ΄ ἐτεὸν δὴ ἔστ΄ Ὀδυσεὺς καὶ οἶκον ἱκάνεται, ἦ μάλα νῶϊ γνωσόμεθ΄ ἀλλήλω καὶ λώϊον· ἔστι γὰρ ἥμιν σήμαθ΄, ἃ δὴ καὶ νῶϊ κεκρυμμένα ἴδμεν ἀπ΄ ἄλλων. Penélope se muestra tranquila: los esposos se reconocerán «incluso mejor» (καὶ λώϊον), y no es necesario que ella le pregunte ni interrogue, como Telémaco había propuesto. Por otra parte, es muy significativo el sustantivo (σήματα) del verso 110. 97 Od. 23.114: πειράζειν. 98 Od. 23.116: ἀτιμάζει. 99 Od. 23.167: κῆρ ἀτέραμνον ἔθηκαν Ὀλύμπια δώματ΄ ἔχοντες. Los poemas homéricos registran cincuenta y nueve veces el sustantivo κῆρ «corazón» (treinta apariciones en la Ilíada y veintinueve en la Odisea). Por su lado, el adjetivo ἀτέραμνον es un hápax dentro de Homero. Aparece posteriormente en Esquilo (Prom. 190, 1062; en ambos pasajes, referido a sustantivos no materiales), Tratados hipocráticos (aludiendo al agua: «dura», «cruda»), Aristóteles (en una secuencia) y Teofrasto (dos ejemplos). 100 Od. 23.171: στόρεσον λέχος. Seguramente, al mencionar el lecho, el héroe le está dando a su esposa una oportunidad para que reconsidere su actitud y se convenza de la realidad. Pero la reina no acepta los indicios que le ofrecen los demás; quiere probar, por sí misma, a su esposo. Zeitlin (1995) se ha ocupado de diversos aspectos referentes a la decisiva prueba del lecho matrimonial. 101 Od. 23.172: ἦ γὰρ τῇ γε σιδήρεον ἐν φρεσὶν ἦτορ. Si κραδίη (καρδίη) – κῆρ se refieren con frecuencia al corazón como órgano anatómico, ἦτορ (Il. 48; Od. 47), en cambio, es considerado, ante todo, el asiento de la vida y los sentimientos. 102 Cf. n. 113.

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¡Ser demonial! Ni en mucho me tengo, ni me minusvaloro, ni en demasía me admiro; muy bien sé cómo eras yendo, desde Ítaca, sobre nave de largos remos. Mas, ¡ea!, extiéndele el sólido lecho, Euriclea, fuera del bien construido tálamo, que él mismo hacía; allí, tras prepararle fuera el sólido lecho, poned encima ropas: pieles, mantas y sábanas resplandecientes103.

La reina utiliza palabras muy seleccionadas, apropiadas para un momento esencial. Sin pretender extenderme en el comentario de este pasaje, incidiré simplemente en algunos datos lingüísticos que contribuyan, en mi opinión, a conocer mejor a nuestro personaje. El vocativo δαιμόνιε del verso 174 corresponde al utilizado por Odiseo en 166 (δαιμονίη): es el adjetivo relacionado con δαίμων, «divinidad», pero también sirve para referirse a algún ser caracterizado por la extrañeza o admiración que produce en los demás, es decir, alguien que está por encima de los límites humanos, y que, en cierto modo, roza el rango de la divinidad104. Penélope se coloca en el mismo campo de juego que ha utilizado el mendigo extranjero, poniendo de manifiesto que, por su comportamiento, no es menos extraña ni admirable que él. Por otra parte tres verbos en primera persona del presente de indicativo subrayan el modo de ser de la reina, aunque están utilizados de forma negativa, es decir, rechazando las ideas expresadas por cada una de las formas verbales. Los tres verbos corresponden a acciones o estados que sirven de réplica a la forma verbal (ἀτιμάζει) usada por Odiseo algo más arriba105. Allí, el fe103 Od. 23.174–180: δαιμόνι΄, οὐ γάρ τι μεγαλίζομαι οὐδ΄ ἀθερίζω οὐδὲ λίην ἄγαμαι, μάλα δ΄ εὖ οἶδ΄ οἷος ἔησθα ἐξ Ἰθάκης ἐπὶ νηὸς ἰὼν δολιχηρέτμοιο. ἀλλ΄ ἄγε οἱ στόρεσον πυκινὸν λέχος, Εὐρύκλεια, ἐκτὸς ἐϋσταθέος θαλάμου, τόν ῥ΄ αὐτὸς ἐποίει· ἔνθα οἱ ἐκθεῖσαι πυκινὸν λέχος ἐμβάλετ΄ εὐνήν, κώεα καὶ χλαίνας καὶ ῥήγεα σιγαλόεντα. 104 Heubeck (Heubeck et al., 1988–1992, vol. 3) en su excelente comentario traduce el imperativo por «you strange creature». En griego posterior, tal imperativo equivale a una exclamación. Desde luego, Odiseo es algo más que un simple mortal, pues desde el comienzo de la Odisea tiene a su favor a los dioses, especialmente a Atenea. También Zeus le envía, en varias ocasiones, ciertas señales favorables de asentimiento. Un ser humano que tiene tal trato con la divinidad bien merece el calificativo de δαιμόνιος. En la Ilíada hallamos trece veces el adjetivo; en la Odisea, nueve. En tres ocasiones, Odiseo se lo atribuye a Penélope (19.71; 23.166, 264); en una, Penélope a Odiseo (23.174), los compañeros al héroe (10.472), Eumeo a Odiseo (14.443), Odiseo a Iro (18.15), Antínoo a los demás pretendientes (4.774), y Telémaco a los pretendientes (18. 406). 105 Od. 23.116. Cf. n. 98.

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cundo en recursos funda la falta de aprecio y honor (τιμή) en el hecho de ir vestido de harapos, pobres ropas que indicarían su baja condición social. Es cierto que ese verbo lo pronuncia el héroe antes de que Eurínome lo hubiera lavado y vestido con túnica y manto. El verbo μεγαλίζομαι sólo lo tenemos dos veces en los poemas homéricos106: formado sobre μέγας, indica «actuar haciéndose el grande, el importante», es decir, con orgullo. La etimología de ἀθερίζω es discutida107; los especialistas lo interpretan como «minusvalorar», «no dar importancia a algo». Naturalmente, si el primer verbo alude al comportamiento de la reina, el segundo apunta a la consideración que le merece el extranjero (Odiseo). Algo antes108, el aedo nos dice que, una vez bañado el héroe, Atenea derramó sobre él abundante gracia para que pareciera más alto, más ancho y con los cabellos ensortijados, cuando salía del baño semejante a los inmortales. Precisamente, Penélope, con el tercer verbo que emplea (ἄγαμαι), también en forma negativa, subraya que no se extraña en demasía, por una razón que puede darnos nueva luz para interpretar el pasaje: «pues muy bien sé como eras …», expresión en que el verbo «ser» está en segunda persona (ἔησθα) del imperfecto; es decir, ese «eras» indica que la reina reconoce que está hablando con su esposo, pues recuerda bien cómo era cuando partió hacia Troya. Podría darse un paso más por una senda que nos daría nuevas claves sobre el modo de ser de Penélope: ha visto al extranjero antes y después de la divina transformación proporcionada por Atenea; no se maravilla en exceso de ello; lo justifica aludiendo al momento en que el héroe salió hacia Troya; es decir, contrapone una situación artificial, creada por la divinidad, a un hecho natural, la juventud del héroe en todo su esplendor cuando dejó su hogar para dirigirse a la funesta Ilio. El texto no da otras indicaciones, pero esos tres verbos están cargados de contenido semántico especial, pues sirven para replicar punto por punto lo manifestado o sugerido por Odiseo. Los dos primeros verbos apuntan al plano humano, y con ellos Penélope refuta adecuadamente la acusación que le hace el héroe de menospreciarlo por causa de sus pobres ropas; el tercero va, quizá, más lejos, aludiendo a la súbita transformación experimentada por el extranjero. Podríamos esperar que el definitivo reconocimiento de los esposos fuera inminente. Se abre, en cambio, un paréntesis, una retardación, un suspense. La astuta y prudente Penélope resultará ahora tan «fecunda en recursos», 106 La otra aparición la leemos en Il. 10.69. 107 Está formado quizá sobre ἀθήρ, «raspa de la espiga». El verbo sólo consta tres veces en Homero; poco usado, en general, no lo encontramos en la literatura posterior hasta Apolonio de Rodas y autores más tardíos. 108 Od. 23.156–163.

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como el héroe de Ítaca. En efecto, si el extranjero ha mencionado el lecho, ella aprovecha al vuelo la ocasión para probar y provocar a su esposo. Está recogiendo lo que había afirmado respecto a las «señales»109 que sólo la pareja conocía. A la frase «extiende el lecho»110 de Odiseo, replica Penélope con «extiéndele el lecho […] fuera de la habitación»111. La distinta expresión de la idea verbal podría haber pasado inadvertida para quienes oyeran al aedo, pero será definitiva a la hora del reconocimiento mutuo de la pareja. El héroe, en efecto, se irrita sobremanera al oír tal orden en boca de la reina. Nadie, salvo los esposos, sabía a qué se está refiriendo la heroína. En este preciso momento es cuando empieza, de verdad, la prueba que Penélope impone al extranjero. Por si fuera poco, ésta subraya de nuevo la acción verbal de «poner fuera el lecho», entiéndase de la habitación matrimonial, y apunta a las ropas de cama112 con que las sirvientas deben cubrirlo. El aedo nos confirma que, en realidad, Penélope está probando113 a su esposo, el cual contestará irritado114. El héroe se lamenta profundamente de lo que ha insinuado la reina y pregunta inmediatamente qué varón le ha puesto el lecho en otra parte, pues se siente íntimamente herido en su amor propio; ofrece minuciosos detalles sobre cómo hizo la habitación y el lecho, que, por todo lo que él expone, resulta inamovible. No se da cuenta de que su mujer le ha tendido una astuta trampa, en que ha caído de lleno. La cuidada y escrupulosa exposición de todos los elementos de que están compuestos tanto la habitación como el lecho matrimoniales no es uno más entre los numerosos catálogos homéricos, sino que ofrece datos muy precisos acerca de los sucesivos momentos de su construcción y, asimismo, de la astucia empleada por el héroe para que nadie (fuera de la pareja) lo supiera. Efectivamente, cuando la habitación estuvo terminada, Odiseo construyó en torno un techo, de suerte que nadie pudo ver cómo hacía el lecho, ni, por supuesto, cómo funcionaba. Con un complicado ejercicio de taladro lo había construido en torno a un tronco de olivo. Por eso, herido en su legítimo orgullo, afirma que ni siquiera un joven en plenitud de sus fuerzas podría haber movido esa cama. Al final de su exposición, le dirá a su esposa que ésa es la «señal»115 que puede darle. 109 Od. 23.110. 110 Cf. n. 100. 111 Od. 23.177 s.: ἀλλ΄ ἄγε οἱ στόρεσον πυκινὸν λέχος, Εὐρύκλεια, / ἐκτὸς ἐϋσταθέος θαλάμου, τόν ῥ΄ αὐτὸς ἐποίει. 112 Con tal valor debe interpretarse εὐνήν en 23.179. Los tres sustantivos siguientes son aposición de «ropas de cama». 113 Od. 23.181: ὣς ἄρ΄ ἔφη πόσιος πειρωμένη. 114 Od. 23.182: ὀχθήσας. 115 Od. 23.202: οὕτω τοι τόδε σῆμα πιφαύσκομαι. Es la réplica a lo manifestado por la reina en 23.110; si allí se habla de «señales», «contraseñas», en plural, aquí se ofrece el singular, como «señal» definitiva.

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Penélope, tras oír la rigurosa y completa explicación ofrecida por el extranjero, no pudo resistir más. El aedo nos dice que reconoció las señales que le había ofrecido Odiseo, y, entonces, llorando corrió hacia él en línea recta, le echó los brazos al cuello y le besó la cabeza. Por su considerable extensión, no puedo detenerme mucho en los versos116 que recogen esos momentos tan importantes para los esposos, pero diré algo sobre algunos detalles significativos que pueden ayudar a conocer mejor el temperamento y modo de ser de nuestra heroína, la cual utiliza tres imperativos con la intención de rebajar el gran enfado de su marido y ganarse su confianza. En esquema, la réplica de la reina tiene siete partes, y muestra cierta complejidad en su elaboración: 1) súplica («no te irrites»)117; 2) echar la culpa de lo ocurrido a los dioses118; 3) otra súplica, ahora doble («no te enfades; no te enfurezcas»)119; 4) justificación personal de la actitud mantenida120; 5) ejemplo mítico (el de Helena), algo confuso121; 6) reconocer que Odiseo ha presentado bien las «señales»122; 7) afirmar que el héroe le ha convencido el ánimo, aunque era muy obstinado123. 116 Od. 23.209–230. 117 Od. 23.209: μή μοι, Ὀδυσσεῦ, σκύζευ … El verbo σκύζομαι sólo es utilizado seis veces en Homero. Posteriormente lo emplean, por ejemplo, Teócrito y Quinto de Esmirna. Hesiquio (σ 1150.1) lo interpreta como emitir un pequeño sonido, a la manera de los perros; es decir, equivaldría a «gruñir por lo bajo». 118 Od. 23.210–212. Aparece el tema, tan importante en la literatura posterior, de la envidia divina respecto a la felicidad del matrimonio. Tal envidia surge, ante todo, de comprobar que ambos cónyuges disfrutan de la juventud y de prever que lleguen juntos hasta la vejez. 119 Od. 23.213. 120 Od. 23.215–217. La reina intenta justificarse por el hecho de no haber saludado con amor a su esposo nada más verlo (214), pues siempre tenía el temor de que algún mortal la engañara con sus palabras. Además, en 217 ofrece una consideración general: «pues muchos maquinan ganancias perversas» (πολλοὶ γὰρ κακὰ κέρδεα βουλεύουσιν). Alusión quizá a los que habían llegado a Ítaca afirmando haber visto a Odiseo, y reclamando una recompensa. 121 Od. 23.218–224. «Ni siquiera la argiva Helena, nacida de Zeus» (Διὸς ἐκγεγαυῖα) se habría unido a un extranjero, con su amor y en un lecho, de haber sabido que los aqueos la llevarían de nuevo a su hogar y su patria; un dios la impulsó a cometer acción vergonzosa; le puso en su mente una ofuscación lamentable, a consecuencia de la cual les llegó el sufrimiento (sc. a Penélope y Odiseo). De las cincuenta y nueve apariciones de Helena en los poemas homéricos encontramos cinco veces la misma expresión formularia ya vista más arriba (Il. 3.199; 418; Od. 4.184; 219; 23.218). En otra ocasión (Il. 3.426) hay una variante en que se expresa la misma idea. 122 Od. 23.225–229. En esta secuencia leemos un punto esencial: ningún otro mortal había contemplado el lecho matrimonial, salvo ellos dos y la sirviente que guardaba las puertas de la habitación. 123 Od. 23.230: πείθεις δή μευ θυμόν, ἀπηνέα περ μάλ΄ ἐόντα. Cf. n. 94.

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Odiseo lloraba mientras abrazaba a su deseada y fiel esposa124. Ella lo contemplaba con gusto y no soltaba los brazos echados en torno a su cuello125. Si el héroe, aun afirmando que le quedan todavía pruebas que superar, quiere irse a la cama, su esposa desea saber antes qué prueba es la que aquél ha de realizar126. Conviene subrayar esta actitud de la prudente Penélope, la cual, ante todo, está interesada por conocer qué empresas aguardan a Odiseo. Conducidos por la anciana Eurínome, los esposos llegaron a la cámara matrimonial. Primero, disfrutaron del amor placentero127, y, luego, se contaron mutuamente lo que habían hecho y sufrido durante tantos años. Mucho más extenso fue el relato de Odiseo; no obstante, una nota ofrecida por el aedo nos indica que Penélope lo escuchó hasta el final sin que el sueño cayera sobre sus párpados128. Nos sorprende que a la mañana siguiente el héroe se despida de Penélope a quien le encarga cuidar las riquezas de palacio y permanecer dentro de él sin mirar ni preguntar a nadie cuando se extendiera la noticia de la muerte de los pretendientes. Entonces, Odiseo, en compañía de Telémaco y sus fieles servidores, partió a ver a su anciano padre Laertes. 124 Od. 23.232: κλαῖε δ΄ ἔχων ἄλοχον θυμαρέα, κεδνὰ ἰδυῖαν. En Homero sólo vemos dos veces la fórmula ἄλοχον θυμαρέα, a saber, aquí y en Il. 9.336, referida allí a Briseida, y pronunciada por Aquiles que alude a Agamenón: «tiene mi compañera de lecho, deseada por mi ánimo» (ἔχει δ΄ ἄλοχον θυμαρέα); la tercera ocasión en que está registrado, el adjetivo θυμαρής califica a un bastón que Eumeo le ofrece a Odiseo (Od. 23.232). De las dieciséis veces que encontramos en los poemas homéricos formas derivadas del adjetivo κεδνός, «serio, cuidadoso, sabio», hallamos cinco ejemplos de la fórmula κεδνὰ ἰδυῖαν, presente sólo en la Odisea. Dos de ellas (Od. 1.428; 19.346), referidas a Euriclea; y tres (Od. 20.57; 23.182; 232), que califican a Penélope. Es significativo que sólo esos dos personajes, esenciales en el curso de la acción épica, merezcan tal epíteto formulario. 125 Od. 23.239 s. Hay que entender que Penélope, que, en los versos 207 s., echó los brazos en torno al cuello de su esposo, ha pronunciado sus palabras (vv. 209–230) abrazada a Odiseo. 126 Od. 23.257–262. 127 Od. 23.300: τὼ δ΄ ἐπεὶ οὖν φιλότητος ἐταρπήτην ἐρατεινῆς. En Homero, φιλότης está registrada cincuenta y seis veces; el sentido general es «amistad, prueba de amistad, ternura», pero, en numerosos pasajes equivale a «acto sexual». Con este valor la leemos en Il. 2.232; 3.445; 6. 25, 161 («oculto»), 165; 13.636 (se habla de la hartura del mismo); 14.163, 198, 207, 209, 216, 237, 295, 306, 314, 331, 353 (Zeus está «domado» por tal acto), 360 (desde 14. 163 hasta este último ejemplo se refiere a la «unión» de Zeus y Hera); 15.32; 24. 130 (Tetis le pregunta a su hijo hasta cuándo podrá abstenerse del mismo); Od. 5.126; 8.267, 271, 288, 313 (los cuatro últimos ejemplos aluden a la «relación» de Afrodita y Ares); 10.335; 11.248; 15.421; 19.266; 23.219, 300. El adjetivo ἐρατεινός aparece en veintidós secuencias en Homero; de ellas, sólo seis en la Odisea; solamente en el pasaje estudiado lo hallamos apuntando a la «unión sexual». 128 Od. 23.308 s.

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17. En el canto vigésimo cuarto, el alma de Anfimedonte, que, junto con las de los otros pretendientes, ha llegado hasta Hades conducida por Hermes, le cuenta a Agamenón lo sucedido: cómo la reina ni se negaba al matrimonio ni lo aceptaba; menciona el engaño de Penélope (los tres años que estuvo tejiendo y destejiendo, hasta que la descubrieron, ya en el cuarto, tras haberlo confesado una de sus sirvientes129); cuando el sudario ya estaba acabado llegó Odiseo; añade, entre otros puntos, que fue el propio héroe quien le mandó a su esposa que entregara a los pretendientes el arco y el hierro130. Tras estas palabras, Agamenón elogió, desde Hades, a Odiseo, contraponiendo la figura de Penélope a la de Clitemnestra: ¡Dichoso hijo de Laertes, muy hábil Odiseo! Realmente, con gran valor, has conquistado a tu esposa. ¡Qué buenas intenciones tenía la irreprochable Penélope, hija de Icario!¡Qué bien se acordó de Odiseo, esposo legítimo! Por ello, la fama jamás perecerá de su virtud, y, para quienes están sobre la tierra, prepararán canto agradable los inmortales en honor de la sensata Penélope; no, como la hija de Tindáreo, meditó malas obras, matando a su legítimo marido, ni odioso canto habrá entre los hombres, ni terrible rumor regalará a las femeniles mujeres, incluso para la que sea de buen obrar131.

129 Od. 24.125–145. 130 Od. 24.145–190. Véanse, concretamente, los versos 167–171. Heubeck (Heubeck et al., 1988–1992, vol. 3) señala que la interpretación de Anfimedonte no está de acuerdo con la Odisea que nos ha llegado. Con todo, no es preciso pensar en una versión distinta del poema en la cual se hablara de que los esposos colaboraron en la muerte de los pretendientes. Por otro lado, el «hierro» (τόξον μνηστήρεσσι θέμεν πολιόν τε σίδηρον) alude a las asas de las hachas por las que tenía que pasar la flecha sabiamente disparada. 131 Od. 24. 192–202: ὄλβιε Λαέρταο πάϊ, πολυμήχαν΄ Ὀδυσσεῦ, ἦ ἄρα σὺν μεγάλῃ ἀρετῇ ἐκτήσω ἄκοιτιν· ὡς ἀγαθαὶ φρένες ἦσαν ἀμύμονι Πηνελοπείῃ, κούρῃ Ἰκαρίου, ὡς εὖ μέμνητ΄ Ὀδυσῆος, ἀνδρὸς κουριδίου. τῶ οἱ κλέος οὔ ποτ΄ ὀλεῖται ἧς ἀρετῆς, τεύξουσι δ΄ ἐπιχθονίοισιν ἀοιδὴν ἀθάνατοι χαρίεσσαν ἐχέφρονι Πηνελοπείῃ, οὐχ ὡς Τυνδαρέου κούρη κακὰ μήσατο ἔργα, κουρίδιον κτείνασα πόσιν, στυγερὴ δέ τ΄ ἀοιδὴ ἔσσετ΄ ἐπ΄ ἀνθρώπους, χαλεπὴν δέ τε φῆμιν ὀπάσσει θηλυτέρῃσι γυναιξί, καὶ ἥ κ΄ εὐεργὸς ἔῃσιν. En el caso de Penélope, es importantísima la mención de la «fama», «gloria» (v. 196: κλέος); por conseguirla, luchan denodadamente los héroes homéricos.

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La oposición polar entre Penélope y Clitemnestra queda, pues, perfectamente constituida y definida132. Realmente, no es la primera vez que Agamenón alude a la infamia que Clitemnestra ha derramado sobre las mujeres venideras133. Más tarde, cuando Odiseo se presenta a su padre afirmando que, hacía tiempo, había dado hospitalidad a uno de Ítaca que se decía hijo de Laertes, el anciano, derramando lágrimas, quiere saber la verdad, pues a su hijo no lo había llorado su madre tras amortajarlo, ni tampoco su esposa: ni su esposa de rica dote, sensata Penélope, lamentó, junto al lecho, a su marido, como es adecuado, tras cerrarle los ojos. Pues éste es el honor de los que han muerto134.

Digno de subrayar es el adjetivo πολύδωρος, pues, en los poemas homéricos, aparte de Penélope, sólo Andrómaca merece el título de «rica en dote»135. La última mención de Penélope en la Odisea corre a cargo de Dolio, el esclavo de la reina que le fuera entregado por su padre cuando se marchó

132 La primera tendrá «fama» imperecedera mediante el «canto grato»; la segunda, «canto odioso» y «terrible rumor». Nótese la disposición quiástica; relevante es la oposición κλέος /φῆμις, que merecería un comentario especial, así como otros términos de esta secuencia. Por otra parte, debemos subrayar la idea de que sean los inmortales (es decir, los dioses) quienes preparen el canto en honor de Penélope. Señalemos, asimismo, la doble presencia de κουρίδιος, «legal, legítimo»: en Homero lo leemos dieciocho veces, acompañando, casi siempre, a «esposo» o «esposa». 133 Cf. Od. 11.427–434. 134 Od. 24.294–296: οὐδ΄ ἄλοχος πολύδωρος, ἐχέφρων Πηνελόπεια, / κώκυσ΄ ἐν λεχέεσσιν ἑὸν πόσιν, ὡς ἐπεῴκει, / ὀφθαλμοὺς καθελοῦσα· τὸ γὰρ γέρας ἐστὶ θανόντων. De las once veces en que está registrado en Homero el verbo κωκύω, «dar un grito agudo», «gemir», es el único pasaje en que se construye con acusativo. La secuencia es relevante para conocer las obligaciones propias de una esposa tras la muerte del marido. 135 Il. 6.394. Propiamente, «que ha costado muchos regalos». En el texto que recogemos, hace referencia a la dote que el novio (Odiseo) tuvo que depositar en manos de los padres de su futura esposa; algunos interpretan el adjetivo como «que ha aportado muchos regalos», es decir, que llevó al matrimonio rica dote. (En Od. 1.277 s. [cf. n. 8] se habla de que los padres de Penélope le prepararán dote «muy mucha», cuanta es natural que acompañe a una hija querida). Hasta el siglo IV a. C. sólo tenemos un uso del citado adjetivo en Píndaro (Fr. 52b60), aplicado, en el poeta, a la tierra. Dos nombres propios constituidos sobre el adjetivo encontramos en la Ilíada: Polidora (hija de Peleo – el que luego sería padre de Aquiles – y Antígona, hija de Euritión) y Polidoro (es el más joven de los hijos de Príamo y Hécuba. La Hécuba de Eurípides nos da muchos datos sobre cómo lo mató el huésped que lo tenía a su cargo, Poliméstor).

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para vivir en el palacio de Odiseo136. Dolio, tras besar la mano del héroe le preguntó si la «prudente»137 Penélope estaba ya enterada de su regreso o había que enviarle un mensajero. La Odisea, pues, ofrece numerosos datos acerca de Penélope como reina, madre y esposa. La heroína se nos presenta, en resumen, tan astuta y precavida como el «fecundo en recursos».

Bibliografía auxiliar Amory (1963). – Anne Amory, «The Reunion of Odysseus and Penelope», in: Charles Henry Taylor ( Jr.) (ed.), Essays on the Odyssey. Selected Modern Criticism (Bloomington 1963) 100–121. Felson-Rubin (1993). – Nancy Felson-Rubin, Regarding Penelope: From Character to Poetics (Princeton 1994). Foley (1995). – Helene P. Foley, «Penelope as Moral Agent», in: Beth Cohen (ed.), The Distaff Side. Representing the Female in Homer’s ‹Odyssey› (New York/Oxford 1995) 93–115. Heubeck et al. (1988–1992). – Alfred Heubeck et al. (edd.), A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, vol. 1–3 (Oxford 1988–1992) (I: books 1–8, Alfred Heubeck/Stephanie West/J. Bryan Hainsworth [1988]; II: books 9–16, Alfred Heubeck/Arie Hoekstra [1989]; III: books 17–24, Joseph Russo/Manuel Fernández-Galiano/Alfred Heubeck [1992]. La obra fue publicada primero en italiano.). Katz (1991). – Marilyn A. Katz, Penelope’s Renown: Meaning and Indeterminacy in the Odyssey (Princeton 1991). López Férez (2003). – Juan Antonio López Férez, «Notas sobre la Penélope de la Odisea », in: Francisco de Oliveira (ed.), Penélope e Ulisses (Coimbra 2003) 35–62 (Publicado también, con algunas variantes, en Jesús María Nieto Ibáñez (coord.), Lógos Hellenikós. Homenaje al Profesor Gaspar Morocho Gayo [León 2003] 307–333. Fue una primera versión del trabajo ahora presentado.) Mactoux (1975). – Marie-Madelaine Mactoux, Pénélope: légende et mythe (Paris 1975). Murnaghan (1987). – Sheila Murnaghan, Disguise and Recognition in the Odyssey (Princeton 1987). Winkler (1990). – John J. Winkler, Constraints of Desire: The Anthropolog y of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece (New York/Londres 1990). Zeitlin (1995). – «Figuring Fidelity in Homer’s Odyssey», in: Beth Cohen (ed.), The Distaff Side. Representing the Female in Homer’s Odyssey (New York/Oxford 1995) 117–152.

136 Od. 4.735. Dolio trabajaba en el huerto de la reina y se ocupaba de los abundantes árboles. En el canto vigésimo cuarto labora, junto con sus hijos, para la mansión de Laertes, ocupándose de las faenas del campo. 137 Od. 24 404 s.: ἢ ἤδη σάφα οἶδε περίφρων Πηνελόπεια / νοστήσαντά σε δεῦρ΄, ἦ ἄγγελον ὀτρύνωμεν. Es relevante que, en la última mención de la reina, tengamos, a modo de composición en anillo, el epíteto más frecuente que la caracteriza a través del poema. (Cf. n. 12).

The Motif of the Exiled Killer rené nünlist

The frequency and apparent ease with which Homer inserts the motif of the exiled killer into his poems are likely to come as a surprise for a modern audience. Arguably the most prominent example is Patroclus, who, after killing another young man in an angry dispute over a game of dice, was brought by his father Menoetius from Opous (Locris) to Peleus in Phthia (Thessaly). Peleus received him into his house, looked after him and appointed him personal attendant of young Achilles (Il. 23.85–90), which was the beginning of the friendship that is so crucial for the Iliad. Another example is the Argive seer Theoclymenus, who killed a compatriot and fled. He then supplicates Telemachus on the shore in Pylos and is taken by him to Ithaca (Od. 15.272–284). These and several other cases of exiled killers appear to be unproblematic for Homer. However, subsequent generations of authors did not unanimously share his carefree attitude. The history of the motif seems to indicate that at least some authors felt uneasy about it. The present article attempts to substantiate this hypothesis. Starting with a review of the Homeric use of the motif, it then goes on to discuss a selection of examples that are indicative of a more ambivalent attitude towards the motif of the exiled killer1.

The motif in Homer The significance of the motif in Homer is due, among other things, to its relative frequency. It is therefore appropriate to give a complete list. The examples are grouped by thematic similarity2. 1 2

‘Selection’ also means that the present article does not attempt to give an exhaustive list of exiled killers in Greek literature. For such a list see Parker (1983) 375–392, who, however, “makes no pretence to comprehensiveness” either. Homer’s exiled killers are discussed, among others, by Merz (1953) 11–20, Strasburger (1954) 29–31, Fenik (1968) 206 f., Schlunk (1976), Apthorp (1980) 96 f.,

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The case of Patroclus (Il. 23.85–90) has already been mentioned in the introduction 3. It differs from the other cases, in that Patroclus alone among Homer’s exiled killers mentions that the killing was involuntary4. In all other cases, though indicated usually by implication only, the killing appears to be intentional 5. Moreover, it is noteworthy that Patroclus himself, and not someone else, reports the story of his exile (when he visits Achilles as a shadow in a dream). The same holds true for the seer Theoclymenus (Od. 15.272–284, see above) and for the ‘Cretan’ whose identity Odysseus appropriates when talking to Athena, who is disguised as a young man. Tellingly, Odysseus has no qualms inventing a story in which he fled from Crete because he killed Orsilochus, a “dear son of Idomeneus” (Od. 13.258–260). Apparently, there is no risk that the young Ithacan, whose help Odysseus will need, might be put off by this act of violence. It is worth mentioning, however, that the ‘Cretan’ explains why he killed Orsilochus 6. More often, Homer presents the killing as a simple fait accompli, the other exception being Patroclus, who explains the circumstances of the incident. An exiled killer not unlike Theoclymenus and the ‘Cretan’ is the nameless Aetolian, who wandered around on account of a killing, as he must have told Eumaeus when he was entertained by him (Od. 14.379–381). Eumaeus took exception to the Aetolian’s lying tales about Odysseus, but the killing was not an issue. The case of Theoclymenus (and, presumably, that of the Aetolian) also “indicates that the relatives could pursue a killer beyond the borders of their home territory. Thus, a killer was a fugitive until he was accepted by someone in another country.”7 Conversely,

3 4

5 6 7

Gagarin (1981) 6–19, Janko (1992) 134, 163 f., Richardson (1993) 175, Sale (1994) 50, Heiden (1998), Stoevesandt (2004) esp. 134–136. Janko (1992) 134, 313 argues that Patroclus’ killing is a Homeric invention, which, however, is impossible to substantiate. Il. 23.88: νήπιος, οὐκ ἐθέλων, ἀμφ’ ἀστραγάλοισι χολωθείς. This unique case has occasionally led to far-reaching conclusions. Parker (1983) 117 with n. 51, adduces it as proof that in “Homer […] we find the involuntary […] killer […] subject to permanent exile”. However, it is far from clear that the distinction intentional – unintentional (commonly attributed to Draco’s law, c. 620 BC) is actually relevant to the treatment of exiled killers in Homer. Gagarin (1981, 32) even argues that, at least in classical times, Patroclus’ case would have been considered intentional. Nor is it made explicit that Patroclus could not have returned after some time. He may simply have chosen not to do so because he felt at home with Achilles. On Apthorp’s interpretation see n. 26 below. Gagarin (1981) 11. Allegedly, Orsilochus tried to punish him for his insubordination – he refused to fight under Idomeneus and was his own leader – and to take his Trojan booty. Gagarin (1981) 10. Later, Draco’s law made it illegal to pursue the killer beyond the borders (Gagarin 1981, 60).

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this need not imply that Theoclymenus had been rejected before he met Telemachus 8. Another example is the Heraclid Tlepolemus, who, having killed his greatuncle Licymnius, fled across the sea from the angry relatives who pursued him and ended up founding Rhodes with a band of followers (Il. 2.661–670). This is the only Homeric instance of what could be called the ‘oecist’ use of the motif, which is comparatively frequent in Greek literature (see below). The motif of the exiled killer also occurs three times in the ‘obituary’ of a minor fighter, where it adds to the pathos of the scene and thus steers the emotions of the audience. Medon, a ‘bastard’ brother of the lesser Ajax, killed his stepmother’s brother and went into exile at Phylace (15.333–336 = 13.695–698). Lycophron, a retainer of the greater Ajax, killed a compatriot in Cythera and found a new home with Ajax (Il. 15.430–432). The Myrmidon Epeigeus killed his cousin and came as a suppliant to Peleus’ house (Il. 16.571–574). All three fighters join their new leader (or his substitute) in their fight against Troy, where they die. Not only is it the case that the killer, once he had been accepted into a new society, “bore no moral stigma on account of his deed”9, he could even become a loyal and honoured member who was willing to die for this society. The same could also be said about Patroclus. Remarkably, all three fighters are Greek. The motif does not occur on the Trojan side, which is surprising, not least of all because there are more ‘obituaries’ for Trojans in the Iliad than for Greeks10. These are all the exiled killers that are explicitly mentioned in Homer11. However, the motif is relevant to three more passages. They are all of a 8 Il. 24.482 (on which more below) and the actual examples in Homer demonstrate that it was the privilege of wealthy men to accept an exiled killer, which limits the number of possible hosts. 9 Gagarin (1981) 11. 10 Cf. Stoevesandt (2004) 134–136, who offers the following explanation for the uneven distribution: “Ein wesentlicher Unterschied [sc. between obituaries for Greeks and Trojans] besteht aber darin, daß Eltern und Ehefrauen [who are mentioned exclusively in obituaries for Trojans] ihrem Schmerz vollkommen hilflos ausgeliefert sind, während sich die Freunde eines gefallenen Kriegers [such as the friends of exiled killers] wenigstens dadurch etwas Erleichterung verschaffen können, daß sie ihre Gefährten an einem Gegner rächen [e. g. Patroclus taking revenge for Epeigeus’ death by killing a companion of Hector: Il. 16.585–587]. So trägt die Verteilung der genannten Nachruf-Motive wieder etwas zur Charakterisierung der beiden Kriegspartien bei: Die Troianer werden häufiger als hilflose Opfer dargestellt […], während bei den angreifenden Achaiern auch hier wieder der solidarische Zusammenhalt der Kämpfer hervorgehoben wird.” Conversely, Schol. b Il. 2.665b ex. considers exile (instead of a vendetta) a distinctly Greek feature, while Herodotus (1.35.2) says that Lydians and Greeks purify killers in essentially the same way. 11 Phoenix’ biography (Il. 9.447–495) contains several comparable elements (Apthorp 1980, 96 f.), but his exile is, of course, not caused by a killing.

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generalising nature and further testify to the prominence and importance of the motif 12. Not understanding Achilles’ refusal to accept Agamemnon’s gifts, Ajax makes a remarkable comparison: “(Achilles is) pitiless. And yet a man takes from his brother’s slayer the blood price, or the price for a child who was killed, and the guilty one, when he has largely repaid, stays still in the country, and the injured man’s heart is curbed, and his pride, and his anger when he has taken price” – unlike Achilles13. Ajax presupposes a solution that is an alternative to exile: payment of blood-money14. In his attempt to persuade Achilles in a serious crisis, Ajax adduces a comparable crisis. However, his argument is generalising, which shows that such killings are considered a fairly common, if not frequent, phenomenon. What is more, if there is a moral agenda behind the comparison, its focus is the wronged party: like the victim’s relative, Achilles ought to accept the payment. A comparable case is the argument with which Odysseus attempts to deflect the anger of Telemachus, who cannot understand why his mother still refuses to acknowledge Odysseus’ identity: the couple have signs that they alone will recognise. Besides, Telemachus should be concerned with more important things. If someone who has killed just one compatriot must flee into exile, even though he has friends or relatives to aid him, what will happen to those who have killed the entire élite of Ithaca, who must have many friends and relatives to help them (Od. 23.118–122)? This generalising argumentum a fortiori, which prepares for the difficulties that arise in book 24, takes it for granted that the killing of an individual with subsequent exile is nothing unusual15. Perhaps the most telling passage is a simile that illustrates the amazement of Achilles and his retainers when Priam arrives at their hut after dark, in order to ransom Hector’s body: As when dense disaster closes on one who has murdered a man in his own land, and he comes to the country of others, to a man of substance, and wonder seizes on those who behold him, so Achilleus wondered as he looked on Priam, a godlike man, and the rest of them wondered also, and looked at each other16. 12 In Od. 22.27–32 exile does not come into play ( pace Parker 1983, 117 with n. 51). 13 Il. 9.632–636 (trans. Lattimore): νηλής· καὶ μέν τίς τε κασιγνήτοιο φόνοιο ποινὴν ἢ οὗ παιδὸς ἐδέξατο τεθνηῶτος, καί ῥ’ ὃ μὲν ἐν δήμῳ μένει αὐτοῦ πόλλ’ ἀποτείσας, τοῦ δέ τ’ ἐρητύεται κραδίη καὶ θυμὸς ἀγήνωρ ποινὴν δεξαμένῳ. 14 Such a payment is also mentioned in the trial scene on Achilles’ shield (Il. 18.498– 500). The exact implications of the trial scene are disputed among historians of Greek law (see e. g. Thür 2007, with lit.), but the blood-money (ποινή) as such is unproblematic. 15 Incidentally, a later version (Ps.-Apollod. ep. 7.40, Plut. qu. Gr. 294c–d) has Odysseus sent into exile on account of killing the suitors. 16 Il. 24.480–484 (trans. Lattimore): ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἂν ἄνδρ’ ἄτη πυκινὴ λάβῃ, ὅς τ’ ἐνὶ πάτρῃ φῶτα κατακτείνας ἄλλων ἐξίκετο δῆμον, ἀνδρὸς ἐς ἀφνειοῦ, θάμβος δ’ ἔχει

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It would, of course, be absurd to draw the conclusion that Homer’s world is teeming with exiled killers. Priam’s trip to Achilles is a highly unusual scene and hence requires an unusual simile. But it is in the nature of similes to make use of phenomena that the audience finds recognisable because they can connect with them. A simile must resonate with the audience, which it fails to do if it does not reflect their experience of life. Thus, “the poet has chosen an event, doubtless common in his own time, which would suggest to his audience more directly the intensity of the moment in the narrative” 17. Moreover, nothing suggests that Priam and his task appear in an unfavourable light on account of the comparison with the exiled killer 18. It would be dishonest not to mention the two cases that have sometimes been seen as reflecting a more ambivalent attitude towards the exiled killer19. They are similar in that they are both ‘negative’: they either omit or gloss over the fact that an ancestor killed a man and fled into exile20. Glaucus’ long genealogy, addressed to Diomedes (Il. 6.152–211), does not mention that his grandfather Bellerophon(tes) came to Proetus as an exiled killer. Diomedes in turn, when addressing the senior leaders of the Greek army, makes use of what could be a brief and euphemistic reference to his father Tydeus’ exile (Il. 14.119 f.). In Bellerophon’s case, a general problem is that there is no way of telling whether Homer actually knew this part of the story. What is more, the assumption that Glaucus deliberately omits it because he is concerned about a potentially negative impact simply begs the question21. Furthermore, there are several other ‘gaps’ in his account22, for instance, an explanation why Bellerophon incurred the wrath of the gods, or the famous winged horse Pegasus. It is, therefore, very possible that Homer, if he knew about the killing, has Glaucus omit it here together with other points because they are of limited relevance in this particular context23.

17 18 19 20 21 22 23

εἰσορόωντας, ὣς Ἀχιλεὺς θάμβησεν ἰδὼν Πρίαμον θεοειδέα, θάμβησαν δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι, ἐς ἀλλήλους δὲ ἴδοντο. Richardson (1993) 323, sim. Merz (1953) 12. Heiden (1998) argues that the simile was deliberately chosen with a view to Peleus’ own exile (on which see below), even though it is not mentioned in the Homeric text. On the reversal of roles (Achilles is the killer and in a foreign country, Priam is the rich man and in his home country) see e. g. Richardson (1993) 323. Gaisser (1969) 172, de Jong (1987) 162, Stoevesandt (2004) 333 with n. 988. ‘Positive’ concerns about exiled killers are absent from the Homeric epics. Unlike the scholars mentioned in n. 19, Alden (2000) 137 wisely speaks of Bellerophon’s “misfortunes”. Gaisser (1969) 168–174. De Jong (1987) 167 f., based on parallels for such omissions.

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Unlike Glaucus, Diomedes does mention Tydeus’ exile, albeit in terms that are less than straightforward: But Oineus [Tydeus’ father] stayed in the land, while my father wandered and settled in Argos. Such was the will of Zeus and the other immortals24.

Janko could be right when he argues that “nobody ‘wanders’ save perforce”25. It is, however, not a foregone conclusion that Diomedes chooses to use an euphemism here because of moral concerns about his father being an exiled killer. His point about the will of the gods may well indicate a concern that his father might be seen as a man who did not enjoy the positive support of the gods – something that is desperately needed in the current crisis of book 14, in which Diomedes intends to offer advice. In all likelihood, the exact meaning of Diomedes’ passing remark about Tydeus’ exile will remain an open question. However, the passage will not, in any case, carry the burden of demonstrating the existence of general moral concerns about exiled killers in Homer. Too many passages point in the opposite direction. At most, the passage intimates concerns that will become more prominent after Homer26. Before turning to the relevant texts, it will be appropriate to point out a few other characteristics of how Homer deals with the motif of the exiled killer. Three of them are negative in nature, in that something is ‘missing’. It is commonly assumed that the killer goes into exile in order to escape death at the hands of the victim’s relatives in a vendetta. However, no such vendetta is actually put into effect in the Homeric epics; “in fact no homicide […] is avenged by death except the killing of Agamemnon, and the killings of Aigisthos and Klytaimestra are not avenged in turn”27. It is, however, the case that the reaction of the dead suitors’ relatives bears all the signs of a vendetta, which is then nipped in the bud by the intervention of Athena28. 24 Il. 14.119 f. (trans. Lattimore): ἀλλ’ ὃ μὲν αὐτόθι μεῖνε, πατὴρ δ’ ἐμὸς Ἄργει νάσθη πλαγχθείς· ὣς γάρ που Ζεὺς ἤθελε καὶ θεοὶ ἄλλοι. 25 Janko (1992) 164, against Andersen (1982) 7–15. However, Apollonius of Rhodes (2.541–546) appears to consider it quite common that people wander (πάτρηθεν ἀλώμενος). 26 In a related case, Apthorp (1980, 97, emphasis added) goes too far when he argues that Homer “seeks to diminish the guilt of Patroclus by making him a mere child (85 τυτθόν, 88 νήπιος) who in any case did not intend to actually kill his playmate”; cf. n. 4 above. Besides, νήπιος does not literally mean ‘child’ but describes the foolishness, immaturity, lack of responsibility, etc. that is typical of a child (LfgrE, s. v.). 27 Gagarin (1981) 18. 28 Cf. Od. 24.429–437, 467–471. This attempt, though abortive, would seem to qualify as the “real trace […] of the kind of blood feud familiar from many non-centralized societies” that Parker (1983) 125 is missing in Homer.

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The second ‘omission’ is a notorious zetema among historians of Greek religion. Unlike his successors, Homer does not explicitly mention the ritual purification that the killer receives, usually from the master of the house into which he will be accepted. The question, therefore, is whether this purification is tacitly presupposed in Homer or a post-Homeric innovation29. In this vein, it is worth mentioning that Homer’s silence on this point seems to have two analogues in later times. Sophocles’ Electra also does not explicitly address the question of pollution30. Nor do, surprisingly, the surviving homicide laws31. These parallels might lend support to the assumption that the purification of killers is tacitly presupposed in Homer, but they are unable to prove it any more than any of the other arguments that have been put forward. What is more, even if killers were indeed purified in Homeric times, the fact remains that Homer himself feels no need to address the issue. The same holds true for the third ‘omission’, for which see below on Ps.-Hesiod’s Shield. Another question concerns the origin of the motif. Kirk (1985, 226), commenting on Tlepolemus, the founder of Rhodes, speaks of a “standard folk-tale motif ” but does not adduce supporting evidence, for which see Thompson32. Likewise, Janko33 calls it a “traditional topos”. At the same time, Tlepolemus probably belongs to the group of mythological characters where cause and effect are, so to speak, inverted: the killing with subsequent exile is an ‘easy device’ to explain how a character migrated from one geographical context into another34. However, a sense seems to emerge after Homer that the motif is not so ‘easy’ after all, but has become something of a liability.

The motif after Homer Homer tends, as seen, to treat the killing as a simple fait accompli. The author of the pseudo-Hesiodic Shield adds an important dimension when he has Heracles declare:

29 Cf. Parker (1983) 130–143, with lit., who adduces arguments in favour of the former option. 30 Parker (1983) 388. 31 MacDowell (1963) 148, with reference to the only exception: Demosth. or. 23.72, not sufficiently taken into account by Blickman (1986). 32 Thompson (1960) Q 431.1, 431.9. In the same note Kirk argues, with reference to Pind. Ol. 7.27–29, that Tlepolemus killed “unintentionally”. He thereby blurs the difference that the present article attempts to establish. 33 Janko (1992) 134. 34 Parker (1983) 392 gives a list of the relevant mythological characters. For the ‘easy device’ cf. e. g. Lesky (1937) 274, on Peleus; Janko (1992) 134, on Medon.

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In truth Amphitryon [i. e. his own step-father] mightily offended the blessed immortals who possess Olympus, when he left Tiryns, the well-founded city, and came to well-garlanded Thebes, after he had killed Electryon [Amphitryon’s father-in-law] on account of broad-browed oxen35.

Contrary to Homer, where the whole sphere of the gods does not enter the treatment of the motif, the killing is no longer an affair between mortals, between the killer, the victim and his relatives. Instead, the killing is seen as a severe offence against the gods, which is bound to have serious consequences for the killer. The case is in essence the same as with the ritual purification: the absence from the Homeric epics is truly remarkable36. One therefore wonders whether it is an innovation that postdates Homer (which will be very difficult either to prove or disprove). But even if it does not postdate Homer, at least one important difference remains: Ps.-Hesiod emphatically underscores (note the particle ἦ and the adverb μέγα) a non-trivial factor that is, at the most, tacitly presupposed in Homer. While Homer rarely describes the circumstances of the killing or explains its reasons (Patroclus, the ‘Cretan’), his successors give such explanations with greater frequency and emphasis, presumably because they felt that such an explanation was called for. An early example is the epic poem Alcmaeonis (c. 600 BC). Tydeus’ killing of his cousins, the sons of Melas, is explained (and thus implicitly justified) by the fact that they were plotting against his father Oineus37. Pindar gives just such an explanation when he writes that Tlepolemus killed Licymnius “in a fit of anger”38. Unlike the author of the Alcmaeonis, however, Pindar appears to feel a palpable unease with the killing as such39. For Tlepolemus is adduced as a mythological exemplum that is meant to illustrate the gnomic statement “But about the minds of humans hang numberless errors, and it is impossible to discover what now and also in the 35 Ps.-Hes. scut. 79–82 (trans. Most): ἦ τι μέγ’ ἀθανάτους μάκαρας, τοὶ Ὄλυμπον ἔχουσιν, ἤλιτεν Ἀμφιτρύων, ὅτ’ ἐυστέφανον ποτὶ Θήβην ἦλθε λιπὼν Τίρυνθον, ἐυκτίμενον πτολίεθρον, κτείνας Ἠλεκτρύωνα βοῶν ἕνεκ’ εὐρυμετώπων. Cf. 11–13, where, however, the gods are not mentioned. This might be indicative of a difference in outlook between the authors of the Ehoeae and the Shield. The latter is generally believed to have attached his Shield to the Ehoea of Alcmene (scut. 1–56 = fr. 195 M.-W.). 36 The absence of the divine component receives additional significance from the fact that other types of killing do incur the wrath of the gods: the killing of a guest (e. g. Od. 14.406) or Aegisthus’ killing for material and sexual gain (Od. 1.35–47), on which see Parker (1983) 132 f. 37 Alcmaeonis fr. 4 Bernabé/Davies. On other versions of the myth see below. 38 Pind. Ol. 7.30: χολωθείς. The word is exactly the same as in Patroclus’ case. 39 That this is not the case with the author of the Alcmaeonis can be deduced from the fact that he makes no attempt to play down the killing of Phocus by Peleus and Telamon (fr. 1 Bernabé/Davies), on which see below.

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end is best to happen to man”40. While the gnomic statement gives expression to a favourite idea of Pindar’s, the unpredictability and vicissitudes of human life41, the crucial word “errors” (ἀμπλακίαι) and its undeniably moral undertones give the idea its distinctive flavour. Pindar does not seem to be happy at all with the fact that Rhodes (Olympian 7 celebrates the victory of a Rhodian) was founded by an exiled killer, whereas Homer simply states the fact42. However, Pindar does not go so far as to suppress the incident or its circumstances altogether. He does make a step in this direction in his treatment of Achilles’ father Peleus. He and Telamon were jealous of their half-brother Phocus and killed him. Pindar steers a middle course between suppressing and narrating the incident: I shrink from telling of a mighty deed, one ventured not in accord with justice, how in fact they [sc. Peleus and Telamon] left the glorious island and what fortune drove the brave men from Oinona [= Aegina]. I will halt, for not every exact truth is better for showing its face, and silence is often the wisest thing for a man to observe43.

The rhetorical trope allows Pindar to have his cake and eat it too. He neither expressly repeats what for him appears to be a very unpleasant tale, one which his audience will have known (Nemean 5 celebrates the victory of an Aeginetan), nor does he actually suppress it44. At the same time, the trope and the expression “ventured not in accord with justice” leave no doubt about his sentiments. Contrary to Tlepolemus’ “fit of anger” (Ol. 7.30), Pindar makes no attempt here to adduce mitigating circumstances. The one who does do this, with reference to the very same myth, is Apollonius of Rhodes, when he lists the heroes who joined Jason in his feat: After them came the two sons of Aeacus [sc. Peleus and Telamon], though not together nor from the same place. After they had unwittingly [ἀφραδίῃ] killed their brother Phocus, they fled to settle far from Aegina: Telamon settled on the Attic island [sc. Salamis], but Peleus made his home far away in Phthia45. 40 Pind. Ol. 7.24–26 (trans. Race): ἀμφὶ δ’ ἀνθρώπων φρασὶν ἀμπλακίαι ἀναρίθμητοι κρέμανται· τοῦτο δ’ ἀμάχανον εὑρεῖν, ὅτι νῦν ἐν καὶ τελευτᾷ φέρτατον ἀνδρὶ τυχεῖν. 41 E. g. Verdenius (1987) ad loc. 42 Il. 2.661–670. For other variants see below. 43 Pind. Nem. 5.14–18 (trans. Race): αἰδέομαι μέγα εἰπεῖν ἐν δίκᾳ τε μὴ κεκινδυνευμένον, πῶς δὴ λίπον εὐκλέα νᾶσον, καὶ τίς ἄνδρας ἀλκίμους δαίμων ἀπ’ Οἰνώνας ἔλασεν. στάσομαι· οὔ τοι ἅπασα κερδίων φαίνοισα πρόσωπον ἀλάθει’ ἀτρεκές· καὶ τὸ σιγᾶν πολλάκις ἐστὶ σοφώτατον ἀνθρώπῳ νοῆσαι. 44 In the case of unwelcome myths, Pindar does not abhor the idea of altering them, for instance, famously, the myth of Pelops in Olympian 1. A parallel for the ‘speaking silence’ about Peleus is the praeteritio of Bellerophon’s end (Pind. Ol. 13.91). 45 Apoll. Rhod. 1.90–94 (trans. Hunter): τοῖσι δ’ ἐπ’ Αἰακίδαι μετεκίαθον, οὐ μὲν ἅμ’ ἄμφω οὐδ’ ὁμόθεν, νόσφιν γὰρ ἀλευάμενοι κατένασθεν Αἰγίνης, ὅτε Φῶκον

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With this unusual explanation, Apollonius makes a remarkable effort at swimming against the current. Numerous authors make it clear that they consider the murder of Phocus a deliberate, or even heinous, act on the part of Peleus and/or Telamon46. The only authors who are in agreement with Apollonius are Diodorus Siculus (4.27), who is prone to use the tag ‘involuntary killing’ (see below), and, perhaps, Callimachus’ friend or pupil Philostephanus of Cyrene47. As to Apollonius’ agenda, the crucial point seems to be to cleanse the grandsons of Zeus and sons of Aeacus from an ugly crime that might cast a shadow on his epic to Zeus (Dräger 2001, 92). Apollonius’ concern is, in other words, not so much with the motif of the exiled killer as such, but with the individuals who committed the killing in this particular instance. As soon as killing a man and being subsequently exiled is recognised as problematic, it can also be used as a reproach. Thus, Sophocles has his Odysseus maliciously criticise Diomedes and his family: I shall say to you nothing dreadful, neither how you were driven out as an exile from your father’s country, nor how Tydeus spilt the blood of a kinsman and settled in Argos as a guest, nor how before Thebes he made a cannibal feast off the son of Astacus, after cutting off his head48.

This praeteritio leaves out nothing that can be laid at Diomedes’ door, and each reproach is a harder blow than the preceding one. Needless to say, this is the view of a character who is an interested party and hostile and not necessarily Sophocles’ own. It is nevertheless interesting to see him use the motif in a way that cannot be found in Homer. Likewise, Euripides has Menelaus criticise Peleus for killing Phocus (Andr. 687)49. And Herodotus’ Croesus

46

47 48

49

ἀδελφεὸν ἐξενάριξαν ἀφραδίῃ· Τελαμὼν μὲν ἐν Ἀτθίδι νάσσατο νήσῳ, Πηλεὺς δ’ ἐν Φθίῃ ἐριβώλακι ναῖε λιασθείς. Cf. Alcmaeonis fr. 1 Bernabé/Davies (= Schol. Eur. Andr. 687), Pind. Nem. 5.14–18 (with Schol. Pind. Nem. 5.25a), Call. fr. 24.20 f. Pfeiffer (= Schol. Pind. Nem. 5.25b), Ps.-Apollod. (3.12.6 = 3.160 f.), Nicander ap. Anton. Lib. 38, Ov. met. 11.268–282, Paus. 2.29.9, 10.30.4, Schol. Aristoph. Nub. 1063a, Hyg. fab. 14.8, Amm. Marcell. 22.16.3. A decision is impossible with Lycophr. 175 and Strab. 14.5.9, but they are likely to follow the communis opinio. FHG vol. 3, 33 F 35 = Schol. D Il. 16.14. The text is not entirely clear, but the point that Telamon “himself, too, killed involuntarily” (ἀνελὼν ἀκουσίως καὶ αὐτός) seems to refer back to the killing of Peleus, which was thus involuntary too. Soph. fr. 799 Radt (perhaps in a dispute when returning to the Greek camp with the Palladium, see Radt’s note; trans. Lloyd-Jones): ἐγὼ δ’ ἐρῶ σοι δεινὸν οὐδέν, οὔθ’ ὅπως φυγὰς πατρῴας ἐξελήλασαι χθονός, οὔθ’ ὡς ὁ Τυδεὺς ἀνδρὸς αἷμα συγγενὲς κτείνας ἐν Ἄργει ξεῖνος ὢν οἰκίζεται, οὔθ’ ὡς πρὸ Θηβῶν ὠμοβρὼς ἐδαίσατο τὸν Ἀστάκειον παῖδα διὰ κάρα τεμών. There might be a minor difference, in that the murder of Phocus regularly appears in an unfavourable light (see above).

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cleverly begins his request by telling Adrastus that he will not blame him for the killing that brought him to Lydia (1.41.1). Conversely, the daughters of Danaus emphasise that they voluntarily came from Egypt to Argos and not as the result of a killing (Aesch. Suppl. 5–8) – an argument which Danaus urges them to highlight in front of the Argive assembly (191–196)50. Against this backdrop, it is all the more remarkable that two Euripidean characters make no attempt to conceal the fact that they (or an ancestor) are exiled killers. Thus, Bellerophon refers to the fact in neutral but unambiguous terms. And Diomedes does the same with reference to his father Tydeus51. Both passages come from the prologue, presumably with no interlocutor on stage. It is nevertheless significant that both characters simply state the fact52. A negative tone such as that of Sophocles’ Odysseus can be found elsewhere. For instance, Schol. Aristoph. Nub. 1063a describes Peleus’ killing as “treacherous murder” (δολοφονεῖν, see also the other examples listed in n. 46). Overall, however, the Tendenz seems to be apologetic rather than incriminating – leaving aside the instances where such a decision is difficult or impossible due to the brevity of the account53. This holds particularly true for mythographical handbooks and related sources. Ps.-Apollodorus’ Library is a case in point, as the following examples demonstrate. 50 This may well signal Aeschylus’ departure from the version in which the Danaids killed their cousins before coming to Argos, but the emphasis, especially of the second passage, remains striking. 51 Bellerophon: Eur. Sthen. fr. 661.16–18 Kannicht (from the prologue), Diomedes: Oineus fr. 558 Kannicht (ditto). It will be remembered that these are exactly the same cases that Homer is said to have suppressed or glossed over (see above). Unlike Euripides’ Bellerophon, Ovid’s Peleus does conceal the killing (met. 11.268–282). 52 The apparent counter-example, Oedipus, who conceals his identity in Oed. C., is of a completely different dimension. Parricide, the most horrifying type of homicide in ancient Greece (Parker 1983, 124), is only one of the factors that make it impossible to grant him asylum. (Homer’s Oedipus, famously, does not go into exile: Od. 11.273–276.) For similar reasons, Orestes’ matricide (not explicitly mentioned by Homer) belongs to a different category than the cases discussed in the main text. Other examples from tragedy: the exile of Theseus, mentioned by Aphrodite in the prologue to Euripides’ Hippolytus (34–37), is unproblematic because the killing was justifiable (Barrett 1964, 163). Melanippe must have mentioned her father’s temporary exile in the prologue (Eur. Melan. sap. test. i. 8 f. Kannicht and his note on fr. 481), but the details remain obscure because the text breaks off in line 22. 53 On account of the increasing use of words such as “involuntar(il)y” one might be tempted to infer that the opposite is meant is when such a term is missing, which, however, is risky. For instance, simple ἀποκτείνας (“having killed”) probably refers to involuntary killing in Ps.-Apollodorus 1.7.6 = 1.57 (see Dräger 2005, 402). Cf., however, n. 62 below.

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Bellerophon (cf. above): according to Ps.-Apollodorus (2.3.1 = 2.30), the killing happened “involuntarily”54. This explanation clashes with other sources that simply mention the killing55. While none of them expressly state that the killing was intentional, this seems nevertheless to be the implication56. Bellerophon’s prologue to Euripides’ Stheneboea (cf. above) is decisive here. Why would he not mention the fact that the killing was involuntary if such were the case? Heracles: the killing of Iphitus, who came to Tiryns in search of cattle that had been stolen, is a deliberate act for Pherecydes (FGrH 3 F 82b, cf. Soph. Trach. 38), whereas for Ps.-Apollodorus (2.6.2 = 2.129) it is “another instance of madness” (after Heracles killed his children in a frenzy, cf. Eur. Herc. 831 f., 913–1015)57. Amphitryon: according to the pseudo-Hesiodic Shield (11–13, 79–82, cited above), Amphitryon deliberately killed his father-in-law Electryon in a dispute over cattle. Conversely, Ps.-Apollodorus (2.4.6 = 2.56) describes the same incident as a hunting accident, which is itself a typical motif (e. g. Hdt. 1.43.2, Paus. 5.3.7). In classical Athens this type of killing carried no penalty but still required purification and exile58. Cephalus: in Pherecydes (FGrH 3 F 34) Cephalus kills his wife Procris when, seeing her run towards him, “he suddenly gets besides himself ” (αἰφνιδίως ἔξω ἑαυτοῦ γίνεται), that is, loses his composure59. It is not im54 Similarly, Diod. 6.9.1, Schol. Lycophr. 17, Serv. Aen. 5.118. 55 Eur. Sthen. fr. 661.17 Kannicht (cf. Sthen. test. iia.7–9 [= hypothesis]), Asclep. Trag. FGrH 12 F 13 (= Schol. D Il. 6.155), Ps.-Plut. proverb. Alexandr. 16, Zenob. 2.87; Palaephatus 28 only mentions the exile. The various sources differ widely on who Bellerophon’s victim is. 56 Robert (1920–1926) 183 n. 1 calls it murder. 57 Interestingly, Diodorus Siculus (4.31.3) here agrees with Pherecydes, not Ps.Apollodorus. 58 Parker (1983) 112 f., based on Plato’s Laws. As for Amphitryon, there is an interesting discrepancy regarding the treatment in Pherecydes (FGrH 3 F 13b vs. 13c). One version (13c) is essentially in accordance with the Shield, whereas the other (13b) recognises an involuntary killing. Ps.-Apollodorus’ hunting accident is presupposed in Plut. amat. narr. 774c (and perhaps Eur. fr. 89 Kannicht, with n.) and mentioned in Schol. Lycophr. 932. The position of Pausanias (9.11.1) is difficult to determine. Diodorus Siculus (4.10.2) does not give a reason for Amphitryon’s exile and curiously puts it after the birth of Heracles. A particular problem is the version in Schol. Apoll. Rhod. 1.747–751a: Electryon, trying to prevent the Taphians from stealing his cattle, is killed together with his sons and subsequently avenged by Amphitryon, but the scholion strangely claims that this story is found in the Shield (a healthy, if sobering, reminder that such historiai can be thin ice to walk on). For other variants see hypotheseis D and E of the Shield (ed. Rzach). 59 Rapp (in Roscher 1884–1937, s. v. Kephalos, 1092) without necessity tries to explain away this variant.

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possible that Hellanicus (FGrH 4 F 169) considered it an instance of intentional killing60. Ps.-Apollodorus (3.15.1 = 3.198), by contrast, considers it another hunting accident61. Tlepolemus: the killing of Licymnius is probably deliberate for Homer, Pindar attributes it to a fit of anger (for both see above), whereas Ps.Apollodorus (2.8.2 = 2.170) underscores that Tlepolemus killed “not voluntarily” 62. The tendency to draw the teeth of the motif is clear and can further be documented ex negativo, in that there is no instance where Ps.-Apollodorus favours the more aggressive version, if there is a choice63. Furthermore, he (2.4.4 = 2.48) and Pausanias (2.16.2 f.) toy with the idea of a bad conscience when they have Perseus, who accidentally killed Acrisius, “feel shame” (αἰδεῖσθαι) to return to Argos. Conversely, Pherecydes (FGrH 3 F 12) appears to have stated the simple fact that Perseus left Argos on account of the accidental killing. Other authors resort to downright sentimentality, as can be documented by the myth of the daughters of Pelias, who killed their father at Medea’s instigation and fled (Paus. 8.11.1, Hyg. fab. 24). According to Nicolaus of Damascus (FGrH 90 F 54), the Iolcians forgave them because 60 Scholars generally take it for granted that the killing is unintentional for Hellanicus and take the whole passage as an argument, whether accurate or not, that in the old days the Areopagus heard cases of intentional, unintentional and lawful homicide (e. g. Jacoby on FGrH 323a F 1, Gagarin 1981, 126). Curiously, though, Hellanicus does not explicitly say that Cephalus killed Procris unintentionally. The association with the killings of Ares and Daedalus (and, by implication, Orestes) could perhaps mean that the common denominator is the intent of killing, albeit lawful in the case of Ares, especially because Orestes’ matricide “is not an example of lawful homicide according to Athenian law as we know it” (Gagarin 1981, 126 n. 40). 61 The accident recurs, with minor alterations, in Ov. met. 7.840–844, Hyg. fab. 189 and Eust. 307.5. Other sources (Aristodemus FGrH 383 F 2, Schol. b Il. 2.631 ex., Etym. m. 507.26) simply speak of an involuntary killing. Pausanias (1.37.6) calls it a φόνος, which may well mean intentional homicide (see next n.). Strabo (10.2.14) only mentions that Cephalus was exiled. 62 Thus, also Diod. 5.59.5 (= Zenon of Rhodes FGrH 523 F 1), Schol. Pind. Ol. 7.49a (= (H)Agias-Dercylus FGrH 305 F 9). Elsewhere (4.57.7), though, Diodorus refers to a “quarrel about some things”. Strabo (14.2.6) simply quotes the Homeric passage, which Pausanias (2.22.8) paraphrases with φόνος. The absence of the adjective ἀκούσιος (for which see e. g. 5.1.8, 5.3.7) could indicate that he means intentional homicide, just as unspecified φόνος tends to do in legal contexts (Gagarin 1981, 106 f.). 63 Contrast, e. g., Diod. 4.31.3 (Heracles/Iphitus). This does of course not mean that there are no intentional killings in Ps.-Apollodorus, for instance, Daedalus killing his pupil and potential rival Talus (3.15.8 = 3.214); cf. Hellanicus FGrH 4 F 169, Diod. 4.76.4–7. The murder is presupposed in Sophocles fr. 323 Radt.

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they had been deceived and had had no bad intentions64. Their subsequent marriage to young noblemen is taken to a new level by Diodorus Siculus (4.53.2 = FGrH 32 F 14), who has Jason (!) act as a matchmaker for them. Presumably, Ps.-Apollodorus was facing the dilemma that for several great heroes of the past having been exiled for killing someone, which in the meantime had become problematic, was so firmly attached to their ‘traditional biography’ that it could not be removed or suppressed, certainly not in a mythographical handbook. As a second best, he regularly, if not systematically, presents a more ‘innocent’ version of the myth. A similar trend can be discovered, for example, in Diodorus Siculus65. Incidentally, modern reference books are not so very different, especially when the brevity of the individual articles apparently prevents discussing variants66. An, admittedly brief, excursion into Roman territory reveals a picture that is comparable to the one developed above. Unlike his ‘model’ Homer, Vergil does not seem to use the motif of the exiled killer in the Aeneid 67. In Georgics 2.510 f., he mentions fratricide with subsequent exile among the evils of urban life. Ovid has Peleus conceal the murder of Phocus and invent another reason for his flight (met. 11.268–282). Cephalus’ killing of his wife Procris is treated as an accident (met. 7.840–844). The exceptional brutality of Lycabas, one of the Etruscan pirates who try to abduct Bacchus, is explained by the fact that he was expelled because he had committed a “horrible murder” (met. 3.624 f.). And in one of his appeals for mercy Ovid emphasises that his exile is not due to a murder (Pont. 2.9.67). With all the departures from Homer’s treatment of the exiled killer, it is important not to forget the factors that remain more or less constant. Among them, one is apt to surprise a modern reader because of the dif64 Similarly, Heracles is acquitted because he can persuade the jury that the killing of Linus was justified (Ps.-Apollodorus 2.4.9 = 2.64). 65 Cf. e. g. his treatment of Peleus and Telamon, Bellerophon, Tlepolemus and the daughters of Pelias. 66 E. g. Amphitryon: the killing is accidental for Rose (1958), Grant/Hazel (2002), LIMC, Der Neue Pauly (= Brill’s New Pauly) and Price/Kearns (2003) (not mentioned by Hunger 1988); Bellerophon: accidental for Grant/Hazel and LIMC, involuntary for Hunger and DNP (not mentioned by Rose and Price/Kearns); Cephalus: accidental for all six; Heracles (Iphitos): a “fit of madness” for Rose and Grant/Hazel, deliberate for all others. By contrast, the longer articles in Roscher (1884–1937) or the RE normally discuss the variants, as do Robert (1920–1926) and Gantz (1993). 67 The assumption that Evander left Arcadia on account of killing a parent is no more than a guess (Serv. Aen. 8.51), which attempts to fill Vergil’s unspecific pulsum patria (8.333) with content (cf. Enciclopedia Virgiliana, s. v. Evandro, with alternative explanations).

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ference in mentality. The new host of the killer normally shows no reluctance to accept him into his house. Only rarely is it the case that the killer is rejected68. Normally, the fact that the killing happened ‘in another country’ is sufficient69. As Apollonius of Rhodes (4.700 f.) puts it, Zeus Hikesios is both angry with killers and recognises their right of purification. In the preceding, an attempt has been made to adduce evidence for a shift in how the motif of the exiled killer is made use of in Greek literature. While the motif appears to be unproblematic in Homer, his successors tend to display an unease that manifests itself in terms that are either incriminating or explanatory or even defensive. If this observation is correct, the obvious next step would be to ask the question why (and when) this shift came about. However, the attempt to answer this question faces a formidable challenge. Firstly, the notoriously problematic relationship of literature and historical reality must be taken into account. This fundamental difficulty is further increased by the fact that, unlike lawgivers or forensic orators, the literary sources deal with the exiled killers of a mythical past. The question thus arises whether or not the individual author, for instance, deliberately archaises or, conversely, projects contemporary practice onto the past70. Secondly, the reconstruction of the historical reality is further bedevilled in this case by the fact that several crucial factors are badly documented and/or controversial. This applies, for example, to the larger topic of Greek homicide law, especially in pre-classical times when the shift must have occurred, or at least started developing. This thorny subject abounds in uncertainties and controversial questions, some of which directly relate to the topic under consideration: what was the driving force behind Draco’s homicide law (which distinguished between intentional and unintentional homicide and probably forbade the acceptance of blood-money)? More specifically, what role did concerns about pollution and their religious implications play? Did they play a role at all?71 Furthermore, in what respect did it really mat68 An example is Neleus, who refuses to purify Heracles on account of his friendship with the victim’s father (Ps.-Apollod. 2.6.2 = 2.130, cf. Diod. 4.31.4). Ixion’s case (Schol. Pind. Pyth. 2.40b) is different because he does not seem to go into exile, so those who refuse to purify him (until Zeus finally takes pity on him) are probably his compatriots. 69 Parker (1983) 118, who adds that “[a] few crimes were, it is sometimes claimed, so horrendous that no city would provide refuge for their perpetrators” (with references in n. 58). It is, however, telling that all the relevant characters from mythology do find refuge in the end. 70 The former option might provide an answer to the question of why the issue of pollution is not explicitly addressed in Sophocles’ Electra. A clear example of such archaising can be found in Euripides’ Alcestis (732 f.), where Pheres expects that Admetus’ ‘murder’ of Alcestis will be avenged in a vendetta. 71 On these questions see, e. g., the discussion by Parker (1983) 115–117, with lit.

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ter whether or not the killing was intentional?72 And, again, to what extent can laws be considered indicative of commonly shared beliefs about what is right and wrong? These questions are, obviously, too complex to receive definite answers in a short article. A few concluding remarks on the motif of the exiled killer will nevertheless be in order. Matters of religion, strikingly absent from the Homeric treatment, become prominent no later than with Ps.-Hesiod’s Shield (c. 650–550 BC). They then remain, especially in the form of purification and its deeper implications, a relevant factor in the literary sources, which thus form a contrast not only to the Homeric epics but also to the surviving homicide laws. The same can be said, mutatis mutandis, about the question of intent. Of very limited relevance to either Homer or the actual effects of jurisdiction, it plays an increasingly important role in the literary treatment of exiled killers, together with other factors that might explain and, in the event, help justify or condemn a deed that remains largely unexplained in Homer. In both cases, the literary sources seem to fill a ‘gap’ left by Homer (and the laws). The problematic relationship between literature and historical reality notwithstanding, it is difficult not to draw the conclusion that the post-Homeric treatment of the exiled killer reflects a shift in mentality and outlook, though more research needs to be done to confirm this conclusion. This will include the question whether the shift is one of principle or degree and whether it happened abruptly or gradually.

Bibliography Alden (2000). – Maureen Alden, Homer Beside Himself: Para-Narratives in the Iliad (Oxford 2000). Andersen (1982). – Øivind Andersen, “Thersites und Thoas vor Troia”, SO 57 (1982) 7–34. Apthorp (1980). – M. J. Apthorp, The Manuscript Evidence for Interpolation in Homer (Heidelberg 1980). Barrett (1964). – William Spencer Barrett, Euripides: Hippolytos (Oxford 1964). Blickman (1986). – Daniel R. Blickman, “The Myth of Ixion and Pollution for Homicide in Archaic Greece”, CJ 81 (1986) 193–208. Dräger (2001). – Paul Dräger, Die Argonautika des Apollonios Rhodios: Das zweite Zorn-Epos der griechischen Literatur (München/Leipzig 2001). Dräger (2005). – Paul Dräger (ed.), Apollodor: Bibliotheke. Götter- und Heldensagen (Düsseldorf/Zürich 2005).

72 After reviewing the evidence, Gagarin (1981) 144, citing Latte (1935) 278–281, concludes that, in legal practice through the classical period, intent was not a decisive factor. Verdict and penalty depended on the result, not the intent.

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Gagarin (1981). – Michael Gagarin, Drakon and Early Athenian Homicide Law (New Haven/London 1981). Gaisser (1969). – Julia Haig Gaisser, “Adaptation of Traditional Material in the GlaucusDiomede Episode”, TAPhA 100 (1969) 165–176. Gantz (1993). – Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources (Baltimore/London 1993). Grant/Hazel (2002). – Michael Grant/John Hazel, Who’s Who in Classical Mytholog y (London 2002). Heiden (1998). – Bruce Heiden, “The Simile of the Fugitive Homicide, Iliad 24.480–84: Analogy, Foiling, and Allusion”, AJPh 119 (1998) 1–10. Hunger (1988). – Herbert Hunger, Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie (Wien ⁸1988). Janko (1992). – Richard Janko, The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. IV: Books 13–16 (Cambridge 1992). de Jong (1987). – Irene J. F. de Jong, Narrators and Focalizers: The Presentation of the Story in the Iliad (Amsterdam 1987, repr. with new preface London 2004). Kirk (1985). – Geoffrey S. Kirk, The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. I: Books 1–4 (Cambridge 1985). Latte (1935). – Kurt Latte, “Mord”, in: RE 16 (1935) 278–289. Lesky (1937). – Albin Lesky, “Peleus”, in: RE 19.1 (1937) 271–308. MacDowell (1963). – Douglas M. MacDowell, Athenian Homicide Law in the Age of the Orators (Manchester 1963). Merz (1953). – Fritz Merz, Die Heldenbiographie als Stilmittel Homers (Muri 1953). Parker (1983). – Robert Parker, Miasma: Pollution and Purification in Early Greek Religion (Oxford 1983). Price/Kearns (2003). – Simon Price/Emily Kearns (eds.), The Oxford Dictionary of Classical Myth and Religion (Oxford 2003). Richardson (1993). – Nicholas J. Richardson, The Iliad: A Commentary. Vol. VI: Books 21–24 (Cambridge 1993). Robert (1920–1926). – Carl Robert, Die griechische Heldensage (Berlin 1920–1926). Roscher (1884–1937). – Wilhelm H. Roscher (ed.), Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie (Leipzig 1884–1937). Rose (1958). – Herbert J. Rose, A Handbook of Greek Mytholog y (London/New York ⁶1958). Sale (1994). – William Merritt Sale, “The Government of Troy: Politics in the Iliad ”, GRBS 35 (1994) 5–102. Stoevesandt (2004). – Magdalene Stoevesandt, Feinde – Gegner – Opfer: Zur Darstellung der Troianer in den Kampfszenen der Ilias (Basel 2004). Strasburger (1954). – Gisela Strasburger, Die kleinen Kämpfer der Ilias (Frankfurt a. M. 1954). Thompson (1960). – Stith Thompson, Motif-Index of Folk Literature (Bloomington 1960, several reprints). Thür (2007). – Gerhard Thür, “Der Reinigungseid im archaischen griechischen Rechtsstreit und seine Parallelen im Alten Orient”, in: Heinz Barta/Robert Rollinger (eds.), Rechtsgeschichte und Interkulturalität: Zum Verhältnis des östlichen Mittelmeerraumes und ‘Europas’ im Altertum (Wiesbaden 2007) 179–195. Verdenius (1987). – Willem Jacob Verdenius, Commentaries on Pindar. Vol. 1: Olympian Odes 3, 7, 12, 14 (Leiden 1987).

The Abduction of Helen and the Greek Poetic Tradition: Politics, Reinterpretations and Controversies claude calame

What is a Greek myth? How did the tradition of Greek myths begin? That is a twofold question to which Fritz Graf provided a detailed answer in his Introduction to Greek Mytholog y, which has become a standard work of reference (1993). I should like to add some complementary thoughts relating to the semantics of accounts that occur only in particular poetic forms. I shall concentrate on the example of a heroic figure who, ever since Antiquity, has been the main topic of chronicles in several European traditions: that figure is Helen. Thanks to the effect upon narrative produced by Proclus’ summary in the Cypria, it all starts as a “myth” – or, to be more precise, a mythographical myth, that is to say one of those fine exemplary stories recorded as early as Alexandrian Antiquity in collections such as the Library attributed to Apollodorus1. It begins with the decision of Zeus, the sovereign of both gods and mortals, on the advice of the wise Themis, to spark off the Trojan War. On the occasion of the banquet of the gods invited to celebrate the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis, Eris, as befitted her function, provoked the famous clash between Athena the virgin, Hera the wife, and Aphrodite the fiancée. Hermes summoned Alexander-Paris from Mount Ida, to decide which of the three goddesses was the most beautiful. Alexander-Paris chose Aphrodite, in return for her having promised that he would marry the lovely Helen. From Olympus, young Paris accordingly proceeded to Sparta, where he was greeted first by the Dioscuri, the heroized sons of King Tyndarus, then by 1

Proclus, Chrestomatia 80 Severyns = Cypria, Argumentum 4–20 Bernabé. An initial version of the present text was presented at the “Coralie” Colloquium on Greek Poetics organized in May 1995, at the University of Lausanne, under the title “Les mythes grecs en question: les récits d’Hélène”. Another version was read at the University of Toulouse-le-Mirail in January 2008. On Greek mythography, see Graf (1993) 191–194.

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Menelaus. Seizing the opportunity offered by the departure of Sparta’s ruler for Greece, the cunning Aphrodite brought Paris and Helen together. The young shepherd fell madly in love and abducted this beautiful adult wife who, as a result, regressed to the status of a seductive fiancée. He carried her off to Troy, taking with him most of the hospitality gifts that he had received from the Spartans. This story about Helen became so famous that, at the hands of Offenbach, it was even transferred to the Grands Boulevards of Paris, where it was adapted for the Théâtre des Variétés there. The action was represented as being willed by Zeus. The ancient commentators on the Iliad suggest that the intention of the king of the gods was to respond to Earth’s demand to be relieved of the burden of her over-numerous and impious population2. To this end, Zeus adopted two methods: to avoid simply destroying the human race by means of a thunderbolt, the sovereign of Olympus engineered on the one hand the marriage of Thetis to the mortal Peleus and, on the other, the birth of a girl of great beauty, “an object for mortal men to marvel at”3. In consequence, the Trojan War (understood as a confrontation between Greeks and barbarians) was brought about. The conflict was essentially driven on by two main agents: Achilles on one side, Helen on the other. The importance of the plot (the muthos, in the particular sense that Aristotle gives the word in his Poetics) is equalled by that of the protagonists of the narrative action, with all the values and cultural representations that they convey, relating to a particular concept of human beings: an anthropology reflected in both space and time.

1. Helen as the “cause” Helen occupies a central strategic position both in the origin and the unfolding of the Trojan War and its plot. That plot spans tens years, but the Iliad presents only one decisive moment, that which involves the wrath of Achilles and the death of Hector. In the Homeric poem, the goddesses who were slighted by Aphrodite support the Greeks. They insist vociferously that “for her [Helen’s] sake many of the Achaeans have lost their lives in Troy, away from their dear native land”4. Whoever places Helen at the origin of 2 3 4

Scholium A to Hom. Il. 1.5 (1, p. 10 Erbse); Anecdota Oxoniensa 4, 405 Cramer; Eust., Commentary on the Iliad 20 (1, p. 33 van der Valk); see Cypria, fr. 1 Bernabé. Cypria fr. 9,1 Bernabé: thauma brotoisi. On the various aspects of Helen’s seductive beauty, see most recently Bettini/Brillante (2002) 43–65, also Pucci (2003). Hom. Il. 2.161 f. (in the mouth of Helen speaking to Athena) and 177 f. (repeated by Athena, addressing Odysseus). Translation by Martin Hammond, Penguin Books, 1987.

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the misfortunes of the Greeks (a frequently repeated accusation) at the same time implicitly passes a value-judgement on her. Achilles, for one, does so when, at the news of Patroclus’ death, he bewails having to fight against the Trojans ‘for hateful Helen’s sake’5. We should remember, at this point, that the adjective aitios conveys three meanings: whoever is “at the origin of …” is equally “the cause of …” and is consequently “responsible for …”6. It is thus a matter of origin, cause and responsibility, or even culpability. The various points of view of the protagonists of the Iliad, gods and heroes alike, regarding the feminine origin of their misfortunes, follow one upon another. For the Trojan leaders gathered on the ramparts on the occasion of the teichoscopia (the viewing from the walls), their judgement is final: even if Helen’s appearance confers upon her a “terrible” resemblance to an immortal and at the same time provides an explanation for the confrontation between the Trojans and the Achaeans, for both them and their offspring the beautiful Greek woman represents a scourge (pēma) to be removed as soon as possible. Priam’s reaction, notwithstanding, is to treat the young woman as his own daughter and exonerate her. He declares that it was the gods who started the war between the Achaeans and the Trojans; so they are responsible (aitioi), not Helen. The heroine herself has the last word: from her point of view, death would have been preferable to having to leave her nuptial chamber and those close to her, her daughter and her companions7. Helen is thus seen in many guises: there is a Helen whom the Trojan chiefs deem to be guilty, a Helen who, according to Priam, has been manipulated by the gods, a Helen whose dazzling appearance nonetheless likens her to a deity, and a Helen who, for her part, like a heroine of a classical tragedy, yearns for death: all are views that not only make Helen the pivot of a warlike plot; but, right from the start, given her feminine beauty in the various phases of her development, they also make her an object of discourse: discourses so many and so contradictory that, in the dazzling light of her shimmering brilliance, the facets of her beauty seem diverse and ambivalent. Those conflicting views of the aetiology of the Trojan War punctuate the opening passages of the Iliad ’s account up to the moment when, in the presence of Hector, Helen again acknowledges her guilt and attributes the difficulties that the Trojan hero has encountered to her own bitchiness as much as to Alexander-Paris’ blind folly (ate); the Greek heroine, having evoked the cruel fate (kakon moron) that Zeus has reserved for her, ends by 5

6 7

Hom. Il. 19.325; see also Od. 11.438, according to the judgement of Odysseus when confronted by Agamemnon in the Underworld, and 14,68 f. for the opinion of Eumaeus. See 17.118 f., for that of Telemachus, who makes the will of the gods responsible for Helen’s behaviour. See in particular Nagy (1990) 229–239. See Hom. Il. 3.156–160, 162–165 and 173–175.

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wishing for death8. But even if none can escape their destiny, at least she and Paris may hope to be commemorated in song for mortals of future generations. Aoidimoi: Helen, along with her young consort, not only gives rise to contradictory discourse on the part of the protagonists of the heroic action recounted in the Iliad; she is also a subject of bardic song as is, for example, the temple of Apollo in Delphi, built of stone by the heroic architects Trophonius and Agamedes, who are celebrated by the bard of the Homeric Hymn to Apollo 9. Bardic song, itself, with its complex structure, was conceived as a craftsmanlike construction and, as we know, it possessed the power to commemorate and immortalize the high deeds of the protagonists of the heroic age. Right from the start, the Iliad thus inscribes Helen within the order of epic song, bathing her in the glory that only the poetic tradition can confer.

2. Helen as a focus of civic and moral interest The Catalogue of Women attributed to Hesiod, probably by the very reason of the thematic perspective that pervades it, shifts the impact of the misdeed ascribed to the beautiful heroine. This poem in epic diction switches its consequences from the domain of warfare to that of love. In this transition from the field reserved for Ares to that ruled by Aphrodite, the perspective is not pan-Hellenic, but Spartan: just as Clytemnestra deceives Agamemnon, her sister Helen dishonours the bed of Menelaus, for such is the will of Aphrodite, who has been offended by King Tyndarus, the two women’s mortal father, who had failed to offer a sacrifice to the goddess of love10. In both the melic poetry of Alcaeus and that of Sappho, his contemporary, the actions of Helen oscillate between the domain of war and the realm of erotic desire. Thanks to the three ring-structures embedded in it, one fragment of Alcaeus manages to contrast the marriage of Thetis and Peleus to the fall of the Trojans and their city through the fault of a Helen supposedly manipulated by Aphrodite. In the masculine perspective that prevails in the domain of warfare, Achilles, born from a harmonious union, is presented as “happy among the demi-gods”; and he is set in opposition 8 Hom. Il. 6.344–358. See Austin (1994) 23–50. 9 See first Il. 6.344–358, then The Homeric Hymn to Apollo 295–299; on the glorifying and immortalizing song of the bard, see, for example, the sensible remarks by Segal (1994) 119–130. 10 Hes. fr. 176 Merkelbach/West, in a version taken over by Stesichorus fr. 223 Page/ Davies; Helen’s place in the Catalogue of Women attributed to Hesiod, based on a catalogue of her suitors, is carefully defined by Cingano (2005) 120–127.

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to Helen, the guilty woman who is the cause of great misfortunes11. In a more linear movement, another fragment of a melic poem views the love that strikes Helen in a perspective that is both masculine and Trojan: seized by a passion that is presented as madness (mania), the Spartan heroine has no hesitation in abandoning her daughter and her husband’s bed for a man who deceives his host. The poem lists the destructive consequences of such behaviour12. In general, melic poetry is both pragmatic and performative. Here, the speaker puts himself in the position first of Hera and Athena, then of Achilles who, in the Iliad, condemns Helen; but in doing so he adopts a Trojan rather than a Greek point of view. The poet thus assumes the position of an epic hero. But in this instance, it is – more explicitly than in the Homeric poem – the powers of love that intervene harmfully in the domain of warfare and thereby lead to the downfall of a whole polis (the enunciative context demands no less!). The example of Helen is put to work in the struggles that beset a civic community in the throes of a mutation. We do not know the precise enunciative circumstances that led Alcaeus to focus on the dire results of the love inspired by Aphrodite in the destruction of Troy; and the pragmatic motives for such an explanatory treatment of the story of Helen escape us. However, a poem by Sappho, reverses the logic of his version and at the same time provides some indications as to the communicative situation that provoked this reversal. In this much-discussed fragment, Helen is presented both as a heroic figure who represents human beauty and also as a woman led astray by the power of love. She is both a woman who illustrates the general affirmation made by the poetic “I” (“the fairest thing is that which one loves”) and, at the same time, a woman who abandons her husband, daughter and parents in order to go to Troy: she is both an object and a subject of desire. Helen thus finds herself in the same situation as Anactoria, the girl whom Sappho’s song then celebrates: the bearing and gaze of this girl arouse amorous desire, but she herself is absent, probably because she has left Sappho’s group. Now an adult, she too is claimed by Aphrodite. But Anactoria constitutes more than just a second paradigm to be set alongside that presented by the figure of Helen. The young woman maintains with the writer of the poem a relationship that endures in the hic et nunc of Sappho’s song. “Sappho”, to some extent assuming the position of Menelaus abandoned by Helen, proceeds to evoke the recent memory 11 Alcaeus fr. 42 Voigt; it is hard to tell to whom the prenominal expression ek sethen in line 3 refers: see Burnett (1983) 190–198; on Aphrodite’s interventions in the domain of warfare, see now Pironti (2007) 209–230. 12 Alcaeus fr. 283 Voigt together with the exhaustive commentary of Meyerhoff (1984) 76–113; see also Pironti (2007) 94–100, on violence stemming from desire (inspired by Aphrodite).

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of a girl who is probably now married elsewhere, possibly in Lydia. In a ring-composition that echoes the declaration in the form of a Priamel with which the poem opens, the (feminine) “I” draws a strong distinction between the field of warfare and the domain of love, and rejects the former in favour of the latter. Now reoriented upon the beauty of the feminine figure budding in adult eroticism, Helen’s betrayal and departure willed by Aphrodite are somehow disconnected from their warlike consequences and are made to serve the situation in which Sappho and the girls in her group are involved, here and now13. In the pragmatic poetry of an Alceus or a Sappho, the plot is reduced to the narrative transformation that constitutes it: overcome by the divine powers of love, Helen abandons her husband, Menelaus, and follows Paris to Troy. In her haste to draw the conclusion dictated by the institutional situation of her own community, Sappho does not even mention (except perhaps allusively and by antiphrasis) the narrative condemnation that the behaviour of the heroine, misled through Aphrodite’s will, receives through the destruction of Troy.

3. Helen in early historiography Herodotus’ version of the rape of Helen is well known. The young Spartan woman and the Trojan Alexander, who has carried off the beautiful Spartan and is taking her to Troas, are swept toward Egypt by unfavourable winds. Their servants tell the king of Memphis of the injustice to Menelaus committed by this young Trojan who has deceived his host and abducted his wife, along with many precious objects. Proteus packs the unjust Alexander off to Troy but offers his protection to Helen, who remains in Egypt. The Greeks nevertheless engage in warfare against Troy, which they destroy before recognizing what is clearly the truth: for they find there neither Helen nor the treasures carried off by Paris. Menelaus is then dispatched to Memphis, where he recovers both his wife and the stolen treasures. Then, while he, in his turn, is detained by an unfavourable wind (as were the Greeks at Aulis!), the king of Sparta transgresses the rules of hospitality and offers two local children as human sacrifices. He then has to flee, with Helen, to Libya14. Herodotus claims to have been told this version of the legend by Egyptian priests; and he discovers confirmation of it in Memphis itself, in the existence of a sanctuary that is consecrated to Aphrodite the Stranger. This 13 Sappho fr. 16 Voigt; see the interpretation of this poem that I proposed in 2005 and also that offered by Bierl (2003). 14 Hdt. 2.112.1–120.5; see the analysis of this text that I proposed in 2000: 145–153, along with numerous bibliographical references.

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sanctuary is set within the temenos that was reserved for King Proteus himself. In Herodotus’ view, this Aphrodite Xeinie, still revered in his own day, is none other than an incarnation of the Helen of the time of Homeric heroes, who is now deified by the Egyptians. This to some extent aetiological story about Helen’s stay at the court of Proteus in Egypt needs to be related to the version of the heroine’s rape that Herodotus, in the Prelude to his Enquiry, places in the mouths of Persian logioi (learned men). The rape of Helen is set within a series of incidents in which women are abducted either to or from the West and the East. It counterbalances the abduction of Medea from the barbarian Colchis, which is represented as an injustice committed by the Greeks. As the Persians see it, the abduction of Helen ought, then, to restore the balance of justice between the peoples of Asia and the Hellenes. The narrative logic of the rape that counterbalances a previous rape thus makes the Greeks responsible (aitioi) for the first warring clash between Asia and Europe. So it is the Greeks who were at the origin (arxai) of the long ensuing conflict15. In the narrative perspective of the Persian logioi and likewise as the Egyptian priests see it, the Greek are to be set squarely on the side of injustice. Even when the Trojans had assured them that Helen was far away in Memphis, at the court of Proteus, they nevertheless went ahead and laid siege to the city, which they captured and destroyed. Meanwhile, in the shifted perspective of the story told by the Egyptian priests, both Alexander and Menelaus behave unjustly and both are judged to be adikoi. However, even as he rejects the Homeric version which was “better suited to epic”, Herodotus is at pains to cap the Egyptian story with his own opinion: ego gnomen apophainomai, “for me, I will show my own opinion”. Although the Trojans told the Greeks the truth as to Helen’s presence on the banks of the Nile, the gods willed that they nevertheless had to pay for great injustices (adikemata) that they had committed: such is the lesson that “the divine” (to daimonion) reveals to the gods. Before the court of justice passing judgement on history, which is guaranteed by the deity and in which the enquirer Herodotus is both the prosecutor and the spokesman, it is the Trojans who are judged guilty of injustice and Helen, who is assimilated to Aphrodite, is implicitly absolved16. Faced with the protagonists of the story, the Egyptian priests to a certain degree fill the role of arbitrator that Herodotus himself frequently assumes vis-à-vis stories told by others 15 See Hdt. 1.1.1–4.1; on the importance of the beginning of the narrative as an origin and cause, see Calame (2006) 96–100. 16 Hdt. 2.120.5; see Calame (2000) 149–153; see also the useful reassessment proposed by Bouvier (2008), who presents the Egyptian version favoured by Herodotus as an ‘anti-Iliad ’. On the question of justice in Herodotus’ historiographical discourse, see, for example, Darbo-Peschanski (1987) 43–73 and 167–174.

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and the course taken by history. And in the view of those priests, both the Trojans and the Greeks are equally at fault. The initial injustice committed by Alexander notwithstanding the laws of hospitality is matched, at the end of the story, by the crime of a human sacrifice committed by Menelaus. By raising a temple to Aphrodite/Helen the Stranger and Hospitable One (in both senses of the Greek term xenos), the Egyptians demonstrate that they alone show proper respect for the laws of hospitality. Yet when Herodotus, the narrator, picks up the story again and places it in the theological perspective that his Enquiry adopts on the causes of the Persian Wars, the initial fault is ultimately ascribed to Paris, so it falls to him, along with all the other Trojans, to suffer the consequences. The fact is that the logos that Herodotus has placed in the mouths of the Egyptian priests needs to be replaced within the perspective adopted by the Herodotean Enquiry as a whole, both temporally and spatially. For the Enquiry covers all the phases of the clash between the Greeks and the barbarians, including the barbarians’ unjust transgression of the geo-political boundary that separates Asia from Europe. By and large, the same goes for the Encomium of Helen composed several decades later by Isocrates. This little show-piece oration is devoted not only to the divine origin and the beauty of the heroine, but also to the doxa surrounding her; and its praises are lavished not only upon Helen but also upon those who appreciated her qualities: Theseus, Alexander-Paris, the Greeks and, indirectly, even Zeus himself. In this context, as in Herodotus, what is at stake is the confrontation between Europe and Asia. Initially Athenian (the role played by Menelaus of Sparta is marginalized), the perspective adopted by the orator soon becomes panHellenic. Although Helen gave rise to a serious conflict, she is nevertheless cleared of all accusations: protected by the gods, she is at the origin of the Greeks’ conquest of numerous barbarian cities17. In the historical enquiry of Herodotus, as in the rhetorical apologia of Isocrates, the Trojan War simply prefigures the Persian Wars. But the expansion of Athenian power has now upset the geo-political equilibrium that the historiographer, precisely by condemning the transgression of territorial boundaries, had defended.

4. Helen as the focus of an oration A few years after Herodotus, the orator and Sophist Gorgias, in an exercise of poetic rhetoric that turned out to be simply a game (paignion), set out to sing the praises of Helen in his well-known Encomium. At the same time as being an oratorical defence of the heroine, his speech is, from the start, set 17 See successively Isocr. Hel. 14, 59, 49, 52, 51, 67 and 68; see also Bettini/Brillante (2002) 128–131.

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within the generic opposition that runs through all Greek poetics: namely, the polarity of praise and blame, or rather the dialectics of glorification and reproach18. But, as treated rhetorically by the Sophist Gorgias, glorification and reproach are transferred from a “story” to a “speech” and from being the subject of what is said to being the subject of the telling of it. What this speech is about is as much the thinking behind the discourse that presents the heroic action as that heroic action itself. With his logismos, the orator intends, at the level of the story told, to exonerate Helen from her misdeed (aitia), while at the same time, at the level of the telling of the story, his aim is to put her detractors in the wrong. In so doing, his purpose is to restore the truth (talethes). What do Helen’s detractors hold against her? No mention is made of either the Greeks’ expedition against Troy, or the destruction of the town. Rather, it is a matter of determining the reasons that account for the heroine’s journey to Troas. Was Helen swept along by the will of the gods and the effects of fate (tukhe, which by this date had replaced the Homeric moira), by physical violence, by the power of words (logoi) or by the force of eros? An examination of each of these possible narrative motivations cleanses Helen of any aitia and therefore of all bad reputation (duskleia) attached to her. In a new transfer from “story-telling” to “discourse”, what the rhetor is attacking is, beyond doubt, “the injustice of the reproaches” and “the ludicrous nature of Helen’s detractors’ opinion”. The power of his rhetorical speech has been deflected from an attack on Helen, the protagonist of all the stories, and is instead directed against the young woman’s detractors, who are now the subject of his discourse. With a discursive form that tends to charm the reader by resorting to poetic forms but that no longer depends upon the inspiration represented by the Muse19, and with an oratorical form that stems purely from the art (technē) of poetic rhetoric, Gorgias presents his public with a written (grapsai) discourse. This act of writing is concerned not so much with the contents – the story of Helen and the causal implications of the plot – but more with the crafting of the discourse, with its diverse subjects and all its psycho-physiological effects. The subject of the narrative action thus becomes less important than the subject of the narration itself and the operator of the crafting of the discourse consequently comes to the fore. It is with just such a shift that, a few decades later, the rhetor Isocrates rounds off the already mentioned 18 Gorgias fr. 82 B 11 Diels/Kranz; see de Romilly (1973) and the reflections by Detienne (³1994) 49–70 and those by Nagy (1979) 222–242, on the basis of the poetics of praise and reproach. 19 In this connection, see the convergent remarks by Segal (1962) 119–129, and those by de Romilly (1973) 160–162.

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Encomium of Helen, in an explicit attack on Gorgias, who is accused of presenting no more than a defence of the heroine. At the beginning of his speech, the Athenian master of rhetoric nevertheless does praise (epaino) “the man who wrote (ton grapsanta) on Helen”, invoking (emnēsthē) her origin, her beauty and her reputation. However, he ends off his speech with a recommendation that “philosophers” should pronounce a discourse that is fully worthy of the qualities of this heroine20. His oration in praise of Helen turns into an incentive to produce discourse that is cultivated and destined for educated people: the merits of the heroine will then reflect upon not only those who surround her in the story, but likewise those who tell of them and praise them in epideictic discourse. In this way Helen undergoes a metamorphosis, as we shall see. She becomes the Muse that inspired Homer himself.

5. Helen as the focus of theology and poetics Isocrates gives a reason for shifting Helen from the position of the protagonist of the narrated action to that of a Helen who is the inspiration of the narrative itself and also, consequently, of her own “myth”. Isocrates’ reason is that this woman with such seductive beauty is descended from Zeus; and the master of the gods is bent not only on ensuring his daughter’s reputation among mortals, but also on turning her into a deity. Already in the Odyssey, the heroine, as she emerges from the thalamos that she shares with Menelaus, is compared to the goddess Artemis (just as are, in this same poem, the young and seductive Nausicaa and Penelope, the faithful wife). For Gorgias too, the heroine’s double paternity, at once divine and mortal, affords him a pretext for writing a short passage on being and seeming: Zeus, the master of the gods of Olympus is associated with being, while Tyndarus, the mortal sovereign, is associated with mere hear-say21. It is probably on account of her affinities with divinity that, in the Palinode composed by the melic poet, Stesichorus, Helen is considered to have at her disposal a double, known as an eidolon. For in Homeric poetry, it is only the gods, such as Apollo and Athena, who can create doubles for the heroes whom they protect22. Whatever the origin of a version later taken over by Euripides, the doubling of the heroine makes it possible for no more than 20 Isocr. Hel. 14 f., 66 and 69. 21 Isocr. Hel. 16 f.; Hom. Od. 4.121 f.; Gorgias fr. 86 B 11.3 Diels/Kranz. 22 Stesichorus fr. 192 Page/Davies; see already Hes. fr. dub. 358 Merkelbach/West; for the introduction of eidōla created by a deity in Homer, see Il. 5.449–453 and Od. 4.795–797; see also Hes. fr. 23 (a), 17–24 and 260 Merkelbach/West; on the eidōlon of Iphigenia, see Lyons (1997) 157–162.

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an image of her to be present in Troy, while the real Helen is living in Egypt, in the care of Proteus. The divine Helen can thus be definitively cleared of any culpability and, as anecdote had it, as a result of this new version, Stesichorus recovers his sight, thereby implicitly passing from the poetics of blame to the poetics of praise23. It is perhaps by reason of Helen’s divinity that, in the lines that Socrates cites in Plato’s Phaedrus and that appear to constitute the beginning of Stesichorus’ Palinode, the poet addresses the heroine directly: “The story does not correspond to reality. You never did set sail on the well-built ships; you never did travel all the way to the citadel of Troy”. In contrast, in a papyrological fragment of a commentary that refers to two poems by Stesichorus, there are two incipits that seem to introduce two poems preceding the start of the poem cited by Plato’s Socrates. These appeal to embodiments of the Muse, begging for her intervention: “the goddess who loves song” and “the golden-winged maiden”24. So does Helen now, herself, embody divine poetic inspiration? However that may be, and certainly in the aftermath of Plato’s Phaedrus, the biographers who turned Stesichorus into a hero seized upon the different poems that this Sicilian poet devoted to Helen and attached an anecdote concerning their composition (an instance of yet another shift from what is narrated to the narrating of it!). Plato, for his part, does not say who blinded the melic poet for having initially reproached the lovely Helen. Isocrates, on the other hand, does identify Helen herself as the one who inflicted upon the poet this punishment for his blasphemies25. The anecdote that Isocrates the rhetor relates thus transfers the fault (aitia) of the heroine whom he is praising from her to the poet who sang of her; once again, the aitia is transferred from the protagonist of the action in the narrative to the person doing the narrating. In the story, Stesichorus wisely realizes his mistake and rectifies his fault precisely by composing the palinode that constitutes the etumos logos cited by Plato. But from the time of Euripides and Isocrates onward, Helen was also recognized in Athens as the deity who had for many years been the object of a double cult in Sparta, on the one hand as the girl associated with the Platanistas and the Dromos that were consecrated to the athletic 23 See Austin (1994) 103–117; Euripides took over the version of the eidōlon so as to present the subtle interplay, centred on feminine beauty, between reality and appearances; in this connection, see the fine study by Segal (1971); see also Bettini/ Brillante (2002) 132–157, and Chirassi Colombo (2002). 24 Stesichorus fr. 193 Page/Davies (see also fr. 223 Page/Davies); on the two or three poetic versions composed by Stesichorus, see Cingano (1982) and Blaise (1995). In connection with Euripides’ Helen, Zeitlin (1996) 406–416, has explained how the feminine figure of Helen is related, through the eidōlon, to the art of poetic mimēsis; see also Graf (1993) 145–147. 25 Plat. Phaedr. 243b and Isocr. Hel. 64; see also Conon FGrH 26 F 1.18. On this subject, see, for example, Nagy (1990) 419–422.

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exercises of young men and the choral performances of young girls; and, on the other, as the adult married woman venerated at Therapne, alongside her brothers, the Dioscuri, and her husband, Menelaus26. It thus came about that Helen, “with power equal to that of the gods” not only corrected Stesichorus by changing a discourse of blame into a song of praise, but also took the place of the Muse that had inspired Homer in his composition of a song that praised the Greeks fighting against Troy and, in so doing, enchanting his listeners and acquiring fame, in accordance with the canon of classical Greek poetics. That, at any rate, is the conclusion that Isocrates draws in his eulogy of Helen. The deified heroine’s affinities with poetry thus confer upon her the status of an inspiring Muse. The Iliad shows that it is not unaware of this in the famous scene in which Helen is found representing the fighting between the Trojans and the Achaeans on a tapestry, thereby producing an iconographic version of the poetic account itself. This poetic composition created by means of a tapestry is matched, as an indirect echo, in the Odyssey, by the narrative moment in which (like the bard Demodocus and Odysseus himself, following the banquet laid on by the Phaecians), Helen recounts one of Odysseus’ exploits in Troy. And is it not then Helen herself who, in the episode recounted by Menelaus in response to the story told by his wife, manages to reproduce the seductive intonations of the melodious voices of the wives of the Achaean warriors, who are concealed in the belly of the wooden horse that is then taken within the walls of Troy? Later on, in Odysseus’ confrontation with the Sirens, he alone manages to resist just such a bewitching voice and to persuade his companions not to succumb to its seductive sound27. If that scene, which was narrated in the Iliou Persis, is set alongside Helen’s desire to become aoidimos, together with Paris, it is fair to say that the heroine is not only both “author and subject of her work”, but also possesses the skill and vocal power of poetry28. As a woman who is enchanting by virtue of not only her dazzling beauty but 26 Eur. Or. 1622–1643 (see also Helen 1662–1679), Isocr. Hel. 61–63; there are many accounts of the double cult addressed to Helen in Sparta: see Alcman (fr. 7 Page/ Davies) and Pausanias (3.7.7); see Clader (1976) 63–90, and Calame (²2001) 191–202. 27 Hom. Il. 3.125–129 and Od. 4.238–264 and 277–289. On the poetic implications of the weaving scene, see the fine study by Rousseau (2003) (in connection with the accomplishment of Zeus’ will); for a comparison with Penelope, see also Papadopoulou-Belmehdi (1994) 169–184; on the qualities of Helen’s voice and her gift of imitation, again see the exhaustive study by Bettini/Brillante (2002) 98–102. 28 As Clader (1976) 6–9 and 32–34, puts it; see also Austin (1994) 37–39; Helen’s affinities with poetic song nevertheless do not mean that her eidōlon may be regarded as an image of ‘verbal signification’, as is suggested by Bassi (1993) 65–71.

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also her melodious voice, Helen, who is at once likened to Pandora yet contrasted to her, presents undeniable affinities with song of praise and poetic glorification.

6. What is the “myth of Helen”? In the present study all these metamorphoses are, for the most part, intentionally recounted in story-form. But does the “myth of Helen” exist in any form other than that of a narrative plot – the plot that involves the abduction of the wife of a powerful king by the youthful son of another sovereign, followed by the inevitable clash of warriors that this provokes and all the destructive consequences of this conflict willed and manipulated by the gods? Does this legend just belong to a time distant from its bardic enunciation or did it have a spatial dimension that corresponded to the geography familiar to its performers? And does such a twofold, semio-narrative, definition suffice to identify it as a “myth”? The point is: to what extent would it be possible to identify a “Helen myth” when faced with all these divergent versions were it not for the fact that the protagonists in this narrative action and the places mentioned within its spatio-temporal framework consistently carry the same names: Helen, Paris-Alexander, Menelaus, Aphrodite, Zeus, the Achaeans and the Trojans; and Sparta, Argos and Troy? Aeschylus seems to have been aware of the problem, for he is at pains to recover from Helen’s very name the gist of the plot in which she is implicated: namely, the Helen who is the destroyer of ships, the Helen who is the destroyer of warriors and the Helen who is the destroyer of cities (helenas, helandros, heleptolis) 29. It is without doubt the proper names that make it possible to establish the pragmatic connection between, on the one hand, a heroic past fixed in a tradition and, on the other, a present in which that past acquires the narrative and semantic form that confers social legitimation upon it and in which it deploys its pragmatic or even performative effects. It is as a Troika that, through the Homeric poetry of praise, the Trojan War becomes the paradigm for the Persika – that is to say the Persian Wars and, more generally, all the Greeks’ clashes with barbarians30. As the protagonist of the founding action of the Trojan War, Helen is thus “good to think with”: Helen in particular, rather than the other actors and actresses in this same story, because its various versions combine to establish a tradition that reflects upon 29 Aesch. Ag. 681–698; on the various instances of etymologizing word-play occasioned by Helen’s name, see Bettini/Brillante (2002) 112–115 and 171–175. 30 See, for example, Isokr. paneg. 158 f.; on the political and ideological treatment of the heroic past of the Trojan War, see in particular Calame (1996) 35–46 and, more generally, (2006) 64–79.

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the motivations of this particular central narrative figure. To that extent, the “myth of Helen” is simply a crystallization of a narrative tradition surrounding a semi-divine figure (that is the object of a double cult in Sparta). The value of the empirical and historical truth of this story is never questioned – not by Herodotus, nor by Gorgias, nor by Isocrates. These authors simply tend to pick out and recreate the most likely version from the point of view of a given political and ideological regime of truth; and usually the criterion for such verisimilitude is of an ethical nature. But, particularly for the Sophists, whose preoccupations so often coincide with postmodern ones, Helen is equally “good to talk about” and to sing about. From the Iliad onward, Helen is concerned about what poets will say about her and later, when she becomes the inspiration for those poets, she prompts thought about discourse itself: its modes, its verisimilitude and its effects. As well as being a discursive object greatly favoured by all the fledgling art of rhetoric, Helen provides the inspiration for poetry, taking over the place of the Muse who loves poets. In ancient Greece, myth never was recognized as a particular narrative category or form of thought, but when it began to be recognized by us as such in the Age of Enlightenment, it became a constant source of discoursemaking 31. It was a theme for narrative (which, in ancient Greece, assumed a variety of poetic forms) and also a cultural practice which, as it focused on particular anthropomorphic figures, only existed thanks to the various forms of its transmission, its (poetic) “performance”. The multiple versions of what we believe we can identify as a myth are constantly produced and recast in shifting enunciative conditions; and it is those conditions, as they change, that confer upon the myth its particular meaning as a signifier. These multiple and shifting meanings that are connected with a certain pragmatics and this polysemic tradition, whose practical realization depends upon particular beliefs held in common, prevent the object that we identify as myth from acquiring any specific status or essence, except as an instrument of anthropological thinking. The discursive nature of myth excludes it from any ontological status and from any relation to some absolute Truth; and it deprives it of any stability apart from that acquired in a tradition that is constantly recreating and reinterpreting it32. Through her insertion into the epic saga and in her deep motivations, Helen, with her shimmering beauty, 31 See Detienne (1981) 190–242, and Calame (1996) 9–20. But it is also a theme for iconography and sculpture. On the classical iconography of the story of Helen, which focuses on the confrontation of the heroine and her husband Menelaus, see Ghali-Kahil (1955) 1, 71–119, and also Bron (1996). 32 The figure of the lovely Helen at different points in this long tradition is studied by Homeyer (1977), Suzuki (1989) (part 2 of the monography) and Bettini/Brillante (2002) 211–238 (also in painting).

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came to crystallize in turn a maiden, a young wife, a mother and – through the will of Aphrodite – an adulteress; she is an ambivalent image of feminine beauty with all its seductive, destructive or inspirational consequences33. In this respect, she to some degree constitutes a counterpart to an Oedipus who is the embodiment of a hero who unintentionally kills his father and becomes incestuous. But in the eyes of the Greeks of the classical period, both the young wife of King Menelaus of Sparta and the young sovereign of Thebes are intimately linked with sight and speech. Helen is far more than just a “phantom of sexuality” or a “nothing but mere words”34. Had she not, thanks to the narrative tradition of the story of the Trojan War, gradually acquired layer upon layer of an extraordinary polysemy, had she not consequently provoked a variety of “poetic” creative works without which there would be no myth to abstract, had she not thereby become pragmatically active in many cultural paradigms, and had she not, from Antiquity onward, become the object of hermeneutic and critical attention, she would simply have vanished forever. The “myth of Helen” is still active. A few years ago, it achieved a remarkable success in a French soap opera entitled Hélène et les garçons (“Helen and the Boys”). In a new narrative metamorphosis, the Helen of this television series became a girl who, despite arousing passionate and sometimes exotic adolescent love, resists all attempts to seduce her; in her loving fidelity and against an anti-racist background, she becomes a kind of anti-Helen. Each episode of the student life of this Helen, now just “a girl like any other”, was put together on the basis of the reactions to previous episodes of those, both female and male, who were watching the TV series35. Reworked and given new significance by the televisual koine, the narrative tradition surrounding the figure of the lovely Helen continues to interact with a new public in a meaningful way. It is the extreme polysemy of its practical meaning that no doubt lies at the origin of the combination of approximation, adaptation and reorientation that makes mythology constantly interesting to explore. In conclusion, let us return to Fritz Graf, with whom we started out: “The reason for the continuous mutations of myth – the motor of tradition, so to speak […] is its cultural relevance.”36 (Translation by Janet Lloyd) 33 Although the present study has not concentrated on the succession and sometimes superposition of the three phases of development in feminine beauty, the theme is certainly present in Euripides’ Helen; in this connection, see, for example, Voelke (1996) and the recent studies of Susanetti (2005) and Alaux (2007) 141–166. 34 As suggested, respectively, by Loraux (1989) 246–252, and by Cassin (2000) 175–200. 35 See Pasquier (1993). 36 Graf (1993) 3.

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Ghali-Kahil (1955). – Lilly B. Ghali-Kahil, Les enlèvements et le retour d’Hélène dans les textes et les documents figurés 1–2 (Paris 1955). Graf (1993). – Fritz Graf, An Introduction to Greek Mytholog y, transl. by Thomas Marier (Baltimore/London 1993). Hammond (1987). – Martin Hammond, The Iliad: New Prose Translation (Harmondsworth etc. 1987). Homeyer (1977). – Helene Homeyer, Die spartanische Helena und der trojanische Krieg. Wandlungen und Wanderungen eines Sagenkreises vom Altertum bis zur Gegenwart (Wiesbaden 1977). Loraux (1989). – Nicole Loraux, “Le fantôme de la sexualité”, in: ead., Les expériences de Tirésias. Le féminin et l’homme grec (Paris 1989) 232–252. Lyons (1997). – Deborah Lyons, Gender and Immortality. Heroines in Ancient Greek Myth and Cult (Princeton 1997). Meyerhoff (1984). – Dirk Meyerhoff, Traditioneller Stoff und individuelle Gestaltung. Untersuchungen zu Alkaios und Sappho (Hildesheim/Zürich/New York 1984). Nagy (1979). – Gregory Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans. Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore/London 1979). Nagy (1990). – Gregory Nagy, Pindar’s Homer. The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past (Baltimore/London 1990). Papadopoulou-Belmehdi (1994). – Joanna Papadopoulou-Belmehdi, La toile de Pénélope. Poétique du tissage féminin dans l’Odyssée (Paris 1994). Pasquier (1993). – Dominique Pasquier, “Hélène et les garçons: une éducation sentimentale”, Esprit 6 (1993) 124–144. Pironti (2007). – Gabriella Pironti, Entre ciel et guerre. Figures d’Aphrodite en Grèce ancienne, Kernos Suppl. 18 (Liège 2007). Pucci (2003). – Pietro Pucci, “Prosopopée d’Hélène”, in: Michèle Broze et al. (eds.), Le mythe d’Hélène (Bruxelles 2003) 89–119. Rousseau (2003). – Philippe Rousseau, “La toile d’Hélène (Iliade 3,125–128)”, in: Michèle Broze et al. (eds.), Le mythe d’Hélène (Bruxelles 2003) 9–43. Segal (1962). – Charles Segal, “Gorgias and the Psychology of the Logos”, HSCPh 66 (1962) 99–155. Segal (1971). – Charles Segal, “The Two Worlds of Euripides’ Helen”, TAPhA 102 (1971) 553–614. Segal (1994). – Charles Segal, Singers, Heroes and Gods in the Odyssey (Ithaca/London 1994). Susanetti (2005). – Davide Susanetti, “Il miraggio della bellezza”, in: id., Favole antiche. Mito greco e tradizione letteraria europea (Roma 2005) 189–212. Suzuki (1989). – Mihoko Suzuki, Metamorphoses of Helen: Authority, Difference and the Epic (Ithaca/London 1989). Voelke (1996). – Pierre Voelke, “Beauté d’Hélène et rituels féminins dans l’‘Hélène’ d’Euripide”, Kernos 9 (1996) 281–296. Zeitlin (1996). – Froma I. Zeitlin, Playing the Other. Gender and Society in Classical Greek Literature (Chicago/London 1996).

A Hermeneutic Commentary on the Eschatological Passage in Pindar Olympian 2 (57–83) lowell edmunds

Fritz Graf ’s Eleusis und die orphische Dichtung Athens in vorhellenistischer Zeit, presented for the doctorate in the winter semester of 1971–1972 at the University of Zurich, and published in 1974, is one of the rare doctoral dissertations that are still being read and still stimulating further thought and research at the same time that the author receives the honor of a Festschrift. The starting-point of the present contribution is Graf ’s discussion, in the book just cited, of the eschatological passage in Pindar O. 2. Instead, however, of working on Graf ’s findings one by one, using the same methodology which he used, a new beginning will be sought in a different methodology, which is indicated by the word “hermeneutic” in the title of this contribution 1. This hermeneutic commentary will discuss the eschatological passage as a distinct whole within the larger whole of the ode, demarcated by the gnome concerning wealth (53–56) and the ‘break-off ’, where Pindar reverts to the first person (83)2. The goal of this approach is the one defined by August Boeckh (1785–1867) as absolute understanding (of the object itself), as distinguished from relative or critical understanding (of the object in relation to something else). Hermeneutics, he said, deals with the former, and thus I refer to a hermeneutic commentary. The relation of the two understandings, 1

2

This paper has evolved from part of a longer one, “Eleusinian Eschatology”, given at the Symposium Nonum Eleusinium, Loutraki, Sept. 29, 2007, which will someday be published in the proceedings of the symposium. I presented this shorter paper to Andrew Ford’s seminar on Pindar at Princeton on Oct. 15, 2007. I am grateful to him, his students, and to an unusually well-prepared auditor, Kathryn Morgan, for their comments. I am grateful to Timothy Power for commenting on the final draft of this paper. For the ‘break-off ’, see Race (1979) 256–258; Race (1990) 41–57. For O. 2.81–85, see 51 n. 13.

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according to Boeckh, is necessarily circular, “a great circle”3. To embark on one of the understandings is ultimately to embark also the other. In a short article like the present one, an arbitrary limitation is imposed, and only the absolute understanding can be attempted, though even for this purpose much else must be taken into consideration. One cannot step outside the circle. But the object itself, here the passage in O. 2 just delineated, remains the focus. It is the other kind of understanding, the critical one, aiming at the determination of a relation between two objects, that has often been the goal of interpretation of the eschatological passage in Pindar O. 24. Scholars have sought to make documentary use of this passage and its immediate context for the history of religion, determining its relation to other eschatologies or beliefs. Typically, they pick out a single word in the passage; combining it with other sources, they assign the word a particular eschatological significance; they draw a conclusion concerning the passage as a whole or some part of it. This procedure has led to the implausible conclusion that φέγγος (56) has an Eleusinian connotation and thus that Theron’s beliefs were somehow Eleusinian5. This procedure has also led to the conclusion that the afterlife described in antistrophe 4 (68–74) is Orphic. Indeed Alberto Bernabé in Poetae Epici Graeci 2.1 quotes lines 56–72 as an Orphic testimonium, picking out Orphic vestigia (fr. 445 V). The methodology of the hermeneutic approach has been much refined since the days of Boeckh. From the now extensive body of methodological thought, only two techniques or procedures are necessary for the commentary on the passage in O. 2, both of them having, one hopes, a self-evident plausibility. One is linear reading, i. e., for present purposes, reading from the beginning to the end of the passage in question. The other procedure is rereading, again linear. It is clear that one would want to continue along Boeckh’s circle from hermeneutics to a critical understanding of the eschatological passage, i. e., to its specific historical eschatological affiliations, and thus to reengagement with Graf ’s findings. This reiteration of the circle

3

4 5

Boeckh (²1886) 178 f. The notion of the hermeneutic circle, first formulated by Friedrich Ast (1778–1841) and developed by Boeckh’s former teacher, friend and colleague, Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768–1834), remained fundamental in Boeckh’s concept of philology even as the discipline of Classics was evolving away from it in the direction of historicism, thanks partly to Boeckh himself. For Ast and the hermeneutic circle see Flashar (1979) 28 f. But the hermeneutic circle came to Boeckh from Schleiermacher: Boeckh (²1886) 75. See Boeckh (²1886) 170 for this definition of “critical”. For a survey of scholarship, concluding in a display of agnosticism, see Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 157–162. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 2, 477 n. 275 dismisses the explanation of Hampe (1952) 53, but Hampe’s procedure, i. e., his beginning with light as a metaphor in Pindar, is preferable.

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would, however, require another article, and here only some prospective remarks can be added to the first circle6. As one begins the first reading, one is already moving in a hermeneutic circle that includes experience of other odes of Pindar. For this reason, some expectations or premises derived from this experience will shape the reading. The most important of these concerns the conventions of the victory ode, which Pindar can be expected to observe7. The guiding thread, as Wilamowitz saw, is Pindar’s relation to Theron8. This relation, which an earlier generation might have seen as a biographical conclusion to be drawn from the ode, is a necessary hermeneutic premise at certain points in the following discussion. Another expectation concerns meter. The iambic metra in which this ode is composed make it unique amongst Pindar’s epinicians. Its iambic character ought, then, to be an important clue to the understanding of the ode as a whole and of the eschatological passage within the ode. In other words, meter would be one of the things that the hermeneutic approach would have to take into consideration, like the conventions of the epinician. Unlike those conventions, however, the ethos of this meter is difficult to determine. It does not emerge from an isolated reading of this ode. As for comparison with O. 2, only a small group of poems (apparently all choral) composed in iambic metra is available9. They are: Simon. 541 PMG (on the theme: ‘it is not easy to be good’), Pind. fr. 75, a dithyramb ‘for the Athenians’; Pind. fr. 108, a hyporchēma; and Bakchyl. 17, a dithyramb (Theseus dives into the sea to retrieve the ring). West calls the last of these a “bracing cantata”10. In their handbook on Greek meter, Bruno Gentili and Liana Lomiento speak of “mixed structures” with persistent rhythmic variation resulting in “un movimento brusco e desultorio”11. This kind of movement seems fitting for dithyramb. Why it is fitting for the gnomic themes of Simon. 541 PMG and for the hyporchēma just cited (“when god shows the beginning, straight is the path to choose aretē”, etc.) is not clear, but perhaps it was the affinity of this meter for such themes that determined its use in O. 2, which certainly has its gnomic passages, e. g. the prized lines 15–22 (“not even Chronos can undo what has been done, whether it is just or unjust”, etc.)12. 6 7 8 9

In the longer article referred to in n. 1 I have in fact continued the circle. As Nisetich (1988) well says. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1922) 248. West (1980); West (1982) 68 f. Willcock (1995) 140–142 follows Merkelbach (1973), who analyzes O. 2 into cretics () and expanded cretics ( and ), with a longum resolvable into two shorts, i. e.  or  (‘paeon’ or ‘resolved cretic’). 10 West (1980) 137. 11 Gentili/Lomiento (2003) 142. 12 The scansion of O. 2 is still debated. Bruno Snell well described the difficulty: “nur dass die Perioden keine vollen Metra enthalten (wenn man vorn anfängt, Metren

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To begin the hermeneutic commentary, Pindar at first seems only to be admonishing Theron. The gnome concerning wealth (53–56) is followed by an εἰ-clause: “If, having it (wealth) [as Theron does], one knows what is to come, that …” There is something, Pindar seems to be saying, necessary in addition to wealth. But this protasis is never answered by an apodosis. Pindar’s stricture is left unfinished. Such an omission of the apodosis after a protasis introduced by εἰ occurs fairly often, because, says the Kühner/Gerth grammar, the thought of the apodosis can easily be supplied, and the sentence hurries along to more important thoughts13. The examples which Kühner/Gerth quote allow one to be more precise about the mental template for this syntactical phenomenon. All of the examples have the shape εἰ μέν … εἰ δέ …, where the second conditional sentence is complete with apodosis. The examples thus show that contrasting conditions provide a framework within which the sense of the omitted apodosis can be understood. But Pindar’s handling of the unanswered protasis thwarts this expectation, because no second protasis, with its apodosis, follows. One might have expected: A – ø – B (protasis of contrasting condition) – apodosis of B. Instead one has only A ! How does one know, then, what thought is to be understood after the lone protasis in O. 2?14 I suggest that two contrasting pictures of a happy afterlife, emerging as one proceeds in reading from Strophe 4 to Antistrophe 4, provide the framework of contrast, or at least the intimation of the framework, which the unanswered protasis presupposes. If the unanswered protasis ends only at 67, i. e. at the end of the Strophe 4, and if the second picture, beginning in Antistrophe 4, is distinctly more attractive and, as such, a tribute to Theron’s personal expectations, then the thought of the omitted apodosis will be mildly dismissive: the person who knows about the judgment, etc. (58–67) has at least prepared himself for an acceptable afterlife15. If, however, he abzuteilen, bleiben am Ende einzelne Elemente über, die kein Metron füllen, und entsprechend am Anfang, wenn man vom Ende aus Metren abteilt [!]). […] [D]ie Bindung an die festen Metren gelöst ist.” Snell (³1962) 41. For the current state of discussion see Willcock (1995) 140–142. 13 Kühner/Gerth, vol. 2, 484 f. (§ 577.4d). 14 Schwyzer/Debrunner, vol. 2, 687 speaks of a break-off (“Bruch”), but, even so, some thought is to be understood. Miller (1993) 40–44 discusses the εἰ-clause under the heading “Narrative Momentum” (31). Citing Race (1979) 257 f., he says “That 89 ff. are the functional equivalent of an apodosis to 56 ff. was recognized nearly two centuries ago by G. Hermann apud Boeckh 129 [=August Boeckh, Pindari opera quae supersunt 2.2, Leipzig 1821].” He also cites Perosa (1941) 48 and Bundy (1986) 60 n. 63. In particular, Miller holds that τίνα (line 89) “recurs to the indefinite τις of line 56” (41). 15 Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 164 says that the thought of the omitted apodosis is εὖ ἕξει. He proceeds to develop a rather curious psychological interpretation of the construction: “De gedachte: ‘dan is het goed zo’ moet […] nergens aangevuld

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knows (and here is the unexpressed contrasting condition) of metempsychosis and the Isle of Blest, and can fulfill the requisite number of blameless existences, then he is truly fortunate. In this way, the conditional introduction of the eschatological passage leads to praise, or at least the encouragement, of Theron. Pindar would not mention the Isle of the Blest if Theron was not eligible for an afterlife in this privileged place. The semantics and the style of the protasis encourage this interpretation. It has been suggested that οἶδεν shows that Theron was a “mystic initiate”16. The suggestion is good, provided that ‘mystic initiate’ remains, at this point, indeterminate. The verb in question (οἶδεν) is used not only in Eleusinian contexts (most notably Pind. fr. 137) but also in Bacchic and Orphic ones. Pindar is simply talking about privileged knowledge17. He is not at all magnifying the object of that knowledge as it emerges in the ὅτι clause. In fact, τὸ μέλλον, unattested elsewhere in Pindar, is prosaic, and the style of the sentence is oratorical18. The suppressed apodosis itself, in the 5th century, seems to be characteristic of prose19. Α downplaying of the first picture in relation to the second thus begins immediately20. The first reading of the eschatological passage has, then, determined a broad outline in which two kinds of happy afterlife are contrasted, and Theron is implicitly promised the preferable one. “If, having it (wealth) [as Theron does], one knows what is to come, that …” What is it that one ought

16 17 18 19

20

worden” (his emphasis). Willcock (1995) 154: “The implication here is surely that if the man who combines wealth and virtue also knows about future rewards and punishments, then all will be well for him.” He cites Pavese (1975) for the comparison of Pindar’s thought here with Pind. fr. 137, which Clement, the source of this fragment, refers to the Eleusinian Mysteries. Currie (2005) 233 n. 116. His references for seeing and knowing at 389, n. 256 need some unpacking. See also Bernabé/Jiménez (2008) General Index s. v. ‘knowledge’. For -ν see Schwyzer, Gramm. 405. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 165. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 165. So far as I can see. Kühner/Gerth speak of the phenomenon as occurring often “bei den Attikern”, which seems to mean prose writers, from whom all of their examples after Hom. come except one from Hdt. Schwyzer discusses only Homeric exx. and refers to Kühner/Gerth for prose. Cf. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1922) 247 n. 1: “Man soll sich nicht abquälen, die unterdrückte Apodosis in Worte zu kleiden. Schlimm genug, daß ein Gebrauch lange verkannt werden konnte, der in attischer Poesie [but there are no exx. in the grammars just cited] und unverkünstelter Prosa keineswegs selten ist.” Willcock (1995) 138 and more emphatically at 156 f., citing Solmsen (1968): “[I]t has been pointed out […] that the picture given of the abode of the righteous is, apart from the sunshine, negative rather than positive. We are told that there is no toil there, and no tears. The reason […] is that Pindar saves the positive happiness for the second state of bliss, the Isle of the Blest.”

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to know? A second reading now returns to questions left unanswered by the first. One ought to know that “of those who die, the ἀπάλαμνοι (I leave this word untranslated for now) minds (φρένες) immediately pay penalties here, and beneath the earth someone judges the wicked deeds (done) in this realm of Zeus, making known his verdict21 with hateful compulsion” (56–60). Pindar does not specify the penalties paid immediately nor does he give any indication of the crimes for which the minds are paying penalties. The most important question for the interpretation of this passage is now: what is the immediate punishment and what is its relation to the judgment in the underworld? There are two possible ways to understand the lines just translated. But I begin with a third way, which I consider impossible. It goes back to Aristarchus, who is cited in the scholia on this passage. He referred to the penalties here as Orphic, citing Pind. fr. 133, which begins: “Those from whom Persephone will receive the penalty (ποινάν) for ancient grief …” This fragment might sound Orphic (cf. Derv. Pap. col. 6) but its relevance to O. 2 is very dubious. M. M. Willcock said that one should not “expect exact correspondence between what is said here [in O. 2] and what is said in fr. 133.”22 One can go further and say that, if one keeps the whole of the eschatological passage in mind, then an Orphic reading of the lines in question (56–60) is impossible. To repeat, as the hermeneutic reading has already shown, the passage presents two different pictures of the happy afterlife, the second is preferable to the first, and it is the second, not the first, which promises metempsychosis. As for the possible interpretations, the first, which is preferable, begins with the semantics of ἀπάλαμνοι. It can mean ‘lawless, reckless’, and, on this meaning, the line under discussion would seem to be saying that such reprehensible minds (whatever the particular guilt is which these minds have incurred) are immediately punished. The epithet can also, however, mean ‘helpless’23. If it means ‘helpless’, then it is possible to explain the penalties and to fit this explanation into the sequence of eschatological events. In short, the very helplessness of the minds is the penalty they pay24. Pindar is 21 Cf. LSJ⁹, s. v. λόγος VII, which seems to indicate the range of relevant meanings, though “verdict” is not among them. 22 Willcock (1995) 158. Scarpi (2002) vol. 1, 209–211 includes fr. 133 in his Eleusinian passages, though he recognizes (537) a possible Orphic connection. 23 Cf. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 172–174. He surveys the occurrences of the word before Pindar and finds that “onmogelijk”, active or passive, is the common denominator. Like many others, however, Van Leeuwen assumed that in line 56 Pindar was saying something about justice and judgment. 24 Lloyd-Jones (1985) 253: “The sense must be that when men die here, their feeble minds at once pay the penalty; the penalty consists in their minds becoming feeble, that is to say, in death.” This explanation is exactly right. Lloyd-Jones then goes

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talking about dying (thus ‘here’ and ‘immediately’), not about post mortem existence25. The ‘helpless minds’ are Pindar’s version of the groaning soul which flits away from the corpse on the battlefield at Troy26. Starting from a penalty that everyone pays in dying itself, Pindar then speaks of a judgment in the underworld (58–60), as the result of which some are rewarded and some are punished (61–67). The second interpretation goes back to Wilamowitz27 and is followed by Willcock28. These scholars say that there is only one judgment, which is stated twice, once from the perspective of the deceased, once from the perspective of the judge in the underworld. This interpretation requires that ἐνθάδ’ be taken with θανόντων, because the penalty is paid in the underworld, not here, as the judgment takes place in the underworld, not here. Willcock (on 57–60) translated: “of those who die in this world, the helpless spirits immediately pay the penalty; and a judge beneath the earth judges sins committed in this realm of Zeus, giving his verdict with harsh compulsion.” “Of those who die in this world” sounds strange. Where else are they going

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28

astray in seeking to attach the penalty to a particular religious idea (258–294), by combining line 57 with Pind. fr. 133 (“the souls of those from whom Persephone accepts atonement”, 258, 265); cf. Burkert (1987) 161 n. 128. The result is that those judged here are the good, who, as in fr. 133, will be reborn. The objection to this interpretation is that in the eschatological passage as a whole Pindar clearly contrasts one group (57) with another group (68), and it is the more privileged second group which is reborn. Bollack (1963) 238: “le moment de la mort”. Hom. Il. 16.855–858 ≈ 22.361–364. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 174 is right that Pindar's phrenes would be psychai in Homer. Cf. the “feeble heads of the dead” (Od. 10.521; 11.29). Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1922) 248 n. 1: “Dass die beiden Sätze αὐτίκα ποινὰς ἔτεισαν, τά δ’ … δικάζει τις dasselbe Gericht angehen, einmal von seiten der Schuldigen, das andere von seiten des Richters, würde nicht verkannt worden sein, wenn nicht überall Tiefsinn gesucht würde, wo es nach Orphik riecht.” Willcock (1995) 154 f. follows Wilamowitz, in his report of whom correct “Mommsen” to “Norden”. Farnell (1932) 17 also took ἐνθάδ’ with θανόντων and explained: “of those who have died on this upper world the wicked souls immediately after death pay the penalty”, following out his notion that there is an antithesis between lines 57–60 and lines 58–67 (Strophe 4). To be consistent with himself, he would have to say, but does not say, that those referred to in line 67, who have unsightly toil, are the same as those in lines 57–60. Also Fernández-Galiano (1956) 146, without reference to Wilamowitz, and Lehnus (1981) 45, who explains: »i vv. 58–60 unicamente riprendono e precisano, dal punto di vista dell’emissione della sentenza, la prima frase [i. e. θανόντων μὲν κτλ.], cui si giustappongono per parallelo: le anime dei colpevoli che lasciano il mondo (dei morti quassù, che volutamente è un calco del greco) sùbito (nell’aldilà) scontano la pena inflittagli dal guidice sotterraneo per le colpe commesse qui (nel regno di Zeus, opposto a quello di Hades).”

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to die? The scholiast takes ἐνθάδ’ αὐτίκ’ as a phrase and glosses it τάχιστα, which fits with my preferred interpretation of the passage. But what of the μὲν with which this sequence began (57)? It might seem to prepare for a contrasting idea “introduced by an adversative particle or combination of particles”29. Neither the δέ in line 58 nor the one in line 61, however, nor any other particle seems to introduce the expected contrast. It has been suggested that μὲν is answered by the δ’ of line 6830. Certainly “[i]t is […] always conceivable that an independent clause may intrude between a μέν […] and a δέ”31. But can all the independent clauses in Olympian 2 between lines 58 and 67 so intrude? It seems unlikely. One is forced to rethink the μὲν in line 57. It looks like μέν solitarium. Denniston’s account of this phenomenon is directly relevant to the interpretation of the eschatological passage as a whole. He says: The explanation of μέν solitarium, in general, is either that the speaker originally intends to supply an answering clause, but subsequently forgets his intention […], or, far more frequently, that he uses μέν, like γε, in contrast with something which he does not, even in the first instance, intend to express in words, or even (sometimes) define precisely in thought32.

In O. 2, in the eschatological passage as a whole, the contrast which Pindar does not intend to express in words and leaves implicit, is between the (ordinary) dead of line 57 and the smaller, more privileged group introduced at line 68. The contrast as such is not articulated. It corresponds, however, to the contrast which, I suggested, lies behind Pindar’s introduction of the eschatological passage with an unanswered εἰclause. With these two devices, μέν solitarium and isolated protasis, Pindar conjures up a vision of the afterlife, the one in strophe 4, and then leaves it in abeyance, in favor of another. As others have said, the passage as a whole falls into two main parts33. The first part describes the ordinary (as I am calling it) outcome, available to everyone; the second part describes a privileged outcome, the one which Theron can expect34. With this outline in mind, one can reread the passage yet again and try to understand better the description of the two post mortem existences. Pindar’s account of the ordinary dead fits precisely into a single strophe (61–67). It begins: “Having the sun in equal nights and days …” (61 f.). To 29 Denniston (1966) 369. 30 Cf. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 171 f. on μέν. Also Fernández-Galiano (1956) on 58 and Willcock (1995) 155 on 58. 31 Thus Fraenkel (1978) vol. 2, 287, citing Pind. P. 5.15–20. 32 Denniston (1966) 380. 33 Bollack (1963) 236 n. 2: this interpretation is shared by almost all who have been concerned with the passage. Cf. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 194 on 123. 34 Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1922) 243.

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depart for a moment from the hermeneutic approach, and to put these lines in relation to passages in other works, one is struck by the similarity of this opening to the openings of two indisputably Eleusinian passages, a strophe in Frogs (sun and holy light for us alone, 454 f.) and Pindar fr. 129.1 f. (sunlight below while it is night here). But what exactly does the phrase ‘equal nights and days’ in Olympian 2 mean?35 Basil Gildersleeve said: Equal nights and equal days may be equal to each other (equinoctial) or equal to ours; may be equal in length or equal in character. “Equal to each other in character” seems to be the safest interpretation. “The night shineth as the day; the darkness and the light are both alike.”36

An assertion by Pindar of perpetual sunlight would fit with the fundamental binary structure of Eleusinian initiation, which is ritual blindness vs. ritual sight37. This structure takes the particular form, on the day of the epoptika, of blindfolded quasi-dying followed by “extraordinary light” (Plut. fr. 178 Sandbach)38. The strophe can, then, be translated: The noble have sun forever, alike by day and by night. They receive a less toilsome life. They do not vex the earth with straining hand, or the waters of the sea, for the sake of a bare [lit. empty] livelihood. But they, whoever used to rejoice in keeping their oaths, live a tearless life amongst those honored by gods39 while the others bear the burden of unsightly toil.

In the fourth antistrophe, Pindar introduces a separate and, by implication, numerically smaller group: “As many as …” (ὅσοι δ’ 68)40. They can expect a separate outcome (68–70): “As many as have brought themselves, having tarried for a total of three times on both sides (i. e., in this world and the next), to keep their soul entirely from injustice, they have accomplished the road of Zeus to the tower of Cronus.”41 “A total of three times” is Carl Johann 35 Helpful summary of the three main positions in Willcock (1995) 156 ad loc. For another somewhat more extensive summary see Fernández-Galiano (1956) on 61. The most recent (not unsophisticated) sustainer of the equinoctial interpretation is Lehnus (1981) 45 on 61 f. Lehnus does not cite Woodbury (1966), the standard reference for this interpretation. 36 Gildersleeve (1885) 150. Also Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 183. 37 Clinton (2003) 50. 38 Cf. (again) Clinton (2003) 65 f. 39 In τιμίοις θεῶν the gen. can be subjective (cf. Aesch. Eum. 967), which would make sense here. It is difficult to decide between this interpretation and partitive gen., “near honored gods”, i. e. Hades and Persephone. In Aristoph. Ran., Heracles tells Dionysus that the initiates live at the door of Pluto (163); later the initiates say that they are going to meet the goddess (400). See above on privileged status as indicated by location in the underworld. Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 189 f. takes the gen. as partitive. 40 On δ’ Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 194 “heeft zwak adversatieve waarde”. 41 On eschatological multiples of three, see Albinus (2000) 127 f.

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Tycho Mommsen’s interpretation, which removed the apparent nonsense of refraining from injustice in the underworld and the implausible departure to the Isle of the Blest from within the underworld42. Those attaining the afterlife described in the antistrophe have clearly met a higher standard than those in the Eleusinian (as I have suggested) paradise, who only had to keep their oaths during one lifetime on earth. ἑκατέρωθι (69) can be interpreted to support Mommsen’s interpretation. A comparable use of a word formed on the ἑκα- base occurs in Thucydides’ account of the Battle of Mantinea. He describes how the battle-line of the Argives and their allies gave way. He says that the line was broken up ἐφ’ ἑκάτερα, which ought, in the context, to mean that “a breach had been made on both sides of the centre”43. He proceeds to focus on the Athenian contingent, which is encircled ἀμφοτέροθεν, ‘on both sides’. This adverb, though it refers to a different sector of the line, has the same meaning as the prepositional phrase ἐφ’ ἑκάτερα, i. e. ‘on both sides’ as viewed from a bird’s-eye perspective which sees the two sides simultaneously and collectively. The base ἑκα- is not, then, necessarily distributive in meaning. The adverb at Pindar O. 2.69 can likewise be taken as non-distributive, to mean ‘in both this world and the other’, i. e. in both worlds taken together44. In the eschatological passage as a whole, there is, then, a central division, and there are three different post mortem outcomes. The first picture of the afterlife begins with a judgment and a description of the carefree life of the ἐσλοί (63) in the underworld45. Let us call the afterlife of the ἐσλοί outcome A. The first picture closes with a terse statement about those who have been judged wanting: “their burden is unsightly toil” (67). Let us call 42 Mommsen (1864) 30 (Annotatio critica on line 68): Numerum ternarium quaeras quomodo poeta acceperit. Sex vitas si statuit, postrema apud inferos fuerit necesse est, ut inde ad beatorum insulas perveniant. Hoc displicet. Vide an binas tantum terrestres, singulas intermedias infernas statuere voluerit. For the history of interpretation of ‘three times on either side’, see Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 197–200. Willcock (1995) 158 is skeptical of Mommsen’s interpretation, which is followed by Van Leeuwen. 43 Andrewes in Gomme/Andrewes/Dover (1970) 124. My emphasis. 44 Race (1997) 71 translates: “those with the courage to have lived three times in either realm”. His alternate translation (n. 14) seems to me impossible. 45 Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 171, paraphrasing the sense as »wie hier sterft, blijkt in het hiernamaals tot zijn vloek of zegen onsterfelijk te zijn, de dood hier op aarde is slechts een schijnbare” (my emphasis), shows how Pindar’s words serve both as a warning to Theron and as introduction to the eschatological passage. Van Leeuwen observes that the idea is traditional, already in Homer (Tantalus accursed for ever, Menelaus blessed forever). The idea of paying a penalty here is thus to be distinguished from the apparently similar (Orphic?) idea in the gold leaves (fr. 489, 490 B) and Pind. fr. 133 (cf. Van Leeuwen 1964, vol. 1, 175 and nn.). Johnston (1999) 137 f. discusses the passages just cited in connection with Derv. Pap. col. 6, suggesting an apotropaic cult.

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this outcome B. So the first picture presents contrasting outcomes: A vs. B. The second picture concerns those who, after living a total of three times on both sides, have kept their soul free from injustice (68 f.). Such persons will reach the Isle of the Blest. Let us call this outcome C. It is the only outcome considered in the second picture. Further, it is distinctly different from either of those in the first picture. Summing up, then, one can say that in the eschatological passage as a whole outcome C is opposed to the two preceding outcomes, i. e. A + B. 57–67 Picture 1: A vs. B 68–83 Picture 2: C Pictures 1 and 2 together: C vs. A + B

One can now reread the passage with an eye to geography. Although outcomes A and B are opposed, there is no indication that those experiencing these outcomes are in different places. On the contrary, all of these deceased are simply “beneath the earth”, where they meet the judgment which divides them into two groups (59 f.). As for outcome C, those who attain it “accomplish the road of Zeus to the tower of Kronos”, where the Isle of the Blest lies (70–72). They are not in the underworld at all. In short, the three outcomes correspond to two different places, the underworld and the Isle of the Blest. Outcome C, a distinctly higher state of bliss, constitutes a compliment to Theron, and, to emphasize the superiority of C, Pindar perhaps underplays the pleasures of A46. It is necessary, then, to reject an interpretation of the geography which goes back to Wilamowitz47. He interpreted the geography of the eschatological passage in O. 2 with reference to Pind. fr. 129, 131a, and 130 (now combined by Snell/Maehler), which describe the location in the underworld of those who have lived impious and criminal lives. (In Boeckh’s terms, Wilamowitz’ approach is “critical,” seeking immediately to understand the Pindaric geography in relation to something else.) Plutarch introduces the fragment in question (130) with reference to a “third road”. Wilamowitz assumed that there were in fact three different roads to the underworld, and he thought that he had found a parallel in Varro Men. fr. 560, where, however, Varro is talking about signs of the zodiac and corridors between them, through one of which Heracles passed when he went to join the gods. The relevance of this passage to Pindar seems to me extremely 46 Willcock (1995) 138 and more emphatically at 156 f., citing Solmsen (1968): “[I]t has been pointed out […] that the picture given of the abode of the righteous is, apart from the sunshine, negative rather than positive. We are told that there is no toil there, and no tears. The reason […] is that Pindar saves the positive happiness for the second state of bliss, the Isle of the Blest.” 47 Wilamowitz (1922) 497–500.

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dubious48. In any case, for understanding the “third road” in Plutarch the most important thing is the context of this expression in the treatise in which he quotes our fr. 130. (One will take a hermeneutic approach to Plutarch.) In that context, Plutarch proceeds to discuss not three but two places in the underworld. Cannatà Fera got it right when she explained that all the dead start out on the same path, which then divides into two paths at a triodos49. She compared the eschatological passage in Plato’s Gorgias (524a2–4), where Socrates says that two roads lead from the triodos, ‘meeting of three roads’ (LSJ⁹ s. v.), one to the Isles of the Blest and the other to Tartarus (524a2–4). Socrates speaks in this way because, from the point of view of someone travelling any of the three roads, at the point of intersection there will be only two choices, two roads on which to continue. To go back to Plutarch, his “third road” simply assumes the road of arrival as the first road, while the second and third roads lead to the two divisions of the familiar bipartite underworld. The supplement with which Snell-Maehler introduce Pind. fr. 129 (tres sunt animarum post mortem viae, etc.) is very misleading. Graf made, in effect, the same combination as Wilamowitz50. But he based this combination not on anything internal to fr. 129 but on Plutarch’s reference to a “third road”, which I have just discussed. Graf, assuming a tripartite division of the underworld in Plutarch (in whom, to repeat, it is bipartite), found a corresponding division in the passage in O. 251. But Pindar is talking about three different post mortem outcomes, organized as in the outline presented above. He nowhere makes a tripartite geographical division of the underworld. The striking thing about antistrophe 4 is its presupposition, distinctly un-Eleusinian, of reincarnation. The scholiasts saw this doctrine as Pythagorean (123a, 123e), and modern scholars have often followed them, though Orphism now enters the discussion52. However the doctrine of the antistrophe should be labeled – a problem for critical understanding – it entails an eschatological geography for which, at some points, ancient parallels are lacking. If, however, this ode is understood as communication between Pindar and Theron, to restate the hermeneutical premise, one can at least assume that 48 49 50 51 52

Willcock (1995) 171 f. considers Wilamowitz’ discussion “brilliant”. Cannatà Fera (1990) 171 f., cited by Willcock (1995) 172, not with approval. Graf (1974) 79–94 (III. § 1 “Die eleusinische Eschatologie”). Graf (1974) 84 f. In connection with the apparent Pythagoreanism of outcome C, it is regularly pointed out that Empedocles, who was about twenty at the time of O. 2, lived in Acragas and was certainly influenced by Pythagoras. E. g. Lloyd-Jones (1985) 246. More recently Willcock (1995) 139: “It is reasonable to assume that the isolated [i. e., in the works of Pindar] assertion of such a doctrine [metempsychosis] in O. 2 has more to do with Theron than with Pindar and the connection with Empedocles supports this.” On the relation of Empedocles to Pythagoras, see Macris (2006) 309 f.

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Theron knew what Pindar was talking about, indeed that Theron expected to encounter such things as the tower of Cronus. Theron might even have believed that he was now in his final existence on earth. One should not, then, transfer our own ignorance to supposed vagueness on Pindar’s part53. “There”, the picture continues through the antistrophe and into the first line of the epode, “breezes from Ocean blow around the island of the blest. Blossoms of gold blaze, some on land on glorious trees, while water nourishes others. They enwreathe their hands with garlands of these and make crowns, under the straight guidance of Rhadamanthys, whom the great father has as a ready adjutor, the husband of Rhea on her all-highest throne” (68–75)54. Pindar proceeds to name three other inhabitants of the island of the blest, Peleus, Cadmus, and Achilles (78 f.)55. After the last of the three in this list, there follows a very brief mythical digression introduced by a relative pronoun (81)56. Then comes the ‘break-off ’, with return to the first person (83)57. If Theron joins heroes like the ones just named, then, at the end, he joins a group which reached the Isle of the Blest not because of an eschatological or soteriological promise but because of their achievements. In the logic of the passage as a whole, taken with the introductory gnome concerning wealth (53–56) and with the ‘break-off ’ and the conclusion to which it quickly leads, it is the wealth of Theron and its display in euergesia which enable him to attain the same afterlife as that of the heroes whom Pindar names58. In this way, Theron, despite the implicit acknowledgment of a certain soteriology (to us still obscure), remains a fitting object of epinician praise and to the conferral of immortality by kleos (thus εὐκλέας ὀϊστούς ‘shafts of glory’, Bowra 1969, 90)59. The ‘break-off ’ as a whole (83–90) contains a word the interpretation of which epitomizes critical understanding (cf. the distinction between critical and hermeneutic with which this paper began). Bernabé in a note on his 53 Farnell (1932) 19 (on line 67): “Pindar leaves much vagueness in this eschatology.” 54 Last phrase in my translation from Bowra (1969) 83. 55 For Peleus and Cadmus (cf. 23) on the Isle of the Blest see Van Leeuwen (1964) vol. 1, 216 f. Cf. Bacchyl. 3.58–62: Apollo snatches Croesus and his daughters from the pyre and takes them to the land of the Hyperboreans because of Croesus’ piety, shown in his many gifts to Delphi. 56 Edmunds (2006) n. 2: The typical opening of a mythical digression in Pindar is relative pronoun + aorist + ποτε + aorist participle (or a subset of these). 57 Race (1990) 41–57. For O. 2.81–85, see 51 n. 13. 58 As Hampe (1952) saw, though he confused the two separate eschatologies. See his summary of the ode (62). 59 The conflict between the epinician immortality of kleos, a reward for achievement, and the eschatological promise of immortality for the just soul was the theme of Lloyd-Jones (1985) and Nisetich (1988) and has recently been discussed by Kratzer (2008), who speaks of two “contesting ideologies”.

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Orph. fr. 1a (p. 2) ἀείσω ξυνετοῖσι compares βέλη […] φωνάεντα συνετοῖσιν (O. 2.83 f.)60. But in this context in O. 2 Pindar refers to his own poetry and to its appropriate audience. The συνετοί are those who can understand praise poetry, and these persons presumably include some (a majority?) who are ineligible for an afterlife on the Isle of the Blest61. It would be absurd at this point for Pindar to refer to Orphic beliefs, in effect limiting his audience to Orphics, even if one assumes that the beliefs expressed in Antistrophe 4 are somehow Orphic. Having defined, and in effect restricted, his audience by praising its intelligence, Pindar goes on to say not, as in the usual interpretation, that for others his poetry needs interpreters (he is not thinking about some secondary audience) but that it needs those who can express it aloud62. Only by stripping συνετοῖσιν of its context and treating it as ‘evidence’ and then ‘combining’ it directly with something else (in this case a short fragment, i. e. Orph. fr. 1a, itself of dubious interpretation) can one arrive at the Orphic interpretation. The objection to this “critical” (to use Boeckh’s term again) procedure, which is of course often productive and was certainly not repudiated by Boeckh either in theory or practice, is that it may injudiciously neglect the evidence of context. The evidence of context, however, emerges only in the syntheses obtained from hermeneutic reading and rereading. The goal of the present contribution is not, in any case, to specify the doctrinal affiliations of the eschatological passage and details of its immediate context, like συνετοῖσιν, but to bring back an approach that has been neglected in the interpretation of O. 263. This approach, accepting the principle of the circle and entering the circle at a neglected point, has suggested an interpretation that goes contrary to some prevailing opinions. 60 Cf. West (1983) 83 f. He is cautious about the provenance of Orph. fr. 1a from an Orphic theogony, deciding that perhaps it is. Commentators on this passage in Pindar are divided on Orphic resonance. Lehnus (1981) 50, for example, considers the mysteric interpretation an “illazione infondata”. Willcock (1995) 161 on 85 f., on the other hand, sees Orphic coloring. 61 See Nagy (²1999) 239 f. for the restriction of praise poetry to “those who can understand”; Battisti (1990) for σύνετος as aristocratic self-description. 62 Most (1986) 313 interprets ἐς δὲ τὸ πὰν ἑρμανέων / χατίζει (85 f.) to mean: “And they (the arrows [83]) all crave people to express them out loud.” He compares Pind. I. 5.46–56. He remarks on σύνετος that this word “both in Pindar and elsewhere in archaic Greek literature, often refers to the poet’s listeners, either to his patron in particular as a man of discriminating taste, or, more generally, to the audience as people who will understand and approve of his poetry” (313 with n. 51, a considerable collection of passages, some of which are discussed by Battisti [1990] and brought into her interpretation of the particular ideology of Pindar’s definition of his audience). 63 It has been neglected partly because of Boeckh himself. For Boeckh in the history of classical scholarship see my “The Reception of Horace’s Odes”, forthcoming in the Blackwell Companion to Horace.

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Works cited Albinus (2000). – Lars Albinus, The House of Hades: Studies in Ancient Greek Eschatolog y (Aarhus 2000). Battisti (1990). – Daniela Battisti, “σύνετος as Aristocratic Self-Description”, GRBS 31 (1990) 5–25. Bernabé Pajares/Jiménez San Cristóbal (2008). – Alberto Bernabé Pajares/Ana Isabel Jiménez San Cristóbal, Instructions for the Netherworld: The Orphic Gold Tablets (Leiden 2008). Boeckh (²1886). – August Boeckh, Encyklopädie und Methodologie der philologischen Wissenschaften (Leipzig ²1886). Bollack (1963). – Jean Bollack, “L’or des rois: Le mythe de la Deuxième Olympique de Pindare”, RPh, sér. 3, 37 (1963) 234–254. Bowra (1969). – Cecil Maurice Bowra, The Odes of Pindar (Harmondsworth 1969). Bundy (1986). – Elroy L. Bundy, Studia Pindarica (Berkeley 1986). Cannatà Fera (1990). – Maria Cannatà Fera, Threnorum fragmenta (Roma 1990). Clinton (2003). – Kevin Clinton, “Stages of Initiation in the Eleusinian and Samothracian Mysteries”, in: Michael B. Cosmopoulos (ed.), Greek Mysteries: The Archaeolog y and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults (London 2003) 50–78. Currie (2005). – Bruno Currie, Pindar and the Cult of Heroes (Oxford 2005). Denniston (1966). – John Dewar Denniston, The Greek Particles (Oxford ²2006 [1966]). Edmunds (2006). – Lowell Edmunds, “The New Sappho: ἔφαντο (9)”, ZPE 156 (2006) 23–26. Farnell (1932). – Lewis R. Farnell, Critical Commentary to the Works of Pindar, vol. 2 (London 1932). Fernández-Galiano (1956). – Manuel Fernández-Galiano, Píndaro: Olímpicas (Madrid 1956). Flashar (1979). – Helmut Flashar, “Die methodisch-hermeneutischen Ansätze von Friedrich August Wolf und Friedrich Ast – Traditionelle und neue Begründungen”, in: id./Karlfried Gründer/Axel Horstmann (eds.), Philologie und Hermeneutik im 19. Jahrhundert: Zur Geschichte und Methodologie der Geisteswissenschaften (Göttingen 1979) 21–32. Fraenkel (1978). – Eduard Fraenkel, Aeschylus: Agamemnon, vol. 1–3 (Oxford 1978). Gentili/Lomiento (2003). – Bruno Gentili/Liana Lomiento, Metrica e ritmica: Storia delle forme poetiche nella Grecia antica (Milano 2003). Gildersleeve (1885). – Basil L. Pindar Gildersleeve, The Olympian and Pythian Odes (New York 1885). Gomme/Andrewes/Dover (1970). – Arnold Wycombe Gomme/Antony Andrewes/ Kenneth J. Dover (eds.), A Historical Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 4 (Oxford 1970). Graf (1974). – Fritz Graf, Eleusis und die orphische Dichtung Athens in vorhellenistischer Zeit, RGVV 33 (Berlin 1974). Hampe (1952). – Roland Hampe, “Zur Eschatologie in Pindars zweiter olympischer Ode”, in: Hermeneia: Festschrift Otto Regenbogen (Heidelberg 1952) 46–65. Johnston (1999). – Sarah Iles Johnston, Restless Dead: Encounters between the Living and the Dead in Ancient Greece (Berkeley 1999). Kratzer (2008). – Emily Kratzer, “Contesting Ideologies: The Epinician and the Soteriological in Pindar’s Olympian 2”, in: Abstracts: American Philological Association 139th Annual Meeting (Philadelphia 2008).

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Lehnus (1981). – Luigi Lehnus, Pindaro: Olimpiche (Milano 1981). Lloyd-Jones (1985). – Hugh Lloyd-Jones, “Pindar and the Afterlife”, in: Pindare. Entretiens sur l’antiquité classique 17 (Vandœuvres-Geneva 1985) 245–283 (repr. in: id., Greek Epic, Lyric, and Tragedy: The Academic Papers of Sir Hugh Lloyd-Jones, Oxford 1990, 80–103). Macris (2006). – Constantinos Macris, “Becoming Divine by Imitating Pythagoras?”, Mètis, n. s. 4 (2006) 297–329. Merkelbach (1973). – Reinhold Merkelbach, “Päonische Strophen bei Pindar und Bakchylides”, ZPE 12 (1973) 45–55. Miller (1993). – Andrew M. Miller, “Pindaric Mimesis: The Associative Mode”, CJ 89 (1993) 21–53. Mommsen (1864). – C. J. Tycho Mommsen, Pindari Carmina (Berlin 1864). Most (1986). – Glenn Warren Most, “Pindar, O. 2.83–90”, CQ 36 (1986) 304–316. Nagy (²1999). – Gregory Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans (Baltimore ²1999 [1979]). Nisetich (1988). – Frank J. Nisetich, “Immortality in Acragas: Poetry and Religion in Pindar’s Second Olympian Ode”, CP 83 (1988) 1–19. Pavese (1975). – Carlo Odo Pavese, “Le Olimpiche di Pindaro”, QUCC 20 (1975) 65–121. Perosa (1941). – Alessandro Perosa, “’La Seconda Ode Olimpiaca di Pindaro”, SIFC 18 (1941) 25–53. Race (1979). – William Race, “The East End of Olympiα 2: Pindar and the Vulgus”, California Studies in Classical Antiquity 12 (1979) 251–267. Race (1990). – William Race, Style and Rhetoric in Pindar’s Odes, American Classical Studies 24 (Atlanta 1990). Race (1997). – William Race (ed.), Pindar, vol. 1 (Cambridge, Mass. 1997). Scarpi (2002). – Paolo Scarpi (ed.), Le religioni dei misteri. Vol. 1: Eleusi, dionisismo, orfismo (Milano 2002). Snell (³1962). – Bruno Snell, Griechische Metrik (Göttingen ³1962). Solmsen (1968). – Friedrich Solmsen, “Two Pindaric Passages on the Hereafter”, Hermes 96 (1968) 503–506. Van Leeuwen (1964). – Johannes Van Leeuwen, Pindarus’ tweede Olympische ode, vol. 1–2 (Assen 1964). West (1980). – Martin L. West, “Iambics in Simonides, Bacchylides and Pindar”, ZPE 37 (1980) 137–155. West (1982). – Martin L. West, Greek Metre (Oxford 1982). West (1983). – The Orphic Poems (Oxford 1983). Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1922). – Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, Pindaros (Berlin 1992). Willcock (1995). – Malcolm M. Willcock, Pindar: Victory Odes: Olympians 2, 7, and 11; Nemean 4; Isthmians 3, 4, and 7 (Cambridge 1995). Woodbury (1966). – Leonard Woodbury, “Equinox at Acragas: Pindar, Ol. 2.61–62”, TAPhA 97 (1966) 597–616.

Troy and Tragedy: The Conscience of Hellas froma i. zeitlin

Greek tragedy, let us recall, was a public state-sponsored institution of the city of Athens, which supplied the funds, the poets, the actors, the chorus, the stage, and the majority of the audience for its theatrical productions1. It was “both a vehicle of important competition and a form of popular entertainment”2. Dramatic festivals were high-profile events. The best known, the City Dionysia, was timed to take place in March at the beginning of the sailing season, to allow visiting dignitaries and other outsiders to attend. Inevitably then, there was a significant socio-political dimension in the context of these public performances. That Athenian tragedy came to be an exportable item, not limited to a single location or specific culture, may owe no small part of its appeal to broader and more universal themes, thereby only enhancing Athens’ own claims, as Pericles’ Funeral Oration tells us, to be an “education for all of Hellas”. But this fact does not preclude consideration of what the theater might have meant to and for Athens as a site for self-reflection, for exploration of its own civic identity, which often entailed a cacophony of voices, of competing allegiances and values. As recently remarked: The rise of tragedy as an art form gave Athens a powerful instrument for celebration, criticism, and redefining of its institutions and ideals, for examining the tensions between heroic legend and democratic ideology, between past and present, and for discussing political and moral questions of the day3.

1

2 3

I offer this essay in affection and admiration to Fritz Graf, who has done so much to further the study of mythology in all its genres. No one would contest the central position of Troy in the Greek tradition, especially tragedy. This small offering, it need hardly be said, is one contribution to a vast and complex subject. Given the constraints of this volume, notes and bibliography have been kept to a minimum. Burian (1997) 206. Burian (1997) 206.

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The most distinctive element perhaps of the entire genre was the deliberate choice of a repertoire of plot and themes, drawn from a body of traditional myths, whose general outlines were known, but which could, up to a certain point, be manipulated, redrawn, and renewed to introduce maximum surprise in their dramatizations. But despite variations and innovations in both form and material “that could forcefully direct or dislocate spectators’ attention, confirm, modify, or even overturn their expectations”4, the core elements of character and setting remain powerful nodes of orientation. The two best known mythic clusters revolve around two major cities, mentioned together already in the 7th century by the poet Hesiod, who, in describing the Five Ages of Man, inserts a Heroic Age in fourth place that directly precedes the last, the Iron Age. “These are the men who fought around seven-gated Thebes […] and those who went in ships over the great sea gulf to Troy for rich-haired Helen’s sake.”5 In earlier work on the representation of Thebes and the aggregate of its myths on the tragic stage, I spoke of that city as a topos, that is a place, a geographical locale, but also a conceptual category, one that in this case focused on a recurrent set of problems in ways that marked it as a kind of anti-Athens. That is, Thebes, home of Oedipus and his family, home of the god Dionysus himself, I argued, was represented as the negative model to Athens’ manifest self-image with regard to the proper negotiation of those issues crucial to the polis, the self, the family, and the larger world beyond its borders. In this view Thebes, not Athens, was the place marked by internal strife, xenophobia, the threat of tyranny, and self-consuming violence, and where its rulers posed a threat to the future of the city itself. By contrast, the democratic city was nearly always represented on stage as free from such dangerous conflicts, under the guidance of enlightened leaders, who in their stage roles demonstrate piety, truthfulness, and a passion for justice. It was Thebes, I concluded, as the site of displacement and projection, that more safely furnished the territory for exploring the most radical implications of the tragic without incurring any of the risks that more overt speaking would entail. In this ideological construct, therefore, “events in Thebes and the characters who enact them will both fascinate and repel the Athenian audience, finally instructing the spectators as to how their city might refrain from imitating the other’s negative example” but also inviting its citizens to see themselves in the mirror of the other6. But when I turned from Thebes to Troy in tragedy, I discovered a much more diffuse and more complex set of associations and possibilities, when it came to that great and fabled city and what happened to it meant or could 4 5 6

Burian (1997) 179. Hes. op. 162–165. Adapted from Zeitlin (1990) 144 f.

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come to mean for both sides, Trojans and Greeks alike. If Thebes with its walls and famous seven gates remains standing, no matter what transpires within its territory (e. g., incest, murder, fratricide, civil war), what counts most for the city of Troy on stage is not, as in Homer’s Iliad, the battlefield and combats, not the domestic life within its walls, but rather its final destiny – its utter ruin – and the shock waves that emanate from its conflagration, which spread far beyond its boundaries in both space and time. Its fate was to become, as it were, a non-place7. The chorus of young women in the Hecuba, recalling that last deadly night cries out: O Ilium! O my native land, Whose name among unfallen cities Men will speak no more. So dense a cloud of Greeks Came, spear on spear, destroying! Your crown of towers shorn away, And everywhere most pitifully the staining fire. Alas, no more shall I Walk your ways again!8

“This is no longer Troy you see”, says the queen Hecuba herself at the beginning of the Trojan Women, “nor are we now Troy’s kings”9, and as the flames rise at the end of the play, the chorus laments “Our city, fallen to the spear, fades as smoke winged in the sky […] the great city (megalopolis) is now no city (apolis) and has perished. Troy is no more.”10 In short, Troy is not only an elsewhere; it becomes a ‘nowhere’: its walls breached, its fortified citadel gone, its temples and shrines destroyed, its inhabitants killed or dragged off into servitude, while its conquerors, for their part, are judged by what they do and how they do it. “Troy is good to think with”, or “bonne à penser”, because beyond any other place it is a staging ground for interrogating those oppositions so dear to Greek thought: Hellene and barbarian, male and female, friend and enemy, free and slave, victor and victim, as is especially the case in Euripides’ two dramas, Hecuba and the Trojan Women, each of which is set in the immediate aftermath of the fall of Troy. A just war in the first instance, with a just outcome, to be sure, to punish Paris for his abduction of Helen, the casus belli, and the further hybris of the Trojans in refusing to return her, an outrage that violated the rules of hospitality and offended Zeus Xenios, the god who protects strangers and guests. 7 On “the past present and future regarding the space of Troy” in tragedy, see also Croally (1994) 192–296. 8 Eur. Hec. 905–914. 9 Eur. Tro. 100 f. 10 Eur. Tro. 1298 f., 1291 f.

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As such, the victory of Greek over Trojan could function as it did, especially in the wake of the Persian wars, as a heroic enterprise, along with the legendary battles of Greeks against the warrior Amazons, Lapiths against the bestial Centaurs, and the Olympian gods against the blasphemous giants – all of which advertised a signal victory of civilization over barbarism, order over chaos, law over despotism, and above all, of west over east. These oppositions are especially evident in the public monuments in the city of Athens, whether the painted colonnades of the Stoa Poikile (460 BCE) in the heart of the city that commemorated the victory at Marathon, or the better known sculptures of the Parthenon metopes on the Acropolis (442 BCE). These visual tributes, like other such permanent additions to the city’s landscape, had “a spatially fixed, ideologically central thrust, making it, in a sense, correspond to the ‘voice of the polis’”11, whereby the representation of Trojan themes (along with others that opposed Greeks to non-Greeks) could sustain and promote an ideology of Hellenic moral superiority and heroic achievement. Hence, “by the second quarter of the 5th century”, as has been observed, “the expedition against Troy was seen as a righteous struggle, a war of retribution”12. At the same time, the dominant tradition tells us, quite remarkably, that the Greeks themselves incurred the charge of hybris or worse in their destruction of Troy. According to the Iliupersis of the epic cycle, the victors transgressed, not so much in the general mayhem of battle and the brutal sack of a city (actions, in truth, not contrary to Greek military practices), but in the nature and types of violence construed as offenses against the gods themselves. Of the royal family the aged king, Priam, slain on the altar of Zeus Herkeios; Hector’s son, Astyanax, hurled from the ramparts; a daughter, Cassandra, violated in the temple of Athena; and another daughter, Polyxena, sacrificed to appease the ghost of Achilles. As Castriota observes, even though the “Greek offensive against the Trojans was righteous in principle, had the Greeks actually conducted themselves with moderation [sic ] in the taking of Troy, the theme would have provided the ideal mythic and heroic paradigm for the vindication of divine law against the sinful and arrogant power of Asia”. But as he continues, “Virtually every literary and artistic testimony that we have for the Iliupersis shows that the behavior of Greeks in the sack of Priam’s city was anything but exemplary”13. 11 Buxton (1994) 58. 12 Castriota (1992) 86. 13 Castriota (1992) 97. Unlike the public monuments mentioned above, the iconography of vase painting (both black and red figure) generally follows the Iliupersis accounts of Greek atrocities that emphasize sacrilege and brutal excess. See further Castriota (1992) 97–100 and 267 n. 3 with ample bibliography. Also see Hölscher (1998) 178–183. For an excellent survey of the repertory of vases, see Anderson

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War was an ugly business, as Homer already tells us in the Iliad: the Trojans were under no illusion as to the brutal fate that awaited them hands of the Greeks, if they were defeated14, although even within the heroic code of masculine triumph, the epic imagination questions the limits of force in a show of sympathy with the victims. So in the Odyssey, when the bard sings of the sack of Troy, Odysseus’ emotional reaction here is not one of pride in his accomplishment as a “sacker of cities” (ptoliporthos) but the shedding of tears that in a reverse simile recalls the wretched state of a woman in the conquered city: like a woman weeping, lying over the body of her dear husband, who fell fighting for her city and people as he tried to beat off the pitiless day from city and children; she sees him dying and gasping for breath, and winding her body about him she cries high and shrill, while the men behind her, hitting her with their spear butts on the back and the shoulders force her up and lead her away into slavery, to have hard work and sorrow, and her cheeks are wracked with pitiful weeping15.

Male exchanges roles with a female; and the conqueror imagines himself in the place of the conquered. This tension between Greek triumph and Trojan suffering compromises any firm line of demarcation between the opposing sides, both because Greeks might one day find themselves in the generic position of the defeated on the one hand, and on the other, especially as dramatized in the 5th century theater, the imbalance between the powerful and the powerless, may undermine the clear distinction between Greek and barbarian and reflect on competing claims of might vs. right. In such situations, where does justice reside? In what does it consist? Aeschylus’ Agamemnon assigns moral culpability to both sides. Paris stole another man’s wife when a guest in his house and sailed off to Troy, his homeland, with Helen as his prize. No wonder the Greeks went to war to recover what was rightfully theirs; no wonder they could proclaim their cause as just. As the chorus declares: “A man thought the gods deigned not to punish mortals who trampled down the delicacy of things […] and spurned the high altar of Justice.”16 But the victors are themselves at risk, as Clytemnestra slyly had warned at the news of the fall of Troy: If they reverence the gods who hold the city and all the holy temples of the captured land, they, the despoilers, might not be despoiled in turn. Let not their passion overwhelm them; let no lust (1997) 180–265 and the discussion in Ferrari (2000), although I cannot follow the latter in her conclusions about the Parthenon metopes. 14 Hom. Il. 22.59–71(Priam); 24.725–739 (Andromache). 15 Hom. Od. 8.521–530. 16 Aesch. Ag. 369 f., 383 f.

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seize on these men to violate what they must not […] Yet, though the host come home without offense to high gods, even so the anger of these slaughtered men may never sleep. Oh, let there be no fresh wrong done!17

But, as we shortly discover, the Greeks indeed have already overstepped the bounds, as the Herald unwittingly informs us at the moment of the king’s return, in an ironic preview of what awaits Agamemnon at the hands of his wife at his homecoming: Salute him [Agamemnon] with good favor, as he well deserves, the man who has wrecked Ilium with the spade of Zeus vindictive, whereby all their plain had been laid waste. Gone are their altars, the sacred places of the gods Are gone, and scattered all the seed within the ground18.

For these transgressions, Athena, the champion of the Greeks, can make common cause with her erstwhile adversary, Poseidon, in a surprising reversal of loyalties, as we learn in the prologue to Euripides’ Trojan Women. She needs his help to punish the Greeks with an unhappy sea voyage home because they had “outraged her temple and shamed her”, when Ajax dragged Cassandra off by force and “he was in no way punished or censured by the Achaeans”19. Poseidon is only too happy to comply: in his farewell to Troy, long ago a happy place, he mourns the fact that he “must leave his altars and the walls of great Ilion, since once a city sinks into sad desolation the gods’ state sickens also, and their worship fades”20. Indeed he concludes: “Foolish is the mortal who sacks cities and yet, giving over to desolation temples and tombs, holy places of the dead […] and perishes later himself.”21 In Euripides’ other play that treats the end of Troy, Hecuba, set not in the Troad but across the straits in Thrace, there are no gods, to speak of, even though there are a few references to divinities, many conventional appeals to the usual pieties. The city has already fallen and the Trojan captives are awaiting departure with the Greeks to their respective servile assignments. Hecuba dominates this play as she does the other, and in each the barbaric behavior of the Greeks calls the distinction between Greek and Trojan into question in the name of a cynical Realpolitik, albeit in different ways. The typical roster of Trojan women is present in both dramas, but not to the same degree, and their fates are represented in different ways: The issue of Polyxena’s sacrifice to Achilles’ ghost is a key event in Hecuba, but Cassandra’s role, vital to the plot as it may be, is marked by her conspicuous 17 18 19 20 21

Aesch. Ag. 338–342, 345–348. Aesch. Ag. 524–528. Eur. Tro. 69–71. Eur. Tro. 25–27. Eur. Tro. 95, 97.

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absence from the stage. Andromache’s plight, in turn, earns only a passing allusion in the same drama, but both she and Cassandra, are allotted essential parts in Trojan Women. Each theatrical spectacle highlights the public death of one of Hecuba’s kin – the murder of Hector’s child, Astyanax in Trojan Women, her daughter Polyxena’s sacrifice in honor of Achilles in Hecuba. In both plays, Hecuba is charged with the task of burial rites for children – and in each, Hecuba performs one single act of resistance to the cruel violence perpetrated upon her and her loved ones. In both plays, the captive women take center stage; in both they fill the air with their laments at their terrible losses. And yet, the two plays differ from one another in significant ways without, however, ever losing the focus on the shame of defeat and the ethics of conquest, both religious (the sacrifice of a maiden, Polyxena; the quasi-ritual disposal of a child, Astyanax) and political. Tragedy, therefore, is not only a staging ground for confronting the heroic tradition in subtle and often, ironic, ways. Rather, the stuff of drama in the first instance is, no doubt, the Greek response to the pressures of war that promotes critical reflection on Athenian’s wartime ideology and indicts the corrupting forces of unlimited power that turns victors into transgressors. Far from a more comfortable distance projected onto ‘other selves’, as in the case of Thebes (home of Oedipus and Dionysus), for example, Troy in tragedy, we might say, is the conscience of Hellas, a site for looking inwards, for the self-examination of values in the exultation (or promise) of victory that engages all Greeks in a common identity. Let us first note that the heyday of tragedy fell in the period between the wars that Greece had fought with Persia in the early part of the century (480–450 BCE) and the Peloponnesian war of the last three decades (beginning in 431 BCE), the internal conflict between Athens and Sparta that tore the Greek world apart. The siege of Troy, therefore, could be used to ‘prefigure’ them both and function as “the prism through which Athens in the 5th century refracted its own preoccupation with military engagement” – whether in the role of victim or victor22. If in the theater Trojans could be aligned with contemporary Persians, “the identification was far from equivocal. Trojans could at times behave like Greeks, while their Greek counterparts could behave like barbarians”23, although the subsequent antagonism between Athens and Sparta, along with the rise of Athenian imperialism could complicate these identifications still further24. Tonio Hölscher sums it up in speaking of the larger artistic accomplishments of the period 22 Hall (2000) chap. 9. 23 Erskine (2001) 61 f. 24 Dué (2006) 107, suggests a “complex dynamic of democracy, empire, civic pride, and wartime suffering”, that could engender a “potential multiplicity of responses” from an audience in late 5th century Athens.

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that “led Athenian society into a political order without precedent and dominion over an empire of incomparable extension. Theirs”, he continues, “was a balancing act […] that must have created an ambivalent state of collective psychology, between euphoric self-assertion and profound selfdoubt, in which all the themes of social import were discussed, represented, celebrated, and questioned without end”25, and nowhere more so than in the genre of tragedy. A simple historicist outlook that posits a one-to-one correspondence between specific political events and tragic performance has long been discredited, although this is not to insist that the plays did not reflect (or refract) matters of current relevance for the body politic, such as the importance of rhetorical debate, sophistic arguments about nature vs. law, right vs. might, concern with issues of ethnic identity, and definitions of public and private morality, especially in the case of Euripides26. What interests me more, however, than pursuing the possible contemporary relevance of Troy and its destruction, as such, is rather the creative inventiveness of the poet, the choices he makes in reorganizing traditional patterns of myth, and the implications for our consideration of the freedom and limitations of Greek tragedy as an open forum in a continuing dialogue between past and present. Troy is a splendid example because Euripides’ repertory is so rich in this regard. There are five extant tragedies (out of twelve titles) directly concerned with Troy (Helen, Iphigenia in Aulis, and if we count Rhesus in addition to the Hecuba and Trojan Women). But there are also five others: Electra, Iphigenia in Tauris, Orestes, Andromache (and even the satyr play, Cyclops ), whose action concerns events which take place after the Trojan War and in some way are linked to stories of the return of Greek heroes and beyond. The power of Troy as a subject for drama does not just lie in the events of the war (in fact, it avoids them), but in the haunted aftereffects that continue to reverberate, even in the lives of those who were never there, to the second, and in one instance to the third generation, and the web of associations that spread out beyond any immediate context. The collateral wings of the saga extend to the disruptive consequences for the Greeks, once they have left Trojan soil for Hellas: the family of Agamemnon: a daughter sacrificed (Iphigenia), a wife (Clytemnestra), who, in retaliation, murders her husband on his return from Troy, and a son (Orestes) required to slay his mother in turn. Second is Menelaus, husband of Helen, who unlike his brother, eventually returns home without mishap, but with his errant spouse in tow. Neither are admirable characters with respect to 25 Hölscher (1998) 183. 26 For a brief survey of modern (often conflicting) opinions about the relation of tragedy to politics and the general lack of consensus as to the definition of the ‘political’, see Saïd (1998) 275–295.

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their Trojan captives (Agamemnon in Hecuba, Menelaus in Trojan Women), but Menelaus, who at every turn is subject to the burden of a wife, who is declared to have been the cause of it all, is a key figure in those dramas of the postwar period, that is, Helen, Orestes, and Andromache. If the city is gone, therefore, its history is not and can be subject to what I call, for convenience’s sake, the three Rs. Recollection, Revision, and Reenactment. I reserve the first category, ‘Recollection’, for those plays that take place immediately after the fall of the city – Hecuba and Trojan Women – when grief for what has been lost is still fresh and the saga of Troy is about to pass into collective memory, for victors and vanquished alike. I then turn to ‘Revision’ to accommodate the two extremes edges of the spectrum, Helen and the Orestes. Each in its quite opposite way brings Helen as a character on stage to assume a leading role in counterfactual plots (the faithful Helen never went to Troy; Orestes plots to kill this adulterous woman)27. Finally, under ‘Reenactment’ I will look at the Andromache, a challenging play, in which “characters familiar from the mythology of the Trojan War are projected into unfamiliar territory in the postwar period”28 (Andromache, Hector’s widow; Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, and Hermione, Helen’s daughter), only to create situations that bear all the signs of an uncanny replication of the past, albeit in a different key. Conveniently enough, two plays are Trojan (Hecuba, Trojan Women), two are Greek (Helen, Orestes), and the third is a hybrid or bridge between the two29.

Recollection Returning then to the two Trojan plays, I earlier mentioned, is Hecuba’s act of resistance to Greek atrocities in each of the two plays. In Trojan Women Hecuba engages in a debate with Helen, in the hope of persuading Menelaus 27 Helen is also a major figure in the Troades (the third Euripidean play to bring her on stage) where her role is to launch a rhetorical self-defense in response to Hecuba’s accusations at the moment of Troy’s final demise. But the agôn does nothing to change the outcome of the traditional myth. I will return, however, to this play in assessing the broader functions that Helen is called upon to fulfill. 28 Allan (2000) 93. 29 The Trojan War, its causes and aftermaths, is the root cause of the spoiled lives of Agamemnon’s children in the next generation, but it figures in the relevant dramas in different ways: minimally, in the Iphigenia in Tauris, more central to the Electra in the contrast between an idealized heroic past and a more sordid present, while the Iphigenia in Aulis is the prequel to the war and should be treated on its own terms. For the Orestes, on the other hand, the war, both real (the return of Menelaus and Helen) and imaginary (Orestes’ psychological distortions), is fundamental to the plot.

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to punish his wife, now a Trojan captive, with death for her infidelity. Hecuba only has words, the best her rhetoric can muster, to see what she perceives as justice is done, and Helen, at any rate is given the opportunity to defend herself. While opinions differ as to the relative merits of each argument, Hecuba does not succeed in overturning the mythical norm. Menelaus does not drop his sword at the entrancing sight of Helen, who bares her breast to him, as so often depicted in Attic vase paintings, but he does take Helen back to Greece, claiming “she will pay with her blood for all his friends who died at Troy”30 – a promise we know from tradition he will not keep. But, if Hecuba, broken by the accumulation of her misfortunes, at the end laments the gods’ hatred for Troy, we also already know from the prologue (even if the characters do not) that those same gods will punish the Greeks with a miserable homecoming, for offenses they have already committed, even before their sordid behavior as victors in the events that transpire in the play. This cognitive dissonance between gods and mortals may intensify the ironies of the dramatic situation. It does not, however, lessen the cumulative impact of the horror, the suffering, the degradation of each of the Trojan women that makes this play one of the strongest anti-war statements in the tragic repertory, one that forces upon an Athenian audience the perspective of the defeated enemy. The case of Hecuba in the second play is entirely different, although here too she rises to heights of rhetorical eloquence. For a third party has intervened between Trojan and Greek in the figure of Polymestor, king of Thrace, where the Greeks and their Trojan women captives, are now encamped after the city’s fall. In the working out of this plot Polymestor, it turns out, has secretly murdered Polydorus, the last remaining child of Hecuba and Priam, sent with the treasure of Troy to their supposed friend for safekeeping. The king has violated every rule of civilized behavior: he has betrayed xenia (the laws of hospitality), murdered for profit, and to top it off, has cast out the body of the child unburied, whose death is only discovered when the corpse washes up on the shore. Hecuba’s act of resistance does not consist of words alone. Rather she uses all her powers of persuasion in the service of enacting a violent revenge – that is to entice the king together with his children into the women’s tent, kill the children before his eyes and then blind him. But she would not have done so, if Agamemnon as leader of the Greeks had originally had the courage to pronounce a just sentence on the perfidious king, in response to Hecuba’s pleading, rather than choose to step aside and leave the woman to her own devices. In a world without gods to enforce the norms of justice, in the absence of moral courage on the part of a Greek male, Hecuba, the barbarian, commits what 30 Eur. Tro. 875 f.

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to many has seemed a hideous barbarian act. Yet at the end of the day, who is the more barbarous and what are the circumstances that has dictated the empowering act of revenge? In this triangulation of Greek, Trojan, and Thracian, Hecuba’s will to act problematizes all the categories I mentioned above: male/female; enemy/friend; victimizer, victim; and of course, Greek and barbarian31.

Revision Helen, who is declared the most beautiful woman in the world, remains the most enigmatic in her person and in the numerous stories about her. Helen, daughter of two fathers, Tyndareus (mortal) and Zeus (immortal), the darling of Aphrodite, incarnates the very idea of feminine beauty and its irresistible but dangerous power to arouse the desire of men and their yearning to possess her. An object of contention between Menelaus, her husband, and her lover, Paris, which, traditionally speaking, is the chief motivation for the Trojan War, the figure of Helen is subject to different ethical interpretations concerning her innocence or guilt. Was she forcibly abducted by Paris from Greece or seduced by his honeyed words? Did she go of her own free will, or was it under divine compulsion? These are questions that are endlessly debated by poets, historians, and philosophers alike. But Euripides’ characters, Greek and Trojan, are in the business of blaming Helen at every opportunity, calling down curses on her head, wishing her dead, drowned at sea, or otherwise disposed of. The chorus in Hecuba is a fine example of this recurrent theme: A curse on Helen, Sister of the sons of Zeus, [Castor and Pollux] And my curse on him Disastrous Paris Whose wedding wasted Troy! O adulterous marriage! Helen, fury of ruin! Let the wind blow And never bring her home! Let there be no landing for Helen of Troy!32

31 The earlier sacrifice of Polyxena by the Greek army as an honor to the dead Achilles also occasions a debate, this time with Odysseus, on law, morality, and cynical expediency. 32 Eur. Hec. 943–950. Euripides’ characters refers to Helen at least forty times in his dramas, virtually all with negative judgment. For a detailed roster, see Vellacott (1975) 127–152. On the stage presence of Helen, see Hall (2008) n. 32 below.

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Euripides is not the first to ‘revise’ the story of Helen into what amounts to a full whitewash. The idea that she never went to Troy but was marooned in Egypt is known to us in versions related by the 6th century choral poet, Stesichorus, and the historian Herodotus. But he is the first to dramatize the alternate story and to draw out its potential in constructing a blameless Helen as a doublet of Penelope in her continuing fidelity to her absent husband, albeit displaced into an exotic locale. It was not Helen, who went to Troy, but a phantom, a double of her, whom the goddess Hera sent in her place out of spite that she had lost to Aphrodite in the judgment of Paris. In this play, where Menelaus arrives shipwrecked on Egyptian shores, only to meet up with the puzzle of an identical Helen, the ‘real’ Helen suffers in her own subjectivity. She is innocent but has an evil reputation and made to bear the burden of faults that are not truly hers. She lives among barbarians, torn from her father’s land. By her misfortunes she is dead, yet in fact still lives. And if she ever does return home, she would be crushed by scandal, for who would ever believe that she is not the Helen who went to Troy33. On the other hand, to have fought ten years for the sake of a mere phantom calls into question the validity itself of a war fought on her behalf and hollows out the Greek victory. The play may deploy the enigmatic Helen to tease the audience with philosophical questions of identity (self and other, name and person, outward appearance and inner reality); the exciting romantic plot may lead finally to the successful escape of the reunited pair and the restoration after a fashion of a tarnished heroic glory. Nevertheless, this belated knowledge can never eradicate the reality of the pain and suffering, neither of Helen, nor of the Greeks and Trojans who fought for her sake. The play, for all its comic stage business with mistaken identity, extends the dialectic of reality and illusion to question the very basis on which the premises of this myth rely. The Orestes goes still further afield in the manipulation of mythic plots. Helen may or may not have ever gone to Troy in person (although a figure of her was assuredly present there), but one thing is certain. She never met her end at the hands of Orestes34. In this wildly experimental and disturbing play, this plan is precisely what Orestes, together with his sister, Electra, and cousin friend, Pylades, concoct (and even ostensibly carry out) in order to avenge themselves in the first instance on Menelaus who has returned with his wife to Argos, just after Orestes’ matricide and subsequent madness, and 33 Paraphrase of Eur. Hel. 269–274, 285–289. For the most recent bibliography, see Allan’s (2008) edition and commentary. 34 Wright (2006) makes the intriguing suggestion that the Orestes is, in fact, a sequel to the Helen, and like the previous play, is highly self-conscious about the fictionality of myths and indeed of the mythic tradition itself.

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in the second, on the society that has rejected him. Menelaus refuses appeals to help Orestes, who is being tried now for murder in the Argive court (a revision here of the end of Aeschylus’ Oresteia, which saw establishment of the first law court in Athens to adjudicate such cases). The desperate situation calls for desperate means. Once Orestes is condemned to death, the trio imagines that killing Clytemnestra’s sister will exonerate them altogether. Pylades is the ring leader: If we were to take the sword to a woman of greater virtue, the bloodletting would bring disgrace on us. As things are, she’ll be paying for her crimes against all Hellas, those whose fathers she slew and whose sons she destroyed while depriving brides of their husbands. There will be shouts of joy, they will light altar fires for the gods and pray many blessings on your head and mine for killing a wicked woman. You won’t be known as the ‘mother-killer’ (mêtrophontês), once you kill her. You’ll leave all that behind for a better lot and be called the ‘slayer of Helen, who killed so many’ (Helenês […] tês poluktonou phoneus) 35.

The conspirators do not, of course, actually succeed (no revision could go that far). Rather at the moment when the knife was at her throat, Helen conveniently vanishes (shades of her phantom image again) and Apollo as the deus ex machina announces her transfiguration into the heavens36. There is more to this remarkably inventive story, as can be imagined37. Helen is of course a stand-in for Clytemnestra; they are sisters after all, but the story of Orestes’ matricide and its aftermath in this play extends also horizontally by including the collateral members of Agamemnon’s family, Helen, Menelaus, and Hermione, their daughter (all of whom function as both doublets and opposites of the primary group). But for all its wicked subversiveness, the point in our context is the contamination of the second generation long after the events in which its members played no part. Orestes would remake or repair the injuries of the Trojan War that led his mother to kill his father upon the king’s return, and compelled Orestes in turn to commit matricide to avenge his death. Confronting now his mother’s sister and her husband, both safely restored to Greece, and deprived of his social role as defender of his father and his father’s society, he undertakes the larger project of 35 Eur. Or. 1132–1140. 36 Hall (2007) brilliantly proposes the mythical figure of Helen in Euripides as a “benchmark for philosophical questions” of the day – ethics (her speech of defense in Trojan Women), epistemology (“how can the true Helen be identified” in the Helen) and ontology/metaphysics (Helen’s transformations in the Orestes as probing the very limits of the human). 37 The Greek/barbarian antithesis is also undermined twice over: cowardly Greeks planning murder in the aftermath of a corrupted judicial decision, barbarians represented in the figure of the Phrygian eunuch messenger, whose servile effeminacy gives the lie to a heroic Troy. This play spares no one.

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making the world safe again for patriarchy. No one who is philopatôr could condemn him38. He becomes, in fact, a mythmaker in a cynical world that has turned its back on myth. […] He has read his texts but cannot discriminate between levels of meaning. Thus he acts out literally the standard rhetorical fantasy of killing Helen, which many other characters in many Euripidean plays give utterance to at moments of despair. But of course, no one ever acts upon it, any more than a chorus that yearns to take wings and fly away to some distant land ever expects to fulfill its dream 39.

Yet his effort to escape the title of ‘matricide’ merely repeats the first action: to kill mothers and adulterous wives or their surrogates40. Otherwise, he is no longer an Orestes, no longer, as it were, has a role to play41.

Reenactment Finally, my last category, which I have called ‘Reenactment’ (but by reason of the conclusion to Andromache, the play in question, could also be called ‘Reparation’). Hermione is an important figure in the Orestes; daughter of Helen, she has been brought up by Clytemnestra, and hence is a sort of foster sister. The plan had included taking her hostage so that after ‘killing’ Helen, they would force Menelaus to procure their freedom or else slay her too. But as it turns out, Apollo, the deus ex machina, not only regulates her mother’s fate (she is to be translated to the heavens, to join her brothers, Castor and Pollux), he also announces that Hermione will marry Orestes. And marry him she eventually does, in Andromache, but not at first. Wed initially to Achilles’ son, Neoptolemus, as the play opens, she subsequently runs off with Orestes, fearing her husband’s wrath at her mistreatment of Hector’s widow, Andromache, whom he had awarded as his war prize after the fall of Troy. Space does not permit more than a brief look at Euripides’ bold experiment in reworking familiar elements of heroic myth into entirely new configurations. Here is the briefest summary of this lesser known plot. Neoptolemus is wed to Hermione; but his concubine is Andromache, Hector’s 38 Eur. Or. 1605. In what follows, I quote or paraphrase some sections of Zeitlin (1980). 39 Zeitlin (1980) 65 and see further, 51–77. 40 Cf. the exchange between Menelaus and Orestes: 1587–1590: “I will never grow weary of killing wicked women.” 41 From a psychological viewpoint, his is a true case of repetition compulsion, as I have argued in Zeitlin (1980) 64, for “blocked from purification, expiation, and reconciliation, Orestes can only reenact the trauma again and again”.

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widow (whom his own father, Achilles, had killed at Troy). She has a child by him; Hermione is barren. Out of jealousy, Hermione would have both Andromache and her child murdered. Her father, Menelaus, arrives from Sparta and agrees to carry out her plan. But Achilles’ aged father, Peleus, enters and rescues them. In the second part, Hermione is mortified by this defeat and fearing her husband’s retribution, runs off with Orestes, who has never forgiven Menelaus for breaking his promise to give his daughter to him in marriage. Meanwhile, Neoptolemus in person is absent, as he will be for the entire play. He had gone to Delphi, seeking to make amends to Apollo for having previously blamed the god for killing his father at Troy. But Orestes, even before he arrived in Phthia, had arranged for his rival to be lynched by the folks at Delphi, as we learn at the end with the return home of Neoptolemus, now a lifeless body and only for burial42. Troy and its legacy is an ever present burden that haunts all the characters and threatens to reengulf them or reinscribe them in the previous stories, their own and those of others. The first and last choral odes between them encompass the entire saga in a historical overview, from the Judgment of Paris that initiated the abduction of Helen to the final sack of Troy and its aftermath in Orestes’ crime to avenge his father43. Thetis’ appearance to her husband, Peleus, at the end takes us still further back to the beginning and is a fitting conclusion to this retrospective. But the scene is now a domestic one, and the battleground is one of bitter marital disputes that invite recriminations from all sides44. Hence Andromache can rightfully (if ironically) taunt the villainous Menelaus: “I regard you no longer as worthy of Troy or Troy as worthy of you.”45 But the war is still unfinished business: Andromache herself, for all her changed condition, still thinks of herself as Hector’s wife; Menelaus must still answer for Helen’s misdeeds as the cause of the war and of so much suffering on both sides. The still unresolved matter of Achilles’ death and its circumstances extends beyond the grief of his parents to motivate the penitent and ultimately tragic mission of Neoptolemus to Delphi.

42 Euripides exploits the dual mythic tradition regarding the identity of Hermione’s husband: In Odyssey 4 and in this play (Andromache), Hermione is wed, at least, at first to Neoptolemus. In Orestes, Apollo gives her to Orestes right away, with the promise that his rival will not live to compete for her hand. Both plays follow the version of Neoptolemus’ death at Delphi for blasphemy against the god, but in Andromache, it is Orestes who is the actual instigator of the plot against him. Orestes gets the girl in the end, however the affair is managed. 43 Eur. Andr. 274–308, 1010–1046. 44 For the interpretations that follow, I am especially indebted to Anderson (1997) 133–155; Goodkin (1991) 80–93; and Stevens (1971) 13 f. 45 Eur. Andr. 329.

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Nevertheless, there is an eerie sense of déjà vu. Once again, Andromache is the mother of an only child, who is threatened with a vengeful death. Menelaus wants to get rid of him for the same reasons that were given for killing Astyanax at Troy. In fact, he oddly merges the two offspring, as if the boy were still the son of Hector, considering, as he says, both mother and son, to be Trojan enemies46. Hermione, Helen’s daughter, replays her mother’s story, whose marriage brings ruin to an entire family, by running off with another man, while Orestes, who killed his mother at Apollo’s behest, “reenacts his own definitive myth by committing murder once again, with the support of Apollo”. Peleus is once again bereaved47. Yet, finally, the most remarkable aspect of these double and inverted echoes is the ending, which by the command of the goddess Thetis, mother of Achilles and wife of Peleus, who appears as the dea ex machina, not only assures the salvation of Andromache’s child, but remarkably envisions the boy as the bearer of both the Trojan line and heir to Achilles’ pedigree in his future role as king of a Greek city, Molossia. For, old sir, it was not to be that your race (genos) and mine should become extinct thus, nor that of Troy, for it too is in the gods’ care, although it fell by the will of Pallas Athena48.

The horrors perpetrated at the close of the Trojan war comes close to modern definitions of genocide, especially in the deliberate killing of children, so as to prevent not only the rise of an avenger (as the text of Trojan Women makes explicit) but to ensure that there will be no future, no descendants to carry the name of Troy49. It is perhaps then only poetic justice that the Greeks, in their turn, are threatened with the failure of their line. Hermione is barren and Neoptolemus is dead. But, as Michael Anderson observes, “the Iliupersis paradigm of ruin and extermination is overcome in the rescue of Andromache’s child and the divinely ordained continuation of the Peleid lineage”50. The means to this end lies in the fabrication of a new genealogy 46 47 48 49

Eur. Andr. 515 f. Lloyd (1994) 6. Eur. Andr. 1250–1252. Note that the Iliad, for all its determination to destroy the city of Troy and all its inhabitants seems reluctant to face the full consequences of what this extermination might mean. In book 20, Aeneas comes out to fight Achilles, but is rescued from the battle by Poseidon, since, as he says the gods have “destined him to be the survivor, that the generation of Dardanos shall not die, without seed, utterly wiped out” (Hom. Il. 20.300–308). Subsequent Greek literature makes no mention of Aeneas, but the vase paintings frequently do, bookending the mayhem of the Iliupersis, represented in the central position, with the rescue of Aeneas and Anchises on one side, and that of Aithra by her grandsons on the other. 50 Anderson (1997) 155.

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that transcends the ethnic differences between Greek and barbarian, to effect a merger now of Hellas and Troy. The hybrid offspring will reconcile the two great Homeric heroes, Hector and Achilles, in a shared identity and, in so doing, will, at least in this instance, overcome the opposition between friend and foe, Greek and Trojan – to ensure the survival of both. It is as if this new dispensation might somehow repair the losses to both sides (Andromache for Hector’s lost son; Peleus, like another aged father, Priam, for the loss of his son and grandson). The Andromache perhaps provides a comforting close to this essay and to what I have called the ‘Conscience of Hellas’51. This phrase, however, could easily be redefined as the consciousness (or even unconscious) of what the Trojan War entailed for both sides on the tragic stage, not only in the continual interrogation of the ruinous effects upon victor and vanquished alike, but in the persistence of traumatic memory that warped the lives of the survivors and damaged their offspring, although each of the plays we have examined finds some way at the end (even if ironic), if not to wholly reassert the values that were lost, then at least to restore some semblance of order and justice in the wake of the disintegration of civilized norms, if only in lament. Euripides’ novel proposition, however, excludes the two sons of Atreus and their offspring from this optimistic merger of heroic valor. Menelaus is a villainous coward and his daughter reenacts her mother’s story in running off with another man, while Agamemnon’s son, Orestes, the matricide, does not shrink from further murderous violence52. In the many insulting references to Menelaus’ and his daughter’s Spartan identity that pervade the play (dated to about 425 BCE), some critics have seen allusions to the hostilities between Athens and Sparta in the early years of the Peloponnesian war. This possibility may sharpen the tensions between leaders and heroes that are present already in Homer (who, after all, is the best of the Achaeans?). It has even been suggested that the play was written to enhance a Hellenic pedigree for the Molossians53. In the end, however, neither suggestion detracts from Euripides’ creative energy in bringing new life to the myths of Troy on the tragic stage. 51 Given the bold reconciliatory move of this play it would be convenient if the Andromache were indeed, for its part, a late arrival in Euripides’ career, but it is not: dated to around 425, it precedes Hecuba by one year (424), Trojan Women by ten (415), and Orestes by seventeen (408). 52 By contrast, note that there is no mention in the play of Neoptolemus’ traditional misdeeds at the fall of Troy. Instead of sacrilegious violence, he goes as a suppliant to Apollo’s shrine. The emphasis rather is on Andromache’s union with the son of her husband’s murderer, Achilles. 53 Hall (1989) 180 f.

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Works Cited Allan (2000). – William Allan, The ‘Andromache’ and Euripidean Tragedy (Oxford 2000). Allan (2008). – William Allan (ed.), Euripides, Helen (Cambridge 2008). Anderson (1997). – Michael Anderson, The Fall of Troy in Early Greek Poetry and Art (Oxford 1997). Burian (1997). – Peter Burian, “Myth into Mythos; the Shaping of the Tragic Plot”, in: Patricia E. Easterling (ed.), Companion to Greek Tragedy (Oxford 1997) 178–208. Buxton (1994). – Richard Buxton, Imaginary Greece (Cambridge 1994). Castriota (1992). – David Castriota, Myth, Ethos and Actuality (Wisconsin 1992). Croally (1994) – Neil T. Croally, Euripidean Polemic: The ‘Trojan Women’ and the Function of Tragedy (Cambridge 1994). Dué (2006). – Casey Dué, The Captive Woman’s Lament in Greek Tragedy (Austin, TX 2006). Erskine (2001). – Andrew Erskine, Troy between Greece and Rome (Oxford 2001). Ferrari (2000). – Gloria Ferrari, “The Ilioupersis in Athens”, HSCP 100 (2000) 119–150. Goodkin (1991). – Richard Goodkin, “Andromache or Waiting for Neoptolemos”, in: id. (ed.), The Tragic Middle: Racine, Aristotle, Euripides (Wisconsin 1991) 80–93. Hall (1989) – Edith Hall, Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Definition through Tragedy (Oxford 1989). Hall (2000). – Edith Hall, “Introduction”, in: James Morwood (ed.), Euripides: Hecuba, The Trojan Women, Andromache (Oxford 2000) 9–42. Hall (2008) – Edith Hall, “Trojan Suffering, Tragic Gods, and Transhistorical Metaphysics,” in: Sarah Anne Brownes/Catherine Silverstone (eds.), Tragedy in Transition (Oxford 2008) 16–33. Hölscher (1998). – Tonio Hölscher, “Images and Political Identity: The Case of Athens”, in: Deborah Boedeker/Kurt Raaflaub (eds.), Democracy, Empire, and the Arts in 5thCentury Athens (Cambridge, Mass. 1998) 153–183. Lloyd (1994). – Michael Lloyd (ed.), Euripides, Andromache (Warminster 1994). Saïd (1998). – Suzanne Saïd, “Tragedy and Politics”, in: Deborah Boedeker/Kurt Raaflaub (eds.), Democracy, Empire, and the Arts in 5th-Century Athens (Cambridge, Mass. 1998) 275–296. Stevens (1971). – P. T. Stevens (ed.), Euripides, Andromache (Oxford 1971). Vellacott (1975). – Philip Vellacott, Ironic Drama: A Study of Euripides’ Method and Meaning (Cambridge 1975). Wright (2006). – Matthew Wright, “Orestes: A Euripidean Sequel”, CQ 56 (2006) 33–47. Zeitlin (1980). – Froma I. Zeitlin, “The Closet of Masks: Role-playing and Mythmaking in the Orestes of Euripides”, Ramus 9 (1980) 51–77. Zeitlin (1990). – Froma I. Zeitlin, “Thebes: Theater of Self and Society”, in: John Winkler/Froma Zeitlin (eds.), Nothing to Do with Dionysos? Athenian Drama in Its Social Context (Princeton 1990) 130–167.

Ursprungsfragen. Aristoteles über die Genese der dramatischen Gattungen bernhard zimmermann

Die Entstehung der dramatischen Gattungen Tragödie, Komödie und Satyrspiel gehört seit der Antike zu den mit großem spekulativen Aufwand äußerst kontrovers diskutierten Fragen. Zwei Betrachtungsweisen sind in der Forschung feststellbar: Entweder konzentriert man sich auf die Frage des Ursprungs und versucht, von diesem rekonstruierten Anfang aus den Entwicklungsgang des Dramas nachzuzeichnen – hier sind vor allem anthropologisch-ethnologische und religionswissenschaftliche Ansätze zu nennen –, oder man ist eher am ‚Endprodukt‘, den ausgebildeten dramatischen Formen, interessiert und blickt von diesen auf die Genese der Gattungen und ihre Ursprünge zurück, wie dies Aristoteles in der Poetik 1 und in der Moderne zahlreiche Gelehrte tun, die, z. B. von den Bauteilen der dramatischen Gattungen ausgehend, rituelle oder volkstümliche Vorformen suchen. Entscheidend ist die Frage, ob man religionswissenschaftliche und anthropologisch-ethnologische Überlegungen mit der Rekonstruktion der Genese des Dramas, die Aristoteles im 4. und 5. Kapitel der Poetik vornimmt, und anderen literarischen und archäologischen Zeugnissen verbinden kann oder darf und, falls dies möglich ist, wie sich dann die einzelnen Elemente stützen oder gar zu einer schlüssigen Entwicklung zusammenbauen lassen. Anthropologisch-ethnologische und religionswissenschaftliche Forschungsansätze, die in jüngster Zeit durch die performative Kulturanthropologie gestützt werden2, sehen den Ursprung des Dramas in mimetischprädramatischen Formen bei primitiven Stammeskulturen. Auf Opferhandlungen und Rituale deuten sowohl das griechische Wort ‚Drama‘ (δρᾶμα)3 als auch die beiden Gattungsbezeichnungen ‚Tragödie‘ (τραγῳδία) und ‚Komödie‘ (κωμῳδία) hin. Schon auf der etymologischen Ebene verweist 1 2 3

Vgl. Aristot. poet. 1449a7 f. Zur Poetik vgl. im Folgenden immer den Kommentar von Schmitt (2008). Vgl. schon Herington (1985) 3–40. Zu δρᾶμα und δρᾶν vgl. Nagy (1990) 387 f.

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das Wort Drama, das von demselben Verb δρᾶν (‚handeln‘) wie der mit Mysterienkulten verbundene Begriff dromena (δρώμενα) abgeleitet ist4, die mimetische Wiedergabe der legomena (λεγόμενα), hymnischer Epiklesen der Gottheiten und kurzer Erläuterungen5, auf den engen Zusammenhang von Kulthandlung und Mimesis6. Durch die mimetische Wiedergabe der Kultgründung in den dromena werden die Mysten emotional in höchstem Maße in das heilige Geschehen einbezogen. Die Vergangenheit, z. B. Demeters Suche und Wiedervereinigung mit der Tochter7, wird in die Gegenwart hineingeholt; sie wird zur erschütternden Lebenserfahrung der Mysten, die im gemeinschaftlichen Erlebnis der Kultgründung die Wiederherstellung der Ordnung nachempfinden. Im Unterschied zu den Dramenaufführungen im Dionysostheater gab es im mystischen Drama vermutlich keine Trennung von theatralischem Raum und Zuschauerraum, die Initianden und Mysten nahmen an den sie selbst betreffenden dromena unmittelbaren Anteil8. In das Spannungsfeld von sozialem und kultischem Drama führt Burkerts 1966 vorgenommene Deutung des Begriffs Tragödie9. Weit mehr als der Name Komödie (κωμῳδία), ‚Gesang eines Komos‘ oder ‚Gesang anlässlich eines Komos‘, führt der Begriff Tragödie (τραγῳδία) zu den Ursprüngen der Gattung im Opferritual. Gegen die communis opinio, die τραγῳδία als ‚Gesang der Böcke‘, d. h. eines Chores im Bockskostüm, verstand, stellte Burkert – teilweise unter Einbeziehung der aristotelischen Rekonstruktion der Gattungsgeschichte in der Poetik (c. 4) – die Hypothese auf, die inzwischen fast allgemeine Anerkennung gefunden haben dürfte10: „Die τραγωιδοί sind ursprünglich eine Gruppe maskierter Männer, die das im 4 Zu den dromena der Eleusinischen Mysterien vgl. Mylonas (1961) 261–272; Sourvinou-Inwood (2003a) 29 f. zum ‚mystischen Drama‘ (δρᾶμα μυστικόν) der Mysterien. Das mystische Drama hatte Demeters Suche nach Kore/Persephone, ihre Ankunft in Eleusis, ihre Wiedervereinigung mit Kore und damit die Wiederherstellung der Ordnung nach einer Periode der Krise. Das Motiv der dramatisierten Suche gab es auch in anderen Mysterienkulten, vgl. Sourvinou-Inwood (2003a) 31 f., 37; Samothrake (Clinton 2003, 69), Arkadien ( Jost 2003, 156 f.). 5 Die legomena waren keine längeren Reden, sondern kurze liturgische Anrufungen oder Erklärungen; vgl. Mylonas (1961) 272. 6 Vgl. dazu auch Henrichs (1998). 7 Zu den ‚Advent-Kulten‘ vgl. Sourvinou-Inwood (2003a) 40 f. 8 Vgl. Mylonas (1961) 262. Hierin liegt auch der große Unterschied zum kultischen Drama der großen Dionysien oder überhaupt zu Dichtung, die den Rezipienten emotional packen kann, obwohl er mit dem Dargestellten unmittelbar nichts zu tun hat. Gorgias scheint in der Helena (9) genau darauf anzuspielen, wenn er die Emotionen auslösende Kraft von Dichtung betont. 9 Vgl. jetzt auch Graf (2006). 10 Burkert (1990) 26. Vgl. zu Burkerts These Lloyd-Jones (1998); Sourvinou-Inwood (2003b) 141.

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Frühjahr fällige Bocksopfer vollziehen; sie treten auf mit Klage, Gesang, Vermummung, und dürfen zuletzt den Bock verspeisen.“11 Mit diesen anthropologisch-religionswissenschaftlichen Überlegungen zu den Ursprüngen des Dramas lässt sich in gewisser Weise die Rekonstruktion in Übereinstimmung bringen, die Aristoteles im 4. Kapitel der Poetik (1448b4–1449a31) vornimmt12. Aristoteles verfolgt eine anthropologischethische und eine historische Deutung. Mimesis – wie Harmonie und Rhythmus – sind ebenso wie die Freude an mimetischen Erzeugnissen (μιμήματα) den Menschen angeboren. Einzelne, die eine besondere mimetische Begabung hatten, entwickelten allmählich in kleinen Schritten die Dichtkunst aus Improvisationen (αὐτοσχεδιάσματα), wobei sie die Sujets ihrem Charakter entsprechend wählten13. Die Ernsthafteren nahmen sich ernste Themen vor und dichteten Hymnen und Enkomien, weniger edle Charaktere dagegen setzten sich mit dementsprechenden Handlungen und Personen auseinander und wandten sich der Spottdichtung (ψόγοι) zu, für die sie das für Spott passende iambische Metrum wählten14. Auf diese erste, anonyme Phase der Dichtung folgt Homer, der sich einerseits dadurch von den vorangehenden Dichtern unterscheidet, dass er beide, bisher getrennten Formen von Dichtung praktizierte, andrerseits vor allem darin, dass er dramatische Vorformen kreierte, Ilias und Odyssee als Andeutungen der Tragödie, den Margites, in dem Homer den Spott durch das Lächerliche (γελοῖον) ersetzte, als Vorform der Komödie. Wie in der vorhomerischen Phase setzt Aristoteles nach Homer wiederum ein Differenzierung nach dem Naturell der Dichter an:

11 Auf der Basis von Burkerts Deutung versucht Sourvinou-Inwood (2003b), in ihrer Rekonstruktion des Ursprungs und der Vorgeschichte der dramatischen Gattungen eine monokausale und monolokale Deutung in dem geschlossenen athenischen Rahmen vorzunehmen. Einflüsse von anderen Orten oder der politische Kontext der Religionspolitik der Tyrannen im 6. Jh. werden ausgeklammert. Trotzdem birgt ihre Erklärung der Entwicklung der dramatischen Gattungen in Athen aus den mit dem Dionysoskult verbundenen Riten viele Elemente, die in Verbindung mit Aristoteles’ kurzer Geschichte des Dramas im 4. und 5. Kapitel der Poetik und den literarischen und archäologischen Testimonien sich mit aller gebotenen Vorsicht zu einem zwar hypothetischen, aber doch schlüssigen Gesamtbild zusammenfügen lassen. 12 Vgl. Heath (1989). 13 Kontrovers ist die Bestimmung der zweiten Ursache, die Aristoteles anführt: Ist es die Freude an den Erzeugnissen des mimetischen Triebs oder die Harmonie und der Rhythmus? Überzeugend ist der Vorschlag von Winkler (1990), der die zweite Ursache für die Entstehung von Dichtung in den für Mimesis Begabten sieht. Damit geht Aristoteles von einer anthropologischen Konstante zum Individuellen über und erweitert die anthropologische um eine ethische Dimension. 14 Wie je nach ihrem Naturell sich die für die Dichtkunst Begabten den zu ihnen passenden Formen zuwenden, findet die Form auch das zu ihr passende Metrum (1448a31 κατὰ τὸ ἁρμόττον).

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Die einen verfassten anstelle von Iamben nunmehr Komödien, die anderen statt Epen Tragödien. Nach diesen allgemeinen, die Dichtkunst insgesamt betreffenden Erörterungen behandelt Aristoteles in einem zweiten Durchgang die spezielle Entwicklung von Tragödie und Komödie, indem er im Rückgriff auf den Anfang seiner Ausführungen (1448a23 f.) die Improvisationen, aus denen Tragödie und Komödie entstanden, genauer bestimmt15: Die Tragödie hat ihren Ursprung in denen, die den Dithyrambos16, die Komödie in denen, die die noch zu Aristoteles’ vielerorts begangenen Phallika anstimmen17. Und wie die Dichtung als ganze sich allmählich, in kleinen Schritten (κατὰ μικρόν) entwickelte, gewann auch die Tragödie allmählich an Umfang, bis sie nach zahlreichen Änderungen (μεταβολαί) die ihr gemäße Endform (φύσις) erreichte. Die Änderungen werden kurz zusammengefasst: Mit der Einführung des zweiten Schauspielers durch Aischylos und des dritten durch Sophokles, dem auch die Erfindung der Bühnenmalerei zugeschrieben wird, ging eine Reduzierung der Bedeutung des Chores und eine Zunahme der gesprochenen Partien und damit des iambischen Trimeters als des dafür geeigneten Metrums einher18, das den dem chorischen Charakter der frühen Form gemäßen trochäischen Tetrameter ablöste. Was ihre ,Größe‘19 angeht, erlangte die Tragödie, die sich anfangs kleiner Stoffe (μικροὶ μῦθοι) und einer lächerlichen Redeweise (λέξις γελοία) bediente, da sie sich ursprünglich aus einer dem Satyrspiel ähnlichen Spielform (ἐκ σατυρικοῦ) entwickelte, erst spät Würde (ἀπεσεμνύνθη) und Umfang20. Im Gegensatz zur Tragödie, für die Aristoteles, wie er betont, über genaue Kenntnisse der Entwicklungsschritte und der damit verbundenen Dichterpersönlichkeiten besitzt (1449a37 f.), liegen die Entwicklungsstufen der Komödie im Dunkeln, da sie erst spät (486 v. Chr.) offizieller Bestandteil der Dionysien wurde und zuvor Freiwillige (ἐθελονταί), also Personen, die nicht offiziell vom Archon eponymos als Chor eingesetzt wurden, agierten. Dichter sind erst bekannt, als die Komödie, nachdem sie Teil der Dionysien geworden war, bereits gewisse Formen (σχήματά τινα) ausgebildet hatte; 15 Die Wortwahl (αὐτοσχεδιάσματα, κατὰ μικρόν, προάγειν) unterstreicht die Parallelität der beiden Abschnitte. 16 Zu ἐξάρχειν im Sinne von ‚als erster mit etwas beginnen‘, d. h. ‚als Vorsänger einen Gesang anstimmen‘, vgl. Zimmermann (2008) 21 f. 17 Leonhardt (1991) bezieht die Phallika auf die Tragödie und den Dithyrambos auf die Komödie, vgl. H. Patzer, Gnomon 67 (1995) 289–310. 18 Auch hier wird die Wahl des Metrums durch die Kategorie des Passenden (ἁρμόττον) erklärt: Der Iambos ist das für Sprechpartien geeignete Metrum, wie der Trochäus sich für den Tanz eignet. 19 Μέγεθος hat wie im Deutschen die Bedeutung von ‚Umfang‘ und ‚Erhabenheit‘. 20 Der Umfang wird ganz im technischen Sinne durch die wachsende Zahl der Epeisodia erklärt.

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wer dagegen Masken21 und Prologe eingeführt oder die Zahl der Schauspieler verändert hat, ist unbekannt. Komödien mit einem Mythos, einer Fabel zu versehen, kam aus Sizilien nach Athen, wo Krates als erster von der ἰαμβικὴ ἰδέα 22, also dem Spott gegen gewisse Personen (ψόγος) abließ, wie dies im homerischen Margites vorgegeben war (1448b36–38), statt dessen seinen Stücken eine allgemeine Handlung gab (καθόλου ποιεῖν λόγους καὶ μύθους)23 und – so muss man folgern – statt des direkten, persönlichen, verletzenden Spotts Komik (τὸ γελοῖον) zur Maßgabe seiner Stücke machte. Aristoteles’ Geschichte der dramatischen Gattungen ist ohne Zweifel entgegen zahlreichen kritischen Stimmen in der Forschung von besonderem Wert für unser Verständnis der Vorgeschichte von Tragödie und Komödie. Indem Aristoteles deutlich macht, über die Geschichte der Komödie vor 486 v. Chr. keine genauen Kenntnisse zu besitzen, unterstreicht er implizit, dass er zur Geschichte der Tragödie durchaus über genügend Material verfügte, sowohl über Testimonien zur Frühgeschichte als auch vor allem über Texte der Tragiker vor Aischylos, wenn vermutlich zwar nicht von Thespis und Choirilos, wohl aber von Phrynichos24. Außerdem kannte er, wie seine Bemerkung zu den zu seiner Zeit in vielen Poleis üblichen Phallika verdeutlicht (1449a12), chorische und volkstümliche Begehungen, die ihm auf der Basis der vorhandenen Texte Rückschlüsse auf Vorformen möglich machten. Und schließlich war er sicherlich, wie seine Katharsis-Konzeption (c. 6) verdeutlicht25, mit dem mystischen Drama, den dromena der Eleusinischen Mysterien, vertraut.

21 Dies bedeutet, dass nach Aristoteles die Maskierung der Schauspieler nicht ursprünglich zum tragischen und komischen Spiel gehörte. 22 Die ἰαμβικὴ ἰδέα ist also durch persönlichen, direkten Spott (ὀνομαστὶ κωμῳδεῖν) bestimmt und nicht durch eine allgemeine Thematik (καθόλου). 23 Halliwell (1987) 87 illustriert treffend den Unterschied, den Aristoteles zwischen der ἰαμβικὴ ἰδέα und der Komödie macht, anhand der Maske: „The mask is almost certainly meant to imply a fictional identity, and to provide a focus for laughter against human features whose significance is universal not particular. To mock an ugly individual, by contrast, would be regarded by Ar. as ethically offensive.“ 24 Zu Aristoteles als ernstzunehmender Quelle vgl. Depew (2007); vgl. schon Lucas (1968) 80: „A. had access to an immense amount of literature which is lost to us. […] Thus he was in good position to extrapolite backwards from mature through early tragedy whatever preceded tragedy.“ Als Quellen konnte er neben den Didaskalien über die Schriften der Atthidographen, die literaturgeschichtliche Informationen enthielten, und Glaukos von Rhegion verfügen (Περὶ τῶν ἀρχαίων ποιητῶν καὶ μουσικῶν, ca. 415 v. Chr.). 25 Zu Katharsis bzw. Katharmos in den Eleusinischen Mysterien vgl. Mylonas (1961) 261 f.; Clinton (2003) 56. Zu den dionysischen Mysterien vgl. Burkert (1977) 435 mit Hinweis auf Plat. Phaidr. 265b. Zur Verbindung von Reinigung und Mysterium, καθαρμοὶ καὶ τελεταί, vgl. Riedweg (1987) 35 f.

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Wichtig ist, dass Aristoteles keineswegs einen monolokalen Ursprung und eine monokausale Entwicklung von Komödie und Tragödie fordert. Die ausführliche ‚Fußnote‘ am Ende des 3. Kapitels verdeutlicht, dass aufgrund von Spekulationen über die Herkunft der Wörter ,Drama‘ (δρᾶμα) und ,Komödie‘ (κωμῳδία) die Dorer Anspruch auf die Erfindung der dramatischen Gattungen erhoben, insbesondere die Nisäischen und Hybläischen Megarer auf die Komödie26. Aristoteles lässt dies unkommentiert, sein Hinweis auf die sizilische Komödie zeigt jedoch, dass er in der komischen Gattung Athens einen dorischen Einfluss annahm (1449b5 f.), obwohl er sicherlich der Etymologie von κωμῳδία (von κώμη, ‚Dorf‘) kaum zugestimmt haben dürfte27. Ebenso wenig wie einen monolokalen Ursprung postuliert Aristoteles eine monokausale Entwicklung; vielmehr ist die Geschichte der beiden Gattungen durch zahlreiche Umbrüche gekennzeichnet (1449a14 μεταβολαί, 1449a37 μεταβάσεις), die durch Dichterpersönlichkeiten, in der Frühzeit durch unbekannte Personen, später durch Männer wie Aischylos und Sophokles oder Epicharm und Krates herbeigeführt wurden (1449a38). Aristoteles nimmt also einerseits eine generische Evolution an, die durch unpersönliche Faktoren wie dem ‚Sitz im Leben‘, anthropologische Konstanten und psychische Dispositionen der Dichter bestimmt ist, andrerseits betont er jedoch, dass die wichtigen Schritte in der literarischen Entwicklung nur durch Individuen vollbracht werden. Den ,Sitz im Leben‘ und den Ursprung der beiden dramatischen Hauptgattungen sieht Aristoteles im Dionysoskult und den mit ihm verbundenen, ursprünglich improvisierten chorischen Formen, dem Dithyrambos und den Phallika. Er definiert demnach, wie dies im offiziellen athenischen Sprachgebrauch üblich war, Komödie und Tragödie als chorische Gattungen, in denen das tänzerische Element im Lauf der Entwicklung zugunsten des gesprochenen an Bedeutung verlor. Während Dithyramben schon früh über feste Formen verfügten, von renommierten Dichtern verfasst und von diesen in ihrer Funktion als Chorlehrer (Chorodidaskalos) mit einem Chor einstudiert wurden, waren die Phallika Sache von ‚Freiwilligen‘ (1449a2 ἐθελονταί), bedurften also keiner Einstudierung und hatten auch keine von Dichtern ausgearbeiteten Texte, sondern waren entweder improvisiert oder verfügten über rituell festgelegte Texte. Der Improvisationscharakter blieb bei ihnen also bedeutend länger als beim Dithyrambos 26 Vgl. Halliwell (1987) 78. Solche konkurrierenden Ansprüche auf die Erfindung einer Gattung sind üblich; man denke nur an den Dithyrambos, dessen Erfindung Korinth, Theben und Athen für sich in Anspruch nahmen. 27 Vgl. Halliwell (1987) 78: „the later reference to phallic rituals in ch. 4 puts it virtually beyond doubt that he accepted the derivation of kômôdía from kômázein (revelling), not from kómê (village).“

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erhalten28. Der Rückgang des chorischen geht einher mit einer Zunahme des dramatischen Charakters in beiden Gattungen; dies wiederum bedeutet, dass beide Formen allmählich größere Allgemeingültigkeit erlangten und der aktuelle Anlass, der in der Chorlyrik den Ausgangspunkt für den Gesang und Tanz lieferte, immer mehr in den Hintergrund trat. Deutlich verweist Aristoteles darauf, dass beide dionysischen Chorgattungen, sowohl der Dithyrambos als auch die Phallika, einen dramatischen Nucleus besitzen. Der Exarchon, der den Chor anführt und den Gesang anstimmt, ist im Prinzip ein Protoschauspieler, der zwar als Teil des Chores keine eigene Identität hat, aber trotzdem eine in der Gruppe herausgehobene Stellung innehat und, indem er das Lied beginnt, über eine eigene Stimme verfügt29. Die enge Beziehung von Improvisation und Exarchontes, die Aristoteles postuliert, könnte den Schluss zulassen, dass Aristoteles improvisierte Prooimien (ἀναβολαί) des Chorführers oder Chorodidaskalos dem folgenden Chorgesang entgegenstellt30 und dem Exarchon damit schon eine Solistenrolle als Protoschauspieler zuschreibt31. Einen dramatischen Nucleus des Dithyrambos stellt auch der anonyme Kommentar zu Aristoteles’ Rhetorik 32 heraus, der auf eine respondierende, im Frage-Antwort-Schema aufgebaute Form des Dithyrambos verweist33. Dass es Aristoteles darum ging, dramatisches Potential in prädramatischen Gattungen zu entdecken, zeigen seine Ausführungen zur dramatischen Form der homerischen Epen (1448b35–38 μιμήσεις δραματικὰς ἐποίησεν; τὸ γελοῖον δραματαποιήσας). Aristoteles nimmt also zwei dionysische prädramatische Formen und keineswegs eine dionysische Urform an34. Die Gemeinsamkeit beider prädramatischer Formen ist die Dominanz des Chores und folglich ihr tänzerischer und musikalischer Charakter. Der dionysische Charakter muss sich bei der Prätragödie darin ausgedrückt haben, dass sie – wohl dem kultischen Anlass entsprechend – zunächst noch komische, burleske Züge und einen

28 Vielleicht ist es auch bedeutsam, dass Aristoteles von dem Dithyrambos und den Phallika spricht: der Singular könnte auf eine etablierte, gut bekannte Gattung verweisen, während der Plural impliziert, dass Phallika keine feste literarische Form waren, sondern sich durch formale und inhaltliche Vielfalt auszeichneten. 29 Vgl. zu bildlichen Darstellungen Csapo (2006/2007). 30 Vgl. Comotti (1989); Zimmermann (2008) 24. 31 Vgl. Adrados (1975) 252 f.; Ieranò (1997) 178 f. 32 Ieranò (1997) Nr. 46. 33 Damit könnte der verrätselnde Charakter der dionysischen Gattungen Satyrspiel und Dithyrambos in Verbindung stehen; vgl. Seaford (1984) 41 f.; Seaford (1996) 175 f.; Hardie (2004) 21 f. 34 Nagy (1990) 385 postuliert eine urdionysische Form, die sich durch einen ‚satyrischen‘ Charakter auszeichnete und aus der sich durch Differenzierungen Komödie und Tragödie entwickelten.

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dementsprechenden Stil (λέξις γελοία) aufwies35. Die in extenso und äußerst kontrovers diskutierte Formulierung διὰ τὸ ἐκ σατυρικοῦ μεταβαλεῖν („da sie sich aus einer satyrischen Form heraus entwickelte“) ist sicherlich in erster Linie aus Aristoteles’ Kenntnis von Satyrspielen zu erklären. Er behauptet zwar nicht, dass die Tragödie sich aus dem Satyrspiel entwickelt habe36, jedoch, dass sie eine Vorform besessen habe, die satyrspielhafte Elemente aufwies. Damit könnte Aristoteles darauf verweisen, dass es eine der erhabenen Tragödie zuzurechnende Gattung gibt, in der der Tanz und das Komische (γελοῖον) – allerdings nicht der Spott (ψόγος) wie in der Präkomödie – trotz der mythischen Sujets eine zentrale Rolle spielten37. Die Entwicklung der beiden dramatischen Hauptgattungen Tragödie und Komödie wird nach Aristoteles somit einerseits durch den kultischen und politischen38, andrerseits durch den literarischen Kontext geprägt. Die Vorbildfunktion Homers, der in seinen Epen bereits die späteren dramatischen Formen ahnen lässt, wird herausgestellt, ebenso der Einfluss, den lyrische Gattungen wie Enkomion und Hymnos auf der einen und die Iambographie sowie die sizilischen komischen Spielformen auf der anderen Seite auf Tragödie und Komödie ausgeübt haben. Damit behauptet Aristoteles jedoch keineswegs, dass es irgendeine genetische, direkte Linie zwischen Ilias und Odyssee und der Tragödie oder der Iambographie und der Komödie gebe39; vielmehr teilen die Gattungen bestimmte Elemente40, vor allem aber saugen die dramatischen Formen als polymorphe und polyphone Gebilde ständig Elemente gleichzeitiger und früherer literarischer Formen auf, ins35 Zur Mischung von Ernst und Heiterem vgl. Burkert (1990) 26. 36 Die Bezeichnung für Satyrspiel wäre auch nicht σατυρικόν, sondern Σάτυροι, vgl. z. B. TrGF I DID A 4a/b. 37 Zur Verbindung von Ernst und Spaß (παιδιά) in den dionysischen Agrionia von Chaironeia vgl. Burkert (²1997) 197: Das Wilde und Gefährliche löst sich in Heiterkeit auf. Vgl. auch Aristoph. Ran. 386–395; dazu Lada-Richards (1999) 323. Zur Parodos der aristophanischen Frösche insgesamt vgl. Graf (1974) 40–50. Das Problem des ‚Satyrischen‘ löst sich ganz auf, wenn man mit Seaford (1994) 267 f. einen Satyrdithyrambos annimmt, der auf Arion zurückgeht (Suda, s. v. Arion = Test. 48 Ieranò), so Seaford (1994) 268. 38 Der Hinweis auf die Demokratie in Megara als ‚Nährboden‘ der Komödie (1448a32) verdeutlicht, dass politische Faktoren bei der Ausbildung jedenfalls der Komödie diskutiert wurden. 39 Gegen Rosens (1988) These vgl. schon Herter (1947) 26: „Mag nun dieser Komödienspott starke Einflüsse von der jonischen Iambographie erfahren haben, so werden wir ihn doch in erster Linie unmittelbar aus dem Kulte abzuleiten haben.“ Vgl. zuletzt vor allem Bowie (2002). 40 So bedeutet die ἰαμβικὴ ἰδέα der Komödien vor Krates nicht, dass Aristoteles eine Entwicklung vom Iambos zur Komödie annimmt, sondern dass die frühen Komödien der Iambographie vergleichbare Züge, also direkten Spott, ohne eine allgemeine Handlung aufgewiesen haben – Spott, wie ihn auch die Phallika zeigten.

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besondere der im selben kultischen Kontext aufgeführten Gattungen41. Der performative Rahmen und Raum, die Dionysos-Feste und das DionysosTheater, intertextuelle Beziehungen, der Innovationswille und die Experimentierfreude von Dichterpersönlichkeiten sind also, kurz zusammengefasst, die für Gattungsentwicklungen entscheidenden Faktoren, und damit ist Aristoteles auf derselben Linie der Erklärung, die die meisten modernen Untersuchungen einschlagen. Der von Aristoteles herausgearbeitete, in der Konstellation Chorführer-Chor präsente dramatische Nucleus ist allerdings keine Besonderheit der dem Gott Dionysos geweihten Chorlieder, seien es Dithyramben, seien es Phallika. Vielmehr ist dramatisches Potential allen chorlyrischen Genera inhärent. Literarische und archäologische Zeugnisse belegen hinreichend, dass es präliterarische dramatische Formen vorwiegend komischer Prägung außerhalb Athens gab, die nicht mit dem Dionysoskult verbunden waren42. Es sind dies vor allem die für den Artemiskult auf der Peloponnes im Heiligtum der Artemis Orthia nachgewiesenen grotesken Masken43. Antiquarische Nachrichten berichten über Bryllichistai, Männer, die sich hässliche Frauenmasken anlegen44, über Deikelistai45, die einfache, chorlose Possen mit Fruchtdieben und ausländischen Quacksalbern wohl improvisierten46, über ‚Zittertänze‘ von Satyrn und Silenen (Poll. 4,104 f.) in Malea, über Ithymboi im Dionysos- und Karyatides im Artemiskult, über Männer in Frauenmasken im Apollon- und Artemiskult 47, über Hypogypones, die Greise mit Stöcken nachahmten, und Stelzentänzern mit durchsichtigen Gewändern48, über einen Tanz (Kordax) in Elis, der betrunkene, alte Frauen darstellen sollte (Paus. 6,22,1)49, und über bekränzte und mit Hirschhörnern 41 Dies gilt in besonderem Maße für die Komödie, die sich in Parodien mit anderen Gattungen auseinandersetzt, aber auch ohne parodische Intentionen Strukturen und Elemente anderer Gattungen übernimmt. 42 Vgl. Adrados (1975) 257–277. 43 Stoessl (1987) 60; Burkert (²1997) 190 f. 44 Hesych, s. v., vgl. Stoessl (1987) 60 f.; vgl. auch Hesych s. v. Brydalicha, Stoessl (1987) 61. 45 Die Notiz über die dorische Posse bzw. den dorischen Mimus geht auf Sosibios zurück, der eine Reihe von alternativen Bezeichnungen dieser Schauspieler anführt, und wird bei Athenaios 621d–f zitiert. Vgl. zuletzt Olson (2007) 5 f., der den historischen Wert der Passage bezweifelt. 46 Stoessl (1987) 62. Diebstahl als Possenmotiv ist auch bei Poll. 4,105 bezeugt. Für Sikyon sind Improvisationen von sog. Autokabdaloi (Phallophoren) bezeugt, die auch Phlyakes, Sophistai und in Theben ‚Laien‘ (ἐθελονταί, vgl. Aristot. poet. 1449b1) genannt wurden; zu den Autokabdaloi als den Exarchontes des Dithyrambos vgl. D’Angour (1997) 337. 47 Stoessl (1987) 62–64. 48 Stoessl (1987) 63. 49 Vgl. Schnabel (1910) 42 f.

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ausstaffierte Bukoliasten im Artemiskult von Syrakus50. Für Artemis wurde in Ephesos ein rituelles Tanzspiel aufgeführt, das der Besänftigung der Gottheit dienen sollte. Mädchen und Knaben aus Ephesos ehrten die Göttin mit einheimischen Nahrungsmitteln, Sellerie und Salz. Als sie die Opfer nicht wiederholten, strafte die Göttin die Stadt mit einer Seuche, die erst endete, als das Opferritual wieder aufgenommen wurde. Dieser Fall ist besonders interessant, da Chor und Chortanz bereits Bestandteil des Mythos sind und bei jeder neuen Wiederholung der agierende Chor sich in Beziehung zu dem Urchor der Gründung des Festes setzt51. Es kommt hinzu, dass es in den Eleusinischen Mysterien ohne Zweifel dramatische Elemente im mystischen Drama gab52. Das Motiv der Suche der Göttin nach ihrer entführten Tochter war auch andernorts mimetischer Bestandteil von Mysterien53, ebenfalls stand die Suche nach dem verschwundenen Gott im Zentrum der dionysischen Agrionia54. Dass sich Tragödie, Satyrspiel und Komödie im Dionysoskult ausbildeten und ihre Blüte erlebten, bedarf also eingehenderer Überlegungen55. Die Verbindung von Chorgesang und -tanz mit Opfern56 kann nicht ausschlaggebend sein. Eher könnte man die Eigenschaft des Dionysos als Gottheit der Grenzüberschreitung, Ekstase und Liminalität als Ursache in Anspruch nehmen – Eigenschaften, die allerdings auch auf Artemis zutreffen57. So haben einige mit dem Dionysoskult verbundene Mythen durchaus dramatisches Potential. Man denke nur an Theomachos-Mythen, die den Gegensatz von Mensch und Gott thematisieren58, oder an die Aufhebung der Gegensätze von jung und alt, von Vergangenheit und Gegenwart59, von außen und innen, von Wildheit und Zivilisation und von Männlichem und Weiblichem60. Entscheidender für die Genese dramatischer Formen dürfte die Tatsache sein, dass Dionysos wie Demeter in Mysterien verehrt wurde61 – und gerade

50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

Vgl. Reitzenstein (1893) 193–228, Herter (1947) 31 f. Vgl. Kowalzig (2004) 50 f. Vgl. Hardie (2004) 21. Vgl. Clinton (2003) 69; Jost (2003) 156 f. Vgl. Burkert (²1997) 197. Es reicht also keineswegs aus, Dionysos als Theatergott zu deklarieren, sondern man muss nach Gründen suchen, wieso Dionysos Theatergott (geworden) ist. Kowalzig (2004) 49. Ohnehin weisen Artemis- und Dionysosverehrung große Gemeinsamkeiten auf; vgl. Burkert (1977) 233–237, 251–260. Besonders geht es um die Ablehnung und Beleidigung des Gottes durch den Menschen (Hybris) und die daraus resultierende Bestrafung des Menschen. Sourvinou-Inwood (2003b) 175. Seaford (1994) 251–257. Vgl. Burkert (1977) 426–440; Bremmer (1994) 21; Brumfield (1996) 68.

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Mysterienkulte, insbesondere die Einweihungsriten62 und die damit verbundenen Tänze, in denen sich die Gruppe der ekstatisch Tanzenden mit dem Gott verbindet63, weisen mimetisch-dramatische Elemente auf. Dass sich das Drama nicht aus dem Demeter-, sondern aus dem Dionysoskult entwickelte, kann durch die Politik der Tyrannen im 6. Jahrhundert und aus der besonderen ‚Eignung‘ des Dionysos als Gott sozialer Dramen erklärt werden. Sowohl jahreszeitliche, mit der Vegetation verbundene als auch liminale Riten64 sind in besonderer Weise Dionysos als einer Gottheit der Ambiguität65 zugeordnet, der Gegensätze aufzulösen und gesellschaftliche Krisen, vor allem die Spannung zwischen Individuum und Gesamtheit, zwischen Oikos und Polis66, durch die Gründung eines ihm gewidmeten Poliskultes zu überwinden hilft67. Die dionysischen Gattungen hätten jedoch kaum diese Bedeutung erhalten, wenn nicht die Religionspolitik der Tyrannen im 6. Jahrhundert den Dionysoskult stark aufgewertet oder für breitere Schichten geöffnet und offensichtlich zu einem Medium ihrer Politik gemacht hätte, wie dies in Korinth – Periandros und Arion –, in Sikyon – Kleisthenes und die τραγικοὶ χοροί – und in Athen – Peisistratos und die Einführung der Großen Dionysien – nachvollziehbar ist68.

Literatur Adrados (1975). – Francesco R. Adrados, Festival, Comedy and Tragedy. The Greek Origins of Theatre (Leiden 1975). Bowie (2002). – Ewen Bowie, „Ionian Iambos and Attic Komoidia: Father and Daughter, or Just Cousins?“, in: Andreas Willi (ed.), The Language of Greek Comedy (Oxford 2002) 33–50. 62 Mendelsohn (1992) 123 bestimmt aus der Interpretation von Archil. fr. 120 West den ursprünglichen Platz des Dithyrambos in Initiationsriten in den dionysischen Mysterien: „Since ancient sources indicate that the climax of the initiation was accompanied by performance of an actual cult hymn, it is not unreasonable to posit that, in the case of the Dionysiac mysteries, the hymn describing the birth of the god and the Titan’s fiery punishment was a dithyramb.“ Vgl. auch Plat. leg. 700b4: Der Inhalt des Dithyrambos wird mit der ‚Geburt des Dionysos‘ (Διονύσου γένεσις) definiert. Vgl. auch Seaford (1994) 270 f. 63 Hardie (2004) 19, 21. 64 Vgl. Winkler (1989) 58–62 zu Dionysos und Initiationsriten; auch Kolb (1977) 128 zu Dionysos Melanaigis. Nach Winkler sind tragische Chöre im Zusammenhang mit ephebischen, initiatorischen Riten entstanden; vgl. auch Graf (1998a) 25–27. 65 Seaford (1994) 251–257. 66 Seaford (1994) 299. 67 Seaford (1994) 253, 299. 68 Vgl. Zimmermann (2008) 26–35.

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Bremmer (1994). – Jan N. Bremmer, Greek Religion (Oxford 1994). Brumfield (1996). – Allaire Brumfield, „Aporetta: Verbal and Ritual Obscenity in the Cults of Ancient Women“, in: Robin Hägg (ed.), The Role of Religion in the Early Greek Polis (Stockholm 1996). Burkert (1977). – Walter Burkert, Griechische Religion der archaischen und klassischen Epoche (Stuttgart/Berlin/Köln/Mainz 1977). Burkert (1990). – Walter Burkert, „Griechische Tragödie und Opferritual“, in: W. Burkert, Wilder Ursprung. Opferritual und Mythos bei den Griechen (Berlin 1990) 13–39 (= „Greek Tragedy and Sacrificial Ritual“, GRBS 7, 1966, 87–121 = Kleine Schriften VII: Tragica et Historica, Göttingen 2007, 1–36). Burkert (²1997). – Walter Burkert, Homo necans. Interpretationen altgriechischer Opferriten und Mythen (Berlin/New York ²1997). Clinton (2003). – Kevin Clinton, „Stages of Initiation in the Eleusinian and Samothracian Mysteries“, in: Michael B. Cosmopoulos (ed.), Greek Mysteries. The Archaeolog y and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults (London 2003) 50–78. Comotti (1989). – Giovanni Comotti, „L’anabole e il ditirambo“, QUCC 31 (1989) 107–117. D’Angour (1997). – Armand D’Angour, „How the Dithyramb Got Its Shape“, CQ 47 (1997) 331–351. Csapo (2006/2007). – Eric Csapo, „The Iconography of the Exarchos“, Mediterranean Archeolog y 19/20 (2006/2007) 55–65. De Libero (1996). – Loretana De Libero, Die archaische Tyrannis (Stuttgart 1996). Depew (2007). – David Depew, „From Hymn to Tragedy: Aristotle’s Genealogy of Poetic Kinds“, in: Eric Csapo/Margaret C. Miller (edd.), The Origins of Theatre in Ancient Greece and Beyond (Cambridge 2007) 126–149. Graf (1974). – Fritz Graf, Eleusis und die orphische Dichtung Athens in vorhellenistischer Zeit (Berlin/New York 1974). Graf (1998a). – Fritz Graf, „Die kultischen Wurzeln des antiken Schauspiels“, in: Gerhard Binder/Bernd Effe (edd.), Das antike Theater. Aspekte seiner Geschichte, Rezeption und Aktualität, Bochumer Altertumswissenschaftliches Colloquium (Trier 1998) 11–32. Graf (1998b). – Fritz Graf (ed.), Ansichten griechischer Rituale. Festschrift Walter Burkert (Stuttgart/Leipzig 1998). Graf (2006). – Fritz Graf, „Drama and Ritual. Evolution and Convergences“, in: Enrico Medda/Maria Serena Mirto/Maria Pia Pattoni (edd.), ΚΩΜΩΙΔΟΤΡΑΓΩΙΔΙΑ. Intersezioni del tragico e del comico nel teatro del V secolo a. C., Seminari e convegni 6 (Pisa 2006) 103–118. Halliwell (1987). – Stephen Halliwell, The Poetics of Aristotle. Translation and Commentary (London 1987). Hardie (2004). – Alex Hardie, „Muses and Mysteries“, in: Murray/Wilson (2004) 11–37. Heath (1989). – Malcolm Heath, „Aristotelean Comedy“, CQ 39 (1989) 344–354. Herington (1985). – John Herington, Poetry into Drama. Early Tragedy and the Greek Poetic Tradition (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London 1985). Henrichs (1998). – Albert Henrichs, „Dromena und Legomena. Zum rituellen Selbstverständnis der Griechen“, in: Graf (1998b) 33–71. Herter (1947). – Hans Herter, Vom dionysischen Tanz zum komischen Spiel. Die Anfänge der attischen Komödie (Iserlohn 1947). Ieranò (1997). – Giorgio Ieranò, Il ditirambo di Dioniso. Le testimonianze antiche, Lyricorum Graecorum quae extant 12 (Pisa/Roma 1997).

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Jost (2003). – Madeleine Jost, „Mystery Cults in Arcadia“, in: Michael B. Cosmopoulos (ed.), Greek Mysteries. The Archaeolog y and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults (London 2003) 143–168. Kolb (1977). – Frank Kolb, „Die Bau-, Religions- und Kulturpolitik der Peisistratiden“, JDAI 92 (1977) 143–168. Kowalzig (2004). – Barbara Kowalzig, „Changing Choral Worlds: Song-Dance and Society in Athens and Beyond“, in: Murray/Wilson (2004) 39–65. Lada-Richards (1999). – Ismene Lada-Richards, Initiating Dionysus. Ritual and Theatre in Aristophanes’ Frogs (Oxford 1999). Leonhardt (1991). – Jürgen Leonhardt, Phalloslied und Dithyrambos. Aristoteles über den Ursprung des griechischen Dramas, Abhandlungen der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse (Heidelberg 1991). Lloyd-Jones (1998). – Hugh Lloyd-Jones, „Ritual and Tragedy“, in: Graf (1998b) 271–295. Lucas (1968). – Donald W. Lucas, Aristotle, Poetics (Oxford 1968). Mendelsohn (1992). – Daniel Mendelsohn, „ΣΥΓΚΕΡΑΥΝΟΩ: Dithyrambic Language and Dionisiac Cult“, CJ 87 (1992) 105–124. Murray/Wilson (2004). – Penelope Murray/Peter Wilson (edd.), Music and the Muses (Oxford 2004). Mylonas (1961). – George E. Mylonas, Eleusis and the Eleusianian Mysteries (Princeton 1961). Nagy (1990). – Gregory Nagy, Pindar’s Homer. The Lyric Possession of Epic Past (Baltimore/ London 1990). Olson (2007). – S. Douglas Olson, Broken Laughter. Select Fragments of Greek Comedy (Oxford 2007). Reitzenstein (1893). – Richard Reitzenstein, Epigramm und Skolion (Gießen 1893). Riedweg (1987). – Christoph Riedweg, Mysterienterminologie bei Platon, Philon und Klemens von Alexandrien, Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte 26 (Berlin/ New York 1987). Rosen (1988): – Ralph M. Rosen, Old Comedy and the Iambographic Tradition (Atlanta 1988). Schmitt (2008). – Arbogast Schmitt, Aristoteles, Poetik, Aristoteles, Werke in deutscher Übersetzung 5 (Berlin 2008). Schnabel (1910). – Heinz Schnabel, Kordax (München 1910). Seaford (1984). – Richard Seaford, Euripides, Cyclops (Oxford 1984). Seaford (1994). – Richard Seaford, Reciprocity and Ritual. Homer and Tragedy in the Developing City-State (Oxford 1994). Seaford (1996). – Richard Seaford, Euripides, Bacchae (Warminster 1996). Sourvinou-Inwood (2003a). – Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, „Festival and Mysteries: Aspects of the Eleusinian Cult“, in: Michael B. Cosmopoulos (ed.), Greek Mysteries. The Archaeolog y and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults (London 2003) 1–24. Sourvinou-Inwood (2003b). – Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood, Tragedy and Athenian Religion (London/Boulder/New York/Oxford 2003). Stoessl (1987). – Franz Stoessl, Die Vorgeschichte des griechischen Theaters (Darmstadt 1987). Winkler (1989). – John J. Winkler, „The Ephebes’ Song: Tragoidia and Polis“, in: John J. Winkler/Froma I. Zeitlin (edd.), Nothing to Do with Dionysos? (Princeton 1989) 20–62. Winkler (1990). – John J. Winkler, „The Some Two Sources of Literature and Its ‚History‘ in Aristotle, Poetics 4“, in: Mark Griffith/Donald Mastronarde (edd.), Cabinet of the Muses. Essays on Classical and Comparative Literature in Honor of Thomas G. Rosenmeyer (Atlanta 1990) 307–318. Zimmermann (2008). – Bernhard Zimmermann, Dithyrambos. Geschichte einer Gattung (Berlin 2008).

Der griechische Roman – ein Mythos? Gedanken zur mythischen Dimension von Longos’ Daphnis und Chloe anton bierl

Im Rahmen von ICAN IV leitete ich letzten Sommer in Lissabon einen Roundtable zum Thema „Myth and the Ancient Novel“, an dem auch Fritz Graf beteiligt war1. Nach einem langen ersten Konferenztag schaffte es die kleine Gruppe, zu abendlicher Stunde das Publikum nochmals mit allerlei Gedanken anzuregen2. Jeder versuchte seine Erkenntnisse zusammenzufassen: Mythos spielt im Roman eine besondere Rolle im Plot, löst an entscheidenden Punkten, oft durch Ekphrasis eines Bildes, Handlung aus, stellt Analogien her und vertieft Inhalte durch Exempla3. Zuweilen kann man den Roman als Reaktion auf mythische Erzählung auffassen4. Ausgefallene Mythen können ferner als Ausweis sophistischer Bildung dienen5. Lokalen Mythen kommt dabei eine große Bedeutung zu, auch auf der Folie einer 1

2 3 4 5

Seit meiner Dissertation zu Dionysos (Bierl 1991) kreuzten sich immer wieder meine Wege mit Fritz Graf. Wirklich nah wurden wir uns dann erst durch Basel. Fritz hatte wenige Jahre vor meinem Amtsantritt die altehrwürdige Universität in Richtung USA verlassen – Eros hatte ein gehöriges Wort mitzureden. In Basel hatte er sich unter anderem für die Religionswissenschaft engagiert; anfangs konnte ich ihn noch ab und zu für einen Lehrauftrag gewinnen. Zudem besuchte er auch sonst öfters seine ehemalige Wirkungsstätte, so dass wir uns immer häufiger trafen. Bei Wein am Rhein oder nur im Café tauschten wir manchen humorvollen Gedanken zur alten und neuen Heimat aus und schmiedeten gemeinsame Ideen und Projekte. Allmählich entwickelte sich eine durch gemeinsame Interessen geförderte Freundschaft, so dass es mir eine besondere Freude ist, zu Ehren von Fritz etwas auf seinem Gebiet beizutragen. Weitere Teilnehmer: Jan Bremmer, Edmund Cueva, Marília Futre Pinheiro, Tim Whitmarsh und Maaike Zimmerman. Cueva und Graf in mündlichen, bisher unpublizierten Beiträgen, Roundtable „Myth and the Ancient Novel“ (Vorsitz und Organisation: Anton Bierl), ICAN IV, Lissabon 21. Juli 2008. Graf (ebd.). Bremmer (ebd.).

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modernen „glocalization“6. Zudem ist es möglich, dadurch der Hoffnung auf Vereinigung mit dem Göttlichen Ausdruck zu verleihen7. Nicht vergessen werden dürfen in diesem Kontext Sichtweisen auf Fragen von gender, Gewalt und Macht8. Nach einer bewegten Podiumsdiskussion äußerte Fritz Graf zuletzt die Ansicht, die Romane seien eigentlich die neuen Mythen der Griechen gewesen. Mir leuchtete dies sofort ein, hatte ich doch kurz davor einen langen Beitrag zur Interdependenz von Mythos, Ritual und dem griechischen Roman mit ähnlicher Stoßrichtung verfasst9. Obwohl wir damit eigentlich am Höhepunkt angelangt waren, war es doch Zeit geworden, die Veranstaltung abzubrechen. Die anderen Teilnehmer und das Publikum zeigten der Behauptung gegenüber teils gespannte Neugier, teils vorsichtige Reserviertheit. Da wir beide diese These nicht mehr wirklich darlegen konnten, versuche ich dies im Folgenden für den Jubilar nachzuholen. Vielleicht meinte er dies ja ganz anders, dann besitzen wir Stoff zum weiteren intensiven Gespräch. Ich will die Zusammenhänge in der deutlichsten Ausprägung am sophistischen Hirtenroman Daphnis und Chloe des Longos exemplifizieren und zugleich relativieren.

Roman und Mythos Auch für die anderen idealen Liebesromane ist diese These bedenkenswert. Die beiden Protagonisten sind ins Ideale erhobene Stars, vielleicht am ehesten vergleichbar mit einigen Kinohelden von Hollywood – oder noch besser von Bollywood. Ihr Auftreten gleicht sie der Sphäre des Heroischen, oft sogar des Göttlichen an. Häufig werden sie mit glamourösen Figuren des Mythos, mit sagenumwobenen jungen Heroen und Heroinnen oder sogar mit Göttern oder ihren Statuen verglichen. Sie erscheinen anderen als Götter, das heißt sie werden wegen ihres strahlenden Äußeren einfach mit ihnen verwechselt und gleichgesetzt10. Durch Exempla oder Analogien wird so der einfachen menschlichen Liebesgeschichte ein Flair des Erhabenen verliehen11. Das bildhübsche Paar steht aufgrund der überragenden Schönheit weit über dem menschlichen Normalmaß. Gerade dadurch werden alle Episoden glaubhaft, in denen sich beim ersten Anblick Dritte in sie verlieben. Zugleich sind diese heroischen und göttlichen Figuren allesamt mit Vorliebe Gestalten, die das Mädchen oder den jungen Mann 6 7 8 9 10 11

Whitmarsh (ebd.). Zimmerman (ebd.). Futre Pinheiro (ebd.). Bierl (2007). Bierl (2007) 288–298. Cueva (2004).

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an der Schwelle zum Erwachsensein verkörpern oder als Gottheiten für den entscheidenden rite de passage von der Jugend zum Erwachsenenstatus verantwortlich sind. Zu nennen sind auf männlicher Seite unter anderen Hippolytos, Achilleus, Orestes und Apollon, auf weiblicher etwa Iphigenie, Andromeda, Philomela, Artemis und Aphrodite, wobei die unterlegten Mythen häufig die Burkert’sche „Mädchentragödie“12 reflektieren. Wie ich an anderer Stelle ausführte, umkreist der Liebesroman nämlich die fundamentale Krise dieses Übergangs13. Bekanntlich sind beide Protagonisten blutjung. Sie stehen in der Pubertät und die plötzliche Erfahrung der Liebe geht mit der Entdeckung der Sexualität einher. Für den mythosähnlichen Plot wird zugleich häufig das Traumartige entscheidend. Denn Mythos und Traum sind eng miteinander verbunden. Synesios (De insomniis 19,45–53) meint, dass Mythen und phantastische Geschichten auf Träumen basieren. Daher könnten Sophisten ihre rhetorischen Prog ymnasmata, die auf mythologischen Beispielen beruhen, durch Traumerzählungen ergänzen. Bekanntlich üben solche mythologischen Übungen aus den Rednerschulen einen nicht unerheblichen Einfluss auf Erzählmuster und Techniken des Romans aus. Romane werden häufig mit Mythen in Verbindung gebracht, die vorgeben, logoi zu sein (vgl. Ach. Tat. 1,2,1 f.; Chariton 4,2,13; 5,8,2; 6,3,6; Long. 2,7,1; 2,27,2; 4,20,1)14. Wegen ihrer phantastischen Märchenqualität besitzen die Romane eine erstaunliche Nähe zum Mythos. Das Wunderbare, das in der freien plasmatischen Fiktionalität mit dem Alptraumartigen einhergeht, thematisiert die Ängste in der zentralen Krise vor der Hochzeit. Damit entsteht eine ambigue Grenzbefindlichkeit zwischen Wahrem und Falschem, mythos und logos, Fiktion und Wirklichkeit, Märchen und Faktizität. Obgleich mirakulöse Szenen gerne im Nachhinein als Täuschungen aufgeklärt werden, wirkt die Erzählung doch durch den ersten Eindruck. Die Götter sind freilich eher in den Hintergrund gedrängt, im Vordergrund wirkt meist nur eine Schicksalsmacht wie Tyche. Götter und mythisches Arsenal wirken häufig als Folie, als gelehrtes Beiwerk zur Illustration, das die Ereignisse ins mythische Licht rückt, aber nicht damit identisch sein muss. Und nichtsdestotrotz wird der herkömmliche Mythos mit dem fiktionalen Plot verwoben, wodurch der Roman zu einer Art neuen Mythos verwandelt wird. Die Bewertung der mythischen Qualität des Romans hängt freilich von der Definition des schwierigen Begriffs Mythos ab. Bekanntlich ist der 12 Vgl. Burkert (1979) 6 f.; Burkert (1996) 69–79. Im Roman vgl. u. a. Ach. Tat. 3,15–22. 13 Bierl (2007) bes. 262–276. 14 Vgl. Aglae Pizzone, „The Tale of a Dream: Oneiros and Mythos in the Greek Novel“, mündlicher Vortrag, ICAN IV, Lissabon 23. Juli 2008 (ich danke der Autorin für die spätere Zusendung des Manuskripts); zum Traumartigen in Xen. Eph. vgl. Bierl (2006).

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Mythos ein neuzeitliches Konstrukt der Geisteswissenschaften. Den Mythos schlechthin gibt es ebensowenig wie das Ritual. Gegen die übliche Tendenz universalistischer oder reduktionistischer Bestimmungen hebe ich mit Margaret Alexiou das performative Element und das Schwanken zwischen Polaritäten hervor. Mythos setzt häufig Ritual in Aufführung um und begleitet diese mit Geschichten. Ich schließe mich im Folgenden Alexious offener Definition an, welche die binären Oppositionen von mündlich/schriftlich, primitiv/zivilisiert, abergläubisch/rational, wahr/falsch, ländlich/städtisch, volkstümlich/literarisch zu vermeiden sucht15. Ihre Bestimmung lautet: Myth is a story, often involving supernatural or nonnatural elements, which may be told, sung, or implicit, whether by word of mouth or in writing (or a combination of both). It draws on a shared yet not undisputed fund of beliefs, experiences, and memories, rather than on an officially or scientifically determined consensus imposed from outside. It serves to link the past with the present, the known with the unknown worlds16.

Die Bedeutung der Mythen und Geschichten liegt nach Alexiou in der Lücke zwischen Wahrem und Nichtwahrem, zwischen Vergangenheitserfahrung und potentieller Zukunft, und ist daher ständig aufgeschoben. Nicht das Was, das Wesen, ist entscheidend, das kultisch-religiös als heilige Wahrheit, historisch-soziologisch als Begründung einer gesellschaftlichen Institution, politisch als kollektive Selbstdarstellung, pädagogisch als Exempel oder rein ästhetisch als poetisches Phänomen ausgemacht wird. Dabei werden meist anthropologisch-ethnologische, philosophische, religionswissenschaftliche oder literaturwissenschaftliche Fragestellungen verfolgt. Funktionale, symbolische oder strukturelle Methoden werden angewandt und dabei formalistische, marxistische oder gender-relevante Perspektiven verfolgt17. Kaum dürfte wohl eine Fokussierung auf einen einzigen Aspekt und nur eine Methode allein richtig sein. Angemessener erscheint ein eklektisches Verfahren gegenüber dem schillernden Phänomen. Daher will ich im Folgenden vielmehr das Wie der Bedeutung in den Blick nehmen, die Funktion. Es geht also darum, wie mythische Symbole und Elemente immanent in einem erzählerischen Gewebe ästhetisch-poietisch wirken und auf welche Weise sie dadurch bestimmte anthropologische Aussagen befördern. Mythen „als traditionelle Erzählung mit sekundärer und partieller Referenz auf etwas von kollektiver Bedeutung“18 besitzen ein narratives und fiktionales Potential, das sich sprachlich in einer Kette von Metaphern und Metonymien äußert. Viele nachantike griechische Erzählungen und volkstümliche Lieder inszenieren in hochpathetischer und phantastischer Weise Krisen und Angstzustände, 15 16 17 18

Zum Folgenden vgl. Alexiou (2002) 152–167, bes. 152–155. Alexiou (2002) 153. Vgl. dazu u. a. Graf (1985) 7–14; Jamme (1999). Übersetzt nach Burkert (1979) 23.

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wodurch sie selbst nahezu rituelle Funktion haben können. Ein wichtiges Thema stellt gerade auch die Welt des jungen Mädchens in der Pubertät und die dramatische Schwellensituation der Hochzeit dar. Die Frau, die in den Romanen der Liebe entsagt und doch mit der Sexualität konfrontiert wird, ist eine ideale Vermittlerin zwischen patriarchalen Ansprüchen, neuen religiösen Formen und sexuellen Tagträumen und Machtphantasien19. Mythos ist also multidimensional, dynamisch, immer in Bewegung oder Übertragung20. Der ständige Aufschub zwischen Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft, Wahrem und Falschem, Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit, Alltäglichem, Heiligem und Kosmischem erinnert an den gleichzeitigen Aufschub der Liebe, der für den Liebesroman konstitutiv ist. Wie ich an anderer Stelle zeigte, ist es möglich, die Romanhandlung aufgrund ihrer imaginären Qualität mit einer Traumsequenz in Beziehung zu setzen21. Das übermäßige erotische Begehren kann man wiederum mit Jacques Lacans Theorie der oszillierenden Sinnverschiebung verbinden, der von einer Spaltung und grundsätzlich defizitären Struktur des Subjekts ausgeht. Das Ich konstituiert sich demnach auf der Basis von Signifikantenketten nach dem auf Ferdinand de Saussure und Roman Jakobson beruhenden linguistic turn über die Supplementarität von Zeichen im tropologischen Spiel von Metapher und Metonymie. Das Subjekt und noch mehr der Liebende befinden sich in einem Zustand des kontinuierlichen Gleitens, eines „glissement incessant du signifié sous le signifiant“22, um die sich auftuende Lücke nach dem Anderem zu schließen. Insbesondere die Liebenden unterliegen demnach der Sprache, und im Verweisspiel von Zeichen entsteht Sinn generierende Narration. Jakobson assoziiert die für den Traum typische Arbeit der Verdichtung und Verschiebung mit den paradigmatischen und syntagmatischen Achsen der Sprache, welche die textliche Fiktion bestimmen23. Die Romanautoren übertragen also die in den Eros eingeschriebene Unvollkommenheit im tropologischen Spiel einer flottierenden Signifikantenkette auf ihre Erzählungen. Mythos, Traum und spezifischer Liebesdiskurs gehören demnach im Roman zusammen und spiegeln sich in seiner textlichen Verfasstheit wider. Mit der Schriftlichkeit sterben Mythos und das ihn begleitende Ritual nicht ab, sondern leben in Umformung weiter und erfüllen im sophistischen Roman die nämlichen Aufgaben der Verhandlung, des Umspielens, 19 Dazu allgemein Alexiou (2002); zum Roman vgl. Bierl (2007). 20 Alexiou (2002) 166. 21 Vgl. Bierl (2006) bes. 82–93 (zu Xen. Eph.) und nun Pizzone (Anm. 14). Zum Traum im Roman vgl. Bowersock (1994) und MacAlister (1996) bes. 33–43, 70–83, 84–114. 22 Lacan (1966) 260. Zu den folgenden Zusammenhängen vgl. Bierl (2006) 85 f. 23 Jakobson (1974) 137 f.

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der Affirmation, Unterminierung und des Transfers von wild-bedrohlichem Material zur Lebensbewältigung wie in einfachen mündlichen Erzählungen. Mythos und Roman sind daher eng miteinander verflochten. Beide fokussieren ebenso wie Rituale und Träume die nämlichen Themen: Gewalt, Grauen, Schrecken, Wunder, Kontakt mit Göttern, Heroen und Tieren, Natur, Sexualität, das Fremde sowie das ,Andere‘ im Gegensatz zum ,Selbst‘. Der Mythos ist also nicht, wie Karl Kerényi glaubte, Ursprung oder „Urbild“ der Gattung, woraus sich der Roman im Zuge eines literarischen Säkularisierungsvorgangs zu „verbürgerlichter“ und vermenschlichter Form entwickelt habe24. Das Leiden und der Eros haben kaum im ägyptischen Isis-Osiris-Mythos ihren eigentlichen Sitz, sondern vielmehr geht es um den bewussten Einsatz von Mythos als ästhetisches Verfahren. Der künstlerische Rekurs auf den Mythos geschieht also mit Sicherheit nicht aus einem genetischen Abhängigkeitsverhältnis, sondern zum Zweck, durch das bekannte kommunikative Medium Tiefenschärfe für ein brisantes, alle Menschen angehendes anthropologisches Problem zu erhalten. Der romanhafte Text ist folglich kein Derivat des Mythos, sondern er steht in Interdependenz damit als Mittel des ästhetisch-poietischen Ausdrucks. Im mythischen Diskurs können Vorstellungen verhandelt und krisenhafte Zustände wie der Statusübergang in der Pubertät wirkungsvoll inszeniert werden. Mythos ist ein autoritatives Wort, das in markierter Sprache modellhafte Gültigkeit besitzt und zugleich durch Übertretungsszenarien angestrebtes regelhaftes Verhalten ex negativo beleuchtet. Wie in vielen mythischen Geschichten und Bildern vermag auch der Roman, Rollen und Einstellungen zu normieren und zu legitimieren, Geschlechterrollen zu konstruieren und Konflikte bewusst zu machen. Der Mythos überhöht, nobilitiert und stellt Dinge in einen idealen und zeitlosen Rahmen. Zugleich schlägt die inhärente Spannung durch Übersteigerungstendenzen in Richtung Gewalt, Chaos und Transgression der Norm um. Außerdem kann man im Mythos offene imaginäre Welten entwerfen, Wünsche und Ängste verarbeiten und durchspielen sowie die Macht des Eros aufzeigen. All dies tun auch die uns erhaltenen Romantexte.

Mythos und Longos Kerényi hatte zu Recht mit Longos ein gewisses Problem, da das Leid hier weitgehend in den Hintergrund gestellt ist. Daphnis und Chloe unterscheidet sich von den anderen Romanen fundamental, da sein Autor die Gattung mit der hellenistischen Bukolik, insbesondere mit den Eidyllia des Theokrit, 24 „Urbild“: Kerényi (1927) 43; vgl. „Hellenisierung – Humanisierung“ ebd. 263 und die „Nachbetrachtungen“ der 2. Auflage („Nachwort über die Methode“), bes. 291 Anm. 2; vgl. auch Henrichs (2006).

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verbindet25. Longos übernimmt dabei eine für ihn typische Spannung zwischen Oppositionen, die der diachronen Entwicklung der Bukolik geschuldet ist. Am Anfang wirft Theokrit aus städtisch-gebildeter Perspektive ein ironisches Bild auf das einfache Landleben und einen im Gesang sein Liebesleid zum Ausdruck bringenden mythischen Hirten. Einige Jahrhunderte später bilden sich idyllisierende poetische Vorstellungen einer eskapistischen Sehnsucht nach einer einfachen Existenz in der Natur heraus. Schon in der direkten Nachfolge Theokrits von den Gedichten des Corpus Theocriteum über Moschos und Bion bis Vergil kann man ferner eine zunehmende Idealisierung und Mythisierung des Hirtenlebens feststellen. Zudem wird eine deutliche Erotisierung sichtbar, die so weit geht, dass im unechten Gedicht [Theokr.] 27 der bis dato notorisch liebeskranke Daphnis eine Liebesbeziehung wechselseitiger Erfüllung findet, die das romanhafte Szenario bei Longos vorwegnimmt26. Longos umfasst also die alte wie die neuere Bukolik und integriert alle Stränge der pastoralen Vorstellungswelt in sein hochartifizielles literarisches Werk, gerade auch die seiner Zeit. Daher rührt auch die immer wieder festgestellte Doppelbödigkeit von Daphnis und Chloe 27. Je nach Perspektive schwankt das Urteil in der Forschung zwischen einem ironischen, übel-zynischen Machwerk von Pornographie und Rhetorik28 und einem idealen Kunstwerk ‚edler Einfalt und stiller Größe‘ (Winckelmann), das einer hingebungsvollen Verehrung der heiter-religiösen Naturwelt Ausdruck verleiht29. Alles, was die Gattung des Romans bisher hervorhob – Abenteuer, Gewalt, Bedrohung der Keuschheit und Reinheit, das Ausgreifen im weiten Raum als Ausdruck des erotischen Mangels und Gleitens in der sich auftuenden Lücke des leidenden Begehrens sowie das Weiterreichen an Dritte bis zum Happy End in der Hochzeit –, bleibt im Hintergrund präsent, wird jedoch vordergründig radikal umgewandelt. Das Paar agiert auf der klei25 Vgl. u. a. Di Marco (2006) 479–481. Zu Longos vgl. nun die beiden Kommentare von Morgan (2004) mit Bibliographie 9–15 und Pattoni (2005) mit ausführlicher Einleitung und Bibliographie 7–217 und den zentralen Artikel von Zeitlin (1990). Aus Platzgründen zitiere ich nur das Wichtigste. Zum Mythos bei Longos vgl. neben Rohde, G. (1937) und Chalk (1960) die Bemerkungen von Zeitlin (1990) 452–455. 26 Vgl. Bernsdorff (2006) bes. 180–207; speziell zum Mythos 186–188. 27 Vgl. Reardon (1994). 28 Vgl. bes. Rohde, E. (1876) 531–554, bes. das vernichtende Urteil 549 f.; Rohde ist damit der Ahnherr der unernst-negativen, ironischen, dekonstruierenden und sexuell-voyeuristischen Longoskritik; vgl. u. a. Bretzigheimer (1988); Winkler (1990); Goldhill (1995) 1–45. 29 Vgl. bes. Goethe; seine Urteile sind gesammelt von Grumach (1949) 316–320; vgl. auch Zimmermann (1999a); Goethe begründet damit die ernst-positive Longosinterpretation; vgl. u. a. Rohde, G. (1937); Chalk (1960); Morgan (2004) 9 f.

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nen Insel Lesbos und dort in der ländlichen Umgebung von Mytilene, dem idealen und poetischen Ort der Liebe, wo Sappho und Alkaios dichteten und Dionysos, Hera und Zeus (Alk. fr. 129 und Sappho fr. 17) zu Hause sind. Abenteuer geschehen nur sporadisch als Einfälle von außen durch attackierende Räuber oder aufgrund von Verwicklungen mit reichen, auf Jagdausflüge ziehenden Nachbarn aus Methymna. Das unendliche Begehren, das Leiden in der Sehnsucht nach dem abwesenden Anderen ist verschoben auf eine über viele Episoden retardierte Geschichte der Erfüllung der Liebe im sexuellen Akt. Dieser muss mühsam in einem Prozess von eineinhalb Jahren erlernt werden. Zuletzt stehen gesellschaftliche Komplikationen, die Daphnis’ und Chloes eigentliche Abkunft als ausgesetzte Kinder reicher Eltern aus der Stadt bedingen. Somit dient die Erzählung auch der Umschreibung des krisenhaften Erwachens der pubertären Sexualität sowie der Normierung und Legitimierung des richtigen gender-Verhaltens. Liebe als Krankheit verursacht zwar wie bei Theokrit Leid. Durch beständiges Voranschreiten in einem cursus amoris wird es aber in der heiteren Ideallandschaft und mithilfe der Götter überwunden. Ernst steht neben Ironie, Realismus neben Idealität, Techne neben Physis30 und Land neben Stadt31, ferner Religion neben einfacher Sexualität, mythische Authentizität neben hergestellter Künstlichkeit, Leid neben Freude, Trauer neben Heiterkeit, niedriges Leben mit stinkendem Getier neben idealisierter Naturidylle und Einheit mit den Göttern. Der neue Mythos dient hier weniger der Hervorhebung von Pathos, Ängsten und Alpträumen, wenngleich Longos noch deutlicher als andere Romanschriftsteller die krisenhafte Schwelle des Übergangs der jungen Menschen zum Erwachsenenstatus umschreibt. Die Grenzbefindlichkeit zum Logos ist hier radikal zurückgenommen und alles erscheint zumindest aus der oberflächlichen Perspektive fast nur noch als ein reiner Mythos harmloser Positivität. Lassen wir uns zunächst auf diese idyllische Sichtweise ein, wenn auch der Autor mit seinen eingestreuten Kommentaren diese bisweilen ironisch verzerrend aufbricht. Dies ist ein Mythos, der alles idealisiert und in einen heiteren Urzustand der Natur verklärt. Die Götter sind überall präsent und nicht in den Hintergrund gedrängt. Tyche ist hingegen nicht als Handlungsmotivation anwesend. Die göttlichen Wesen wirken zudem ganz selbstverständlich und sind eins mit der Natur. Entsprechend der Thematik und der Verortung stehen Eros, die Nymphen, Pan und Dionysos im Zentrum. Die Helden sind ferner wirkliche Heroen einer Vorzeit. Daphnis ist eine allbekannte mythische Figur, die Verkörperung des bukolischen Liebhabers. Sein Name ist zugleich mit dem Lorbeerbaum verbunden, unter dem er ebenfalls ausgesetzt wurde. Seine Biographie ist ansonsten schwer rekonstruierbar. Er 30 Dazu Teske (1991). 31 Dazu Effe (1982).

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ist unsterblich in eine Nymphe verliebt und schwört ihr ewige Treue, wird freilich doch untreu, verliert sie und leidet unendlich32. Einzelne Versatzstücke des Daphnismythos verwendet Longos außerdem zur Konstruktion seiner Geschichte. Der Seitensprung wird in der Lykainionepisode reflektiert. Sein Tod ist ein Dahinschmelzen, das den modellhaft schmachtenden ,Dyserotiker‘ (vgl. Theokr. 1,85 δύσερως) in einem Zustand der Liebe als Krankheit zeigt. Im Roman findet das Schmelzen (τήκεσθαι 1,18,1; 1,24,1; 3,10,3) in einer nach ihm genannten Quelle im Garten des Dionysophanes seine Konkretisation (4,1; 4,4,1). Das Trauma der Liebe, das heißt des Mangels, das weibliche Gegenüber trotz fast ständiger Präsenz als abwesend zu empfinden, wird in einige threnodische Szenen der Verzweiflung (z. B. 1,14; 1,18; 2,22; 3,10,3 f.; 4,27; 4,28,3) und in eine Signifikantenkette einer lange aufgeschobenen sexuellen Vereinigung übersetzt. Der ebenfalls für ihn belegte Sturz vom Fels, der im Sprung Sapphos von der Leukadischen Klippe (Men. fr. 258) seinen Gegenpart hat und symbolisch das Liebesleid als Eintauchen in das Meer, den Tod und den Tagtraum ausdrückt33, findet im Plot Eingang in die Szene der verwirrten Gefühle nach der Entdeckung seiner wahren Identität (4,22). Sein neuer Bruder Astylos eilt zuletzt in großer Freude auf ihn zu, um ihn heftig zu umarmen; aus Unverständnis über die Zusammenhänge reagiert Daphnis mit Angst. Um sich dem Ansturm zu entziehen, hätte er sich in Panik beinahe vom Felsen herabgestürzt (4,22,3). Chloe ist hingegen als weibliches Pendant eher fiktiver Gestalt. Als typische Nymphe mit sprechendem Namen ,Grünsprießende‘ verweist sie auf die keimende Natur im Reifungsprozess. Die Bezeichnung wird zudem mit Demeter in Verbindung gebracht (Paus. 1,22,3), zu deren Ehre in Eleusis auch ein Fest der Chloia belegt ist. Ansonsten hat Chloe außer der Nähe zum natürlichen Wachstum keine eigene mythische Biographie. Der Umgang der beiden Protagonisten mit den Göttern ist ganz selbstverständlich. Entsprechend der für den Roman zentralen Liebesthematik ist Eros die entscheidende Gottheit, welche die Fäden der mythischen Handlung in Händen hält. In einer eingefügten Rede des Pan, der dem Methymnäerführer Bryaxis erscheint und ihn zur Rückgabe der geraubten Chloe mahnt, wird die mythisch-religiöse Dimension direkt angesprochen: „Ihr habt von den Altären ein Mädchen weggerissen, aus welchem Eros einen Mythos machen will“ (ἀπεσπάσατε δὲ βωμῶν παρθένον ἐξ ἧς Ἔρως μῦθον ποιῆσαι θέλει 2,27,2)34. Pan erinnert also daran, dass Eros aus Chloe „einen Mythos machen“ wolle. Der Gott ist Schutzpatron und Regisseur der modellhaften Geschichte, die der Erzähler aus einem Reihenbild in Sprache umsetzt. Der 32 Vgl. u. a. Wojaczek (1969) 5–21; Hunter (1983) 22–31; Schmidt (1987) 57–70. 33 Vgl. Nagy (1990a). Bei Theokrit (3,25; 5,15 f.) drohen auch zwei liebeskranke Hirten, sich ins Meer zu stürzen. 34 Vgl. Morgan (1994) 75–77.

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Autor ist somit die letzte Instanz, die aus Chloe genau einen solchen Mythos ,macht/dichtet‘ (ποιῆσαι). Die Geschichte ist also in den Augen des Longos von Anfang bis Ende mit einem Mythos gleichzusetzen. Eros steht über allen Verwicklungen. Er ist demnach für die mythische Aussetzungsgeschichte der Kinder, für das aufbrechende Liebesleid wie für die schließliche Lösung durch eine bürgerliche Hochzeit verantwortlich. Während er sonst aus Rache wegen ihm gegenüber gezeigter Hochmut handelt, will er hier lediglich eine modellhafte, gewissermaßen aitiologische Geschichte initiieren, nämlich wie zwei junge Menschen die Liebe kennenlernen, um zuletzt in den Wogen der pubertären Verwirrung der Gefühle zu einer sexuellen Erfüllung im Geschlechtsakt zu kommen. Dieser mühevolle Weg ist mit gesellschaftlicher Normierung und der Aneignung angemessener Geschlechterrollen verbunden. Damit wird der Mythos als exemplarische Erziehung in dem anthropologisch, soziologisch und psychologisch brisanten Sujet des Erlernens sexuellen Verhaltens allen anderen Menschen als pädagogische Leitlinie, Propädeutik und Material für eine reflektierende Wiedererinnerung mitgegeben (praef. 4). Die bukolische Natur liefert den Ermöglichungsrahmen für das Aufeinandertreffen beider Geschlechter und stellt ein mythisches Ursprungsszenario dar. Eros ist zudem die kosmische Urkraft des gesamten entstehenden natürlichen Lebens, womit der Roman insgesamt zu einer umfassenden Allegorie und zu einer Art Hohelied der Liebe wird. Das Mysterium des Eros und der Liebe wird bei Longos damit überhöht und zugleich durch die Handlungsführung auf den Vollzug des Geschlechtsverkehrs reduziert. Mythos ist Göttergeschichte. Eros wirkt dabei im Roman eher im Verborgenen und er manifestiert sich nur durch die erzählte Epiphanie vor Philetas, deutlicher jedoch in den konkreten seelischen und körperlichen Symptomen. Wie Eros zeigen sich auch die Nymphen und Pan, die anderen für den ländlichen und erotischen Kontext adäquaten Gottheiten mit zentraler Funktion in der Handlung, den Menschen meist mit direkten Botschaften im Traum. Wie in anderen Liebesromanen ist der Traum zugleich eine entscheidende Ebene, da alles seiner Logik folgt. Zu Pan und den Nymphen befindet man sich in einem selbstverständlichen Schutzverhältnis. Sie helfen, retten und bringen durch konkrete Wunder Lösung, wo immer es nötig ist. Die Nymphen stellen die mythischen Verkörperungen der Bräute dar, die sich wie Chloe an der Schwelle vom Mädchen zur Frau befinden. Die gewaltsame Entfernung von ihren Altären durch die Methymnäer (2,27,2) verarbeitet die bedrohliche Phantasie des Mädchens, von zahlreichen Männern der näheren Umgebung geraubt und sexuell gefügig gemacht zu werden. Pan symbolisiert hingegen die ländliche ithyphallische Aggression, die der junge Mann entwickeln muss, um zum Sexualakt vorzudringen. Daphnis beklagt sich bei

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den Nymphen (2,22) über die angeblich fehlende Unterstützung, die ihm daraufhin im Schlaf erscheinen. Sie bringen Hilfe, weil ihnen Chloe als ihr Pendant besonders am Herzen liegt. Vor allem haben sie Pan schon gebeten einzugreifen (2,23,4). Daphnis und Chloe haben Pan bisher nicht geehrt und somit das phallisch-männliche Element sträflich vernachlässigt. Der kriegerische Gott führt nun ein Wunder herbei und wendet sich, wie gesehen, im Traum eindringlich an Bryaxis (2,27), vom Mädchen zu lassen, worauf der Anführer sofort eingeht. Chloe wird gerettet und Daphnis nähert sich von da an der Dimension Pans35, unter anderem indem er im Tanze mit Chloe mimetisch die sexuelle Verfolgung der Syrinx ausagiert (2,37). Überall wird jegliche Gefahr und alles Negative schnell wie im Märchen gebannt. Die selbstverständliche Nähe zu den genannten Gottheiten, insbesondere zu den Nymphen und Pan, findet in einem nahezu absurden kultischen Verhältnis ihren Ausdruck. Die ursprüngliche Vertrautheit wird durch eine tiefe Verehrung und religiöse Weihungen komplementiert, wie wir dies aus den frühen Epigrammen einer Anyte kennen. Man weiht den Göttern sich und immer wieder symbolische Gegenstände, so dass der Roman nach Meinung von Georg Rohde fast zur „Auffaltung und Erweiterung eines bukolischen Weihepigrammes“ wird36. Kult und Ritual, Feste und Tänze greifen auf den Mythos über und sind zum Teil seine direkte Inszenierung. Dionysos überspannt das konkret Geschlechtliche der erotischen Dreierkonstellation (Eros, Nymphen, Pan). Er gehört zum genius loci von Lesbos. Bekanntlich oszilliert Bakchos zwischen zahlreichen Oppositionen, namentlich zwischen Gewalt und Frieden, Krieg und Frieden, Lüge und Wahrheit, Mann und Frau, zwischen Ares und Eros/Aphrodite, archaischem Chaos und bukolischer Idylle37. In Dionysophanes erscheint Dionysos gewissermaßen selbst und wird für das letzte Buch bestimmend. Dieses beginnt mit einer eindrücklichen Beschreibung eines von der Natur abgezäunten Gartens, den Daphnis für den anstehenden Besuch seines Herrn zu pflegen hat. In der Mitte des Paradeisos steht ein Tempel des Gottes mit Bildszenen aus seiner Mythologie (4,3), die auf das Reihenbild der Praefatio zurückverweisen. Der Roman spiegelt sich zugleich in dionysischem Mythos und Ritual. So bildet die gebärende Semele einen Rückbezug auf die ausgesetzten Kinder, wodurch Dionysos zu einer Präfiguration des Daphnis wird. Die schlafende Ariadne, Reflex der eingenickten Chloe (1,25,1), fokussiert die sexuelle Vereinigung und Hochzeit mit einer Frau. Der gefesselte Lykurg 35 Das Paar verehrt Pan nun (2,38,1 und 2,38,3). Daphnis schwört daraufhin bei ihm den Liebeseid (2,39,1), später freilich, auf die Proteste der Chloe hin, bei den Ziegen und Böcken (2,39,5 f.). 36 Rohde, G. (1937) 43. Zur Einbettung der Epigrammtradition in die Dichtung Theokrits vgl. nun Sens (2006). 37 Bierl (1991) 13–20.

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und der zerrissene Pentheus verweisen auf die Gewalt der Sexualität (vgl. Dorkon, Echo) und die Aggression gegen Gegner. Danach erinnern die besiegten Inder und verwandelten Tyrrener an die Einfälle der Räuber und die kriegerischen Auseinandersetzungen, die schnell zu einem wundersamen und friedlichen Ende kommen. Die Metamorphose zielt außerdem auf den Umschlag und die entscheidende Verwandlung von Chloe selbst. Zuletzt bilden die stampfenden Satyrn und tanzenden Bakchen Dionysos’ sexuell konnotiertes Gefolge, bei dem auch Pan nicht fehlen darf. Der Garten, dessen Pflege Mühe (πόνος) kostet, ist Symbol sowohl für den ganzen Roman, dessen Kunstfertigkeit des Ausfeilens (ἐκπονεῖν, vgl. praef. 3) bedarf, als auch für die keusche Schamgegend des Mädchens. Letzteres zeigen zwei nachfolgende Aktionen des Lampis, nämlich die Verwüstung des Gartens aus Frustration darüber, Chloe nicht zu erhalten (4,7,1–3), und die in der Signifikantenkette weiterentwickelte räuberische Attacke auf Chloe selbst (4,28,1). Longos überblendet dabei die Bukolik Theokrits mit einer anderen ,pastoral‘ gezeichneten Welt Ägyptens, die in anderen Romanen häufig ein typisches Szenario des Anderen bildet. In den Sümpfen des Nildeltas treiben grausame boukoloi-Räuber ihr Unwesen und verkörpern dabei in der Interaktion mit dem Paar die symbolische Bedrohung der reinen Jungfrau38. Zugleich bedeutet die Hirtenwelt ein zivilisatorisches Übergangsstadium auf dem Weg zum Ackerbau39. Die Bukolik, auf die Longos zurückgreift, wird dadurch auch funktional sinnvoll. Die Gattung des Theokrit, der erotische Diskurs der boukoloi, wird von Longos also gewissermaßen vom ägyptischen Außen nach Innen, nach Lesbos, transponiert, um damit ebenfalls, aber hier völlig geschönt, den rite de passage in der Marginalität auszudrücken. Lampis ist ein solcher boukolos wie auch Dorkon, deren Übergriffe im harmlosen Mythos kaum erkannt und schnell verziehen werden. Neben Dionysos spielt Demeter eine gewisse Rolle, aber eher auf der symbolischen Ebene. Beiden Göttern, die auch mit bedeutenden Mysterienkulten verbunden sind, kommt es zu, den sexuellen Reifeprozess als natürliches Wachstum von Pflanzen durch Wein- und Ackerbau auszudrücken und den Geschlechtsakt mit dem Mysterium der Liebe thematisch zu verknüpfen. Das liebende Paar spiegelt sich zugleich in mancher Hinsicht in diesen Gottheiten. Entsprechend der Tendenz des Rituals, Gegebenheiten des Lebenszyklus und der Natur in den Vordergrund zu rücken, wird im Ur-Mythos der Liebe bei Longos die Initiation von Daphnis und Chloe sehr kunstvoll mit dem Natur- und Fruchtbarkeitszyklus parallelisiert. Im Laufe von eineinhalb Jahren spielt sich die Geschichte vom Frühjahr bis zum Herbst des nächsten Jahres ab. Das telos der Hochzeit ist mit der herbstlichen Reife und 38 Bertrand (1988). 39 Vgl. Baudy (1986) 44; Baudy (1993), zu Longos bes. 302 Anm. 63.

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Erntezeit des Acker- und Weinbaus zur Deckung gebracht. Die Zeit des Hirtendaseins, in der Longos’ ontogenetischer Entwicklungsroman spielt, stellt eine phylogenetische Übergangsperiode dar, die zum selbstständigen Bauern führt, der sich durch eigenen Anbau ernährt. Da Sexualität und Erotik im Griechischen in besonderer Weise mit der Welt der Natur, mit der Vegetation, mit Blumen, Bäumen, Düften, mit dem Ackerbau, dem Pflügen, der Ernte und dem Drusch, mit dem Weinbau, dem Reifen, Pflücken und Keltern, metaphorisiert werden40, besitzt das für den Mythos zentrale Deutungsparadigma der Fruchtbarkeit große Bedeutung. Die ganze Handlung von Longos’ Roman ist mit dem Ablauf der Jahreszeiten und mit agrarischen Festen synchronisiert und kulminiert zum Herbst in einer Erntefeier. Das erste Jahr gipfelt im dionysischen Weinfest, wo sich die Geschlechter bei Tanz und Musik näher kommen (2,1–2,2,2). Im Rausche necken umstehende Frauen Daphnis und mitfeiernde Männer Chloe. Die verbalen Anzüglichkeiten verletzen das Gefühl der einander heimlich und noch unbewusst Liebenden. Daher wünschen sie sich, bald wieder auf ihre einsamen Weiden zurückzukehren. Dort spielen sie dann umso ausgelassener. Da tritt ein greiser Rinderhirte namens Philetas zu ihnen und führt sie durch seine Erzählungen theoretisch in die Geheimnisse des Eros ein. Gegen Ende des zweiten Buches bringen die Bauern die Zeit mit Herbstfesten zu (2,31–37). Man tanzt den Winzertanz (2,36,1) und feiert die Oschophorien (2,31 f.). Zu Anfang des dritten Buchs ist Winter, der auch den nahen Kontakt der Liebenden unterbricht. Die ganze Natur erstarrt und man wartet auf die „Wiedergeburt vom Tode“ (3,4,2). Im Hause des Dryas feiert man die Ländlichen Dionysien, die Διονύσια ἐν ἀγροῖς (3,9,2; 3,10,1; 3,11,1–2). Im Frühjahr, als Daphnis und Chloe wieder die Tiere auf die Wiesen treiben können, erwacht die Liebe erneut zwischen den Hirtenkindern. Im Sommer wird Daphnis dann durch Lykainions sexuelle Unterweisung zum Manne. Inzwischen haben Chloes Eltern ihre Hochzeit für die Weinlese angesetzt (3,25,4); derjenige Freier, der am meisten bietet, soll Chloe zur Frau bekommen. Beim Weizendrusch auf der Tenne (3,29,1) kommt es zur Entscheidung. Mit dem gefundenen Geld kann Daphnis bei Dryas um Chloes Hand anhalten, die durch ihren Namen mit Demeter in Verbindung steht. Am Ende des dritten Buchs pflückt Daphnis im Herbst nach der Ernte einen ganz oben im Wipfel übrig gelassenen Apfel (3,33,4–3,34). Beim Weinlesefest im vierten Buch (4,1,1; 4,33,1; 4,38) kommt die Geschichte schließlich auf dem Gut des Dionysophanes zu ihrem glücklichen telos, das in der Hochzeit und im Ehevollzug besteht. Folgendermaßen kann man sich den synchronen Verlauf von Handlung und Jahreszeiten schematisch vor Augen führen: 40 Vgl. u. a. Henderson (1975) 166–169.

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Die absurde Konstellation, dass über vier Bücher hinweg geschildert wird, wie lange zwei Jugendliche benötigen, bis sie schließlich das überwältigende Gefühl der Liebe, die als Krankheit beschrieben wird, durch drei Heilmittel, den Kuss, die Umarmung und das Nackt-beieinander-Liegen (2,8,5), in den gemeinsamen und beide befriedigenden Sexualakt überführen können41, wird plausibel durch die Versetzung in einen kindlichen Urzustand des ,allerersten Mals‘ in mythischer Vorzeit, wobei die Figuren dennoch in eine bürgerliche soziale Umwelt eingebettet sind. Als Findelkinder sind sie dieser zunächst entzogen, weswegen sie in einer pastoralen Landschaft von sonstigen Einflüssen ziemlich isoliert und vollkommen unbedarft aufwachsen. Trotz der Kenntnis der Schrift sind sie in eroticis völlig naiv. Dies wird glaubhaft durch die spezifische mythische Verankerung, die auch den Eidyllia des Theokrit eigen ist42. Während bei Theokrit gleichzeitig eine starke „demythologisierende“ Tendenz festzustellen ist und dabei deutlich die Exemplarität von Mythen gebrochen und angezweifelt wird43, versucht Longos diesen Trend im Zuge der Weiterentwicklung der Bukolik umzukehren. Er gibt dem ganzen Roman einen mythischen Anstrich, obschon Theokrits Haltung gleichzeitig präsent bleibt44. Longos zeichnet alles als mythisierte Natur, wobei Eros auch im Sinne des orphischen Protogonos sämtliche Züge einer kosmischen Macht der wohltätigen Harmonie erhält (2,7,1–4). Der Preis des Eros geschieht vonseiten des Philetas in hymnischen Tönen. Kultisch wird ebenso der Bezug zur „bukolischen Symbolsprache der Mysterien“, im Sinne eines Mysteriums der Liebe, eingesetzt45. Reinhold Merkelbach hat sich verleiten lassen, diese literarischen Strategien mit eindeutigen 41 42 43 44

Vgl. u. a. Bretzigheimer (1988). Vgl. u. a. Rohde, G. (1937). Fantuzzi (2000). Vgl. Chalk (1960) und Rohde, G. (1937). Zur Behandlung des Mythos in der Bukolik nach Theokrit vgl. Bernsdorff (2006) 186–188. 45 Rohde, G. (1937) 46 f. Zu den Mysterien der Liebe vgl. nun Zeitlin (2008) 101–103.

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Indizien zu verwechseln, aus denen er seine viel bestrittene These ableitete, der Roman sei ein „Mysterientext“46. Im mythischen Anstrich wird zugleich das Konzept der Mimesis virulent: Mimesis ist bekanntlich die Reaktualisierung, das reenactment, eines göttlichen Modells im Lied und Tanz47. Longos rekurriert auf den Mythos und die Natur, um den Anschein des Ursprungs zu erwecken. Die Remythologisierung und Renaturalisierung stellen auf artifiziellem Wege einen mythischen Archetypus für die alltägliche Praxis der menschlichen Liebe her48. Jeder Mensch macht diese Entwicklungsphase durch, und für jeden gibt es ein ,erstes Mal‘. Die literarische Suche nach dem eigentlichen Ursprung weist gleichzeitig Zeichen der eigenen Dekonstruktion auf. Denn beide mythischen Protagonisten sind nicht wirklich die ersten Menschen, welche die Sexualität entdecken. Es stellt sich heraus, dass ihre Naturexistenz – schon die Aussetzung und Säugung durch Tiere, hier charakteristischerweise Ziegen und nicht reißende Wölfe, sind typische Motive des Mythos (man denke etwa an die Sage von Romulus und Remus) – doch auf real-bürgerliche Eltern und normale Zeugung zurückgehen. Um sie herum wissen alle um die Geheimnisse der Liebe. Nur sie leben in kindlicher Naivität, die der Aufklärung bedarf. Muse und Lied sind die Medien des mythischen Ausdrucksmodus, zumal der archaische Dichter sich einst noch als der inspirierte Vermittler der Musen sieht. Longos geht über Theokrit und Philetas, den Begründer der bukolischen Gattung, zurück zum mythischen Sänger Daphnis49. In Sachen Liebe findet man die Letztbegründung in Eros selbst. Nachdem der nicht zufällig Philetas (‚Küsser’50) bezeichnete Greis die Nichtwissenden durch die Erzählung von seiner Begegnung mit Eros theoretisch in das Geheimnis der Liebe eingeweiht hat (2,3–6), sagt der Autor, dass sie sich an seinen Worten ergötzten, „so als ob sie einen Mythos, nicht einen Logos hörten“ (ὥσπερ μῦθον οὐ λόγον ἀκούοντες 2,7,1). In witziger Verkehrung des einen Fortschritt ,vom Mythos zum Logos‘ suggerierenden Satzes – diese Vorstellung war durchaus nicht nur im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, sondern auch bei den Griechen im Zeitalter der sogenannten griechischen Aufklärung verbreitet – wird erneut auf die Remythisierung des gesamten Romans verwiesen51. 46 Merkelbach (1988). Zu einer Zurückweisung der Mysterienthese mit weiteren Belegen vgl. Bierl (2007) bes. 250, 258–265. 47 Vgl. Nagy (1990b) 42–45, 339–413, bes. 346, 349, 373–375; Bierl (2001) 35 Anm. 60, 58 mit Anm. 109. 48 Zur Natur vgl. u. a. Billault (1996). 49 Zu Philetas als gelehrtem Gattungsbegründer vgl. Bowie (1985); Hunter (1983) 76–83; Whitmarsh (2005). Dagegen nun Di Marco (2006) 490–492. 50 Zum sprechenden Namen vgl. Di Marco (2006) 491 f. Philetas hat bekanntlich als erstes Heilmittel den Kuss genannt. 51 Zur gegenseitigen Abhängigkeit der Konzepte vgl. Most (1999).

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Er ist zwar konkret prosaischer Logos, das heißt Realität, zumindest in der fiktionalen Prosa, zugleich aber eigentlich ganz und gar Mythos, das heißt ein ins Gewand des Mythos gehüllter Roman. In der symbolisch aufgeladenen Form des Mythos kann die Geschichte von der traumatischen Schwellenerfahrung, welche die pubertierenden Jugendlichen auf dem Weg zum Erwachsenendasein durchleben, ähnlich einer Traumsequenz besonders eindrücklich erzählt werden. Der Regress über literarische zu mythischen Ahnherren ahmt die aitiologische Tendenz des Mythos nach. Man begründet, indem man zu den ἀρχαί, zu den literarisch-kanonischen Modellen im Sinne der Intertextualität und zuletzt zu einem mimetisierten Mythos zurückkehrt. Die letzte Quelle in der mythisierten Darstellung ist Eros selbst, der als geflügelter Knabe Philetas, dem πρῶτος εὑρετής der bukolischen Gattung, real erscheint. Das Mythische spielt bereits in der metaliterarischen Vorrede eine deutliche Rolle. Spaßhaft und in deutlicher Anlehnung an Thukydides’ programmatische und methodische Vorbemerkungen (1,22,4) sagt Longos, dass er seinen Roman im agonistischen Wettstreit mit einem Reihenbild (εἰκόνος γραφήν, praef. 1) dem Eros als Weihgeschenk darreiche. Dies ist identisch mit dem Bild, das Daphnis und Chloe nach ihrer Hochzeit kultisch widmen (4,39,2) und das Longos nach den Worten der Vorrede in Schrift umsetzt (praef. 3). Somit ergibt sich eine wirkungsvolle kultische Ringkomposition, die gleichzeitig Beglaubigung schafft. Sein Roman sei „allen Menschen aber ein erfreuliches Besitztum, das dem Kranken zur Heilung, dem Trauernden zum Trost, dem Liebeskundigen zur Erinnerung, dem Unkundigen als lehrende Vorbereitung dienen wird“ (κτῆμα δὲ τερπνὸν πᾶσιν ἀνθρώποις, ὃ καὶ νοσοῦντα ἰάσεται καὶ λυπούμενον παραμυθήσεται, τὸν ἐρασθέντα ἀναμνήσει, τὸν οὐκ ἐρασθέντα προπαιδεύσει, praef. 3). Mit dem κτῆμα τερπνόν spielt Longos deutlich auf die berühmte Äußerung des Thukydides an (1,22,4). Der Historiker setzt sich damit deutlich vom mythenhaften Stil seines Vorgängers Herodot ab, der nur auf das Hörervergnügen in der Performance abzielt. Mit seinem Werk, das als pragmatische, am Faktischen orientierte Geschichtsschreibung nicht auf der Grundlage des Mythos (μὴ μυθῶδες) operiert und in seiner Sprödigkeit beim Rezipienten kaum ein angenehmes Gefühl der Lust (ἀτερπνέστερον) auszulösen vermag, hat er vielmehr ausschließlich den Nutzen als κτῆμα ἐς αἰεί im Auge. Dialogisch arbeitet Longos dieser Aussage witzig entgegen: mit der Junktur κτῆμα τερπνόν verteidigt Longos seine Fiktionalität als nützlichen Wert, der noch dazu Freude bereitet52. Implizit wird damit natürlich auch das Mythenhafte rehabilitiert. Denn sein Roman ist nicht nur 52 Der Roman ist dulce et utile, er nützt und erfreut (vgl. prodesse et delectare, Hor. ars 333).

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plasmatisch-fiktional, sondern basiert auch wie Herodot auf dem Mythos als Ermöglichungsstruktur53. Im rhetorischen Wortgeklingel findet sich bezüglich der Wirkung neben platonischen sowie sophistischen Vorstellungen der Wiedererinnerung (ἀνάμνησις) und Propädeutik erstaunlicherweise eine Anspielung auf phantastische volkstümliche Wundererzählungen (im Neugriechischen παραμύθια)54. Wie die typischerweise von Magie, Dämonen- und Aberglauben, Krisen- und Traumszenarien sowie Heilungen handelnden Geschichten soll der Roman die Gesundung sowie die mythische oder ,para-mythische‘ Wiederherstellung des Besorgten und an der Liebe Leidenden über die Performanz des Textes bewirken. Im Lesen beziehungsweise Hören eines solchen Texts, der die liminale Situation der Krise des Erwachsenwerdens umspielt und in der spezifischen Metaphorologie eine Anhäufung von traumatischen Abenteuern aneinanderreiht, finden wir auf unsere Ängste analog zu einem Ritual oder dem darauf gegründeten Mythos Bestärkung oder sogar Trost, also παραμυθία (vgl. praef. 4), im ewigen Antworten, ‚Gegenreden‘ und narrativen Weiterspinnen solcher mythischer Motive. Die metadiegetischen und jeweils gegen Ende der ersten drei Bücher eingelegten Mythen, die deutlich als solche gekennzeichnet werden55, vertiefen die aitiologische Aussage des Romans, nämlich den krisenhaften Übergang des Mädchens zur erwachsenen Frau zu thematisieren und zu problematisieren. Mythos wird freilich bisweilen auch mit entlegener und gelehrsamer Mythologie gleichgesetzt, womit der Anspruch des Authentischen in Konflikt gerät. Die Sagen von der Holztaube/Phatta (1,27), Syrinx (2,34) und Echo (3,23) stellen drei Metamorphosengeschichten dar, welche die Verwandlung einer Jungfrau schildern. Jedes Mal misslingt die Liebesvereinigung, bzw. sind die Mädchen gar nicht am männlichen Gegenüber interessiert. Zudem stehen die Sagen in Verbindung mit der Musik. Das erste Mädchen ist eine ideale Rinderhirtin wie Chloe und leitet mit Gesang, hier auf Pans Liebe mit Pitys, die ihr anvertrauten Tiere. Ein Knabe wetteifert mit ihr und lockt acht Rinder in seine Herde, worauf das Mädchen die Götter bittet, in die Gestalt eines Vogels, nämlich der Holztaube, umgeformt zu werden. Diese singt noch heute von ihrem Missgeschick, indem sie verirrte Rinder sucht. Die Jungfrauen Syrinx und Echo wehren sich gegen die sexuellen Nachstellungen des Pan und werden daraufhin in musikalische Phänomene verwandelt. 53 Zu Herodot vgl. Wesselmann (2007) und die von mir in Basel betreute und in Entstehung begriffene Dissertation von Katharina Wesselmann, Mythische Erzählstrukturen in Herodots Historien. 54 Vgl. Alexiou (2002) 151–171, bes. 162–167, 211–265; Alexiou (2004) 105–109. Vgl. Bierl (2007) 255–258. 55 Vgl. μῦθος 2,33,3; 2,35,3; 2,37,1; 3,22,4. Daphnis vollzieht den Vorgang des μυθολογεῖν: μυθολογῶν 1,27,1. Vgl. auch 3,23,5 und 3,22,4 μυθολογεῖν τὸν μῦθον.

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In der Forschung wurde die Steigerung der Brutalität gegenüber den Mädchen hervorgehoben. Syrinx flieht in den Sumpf und wird vom zornigen Pan als Schilf geschnitten. Die Halme fügt er zur Flöte zusammen, deren Klang auf der unterschiedlichen Länge der Rohre beruht und somit emblematisch die Ungleichheit der Geschlechter verkörpert. Echo singt und tanzt mit den Nymphen, den jungen Bräuten, im Reigen und flieht vor Pan. Aus Eifersucht über ihren Gesang und darüber erbost, nicht zum sexuellen Ziel zu gelangen, verursacht er bei den Hirten dionysischen Wahnsinn, aufgrund dessen sie das Mädchen zerreißen. Die Erde, also Demeter, bedeckt die zerstreuten Glieder und sendet nach dem Willen der Musen nachahmende Stimmen hervor. Gleichzeitig sind die Geschichten kunstvoll mit dem Gang der Handlung, mit dem mythos des Longos verwoben, indem die zunehmende Spannung und das wachsende Ungleichgewicht zwischen den Geschlechtern sowie die sich steigernde männliche Aggressivität fokussiert werden. Und als vierter Mythos erweist sich nach Bruce MacQueen die Metamorphose der Chloe im vierten Buch, das Grundthema des ganzen Romans. Sie verwandelt sich von einer Sklavin zur Freien und vom Findelkind zur Tochter reicher Eltern. Vor allem wird in der Hochzeitsnacht der entscheidende Schritt von der Jungfrau (παρθένος) zur Frau (γυνή) vollzogen (vgl. das Ende 4,40,3; vgl. 3,24,3)56. Durch die eingelegten musikalischen Mythen entsteht der Effekt einer mise en abyme, wodurch erneut der ganze Roman den Anstrich eines Mythos erhält. Inwiefern Mythos entsprechend der Romangattung plasmatische Fiktionalität oder gar freie Erfindung bedeutet, zeigt die folgende Stelle gegen Ende. Lamon ist in großer Not, die Auslieferung seines Ziehsohns Daphnis als Liebessklaven des Gnathon zu verhindern, und wendet sich deshalb mit den Erkennungszeichen direkt an seinen Herrn Dionysophanes. Mit strenger Miene gemahnt er Lamon, „die Wahrheit zu sagen und nicht etwas zu erdichten, was Mythen gleichkäme“ (τἀληθῆ λέγειν μηδὲ ὅμοια πλάττειν μύθοις 4,20,1). Wie kunstvoll er mythisch erzählen kann, hat er schon in der Präsentation der Sage von Pan und Syrinx (2,24–2,35,1) bewiesen. Aus der städtisch-aufgeklärten Perspektive erscheint alles nur als fiktional-plasmatische Märchenerfindung. Μῦθοι dienen neben πλάσματα als Terminus technicus für den Romaninhalt57. Hier verhält sich jedoch die Sache entsprechend der Autorstrategie anders. Die μῦθοι stehen in der Lücke zwischen freier romanhafter Erfindung und authentischem Mythos, zwischen Lüge und Wahrheit. Mit der Aussage wird der Roman erneut zum Mythos, da wir ja Zeuge geworden sind, dass die Aussetzungsgeschichte wirklich geschehen ist. Die Erkennungszeichen verbürgen die Faktizität. Und wie gesehen, ist die Aussetzung das Musterbeispiel eines griechischen Mythos, der den 56 Vgl. MacQueen (1990) 31–97. 57 Zur antiken Romantheorie vgl. Kerényi (1927) 1–23, zu μῦθοι ebd. 13.

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Plot – Aristoteles nennt ihn ausdrücklich μῦθος (z. B. Aristot. poet. 1450a4 f.) – von einigen Euripideischen Tragödien und zahlreichen Stücken der Neuen Komödie bestimmt. Unter anderem deshalb wird die Romanhandlung in der Theorie oder in metapoetischen Aussagen bisweilen auch als δρᾶμα, τραγῳδία oder κωμῳδία bezeichnet58. Wie gezeigt, ist die Authentizität in der Tat gebrochen, was man auf die allgemein demythologisierende Tendenz Theokrits zurückführen könnte. Trotz der Versetzung in die kindliche Naivität einer nicht erreichbaren Ursprünglichkeit, die sich bekanntlich entzieht, sind die Kinder in der Schrift ausgebildet und bewandert in der Mythologie, selbst wenn sie von Eros noch nicht einmal den Namen kennen. Dementsprechend weiß Daphnis im Wettgesang mit Dorkon von der Exemplarität des Zeus, Pan und Dionysos (1,16,3–5). Auch sonst versteht er sich wie die anderen Hirten darauf, entlegene Mythologie zu rezitieren. So unterlegen in der Feier zu Ehren des Dionysos auf dem Lande bei Dryas alle Anwesenden das Fest mit Mythologie und Gesang (3,9,4), das heißt man behandelt das Ritual als Gelegenheit performativer Inszenierung von ausgefeilten dionysischen Mythen. Zudem verwendet der Autor zur Beschreibung des mythisierten Daphnis Exempla aus der Mythologie, wie Apollons Hirtendienst bei Laomedon (4,14,2), wodurch auch sein Ephebenwesen fokussiert wird59. Wirklich in gebildeter Mythologie versiert sind die pervertierten Städter wie Gnathon, der auf die Frage des Astylos, ob er sich nicht vor dem Bocksgestank des von ihm angehimmelten Daphnis ekele, eine ganze Reihe mythologischer Exempla liefert, in denen Götter ebenfalls Hirten liebten. Denn als Parasit wurde er bei den Gelagen zum sophistischen Connaisseur oder πεπαιδευμένος in der ganzen erotischen Mythologie (πᾶσαν ἐρωτικὴν μυθολογίαν […] πεπαιδευμένος 4,17,3). Somit fällt es ihm leicht, aus Geschichten zu zitieren, in denen mancher Gott sich sogar in einen Baum, in einen Fluss oder in ein Tier verliebt hat. Wenn er sich nun in einen Hirten verschaut hat, folgt er nach seiner Diktion nur dem mimetischen Modell der Götter (θεοὺς ἐμιμησάμην 4,17,6). Denn Aphrodite liebte Anchises, und auf päderastischem Terrain hat er in der Beziehung des Apollon mit Branchos und in der des Zeus mit Ganymed ein Vorbild (4,17,6). Asytylos bemerkt darauf süffisant, dass Eros große Sophisten hervorbringe (ὡς μεγάλους ὁ Ἔρως ποιεῖ σοφιστάς 4,18,1). Die Hirten selbst beziehen sich freilich auf eine unschuldige und erhöhende Hirtenmythologie. Selbst nachdem Daphnis und Chloe im städtischen und reichen Haus angekommen sind, gehen sie bald wieder auf das Land zurück. Das Stadtleben ist ihnen trotz aller Annehmlichkeiten unerträglich und nach der städtischen feiern sie eine ländliche Hochzeit. Ringkompositorisch kehren sie zur bukolischen Existenz zurück und werden zum mythi58 Kerényi (1927) 12–17. 59 Zu Apollon als Gott der Epheben vgl. u. a. Bierl (1994).

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schen Modell, indem sie auch ihre aus der Ehe hervorgegangenen Kinder einer Ziege und einem Schaf zum Trinken anlegen. Ihr Tun ist weiterhin ganz auf die Frömmigkeit und die kultische Verehrung der mit ihnen so eng verbundenen ländlichen Götter gerichtet.

Longos’ Mythos in der symbolischen und synästhetischen Gestaltung Die mythische Dimension wird, wie schon mehrmals betont, durch rituelle Inszenierungen unterstrichen, die auf synästhetischer Performativität beruhen. Mimetisches Rollenspiel mithilfe von Musik, Gesang, Tanz und Choreia findet sich laufend. Das Anlegen von Accessoires wie dem bakchischen Kranz und Rehkalbfell macht Chloe zur Mänade und Nymphe. Im tänzerischen Mimus der Sage von Pan und Syrinx werden Daphnis und Chloe zu ihren mythischen Modellen und übernehmen damit Entscheidendes für die Ausbildung ihrer Geschlechterrolle, was die Handlung vorantreibt. Das Mythische des Romans wirkt vor allem auch mittels der symbolischen und synästhetischen Gestaltung. Daphnis und Chloe ist ein idealer mythischer Liebesroman, da er auf die für die Liebe und erotische Schönheit zentrale Bildmetaphorik der Natur zurückgreift. Blumen, Pflanzen, Knospen, Früchte, Bäume und Lebensbäume, Vögel, Gänse und Adler, Weidetiere, Bocksprünge, Jagd und Vogelfang, das Weiden, das Blasen auf Flöten, die äußere Aufmachung, das Haar, der Liebesgarten, Quellen, Bad, Wasser, Blühen und Verwelken, das Brennen der Sonne, Tränen, Blut, Nahrung, kurzum nahezu jedes Detail sowie jegliche im Text vorkommende Bewegung und Aktivität sind Teil der symbolischen Bildsprache der Liebe. Die Metaphorik gehört zum festen kulturellen Bestand der frühen Mittelmeerwelt. In der griechischen Archaik stabilisiert sich das metaphorische Feld dann durch die Poesie, sodass es in der gesamten griechischen und später westlichen Kunst und Kultur bis heute fortlebt60. Dieses Material wird bei Longos in einer Signifikantenkette über Metaphern und Metonymien ausgebreitet, die das Gleiten in dem heftigen gegenseitigen Begehren ausdrückt. Der Held und die Heldin sind also zwei ,Grünschnäbel‘ (vgl. ἡ χλόη, ,junges Grün‘), die mühsam den sexuellen Akt erlernen müssen. Die natürliche, triebgesteuerte Handlung wird zur schwierigen Techne hochstilisiert. Auf eine solche Paideia in eroticis blicken der Autor und der Leser mit Schmunzeln61. Das erotische Mitwirken einer mythischen Welt an diesem Plot, in der alles auf der Ebene des Mikro- und Makrokosmos miteinander 60 Vgl. Alexiou (2002) 349–410. Zur Metaphorik bei Longos vgl. Bowie (2005). 61 Zum Aspekt der Paideia vgl. Morgan (1996).

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verbunden ist und in einer Art orphischen Harmonie des Eros steht, wird von Longos durch eine besondere Technik hinsichtlich der Natur unterstrichen. Während nämlich bei Theokrit die Natur mit dem im Liebesleid sich verzehrenden Helden mitleidet (die sogenannte ,pathetic fallacy‘), ist es hier umgekehrt. Von der Natur gehen die eigentlichen Impulse aus, welche die Helden auf ihrem mühsamen Weg zur sexuellen Vereinigung weiterbringen. Wiederholt werden die Unkundigen oder später nur theoretisch Aufgeklärten von den gerade im Frühling geil springenden Tieren und der üppigen Pflanzenwelt sowohl visuell als auch akustisch zur Sexualität stimuliert. Man vergleiche das Szenenbild des anbrechenden zweiten Frühjahrs (3,13,1–3): Es blökte jetzt die Herde; es hüpften jetzt die Lämmer, und unter die Mutter sich beugend sogen sie an ihren Eutern; die Widder aber verfolgten die, so noch nicht geworfen hatten, stellten sie unter sich und besprangen sie, einer diese, ein anderer jene. So trieben es auch die Böcke und verfolgten die Ziegen mit brünstigen Sprüngen und kämpften um sie untereinander, und jeder hatte die seinigen und hütete sie, damit kein anderer mit ihnen heimlich buhlte. Auch Greise hätte wohl ein Anblick solcher Art zur Liebeslust gereizt. Sie aber, jung und in lebendiger Fülle und schon seit langer Zeit die Liebe suchend, erglühten bei dem, was sie hörten, und schmolzen dahin bei dem, was sie sahen, und strebten ebenfalls nach etwas mehr als nach Umarmung und Kuss; am meisten Daphnis. (Übers. Jacobs 1823)

Danach versucht er sich in der Nachahmung dieser Böcke: „Er richtet sie [i. e. Chloe] auf und umarmt sie von hinten, wobei er die Böcke nachahmt“ (3,14,5). Dies ist der „Bocksfuß“, von dem Erwin Rohde so entsetzt sprach62, die Schlüpfrigkeit, über die sich prüdere Geister mokierten. Während Daphnis bei Theokrit als Rinderhirt auftritt, ist er bei Longos zum Ziegenhirten mutiert, dessen Geilheit in den Eidyllia notorisch ist und der selbstverständlich durch das Gebaren seiner Böcke erregt wird (Theokr. 1,86–88). Ansonsten richten sich die Tiere durchaus auch umgekehrt nach den Protagonisten; sprichwörtlich tanzen sie bisweilen nach ihrer Pfeife. Die Verzweiflung über eine fehlgeschlagene Liebe in der Theokriteischen Dichtung wird hier zur Frustration über die nicht erreichte Triebbefriedigung trivialisiert. Die Lücken der Geschichte im Rahmen eines lyrischen ,Bildchens‘ (Eidyllion) werden aufgefüllt mit der Entwicklungshandlung einer ewig retardierten Liebe. Das Gefühl mythischer Harmonie mit der Natur wird nicht nur thematisch, sondern auch medial hergestellt. Der Roman ist ein synästhetisches Gesamtkunstwerk. Longos arbeitet mit sämtlichen poietischen technai und Mitteln, welche die ästhetische Mythenforschung seit Giambattista Vico und Johannn Gottfried Herder und die stilistische Longosforschung herausge62 Vgl. Rohde, E. (1876) 550: „und wie der Sophist in jenen widerlich lüsternen Liebesszenen plötzlich unter dem Gewande der Unschuld den Bocksfuß herausfahren läßt, so verfällt er andererseits häufig genug, vor lauter Bestreben, recht kindlich und sinnig zu sein, in eine kalt zierliche Spielerei oder in völlig läppische Affektation.“

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arbeitet haben63. Die rhythmisch gestaltete Prosa ist Mimesis von Lyrik. Das Musikalische der Hirtenwelt paart sich mit der Poesie. Zudem fließen alle weiteren Künste ein, Tanz, Mimus, Literatur und vor allem Malerei. Bildhafte Zyklen im Dreischritt64, die parallel den Zustand von Daphnis und dann Chloe beleuchten und in einer gemeinsamen Szene enden, geben den Eindruck von Trennung, Liebe und Vereinigung wieder. Ringkomposition, Sperrungen, Symmetrien, Analogien und Parallelismen tun dies im sprachlichen Mikrobereich. Longos’ Kunst liegt darin, Dichtung in Prosa zu verfassen und dabei alle gorgianischen Stilfiguren wie Parallelismus, Anapher, Homoioteleuton, Isokolon, Parison, Dikolon, Trikolon, Alliteration, Asyndeton, Hyperbaton und Chiasmus sowie den Prosarythmus mit Klauseltechnik zu verwenden65. Im Austausch mit den Göttern und der Natur entsteht überall ein rituell-mythisches Gefühl des Widerhalls (vgl. Echo und ihr Mythos) und der Reziprozität, die wiederum auf das Liebespaar übertragen wird. Das Mythische ist gewissermaßen der Oberbegriff, der all diese sich komplementierenden Effekte von Inhalt und Form umfasst. Lamon bietet den „Mythos“ von Pan und Syrinx, „den ihm ein sizilischer Ziegenhirte“ – also wohl Theokrit – „sang“ (μῦθον, ὃν αὐτῷ Σικελικὸς αἰπόλος ᾖσεν 2,33,3) in vollkommener Musikalität dar. Philetas, der Begründer der Bukolik, lobt ihn nach Beendigung des μυθολόγημα, „da er einen Mythos erzählte, der süßer als Gesang sei“ (μῦθον εἰπόντα ᾠδῆς γλυκύτερον 2,35,1). Letztlich steht dahinter Longos, und sein Stil der γλυκύτης verfolgt exakt das Ziel, einen Mythos in Prosa zu komponieren und dabei die Lyrik seiner bukolischen Vorgänger hinsichtlich der Musikalität zu übertreffen. Das für die mythische Dimension wichtigste Element ist Longos’ spezifische Bildlichkeit66. In der Praefatio spricht er ja davon, ein in einem Nymphenhain gefundenes Reihenbild erotischen Inhalts (εἰκόνος γραφήν, ἱστορίαν ἔρωτος) in das Medium eines Textes, also in unseren Roman zu übertragen. Auch hier ist schon alles erotisch aufgeladen. Die Schaffenskraft kommt aus dem begehrlichen Blick auf das Bild, das identisch mit dem in 4,39,2 von den Protagonisten geweihten ist. Die Vorrede gibt eine Aitiologie des Romans, der ein ἀντιγράψαι einer Bilderserie darstellt. Er ist ein Bild, das mittels Mimesis in Sprache umgesetzt ist, also eine μίμησις μιμήσεως, oder eine Mimesis im Quadrat. Alles ist schön, noch schöner aber das Bild, es zeugt von außergewöhnlicher Kunstfertigkeit und zeigt ein Liebesgeschick. Aufgrund des hohen Ansehens entsteht ein Tourismus, 63 Zu Vico und Herder vgl. Graf (1985) 17 f., 23. 64 Vgl. Schissel von Fleschenberg (1913) 81–94 und Anhang 105–109 (12 Bilder in Triptychon-Struktur, die in einen Ablauf gebracht werden); vgl. auch Chalk (1960) 39–43. 65 Vgl. Hunter (1983) 84–92 (zur γλυκύτης 92–98) und Pattoni (2005) 139–144. 66 Vgl. Zeitlin (1990) 430–444 und Zimmermann (1999b) 72–79.

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wobei die zahlreichen Fremden als „Nymphenanbeter“ und „Bildbetrachter“ gekennzeichnet werden (praef. 1). Kunst steht über der Natur; Kunst ist nach einem Postulat der zeitgenössischen Poetik vor allem dann großartig, wenn sie gar nicht bemerkt wird. Im Folgenden wird die Szenenfolge nur angedeutet: γυναῖκες ἐπ’ αὐτῆς τίκτουσαι καὶ ἄλλαι σπαργάνοις κοσμοῦσαι, παιδία ἐκκείμενα, ποίμνια τρέφοντα, ποιμένες ἀναιρούμενοι, νέοι συντιθέμενοι, λῃστῶν καταδρομή, πολεμίων ἐμβολή, πολλὰ ἄλλα καὶ πάντα ἐρωτικά (praef. 2). Damit wird die spezifische Verbindung von Bukolik und Abenteuer als Übergriffe auf die erotische Idylle anskizziert. Alle Details sind erotisch. Inwiefern dies der Fall ist, wird nicht klarer ausgeführt. Nun kommt das Entscheidende. Im begehrlichen Betrachten und Bewundern überfällt den Autor als Reaktion ein Verlangen (πόθος), das ebenfalls erotisch konnotiert ist, nämlich einen Mediumwechsel vorzunehmen (ἰδόντα με καὶ θαυμάσαντα πόθος ἔσχεν ἀντιγράψαι τῇ γραφῇ, praef. 3). Den Sophisten ereilt nicht ein Begehren nach einem Mädchen, sondern nach einer literarischen Aufgabe, ein Zeichensystem mit einem anderen zu ersetzen, das heißt die Transposition einer bildlichen γραφή in eine textliche vorzunehmen (ἀντιγράψαι τῇ γραφῇ), dabei noch gegen das Bild anzuschreiben und mit ihm in einen Wettstreit zu treten. Zugleich ist die Stelle eine Anspielung darauf, dass der Autor mit den Theokriteischen Eidyllia, den Vignetten oder lyrischen Momentaufnahmen des musikalischen Ausdrucks eines Liebesleids, konkurriert. Ferner will er die ἱστορία ἔρωτος, die im geweihten aretalogischen Reihenbild angelegt ist, in eine wirkliche prozessuale Handlung überführen und Eros zum aufgrund von Unwissen permanent aufgeschobenen Geschlechtsakt trivialisieren. Mythische Bilder vermitteln grundsätzlich Ähnliches wie literarische Texte. Doch wegen ihrer ungleichen medialen Verfasstheit, die andere Potentiale freisetzt, und wegen der unterschiedlichen pragmatischen Verortung haben solche Bilder oft einen im Vergleich zu literarischen Texten verschiedenen Rezeptionszusammenhang. Bilder sind in sich kaum narrativ. In einer kondensierten Zusammenstellung können mythenfunktionale Zusammenhänge oder erotische Gefühle eindrücklich gezeigt werden. Zugleich herrscht eine gewisse Uneindeutigkeit und Offenheit der Aussage vor. Selbst bei einem Reihenbild kann man nur einige wenige Ausschnitte einer Geschichte auswählen. In der Auflistung von praef. 2 wird deutlich, dass man sich nur auf die mythische Ausgangssituation konzentriert, Kindsaussetzung, Säugen durch Tiere, Liebesschwüre, dann Räuber und kriegerische Einfälle. Dies ist ein sehr dürftiges Korsett eines erotischen Liebesromans. Worin das Erotische besteht, bleibt ebenso diffus. Vielleicht ist die eine oder andere Geste für den Betrachter aufreizend, wie die Beschreibung der Nymphen in 1,4,1–3 ausmalend andeutet. Die Liebesthematik löst die bekannte Lust des Betrachters aus. Und der πόθος stellt ebenfalls ein erotisches Verlangen dar, das nun in diese Lücke des erotischen Aufschubs stößt. Mithilfe von

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einer der Natur zu Grunde liegenden Metaphorik und über metonymisch gleitende Bedeutungsstränge wird die im Bild noch unpräzise Spannung zwischen den kindlichen Liebenden in Handlung überführt. Liebe ist nach Roland Barthes der Diskurs der „Abwesenheit“67. Der Mangel, also die Lücke zum Gegenüber, wird in aufschiebende Narration umgesetzt. Die nämliche Lücke, der ewige Aufschub zwischen Gegensätzen, ist, wie gezeigt, zugleich für den Mythos charakteristisch, so dass sich Eros und Mythos, vor allem erotischer Mythos, darin gegenseitig ergänzen. Der Transfer von Bildern in textliche Erzählung ist bekanntlich mit einem Löschungsvorgang des Bildes verbunden68. Vom eigentlichen Reihenbild bleibt letztlich außer dem genannten Gerüst nichts übrig. Freilich schaffen das Verlangen des ἀντιγράψαι und die Lust des erotischen Blicks nun eine ganz neue Projektionsfläche, auf der man in der flottierenden Kette von Metaphern und Metonymien einen erotischen Roman entwerfen kann, der frei nach mythisch-plasmatischen Gesetzmäßigkeiten erfunden ist. Der Ausgang von Bildern wird auf die an die ,Bildchen‘ (Eidyllia) des Theokrit erinnernden sprachlich erzeugten Bilder übertragen. Das erotische Leid, also der in sie eingeschriebene Mangel, äußert sich im Verweisspiel der Sprache und gleicht einem onirischen Schwebezustand. Die Abwesenheit wird ferner auf den Nichtvollzug der geschlechtlichen Vereinigung verschoben. Liebe ist ein ganzheitliches Gefühl. Der Geschlechtsakt ist zudem durch instinktives Verhalten vorbestimmt und muss kaum in Schritten erlernt werden. Der Aufschub in aufeinander folgende Phasen von totaler Unwissenheit des Begriffs der Liebe bis zum Vollzug ist vor allem auch durch eine linear gedeutete Interpretation der drei φάρμακα des Philetas vorgegeben, Kuss, Umarmung und das Nackt-beieinander-Liegen (2,8,5). Es könnte sich, wie im Traum schon vorweggenommen (2,10 f.), eine Abkürzung auf diesem Weg ereignen, was nur natürlich wäre. Hier jedoch kommen jeweils die Unterbrechungen dazwischen, die durch äußere Gegebenheiten, durch den eisigen Winter oder zuletzt durch das aufgebaute Gefälle zwischen den vorher gleichberechtigten Figuren bedingt sind. Schließlich verhindern vor allem Angst, Scham und gesellschaftliche Normen die glückliche sexuelle Vereinigung. Der Ausgang vom schönsten Anblick (θέαμα […] κάλλιστον) – und das Schönste ist laut Sappho eben das, „was einer liebt“ (fr. 16,4) – macht den künstlerischen Akt im Verlangen (πόθος) zu einer Art Platonischem „Zeugen im Schönen“ (symp. 206b–207a4, Zitat u. a. 206b7, 206e4). In der Schöpfung des alle Medien synästhetisch verbindenden Werks wird das eigentliche mythische Bild ausgelöscht und auf der Grundlage von Theokriteischen ,Bildchen‘ ein in viele Szenen unterteilter neuer Mythos der erwachenden Geschlechtlichkeit zweier pubertierender Jugendlicher kreiert. In einem an Platon gemahnenden Verfahren 67 Barthes (1996) 27–32. 68 Vgl. Brandstetter (2001).

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der Stufenleiter der Annäherung an das Höchste (symp. 210a5–211c) gelangt man in der Hochzeitsnacht schließlich zum Mysterium der Liebe. Der Roman endet mit den Sätzen (4,40,3): Daphnis und Chloe aber lagen entkleidet zusammen, umarmten einander und küssten sich und schliefen in dieser Nacht nicht mehr als die Nachteulen tun. Daphnis übte jetzt Lykänions Unterricht aus; und Chloe erfuhr nun zuerst, dass ihre Kurzweil am Wald nur Hirtenspiel gewesen war. (Übers. Jacobs 1823)

Durch die Umkehrung der Reihenfolge der drei Pharmaka wird ausgedrückt, dass man nun die falsch verstandene lineare Prozessualität als Simultaneität und ganzheitliche Praxis erfährt. Damit steht der Vereinigung nichts mehr im Wege. Ironisch wird auf den Unterricht der Lykainion geblickt und damit der Treubruch des Helden angesprochen, der aber jetzt der Gattin zum Genuss verhilft. Chloe lernt zum ersten Mal, nämlich dass alles Vorherige eine Spielerei war – παίγνια hat die pointierte Schlussposition inne. Auch hier ist die Sprache wieder sexuell doppeldeutig konnotiert. Alles war Spielerei am Wald – man denke an Archilochos in der Kölner Epode – vorher war sie παιδίον, nun ist sie γυνή, und selbst Sexualität ist nun eine sozial definierte, ernsthafte Angelegenheit. Und für den Romanautor war alles vorher, das heißt der ganze Roman, eine Spielerei mit dem Noch-nicht des Sexuellen, eine ,pornographische Tändelei‘, wie sich Erwin Rohde ausdrücken würde, aber auch ein wundersames Spiel mit Musik, Poesie und Natur, und voller kunstvoller Retardationen, die auch Goethe verzauberten.

Longos’ Mythos als Simulation Angesichts der sylleptischen Verfasstheit des Romans69 zwischen solchen Polen will ich zum Abschluss noch kurz den der mythischen Dimension entgegenwirkenden Faktor ansprechen. Longos zeigt in weiten Teilen ironische Distanzierungsstrategien, die den Mythos nach Jean Baudrillards Terminologie gleichzeitig als „Simulation“ entlarven. Damit versteht er die Aufhebung der Repräsentation und aller üblichen Referentialitäten, also den Bezug von Symbol, Spiegel, Bild, Duplikat auf ein wirkliches Phänomen, was einer „Präzession“, also Vorlagerung, der Simulakra gleichkommt. „Es geht um die Substituierung des Realen durch Zeichen des Realen, d. h. um eine dissuative Operation, um die Dissuasion realer Prozesse durch ihre operative Verdoppelung, eine programmatische, fehlerlose Signalmaschinerie, die sämtliche Zeichen des Realen und Peripetien (durch Kurzschließen) erzeugt.“70 69 Selden (1994). 70 Baudrillard (1978) 7–10, Zitat 9.

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Dahinter steht die „göttliche Referenzlosigkeit der Bilder“71 oder besser die Referenzlosigkeit von Simulakra als Götterbilder. Von der Emergenz, der performativen Umsetzung eines Götterbilds, geht der Roman ja aus. Das Simulakrum deutet darauf hin, dass alle vorgegaukelte Faktizität der mythischen Welt Phantomcharakter haben könnte. In der Transposition des mythischen Simulakrum wird der Gegenstand gelöscht und mit der Möglichkeit der totalen Phantomisierung ergibt sich eine leere Fläche, die imaginär gefüllt werden kann. Gleichzeitig verbindet sich mit der Bestrebung, die Lücke mit freier Vorstellung zu füllen, der dem Eros inhärente Diskurs der Abwesenheit, die ebenfalls der freien Semiose des ewig variablen Aufschubs unterliegt72. In gewisser Weise stellt Longos’ Roman einen Metatext zur Mimesis und Simulation dar. Er zeigt, dass eine solche infantile und mythische Welt nur dazu da ist, die reale Welt zu kaschieren. In Daphnis und Chloe wird eine Versuchsanordnung der Liebe konstruiert, ein nosologisches System, das nicht mit der Realität übereinstimmt. Die Symptome und Heilungsanweisungen werden in ein künstliches zeitliches Kontinuum gestellt, während Liebe tatsächlich ganzheitlich und umfassend ist. Der Roman wählt diese Strategie der Simulation, um damit zu verbergen, wie töricht die bürgerliche Liebe und mythische Vorstellungen einer bukolischen Ursprünglichkeit in der Natur sind. Dazu notwendig ist die Verkleinerung des Dispositivs auf die beschaulich-niedliche Inselszenerie von Lesbos. Dort wird auch die Natur en miniature dargestellt. Physis bedarf der Techne, wodurch einerseits der Simulationscharakter des Als-ob durchscheint. Andererseits tut Longos alles, die natürliche Welt als Ermöglichungsstruktur des Romans völlig real erscheinen zu lassen. Hierbei steht er ganz auf der Grundlage zeitgenössischer Literatur- und Dichtungstheorie. Pseudo-Longin in der Schrift Vom Erhabenen äußert sich in Kapitel 22,1 ganz ähnlich, nämlich „dass Techne dann vollkommen sei, wenn sie den Anschein von Natur erzeuge, Natur wiederum ihr Ziel erfüllt, wenn sie die sich verbergende Techne umfasse“ (τότε γὰρ ἡ τέχνη τέλειος, ἡνίκ’ ἂν φύσις εἶναι δοκῇ, ἡ δ’ αὖ φύσις ἐπιτυχής, ὅταν λανθάνουσαν περιέχῃ τὴν τέχνην).

Schluss Longos stellt also bei genauerem Hinsehen eine Simulation eines Mythos her. Oder anders ausgedrückt: Longos fährt zweispurig – einerseits verwendet er alle Strategien, die gezeigte mythische Dimension aufzubauen. Andererseits finden sich Signale dafür, dass er diese gleichzeitig als Simulation kennzeich71 Baudrillard (1978) 10. 72 Vgl. Iser (1998) 676 f.

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net. Er benötigt die Mittel der Renaturalisierung und Remythisierung, um dem Roman den Anstrich des Idealen zu verleihen. Die Rückkehr zur kindlichen Mimesis bereitet immer Freude73. Diese überträgt sich auch auf den Leser. Mythos wird im Übrigen in der frühen neuzeitlichen Forschung oft mit der Kindheitsgeschichte der Menschheit identifiziert74. Der Leser wird somit eingelullt in diese Welt, die aber nur durch künstliche Mimetisierung hergestellt ist. Die Götter, die hier direkt eingreifen und zum Inventar dieser natürlichen Topographie gehören, sind freilich für Sophisten wie Longos nicht mehr unbedingt religiöse Wesen, an die man, wie es die Rezipienten vielleicht noch tun, wirklich glaubt, sondern eher säkularisierte Götter der Literatur. Sie gehören zu den verarbeiteten Prätexten und natürlich zu jeglichem Mythos sowie zur literarischen Mythologie. Der Leser darf sich nicht völlig täuschen lassen: Die Götter erscheinen zwar real, aber sie sind doch nur Kunstprodukte der Invention des Autors. Ihr Vorkommen und ihre Aktionen in der Mythologie werden vollumfänglich als Modelle in den plasmatischen ,Mythos‘ des Romans eingelesen. Longos macht Ernst mit dem Begriff des Mythos, der bekanntlich als theoretischer und metaliterarischer Terminus für die Handlung der fiktionalen Prosaerzählung verwandt wurde. Die Götter sind in diesem Ur-Mythos die ersten Beweger und damit die wirklichen Verursacher. Wie betont, schwankt Longos zwischen Mythos und Mythologie. Den Mythos benötigt er zur Schaffung einer natürlichen Dimension der Ursprünglichkeit, welche sich als Ermöglichungsstruktur und Voraussetzung seiner Geschichte herausstellt. Gleichzeitig verweist der Autor durch gezielte Brüche und ironisierende Kommentare auf die technische Gemachtheit dieses ästhetischen Gestaltungsmittels. Während die naiven Kinder Daphnis und Chloe sich in einer mythischen Welt der Authentizität in einem natürlichen Verkehr mit den Göttern bewegen, sind sie zugleich Kinder der gesellschaftlichen Welt eines Städters zur Zeit der Zweiten Sophistik. Vertraut gemacht mit der Schriftkunst sind sie, und noch mehr ihre Gesprächspartner, versiert in der literarischen Mythologie, die dem Ausweis der Bildung dient. Obwohl man nicht einmal den Ursprungsgott Eros kennt, weil man gewissermaßen als erster Mensch sich in den Wirkweisen der Natur zurechtfinden muss, hat man kein Problem damit, auch die ausgefallensten Sagen der späteren Göttergenerationen in allen Versionen je nach Bedarf als Exempel zum Besten zu geben. Die artifizielle Konstruiertheit der mythischen Welt ist freilich so vollkommen, dass sie den Anschein der Authentizität erweckt. Gerade aufgrund der poietischen Gemachtheit konnte allgemein ein Licht auf die Polyfunktionalität des Mythos, insbesondere auf seine ästhetisch-dichterische Dimension geworfen werden. 73 Nach Aristoteles gehört das Nachahmen zum Menschen seit der Kindheit an und ist mit Freude verbunden (Aristot. poet. 1448b4–12). 74 Graf (1985) u. a. 15, 20, 32.

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Nach Schiller könnte man Longos als sentimentale Dichtung verstehen, welche die naive mimetisierend zu überwinden versucht und zugleich ihr eigenes Scheitern zur Schau stellt. Und um in den Worten Goethes in Bezug auf Longos’ Werk zu sprechen, müsste man wohl „ein ganzes Buch schreiben, um alle großen Verdienste dieses Gedichts nach Würden zu schätzen“75. Daher können diese Gedanken als Geschenk nur ein erster bescheidener Versuch sein.

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Wesselmann (2007). – Katharina Wesselmann, „Xerxes und die Frau des Masistes (Hdt. 9.108–113). Mythische Erzählstruktur in Herodots Historien “, in: Bierl/Lämmle/ Wesselmann (2007) 1–39. Whitmarsh (2005). – Tim Whitmarsh, „The Lexicon of Love: Longus and Philetas Grammatikos “, JHS 125 (2005) 145–148. Winkler (1990). – John J. Winkler, „The Education of Chloe: Hidden Injuries of Sex“, in: id., The Constraints of Desire. The Anthropolog y of Sex and Gender in Ancient Greece (New York 1990) 101–126. Wojaczek (1969). – Günter Wojaczek, Daphnis. Untersuchungen zur griechischen Bukolik (Meisenheim a. G. 1969). Zimmermann (1999a). – Bernhard Zimmermann, „Goethes Novelle und der Hirtenroman des Longos“, in: Bernd Witte/Mauro Ponzi (edd.), Goethes Rückblick auf die Antike. Beiträge des deutsch-italienischen Kolloquiums Rom 1998 (Berlin 1999) 101–112. Zimmermann (1999b). – Bernhard Zimmermann, „Poetische Bilder. Zur Funktion der Bildbeschreibungen im griechischen Roman“, Poetica 31 (1999) 61–79. Zeitlin (1990). – Froma I. Zeitlin, „The Poetics of Erôs: Nature, Art, and Imitation in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe “, in: David M. Halperin/John J. Winkler/Froma I. Zeitlin (edd.), Before Sexuality. The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World (Princeton, NJ 1990) 417–464. Zeitlin (2008). – Froma Zeitlin, „Religion“, in: Tim Whitmarsh (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel (Cambridge 2008) 91–108.

Stoff und Performance in pantomimischen Mytheninszenierungen der Antike karin schlapbach I. pandēmos mousikē In Xenophons Symposion spielt die Unterhaltungstruppe des syrakusanischen Impresario während des ganzen Gelages eine prominente Rolle. Unter den künstlerischen Einlagen der Truppe sticht jedoch die letzte Darbietung hervor, eine mimische Darstellung der Begegnung von Dionysos und Ariadne. Diese Szene, mit der das Symposion beschlossen wird, ist die einzige performative Darstellung eines Mythos während des von Xenophon beschriebenen Gastmahls. Die Aufführung ist verschiedentlich als eine Vorform des späteren Pantomimus betrachtet worden, der seit Augustus im gesamten römischen Reich rasant an Popularität gewinnt. Während die Bühne im kaiserzeitlichen Pantomimus normalerweise von einem Solodarsteller beherrscht wird, der zudem stumm bleibt und eine Maske trägt, ist es die tänzerische Inszenierung eines mythischen Stoffes, die die vorliegende Szene mit der späteren Form des Pantomimus verbindet1. Auch in der Kaiserzeit gab es weiterhin vielfältige Formen der körperbetonten oder pantomimischen Mytheninszenierung; diese können nur zum Teil dem antiken Genre des Pantomimus zugerechnet werden. Die folgenden Ausführungen legen einen weiten Begriff von ‚pantomimisch‘ zugrunde; die in Frage stehenden Mytheninszenierungen haben gemeinsam, dass sie nicht auf dem Dialog der Schauspieler oder Tänzer basieren (wenngleich Dialog am Rande vorkommen kann), sondern hauptsächlich auf dem Medium des Körpers. Ausgehend von der Schlussszene in Xenophons Symposion, möchte ich zeigen, dass die Aktualisierung des Mythos in pantomimischen Inszenierungen zwar einerseits (wie jede andere imitatio auf der Bühne oder in der Literatur oder Kunst) dessen Weiterleben sichert, doch dass andererseits die zeitliche und sachliche Priorität des überlieferten Stoffes durch die Aktualisierung in 1

Vgl. Csapo/Slater (1995) 370; Lada-Richards (2007) 19; Hall (2008) 11; die Nähe zum Mimus betont hingegen Garelli (2002).

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der körperbetonten, pantomimischen Darstellung gleichsam bedroht wird. Bemerkenswert ist, dass der Angelpunkt dieser eigentümlichen Gefährdung des Mythos ausgerechnet in der Authentizität der Aufführung liegt. Je echter und überzeugender die Inszenierung wirkt, desto mehr gerät der eigentliche Stoff zugunsten der physischen Präsenz der Darsteller aus dem Blick. Dieses Konkurrenzverhältnis von Stoff und Performance tritt freilich in verschiedenen Spielarten auf. Während bei Xenophon das stille Zurücktreten des Mythos gegenüber dem Hier und Jetzt der Aufführung zu beobachten ist, drückt sich in Martials Liber spectaculorum die Macht des Sichtbaren über die erzählte Geschichte in der Beglaubigung des Mythos durch die Inszenierung aus; letztere kann im übrigen auch in die (ideologisch motivierte) Überbietung der Tradition münden (Teile I und II). Eine dritte Form der Konkurrenz zwischen Stoff und Performance ist in Inszenierungen gegeben, in denen sich ein Übermaß an Echtheit nicht mehr zum Vorteil der Performance auswirkt, sondern im Gegenteil zu deren künstlerischem Scheitern führt (Teil III). Auffallend an Xenophons Beschreibung der Begegnung von Dionysos und Ariadne ist deren Verwandlung in den Augen der Zuschauer von einem theatralischen Spektakel, begleitet von den kennerhaften Zurufen des Publikums, in eine Performance der Wirklichkeit, die die Zuschauer ihrer ästhetischen Distanz beraubt (9,4–7): Als Dionysos sie (sc. Ariadne) erblickte, tanzte er auf sie zu, wie ein heftig Verliebter es tun würde, setzte sich auf ihren Schoß und umarmte und küsste sie. Sie schien zwar schüchtern, doch erwiderte sie seine Umarmung liebevoll. Als die Gäste dies sahen, klatschten sie Beifall und riefen Zugabe! Dann stand Dionysos auf und zog Ariadne mit hoch, und anschließend konnte man die Tanzfiguren der beiden bewundern, während sie einander küssten und herzten. Als aber die Zuschauer sahen, dass Dionysos tatsächlich schön und Ariadne tatsächlich hübsch war und dass sie nicht nur so taten, sondern einander tatsächlich auf den Mund küssten, folgten alle erregt dem Schauspiel. Sie hörten, wie Dionysos sie fragte, ob sie ihn liebe, woraufhin sie einen derartigen Liebesschwur leistete, dass nicht nur Dionysos, sondern auch das gesamte Publikum ebenfalls geschworen hätte, dass der Junge und das Mädchen einander wirklich liebten. Denn sie schienen die Figuren nicht einstudiert zu haben, sondern es war, als hätte man sie endlich tun lassen, was sie schon lange gewünscht hatten. Am Schluss sahen die Gäste, wie sie einander umarmten und gleichsam zum Bett hin gingen, und da schworen die Ledigen zu heiraten, und die Verheirateten bestiegen ihre Pferde und ritten zu ihren Ehefrauen, um ebenfalls in den Genuss dieser Dinge zu kommen2. 2

9,4–7: ἐπεί γε μὴν κατεῖδεν αὐτὴν ὁ Διόνυσος, ἐπιχορεύσας ὥσπερ ἂν εἴ τις φιλικώτατα ἐκαθέζετο ἐπὶ τῶν γονάτων, καὶ περιλαβὼν ἐφίλησεν αὐτήν. ἡ δ’ αἰδουμένῃ μὲν ἐῴκει, ὅμως δὲ φιλικῶς ἀντιπεριελάμβανεν. οἱ δὲ συμπόται ὁρῶντες ἅμα μὲν ἐκρότουν, ἅμα δὲ ἐβόων αὖθις. ὡς δὲ ὁ Διόνυσος ἀνιστάμενος συνανέστησε μεθ’ ἑαυτοῦ τὴν Ἀριάδνην, ἐκ τούτου δὴ φιλούντων τε καὶ ἀσπαζομένων ἀλλήλους σχήματα παρῆν θεάσασθαι. οἱ δ’ ὁρῶντες ὄντως καλὸν μὲν τὸν Διόνυσον, ὡραίαν

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Die Wortwahl des Erzählers weist durchweg auf den inszenierten Charakter der Begegnung hin: Dionysos setzt sich auf Ariadnes Knie, so wie ein Verliebter es tun würde, Ariadne scheint schüchtern, und die beiden tanzen die einstudierten Figuren eines Liebespaars3. Doch während die Zuschauer die Szene zunächst denn auch als Schauspiel wahrnehmen, stehen sie mehr und mehr unter dem Eindruck, dass die beiden jungen Leute nicht nur „tatsächlich schön“ sind, sondern einander auch wirklich küssen und ihre Liebe keineswegs bloß spielen. Zwar bleibt die Beschreibung des Erzählers auch hier im Modus des „als ob“ (ἐῴκεσαν; ὡς […] ἀπιόντας), doch in den Augen und Ohren der Zuschauer (ὁρῶντες; ἤκουον) wird die Inszenierung zur Realität. Und es ist genau dieser Eindruck der Echtheit, der auf sie eine heftige Wirkung ausübt. Dabei sind es durchaus nicht lediglich die Küsse und Umarmungen, die als echt bestaunt werden; von diesen wird vielmehr auf die Echtheit der zugrundeliegenden Gefühle geschlossen4. Von Ariadnes Liebesschwur überzeugt, hätten sie „ebenfalls schwören“ können, dass sich der Junge und das Mädchen – also die beiden Schauspieler – wahrhaftig liebten. Doch nicht nur den Schwur möchte das Publikum mimetisch mitvollziehen, sondern auch die Verliebtheit des Paars selbst, und die erotisierten Gäste brechen dementsprechend eilig auf, um zu ihren Ehefrauen nach Hause zu kehren. Solange das Schauspiel als solches erkennbar war – mit anderen Worten, solange die gespielten Figuren als solche wahrgenommen wurden – blieb eine mimetische Reaktion aus; stattdessen gelang es dem Publikum, die ästhetische Qualität der Aufführung zu würdigen. Erst die subjektive Verwandlung des Spektakels in eine Darstellung der Wirklichkeit bewirkt einen Handlungsimpuls. Die pantomimische Inszenierung scheint sich nun gerade dadurch auszuzeichnen, eine solche Illusion von Echtheit mühelos herstellen zu können. Daran, dass es sich um eine Illusion handelt, lässt der Erzähler keinen

3 4

δὲ τὴν Ἀριάδνην, οὐ σκώπτοντας δὲ ἀλλ’ ἀληθινῶς τοῖς στόμασι φιλοῦντας, πάντες ἀνεπτερωμένοι ἐθεῶντο. καὶ γὰρ ἤκουον τοῦ Διονύσου μὲν ἐπερωτῶντος αὐτὴν εἰ φιλεῖ αὐτόν, τῆς δὲ οὕτως ἐπομνυούσης <ὥστε> μὴ μόνον τὸν Διόνυσον ἀλλὰ καὶ τοὺς παρόντας ἅπαντας συνομόσαι ἂν ἦ μὴν τὸν παῖδα καὶ τὴν παῖδα ὑπ’ ἀλλήλων φιλεῖσθαι. ἐῴκεσαν γὰρ οὐ δεδιδαγμένοις τὰ σχήματα ἀλλ’ ἐφειμένοις πράττειν ἃ πάλαι ἐπεθύμουν. τέλος δὲ οἱ συμπόται ἰδόντες περιβεβληκότας τε ἀλλήλους καὶ ὡς εἰς εὐνὴν ἀπιόντας, οἱ μὲν ἄγαμοι γαμεῖν ἐπώμνυσαν, οἱ δὲ γεγαμηκότες ἀναβάντες ἐπὶ τοὺς ἵππους ἀπήλαυνον πρὸς τὰς ἑαυτῶν γυναῖκας, ὅπως τούτων τύχοιεν. Übersetzungen (wenn nicht anders vermerkt): K. S. Ich verstehe ἡ δ’ αἰδουμένῃ μὲν ἐῴκει κτλ. nicht in dem Sinn, dass Ariadne in Wahrheit nicht schamvoll war, sondern dass sie auch in und trotz der Umarmung auf das Publikum einen schüchternen Eindruck machte. Mit anderen Worten, die Zuschauer scheinen für den Tanz anzunehmen, was Sokrates in Xen. mem. 3, 10 der Malerei attestiert, nämlich dass die Seele (bzw. das ἦθος) dank ihres sichtbaren Ausdrucks am Körper durchaus abgebildet werden kann.

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Zweifel; das Publikum hingegen ist vom Eindruck der Wahrheit überwältigt5. Allerdings ist es nicht die Wahrheit des Mythos, die vermittelt wird. Vielmehr tritt der Mythos als narrativer Inhalt der Darstellung in den Hintergrund; im Zentrum stehen stattdessen die (vermeintlichen) Emotionen des jungen Tänzerpaars und deren Wirkung auf die Zuschauer. Der Mythos, dem die Inszenierung eigentlich gilt, wird gleichsam an den Rand gedrängt. Das Ideal der Echtheit erfüllt sich für die Zuschauer auf der Ebene der Performance, nicht innerhalb des fiktionalen Rahmens der erzählten Geschichte. Diese wird durch die scheinbare Wahrwerdung der Inszenierung im Hier und Jetzt geradezu überflüssig oder jedenfalls zweitrangig. Anders gesagt, aus der ‚Echtheit‘ der Aufführung ergibt sich ein eigentümliches Konkurrenzverhältnis von Stoff und Performance, das auch in späteren Schilderungen von pantomimischen Mytheninszenierungen zu beobachten sein wird. Der Verlust der ästhetischen Distanz geht mit dem Verschwinden des Mythos aus dem Blickfeld einher; das Publikum identifiziert sich nicht mit Dionysos, sondern vielmehr mit dem jungen Star, der ihn spielt. Während der Gott unerreichbar bleibt, gewährt ihnen der Schauspieler einen unmittelbaren Zugang zum Spektakel6. Die Szene steht, wie alle künstlerischen Einlagen in Xenophons Symposion, in einem engen Bezug zum symposiastischen Gespräch. Die unverschleierte Erotik des Tanzes lässt kaum einen Zweifel daran, dass das Ballett als Illustration der Aphrodite pandēmos verstanden werden soll, die von Sokrates kurz zuvor zusammen mit ihrem himmlischen Pendant, Aphrodite ourania, ausführlich erörtert worden ist. Sokrates setzt die ‚gewöhnliche‘ Aphrodite mit dem körperlichen Begehren gleich, während die himmlische Aphrodite die Liebe für die Seele des Geliebten bedeutet (8,9 ff.)7. 5

6 7

Dagegen nimmt Wohl (2004) 358 an, die Performance sei tatsächlich echt: „The dance is no mere act, but a performance of the truth“; daher kommt sie zum Schluss, Xenophon wolle (gegen Sokrates) die Unhintergehbarkeit des körperlichen Begehrens zeigen. Die Szene veranschaulicht aber nicht ein natürliches Begehren, sondern dessen perfekt einstudierte Illusion (dieser Unterschied entgeht auch Gilhuly 2009, 131). Eine Erklärung auf der Ebene des Inhalts gibt Wiles (2000) 115: Die Schlussszene ist ein ‚Gleichnis‘, das zeigt, dass körperliche Liebe angemessen ist für Schauspieler bzw. Sklaven, nicht für Götter. Es ist klar, dass in Sokrates’ Augen die beiden Formen der Liebe nicht gleichwertig sind, sondern dass die Liebe für die Seele über der körperlichen Liebe steht (8,12 ff.). Es darf jedoch nicht übersehen werden, dass Sokrates hier ein argumentum ad hominem formuliert: seine Rede richtet sich in erster Linie an Kallias, den Liebhaber des Autolykos (s. u.); Gegenstand der Rede ist dementsprechend die homoerotische Liebe. Das negative Bild, das Sokrates vom körperlichen Begehren zeichnet, dient als Folie für das Ideal derjenigen homoerotischen Beziehung, die die Erziehung des geliebten Jünglings zur kalokagathia im Blick hat. Wenn die Schlussszene ein alternatives, von jeglichen abschätzigen Untertönen freies Bild der körperlichen Liebe

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Sokrates’ Ausführungen über die zwei Erscheinungsformen der Liebe stecken den konzeptionellen Rahmen ab, der nicht nur dem abschließenden Ballett, sondern auch dem allerersten Schauspiel des Symposion seinen Sinn verleiht. Denn wenn die Schlussszene das körperliche Begehren illustriert, dann ist das eingangs geschilderte Spektakel von Autolykos’ Schönheit, das die Gäste vollkommen in seinen Bann schlägt, eine Veranschaulichung der – ausschließlich homoerotisch verstandenen – Liebe für die Seele des Geliebten. Die Schönheit des Jünglings, verbunden mit seinen inneren Qualitäten, zieht alle Blicke auf sich und hinterlässt einen tiefen Eindruck (1,9 f.): Wie eine Fackel, die in der Dunkelheit leuchtet und aller Augen auf sich zieht, so lenkte nämlich auch damals am Anfang die Schönheit des Autolykos die Blicke auf ihn. Und da war keiner unter den Schauenden, der nicht an seiner Seele etwas erfuhr aufgrund von ihm. Die einen wurden stiller, die anderen nahmen irgendeine neue Haltung ein. Denn alle, die unter dem Einfluss eines Gottes stehen, scheinen des Anblicks würdig zu sein. […] Diejenigen, die von der maßvollen Liebe inspiriert sind, verhalten sich mit ihren Blicken vernünftiger, geben ihrer Stimme einen sanfteren Klang und streben mit ihrer Haltung zum Edleren hin8.

Eine geradezu religiöse Atmosphäre liegt über der Szene, die die Schauenden verstummen oder eine neue ‚Haltung‘ einnehmen lässt9. Das Schlüsselwort σχῆμα verdeutlicht den engen Bezug dieser Schau zur Ballettszene, mit der das Gastmahl endet10. Denn σχῆμα ist einerseits der übliche Fachbegriff für Tanzfiguren und wird in diesem Sinne in 9,6 gebraucht (s. o. S. 741), andererseits kann das gleiche Wort auch die Körperhaltung und allgemeiner den körperlichen Ausdruck der inneren Disposition bezeichnen (so hier). Während σχῆμα in 9,6 auf die Darbietung der Tänzer bezogen ist, wird es hier zur Beschreibung der Zuschauer verwendet, so dass es gleichsam als Verbindungsglied oder Relais zwischen beiden verstanden werden. Innere und äußere Haltung sind untrennbar miteinander verbunden, so dass die Erscheinung des Jünglings auf die Seele der Anwesenden wirken kann und entwirft, so bedeutet dies demgemäß vielleicht weniger eine implizite Kritik an Sokrates (Wohl 2004, 357) als vielmehr eine Bestätigung seines Standpunkts, indem die körperliche Liebe klar dem Bereich der Heterosexualität im legitimen Rahmen der Ehe zugewiesen wird (vgl. Gilhuly 2009, 138). 8 1,9 f.: πρῶτον μὲν γάρ, ὥσπερ ὅταν φέγγος τι ἐν νυκτὶ φανῇ, πάντων προσάγεται τὰ ὄμματα, οὕτω καὶ τότε τοῦ Αὐτολύκου τὸ κάλλος πάντων εἷλκε τὰς ὄψεις πρὸς αὐτόν· ἔπειτα τῶν ὁρώντων οὐδεὶς οὐκ ἔπασχέ τι τὴν ψυχὴν ὑπ’ ἐκείνου. οἱ μέν γε σιωπηρότεροι ἐγίγνοντο, οἱ δὲ καὶ ἐσχηματίζοντό πως. πάντες μὲν οὖν οἱ ἐκ θεῶν του κατεχόμενοι ἀξιοθέατοι δοκοῦσιν εἶναι. […] οἱ δ’ ὑπὸ τοῦ σώφρονος ἔρωτος ἔνθεοι τά τε ὄμματα φιλοφρονεστέρως ἔχουσι καὶ τὴν φωνὴν πρᾳοτέραν ποιοῦνται καὶ τὰ σχήματα εἰς τὸ ἐλευθεριώτερον ἄγουσιν. 9 Zum religiösen Vokabular gehört auch τοῖς τετελεσμένοις τούτῳ τῷ θεῷ (1,10). 10 Vgl. Wohl (2004) 348.

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dies wiederum an ihrem Körper sichtbar wird11. Dank dieser Verwandlung der Schauenden werden diese übrigens selber zum ‚Spektakel‘ (ἀξιοθέατοι, zweimal in 1,10); dies gilt insbesondere für Kallias, Autolykοs’ Verehrer, doch auch für die anderen Anwesenden12. Es lässt sich also festhalten, dass auch hier, genau wie in der Schlussszene, ein enger Zusammenhang zwischen Liebe, Schau und mimetischer Aneignung besteht13. Während die mimetische Aneignung in der Schlussszene durch die perfekte Illusion der Wirklichkeit ermöglicht wird, steht die Echtheit von Autolykos’ Schönheit und Tugendhaftigkeit für die Anwesenden außer Frage; daran zeigt sich erneut, dass ‚Echtheit‘ als Kriterium für die erfolgreiche Beeinflussung der Zuschauer durch das Schauspiel verstanden werden darf. Die Art und Weise, wie die beiden Szenen aufeinander Bezug nehmen, zeigt wiederum, wie sorgfältig Xenophons Symposion strukturiert ist und wie eng Sokrates’ Ausführungen über die beiden Aphroditen mit der Frage nach der jeweiligen Wirkung der performativen Veranschaulichung der Liebe, sei es in der Realität oder im Spiel, verbunden sind. Wenn dies zutrifft, dann überrascht es nicht, dass das Schlusskapitel von Xenophons Symposion schon früh nicht nur als Illustration der Aphrodite pandēmos gelesen wurde, sondern darüber hinaus auch als exemplarische Veranschaulichung einer bestimmten Art publikumswirksamen Musikspektakels, auf die das Attribut pandēmos mit all seinen Konnotationen nun übertragen wurde. Mit anderen Worten, nicht nur der Inhalt der Passage wurde rezipiert, sondern die Szene wurde auch ‚poetologisch‘ verstanden. Darauf deutet jedenfalls ein Zitat von Aristoxenos bei Athenaios, in dem das Attribut pandēmos, soweit wir sehen, zum ersten Mal direkt auf mousikē bezogen 11 σχηματίζεσθαι (Med.) kann auch ein bewusstes ‚Sich-in-Pose-Werfen‘ bedeuten (LSJ s. v. I.2). Der Vorschlag ibid. II.3 „gesticulate“ überzeugt für die vorliegende Stelle nicht. 12 Die eingeschobenen Betrachtung zu „allen, die in der Gewalt der Götter sind und daher ἀξιοθέατοι sind“ (1,10), sind nicht nur auf Kallias zu beziehen (so Wohl 2004, 347), sondern beschreiben, was – in unterschiedlichem Ausmaß – allen Anwesenden widerfährt (in 1,10 f. wird mehrheitlich der Plural verwendet); alle Gäste bleiben während des Mahls stumm, „gleichsam unter dem Gebot eines Gewaltigeren“ (sc. Eros, 1,11). Ich folge daher Wohl (2004) 359 nicht: „But it is the Syracusan’s dance not Sokrates’ that is marked as true and that provokes a mimetic response from its audience.“ Die Inszenierung des Syrakusaners ist nur scheinbar ‚wahr‘, und die mimetische Reaktion ist nicht singulär. 13 Die Macht von Autolykos’ Schönheit wird kurz vor der Schlussszene noch einmal illustriert, wobei die Wirkung auf Kallias dadurch noch gesteigert wird, dass Autolykos seinen Blick auf diesen richtet (8,42). Angesichts der wichtigen Rolle des Motivs der Schau auch außerhalb der Unterhaltungseinlagen scheint es mir unzutreffend, den Text auf „d’un côté la parole, de l’autre le théâtre“ zu reduzieren (Wiles 2000, 112): auch die ‚himmlische‘ Liebe verfügt über einen ihr zugehörigen Modus der Schau ohne Worte.

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ist (14,632b): „Auch wir erinnern uns, nachdem die Theater verroht sind und diese populäre mousikē völlig korrumpiert worden ist, wie die mousikē einmal war, wenn wir, nur noch wenige, unter uns sind.“14 Aus der zitierten Stelle wird nicht klar, was Aristoxenos unter der pandēmos mousikē genau versteht; festhalten lässt sich lediglich, dass er sie in einem Zug mit den Theatern nennt, d. h. dass er nicht ausschließlich die Musik im Blick hat, sondern einen weiteren performativen Rahmen15. Für den vorliegenden Zusammenhang ist jedoch der Überlieferungskontext von Interesse. Der Passage bei Athenaios geht eine längere Erörterung verschiedener Tanztypen voraus, die in eine Kritik der zeitgenössischen mousikē und insbesondere des Strebens nach Publikumserfolg münden, für die Aristoxenos als Gewährsmann angeführt wird16. Angesichts der Nähe zur Diskussion des Tanzes scheint es nicht ausgeschlossen, dass ein Zusammenhang zwischen Aristoxenos’ pandēmos mousikē und dem Tanz schon vorher bestand. Sollte dies zutreffen, dann liegt auch die Annahme nicht mehr fern, dass es möglicherweise nichts anderes als Xenophons Illustration der pandemischen Liebe durch Dionysos und Ariadne war, die Aristoxenos zur Übertragung des Attributs pandēmos auf mousikē bewegt hat. Dies ist umso plausibler, als die Passage aus einem Werk stammt, in dem sich Aristoxenos mit dem Symposium befasst, den Symmikta sympotika 17. Sollte diese Annahme zutreffen, dann lässt sich festhalten, dass sich Sokrates’ relative Wertung der Aphrodite pandēmos hier in eine rückhaltlose Kritik des zugehörigen Spektakels gewandelt hat. Der Argumentationszusammenhang bei Athenaios legt aber nahe, dass sich diese Kritik weniger an der unverblümten Erotik solcher Aufführungen entzündet als grundsätzlicher an der begeisternden Wirkung auf die Mehrheit der Zuschauer, eine Wirkung, die sich bei Xenophon dem Eindruck der Echtheit verdankt. Publikumserfolg war Aristoxenos offenbar suspekt, er „zog die Fr. 124 Wehrli: οὕτω δὴ οὖν, φησί, καὶ ἡμεῖς, ἐπειδὴ καὶ τὰ θέατρα ἐκβεβαρβάρωται καὶ εἰς μεγάλην διαφθορὰν προελήλυθεν ἡ πάνδημος αὕτη μουσική, καθ’ αὑτοὺς γενόμενοι ὀλίγοι ἀναμιμνησκόμεθα οἵα ἦν ἡ μουσική. Normalerweise wird hier stets nur auf Plat symp. 180e und 181a verwiesen, z. B. Barker (1984) Bd. 1, 291 Anm. 160; Gulick (1970) ad loc. 15 Darauf deutet auch der unmittelbar vorangehende Vergleich mit den Bewohnern von Poseidonia, die während eines Festes (ἑορτή) gemeinsam ihrer ursprünglichen Bräuche gedenken (14,632a–b). 16 Αthen. 14,631e–f: Τὸ δὲ παλαιὸν ἐτηρεῖτο περὶ τὴν μουσικὴν τὸ καλὸν καὶ πάντ’ εἶχε κατὰ τὴν τέχνην τὸν οἰκεῖον αὑτοῖς κόσμον. […] νῦν δὲ εἰκῇ καὶ ἀλόγως ἅπτονται τῆς μουσικῆς. καὶ πάλαι μὲν τὸ παρὰ τοῖς ὄχλοις εὐδοκιμεῖν σημεῖον ἦν κακοτεχνίας (kritisch gegenüber dem Publikumsurteil auch Pl. leg. 700c). 17 Es ist klar, dass pandēmos ein in verschiedensten Kontexten häufig belegtes Wort ist, doch beschränkt sich die Verwendung als Attribut von mousikē oder verwandten Begriffen auf eine überblickbare Zahl von Stellen. Entscheidend ist, dass bei Xenophon bereits eine indirekte Verbindung zwischen pandēmos und mousikē vorliegt. 14

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Kunst dem Erfolg vor, wenn es nicht möglich war, den Gesetzen der Kunst treu zu bleiben und gleichzeitig zu singen, was der Menge gefällt“ (Elementa harmonica test. 29 da Rios)18. Ein Kontrast zwischen unterschiedlichen Reaktionen lässt sich im übrigen auch bei Xenophon beobachten: Während die verheirateten Gäste aufgeregt nach Hause eilen, bleiben Sokrates und die übrigen Gäste unbeeindruckt vom Spektakel und suchen stattdessen die Nähe von Lykon und seinem Sohn Autolykos, gewiss um sich am alternativen Schauspiel von dessen Schönheit zu ergötzen19. Es scheint daher naheliegend, dass pandēmos – nun als summarische ‚Etikette‘ der ganzen Szene verstanden – in erster Linie mit Publikumserfolg verbunden werden konnte, dessen Kriterium wiederum die Unmittelbarkeit und Direktheit der Performance ist. Fest steht, dass in der Kaiserzeit der Pantomimus als treffendste Verkörperung einer wirkungsmächtigen und populären mousikē verstanden wird. Dies ist nicht nur aus Athenaios ersichtlich, sondern auch aus Plutarchs Quaestiones convivales. Im letzten Kapitel dieses Werks (9,15) beschließt Ammonios, Plutarchs Lehrer, seine detaillierten Ausführungen zur Theorie des Tanzes mit der resignierten Bemerkung, der zeitgenössische Tanz sei jedoch wie kein anderes Medium dem schlechten Geschmack anheim gefallen20. Dies rühre daher, dass er sich mit einer „populären“ (pandēmos) Dichtung vermählt habe anstelle „jener himmlischen“. Der Hinweis auf die ausgesprochene Beliebtheit dieses Tanzes (ibid.) lässt keinen Zweifel daran aufkommen, dass es hier abermals um den Pantomimus geht, der es in der Tat vermochte, ganze Theater zu „unterwerfen“, und der von Gebildeten öfter mit Verachtung gestraft wurde21. Die Tatsache wiederum, dass hier im Unterschied zu Athenaios bzw. Aristoxenos beide Beinamen der Aphrodite erwähnt werden, legt einen (indirekten) Bezug zwischen dieser Passage und der Diskussion der beiden Aphroditen im 4. Jahrhundert, insbesondere bei Xenophon, nahe. Them. or. 33,364c: Ἀριστόξενος […] παρ’ οὐδὲν ἐποιεῖτο δήμου καὶ ὄχλου ὑπεροψίαν, καὶ εἰ μὴ ὑπάρχοι ἅμα τοῖς τε νόμοις τῆς τέχνης ἐμμένειν καὶ τοῖς πολλοῖς ᾄδειν κεχαρισμένα, τὴν τέχνην εἵλετο ἀντὶ τῆς φιλανθρωπίας. 19 Xen. symp. 9,7: Σωκράτης δὲ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων οἱ ὑπομείναντες πρὸς Λύκωνα καὶ τὸν ὑιὸν σὺν Καλλίᾳ περιπατήσοντες ἀπῆλθον. 20 Plut. mor. 748C: ἀλλ’ οὐδὲν οὕτως τὸ νῦν ἀπολέλαυκε τῆς κακομουσίας ὡς ἡ ὄρχησις. 21 Plut. mor. 748D: καὶ γὰρ αὕτη [καὶ] πάνδημόν τινα ποιητικὴν προσεταιρισαμένη τῆς δ’ οὐρανίας ἐκπεσοῦσ’ ἐκείνης, τῶν μὲν ἐμπλήκτων καὶ ἀνοήτων κρατεῖ θεάτρων, ὥσπερ τύραννος ὑπήκοον ἑαυτῇ πεποιημένη μουσικὴν ὀλίγου τὴν ἅπασαν, τὴν δὲ παρὰ τοῖς νοῦν ἔχουσι καὶ θείοις ἀνδράσιν ὡς ἀληθῶς τιμὴν ἀπολώλεκε (zu quaest. conv. 9,15 ausführlicher Schlapbach [im Druck]). Die überwältigende Wirkung des Pantomimus auf die Zuschauer wird z. B. in Lukians De saltatione 1–5 anschaulich beschrieben; vgl. Lada-Richards (2003) 40–45.

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Dass die Wendung pandēmos mousikē später gewöhnlich auf eine negativ verstandene Erotik eingeengt wird, wie Beispiele aus Clemens Alexandrinus und Basilius von Caesarea zeigen, liegt wohl am Interesse christlicher Polemiker, genau diesen Aspekt hervorzuheben22. Demgegenüber zeigt die Verwendung von pandēmos bei Philodem, dass das Attribut im Kontext einer ästhetischen Diskussion durchaus etwas ganz anderes bedeuten konnte. Im vierten Buch der Rhetorik stellt er die pandēmos lexis, die einfache, gewöhnliche Diktion, dem kunstvollen Stil gegenüber (1,164–166 Sudhaus)23. Der kunstvolle Stil darf zweifellos als elaboriert gelten; umgekehrt muss der gewöhnliche Stil als natürlich und direkt verstanden werden (dieser ist übrigens durchaus positiv konnotiert)24. In gewisser Weise drückt sich hier also ein Verständnis von pandēmos aus, das der Unverstelltheit und Echtheit des Tanzes bei Xenophon entspricht. Die Annahme, dass die Konnotationen von pandēmos bei Aristoxenos und später auf genau diese Charakteristika jener Szene verweisen konnten, scheint daher doppelt gerechtfertigt. Wenn die hier gezogene Linie von Xenophon über Aristoxenos zu Plutarch und Athenaios eine gewisse Plausibilität hat, so scheint es lohnend, das Motiv der Echtheit der Performance, das die Schlussszene von Xenophons Symposion auszeichnet und das später wohl mit dem Attribut pandēmos assoziiert wird, in kaiserzeitlichen Beschreibungen von pantomimischen Spektakeln weiterzuverfolgen und wie bei Xenophon zu fragen, wie sich dieses im Zusammenspiel mit dem Stoff solcher Inszenierungen, dem Mythos, auswirkt25.

II. fabula et fides Die antiken Quellen zum Pantomimus heben oft den vollkommen überzeugenden und glaubhaften Charakter der tänzerischen Performance hervor. Den Pantomimen wird attestiert, völlig in ihrer Rolle (bzw. ihren Rollen) aufzugehen26. Das Ideal der Authentizität der Aufführung wird auch in den pantomimischen Mytheninszenierungen im Amphitheater zelebriert, die oft in der tatsächlichen Hinrichtung eines zum Tode Verurteilten endeten27. Im 22 Clem. Al. protr. 12,118,2: ᾄδει δὲ ἐν αὐτῇ [sc. τῇ νήσῳ] πορνίδιον ὡραῖον, ἡδονή, πανδήμῳ τερπόμενον μουσικῇ; vgl. Basil. enarr. in Is. 5,156. 23 Die Ausdrücke für ‚elaboriert‘ sind ἐγκατάσκευος und φιλοκατάσκευος. – Für wichtige Auskünfte zu Philodem danke ich herzlich Prof. D. Blank. 24 Vgl. Gaines (2005) 261: „Regarding style, he prefers naturally beautiful expression.“ 25 Für die kritische Lektüre von Teil I danke ich herzlich René Nünlist. 26 Vgl. Lada-Richards (2007) 54 f. 27 Solche Inszenierungen werden in der Forschung oft als im weitesten Sinne ‚pantomimisch‘ beschrieben: Coleman (2006) 64; Moretti (1992) 56. Garelli (2007) 269 präzisiert in Bezug auf Mart. spect. 6 (5) allerdings zu Recht, dass es sich nicht um einen Pantomimus im engen Sinn handelt, sondern um ein munus (dies gilt auch

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Folgenden sollen einige Epigramme aus Martials Liber spectaculorum herausgegriffen werden, die nicht nur die perfekte Authentizität der Inszenierung hervorheben, sondern darüber hinaus auch das sich daraus ergebende Verhältnis zum Mythos thematisieren28. Während Xenophon im Symposion das stille Verschwinden des Mythos aus dem Blickfeld der Zuschauer dokumentiert, stellt Martial die Inszenierung und den zugrundeliegenden mythischen Stoff in ein explizites Konkurrenzverhältnis. Dies geschieht mit einer präzisen rhetorischen Absicht, nämlich den Kaiser als Stifter der Spiele zu preisen. Die Überbietung des Mythos durch die Inszenierung in der Arena ist hier also geradezu Programm29. Das heißt aber, dass der Mythos als Bezugspunkt präsent bleibt, und das Verhältnis von überliefertem Stoff und pantomimischer Aktualisierung kann vielfältige Formen annehmen. Eine davon ist die Beglaubigung des Mythos durch die Inszenierung, wie Epigramm 6 (5) illustriert: Iunctam Pasiphaen Dictaeo credite tauro: u i d i m u s , accepit fabula prisca fidem. ne se miretur, Caesar, longaeua Vetustas: quidquid Fama canit, praestat harena tibi 30.

Das Epigramm spielt die augenfällige Echtheit der Darstellung gegen das bloße Gewicht der Tradition aus: Die Sichtbarkeit (uidimus, V. 2) der althergebrachten Geschichte in der Arena verleiht ihr erst ihre Glaubwürdigkeit31. Zwar gewinnen beide Seiten: Wenn es das Spektakel braucht, um die Glaubwürdigkeit des Erzählten zu garantieren, so braucht es die gesamte mythische Tradition, um eine Vorstellung der munera der Arena zu vermitteln. Doch kommt die Entscheidungsgewalt über die Wahrheit oder Falschheit des Mythos der Inszenierung zu. Die Bewahrheitung der traditionellen Erzählung in den sichtbaren Fakten der Inszenierung liegt auch Epigramm 9 (7) zugrunde. Die Hinrichtung eines zum Tode Verurteilten nach dem Muster des populären Laureolus-Mimus gibt Martial Gelegenheit, die Authentizität der Performance gleich zweifach hervorzuheben. Denn zum einen wird die hier beschriebene Laureolus-Inszenierung von anderen, gestellten Inszenierungen desselben

28 29 30 31

für die anderen im Liber spectaculorum beschriebenen Mytheninszenierungen). Zum Phänomen der Hinrichtungen in mythischem Gewand vgl. Coleman (1990). Für wertvolle Hinweise auf Martial möchte ich Ruth E. Harder herzlich danken. Vgl. Moretti (1992) 55. Die Epigramme werden nach Coleman (2006) gezählt und zitiert (in Klammern die ältere Zählung). Zur Frage, ob und wie dieser Mythos tatsächlich realistisch dargestellt werden konnte, vgl. Coleman (2006) 64 f. Auf dem Topos der Bestätigung durch Anschauung beruht auch spect. 14 (12), dazu Moretti (1992) 57. Das gleiche Motiv findet sich auch in Anth. Gr. 9,88, allerdings handelt es sich dort nicht um eine Inszenierung.

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Stoffes unterschieden, indem eigens erwähnt wird, dass die Kreuzigung des Verurteilten nicht gestellt war (non falsa pendens in cruce, V. 4), zum andern verbindet Martial den einheimischen Mimus-Stoff mit dem griechischen Mythos, indem er Laureolus eingangs mit Prometheus vergleicht32. Diese Verdoppelung des Bezugsrahmens erlaubt es Martial, einander nicht nur Stoff und Performance in globo gegenüberzustellen, sondern auch an alternative, gestellte Arten der Aufführung zu erinnern, die allerdings gerade nicht leisten könnten, was die von ihm hier beschriebene Aufführung leistet, nämlich die Beglaubigung der „Fabel“33. Im Schlussvers in quo (sc. scelerato), quae fuerat fabula, poena fuit (V. 12) verweist fabula sowohl auf den LaureolusStoff (und die gestellten Inszenierungen davon) als auch auf den Prometheus-Mythos: während all dies dem unverifizierten Bereich des Erzählten (oder bloß Gespielten) angehört, wird die Geschichte in dieser Inszenierung zur Wahrheit34. In einem anderen Epigramm (8 [6b]) wird der Mythos durch die Darstellung nicht nur bewahrheitet, sondern sogar noch übertroffen, indem eine der Herkuleischen Arbeiten, die Tötung des Nemeischen Löwen, nun durch eine Frau ausgeführt wurde; man könnte daher meinen, der Mythos sei widerlegt ( prisca Fides taceat, V. 3)35. Doch im Grunde drückt sich hier ein ähnliches Verhältnis zwischen Stoff und Performance aus wie in Epigramm 6 (5). Die Abweichung von der traditionellen Form des Mythos bedeutet nicht dessen Widerlegung, sondern vielmehr dessen Beglaubigung, indem mögliche Zweifel an der Plausibilität des Erzählten gleichsam durch ein Argument a fortiori, das auf der Performance in der Arena basiert, ausgeräumt werden (wenn schon eine Frau einen Löwen töten kann, dann erst recht ein Mann, Herkules). Prisca Fides soll nicht deswegen verstummen, weil sie unzuverlässig wäre, sondern weil sie schlicht nicht mehr gebraucht wird; 32 V. 1–4: Qualiter in Scythica religatus rupe Prometheus / adsiduam nimio pectore pauit auem, / nuda Caledonio sic uiscera praebuit urso / non falsa pendens in cruce Laureolus. Der Laureolus-Mimus wird einem gewissen Catullus zugeschrieben und wurde auf jeden Fall schon 41 n. Chr. aufgeführt (vgl. Coleman 2006, 83). 33 Das durchweg prominente Motiv der Authentizität der munera schließt jeden Gedanken an technische Hilfsmittel oder Tricks aus, vgl. Epigramm 18 (16): non fuit hoc artis, sed pietatis opus (V. 2). 34 Coleman (2006) ad loc. scheint fabula lediglich auf den Laureolus-Stoff („a legend“) zu beziehen, doch da Martial im ganzen Buch das Verhältnis zwischen dem griechischen Mythos und den Aufführungen in der Arena thematisiert, ist die Verdoppelung des Bezugs zweifellos erwünscht (man könnte vielleicht sogar im Verbrechen der Brandstiftung an Rom [V. 10] eine Steigerung von Prometheus’ Feuerraub sehen). 35 Mart. spect. 8 (6b): Prostratum uasta Nemees in ualle leonem / nobilis Herculeum Fama canebat opus. / prisca Fides taceat: nam post tua munera, Caesar, / haec iam feminea uidimus acta manu. Belege für bestiariae sind bei Coleman (2006) 71 gesammelt.

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die Anschauung der Arena hat sie überflüssig gemacht. Die Überlegenheit der Inszenierung gegenüber dem überlieferten Stoff kommt in diesem Epigramm also doppelt zum Ausdruck, indem der Mythos gleichzeitig bestätigt und überboten wird36. Die Steigerung des Mythos durch das Spektakel in der Arena kommt in Epigramm 32 (27 bzw. 28) über den bestiarius Carpophorus besonders deutlich zum Ausdruck. Hätte Carpophorus früher gelebt, so der Tenor, wären zahlreiche berühmte Mythen gar nicht erst entstanden oder hätten jedenfalls eine andere Form (V. 3–6: non Marathon taurum, Nemee frondosa leonem, / Arcas Maenalium non timuisset aprum. / hoc armante manus Hydrae mors una fuisset, / huic percussa foret tota Chimaera semel, etc.); der Schluss, der daraus gezogen wird, liegt auf der Hand: Carpophorus übertrifft Herkules, den mythischen Bezwinger von Monstern par excellence, bei weitem (V. 11 f.: p l u s e s t / bis denas pariter perdomuisse feras). Die ‚Verbesserung‘ des Mythos durch Carpophorus – und nicht zufällig hat dieser bestiarius auch einen eigenen Namen – lässt diesen zum Ursprung eines neuen, grandioseren Mythos werden, der die althergebrachten, obsolet gewordenen Geschichten zweifellos ablösen wird. Die neue Mythologie gründet auf der Performance im Amphitheater; diese kann letztlich nicht mehr als Inszenierung eines traditionellen Stoffes verstanden werden, derart weit hat sie sich davon entfernt; vielmehr wird sie selber zum Anlass für neue Erzählungen (und Martial ist der erste, der die Kunde davon weiterträgt). Doch wenn einerseits neue Geschichten die alten ablösen, so finden sich andererseits auch Wege, die alten Geschichten zu vereinnahmen und gewissermaßen dem Einflussbereich der Performance unterzuordnen. Dies geschieht auf amüsante Art und Weise in Epigramm 30 (26). Der Reigen der Nereiden wirkt so überzeugend, dass ihre Tänze entweder von Thetis selbst choreographiert worden sein müssen oder aber – so die Pointe – Thetis umgekehrt von diesen gelernt hat (V. 7 f.): quis tantas liquidis artes inuenit in undis? aut docuit lusus hos Thetis aut didicit.

Die Göttin als Elevin der Nymphen in der Arena – diese Pointe leistet zweierlei: einerseits wird die Idee vermittelt, dass die Nymphen tatsächlich göttliche Wesen sein müssen, andererseits wird die herkömmliche Hierarchie von überlieferter Erzählung und aktueller Inszenierung augenzwinkernd umgekehrt: der traditionelle Mythos wird nicht lediglich beglaubigt durch das Spiel der Nereiden, sondern er beruht vielmehr schlechthin auf dem Spiel; denn wenn die göttliche Protagonistin von den Nereiden erst tanzen 36 Ähnlich explizit ist auch Epigramm 19 (16b): Caesaris atque Iouis confer nunc, Fama, iuuencos: / par onus ut tulerint, altius iste tulit (V. 3 f.); dazu Moretti (1992) 57 f.

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lernt, dann setzt die Erzählung über die tanzende Göttin das Spiel voraus37. Die Priorität des alten Stoffes wird hier in Frage gestellt; im Vordergrund steht vielmehr das mythopoietische Potenzial des Spiels in der Arena38. Der Gedanke, dass die Performance eines Tänzers am Ursprung des Mythos steht (und nicht vice versa), kehrt übrigens in einer Passage aus Lukians Dialog Περὶ ὀρχήσεως (Über den Pantomimus) wieder. Die Betrachtungen über den Tanz bei verschiedenen Völkern führen die Dialogfigur Lykinos zum Ägypter Proteus, dem mythischen Verwandlungskünstler39. In Lykinos’ Lektüre des Mythos war Proteus nichts anderes als ein Tänzer, der kraft seiner Kunst alles mögliche nachahmen konnte; erst der Mythos habe in seiner charakteristischen Wendung der Dinge zum ‚Paradoxen‘ Proteus veritable Verwandlungen attestiert (19). Alle Tänzer, so Lykinos weiter, vermögen es, sich ganz nach Bedarf in Windeseile zu ‚verwandeln‘; in diesem Sinne sind sie alle Nachahmer des Proteus40. Nehmen wir Lykinos beim Wort, so kommt der Tanz hier praktisch ohne Mythos aus: was auch immer für (‚paradoxe‘) mythische Rollen die Tänzer einnehmen, im Grunde tun sie dabei nichts anderes, als was schon Proteus getan hat: sie geben sich verschiedene Erscheinungsformen. Ihr eigentliches Modell ist Proteus, der Tänzer; die unglaubwürdigen und erfundenen Geschichten des Mythos sind sekundär und spielen eine durchaus untergeordnete Rolle41. Daraus ergibt sich einmal mehr die charakteristische Authentizität der pantomimischen Performance, denn wenn die Tänzer nichts anderes tun als neu zu vollziehen, was immer schon ein Spiel war, dann ist ihre Performance die Wiederholung des ursprünglichen Akts (nicht eine vom Original zu unterscheidende Interpretation). Mit anderen Worten, das Spiel bleibt sich selber treu. Auch in der Kaiserzeit richten Beobachter also ihr Augenmerk besonders auf die Echtheit der pantomimischen Mytheninszenierung, sei es vermeintliche oder (im Falle der Tötungen in der Arena) tatsächliche Echtheit. Diese entpuppt sich als ambivalente Qualität: Sie kann zwar dem mythischen 37 Etwas anders gewichtet Coleman (2006) 217: die Pointe beweise die Göttlichkeit des Kaisers (qua Stifter der Spiele), denn nur ein Gott könne eine Göttin unterweisen. Im Rahmen der vorliegenden Untersuchung interessiert hingegen weniger die Göttlichkeit des Stifters als die Konsequenzen der Unterweisung der Göttin in der Arena für das Verhältnis von Stoff und Performance. 38 Der Gedanke, dass der Mythos die Kunst nachahmt, kann vielleicht als Variation des Motivs „Natur ahmt Kunst nach“ (z. B. Ov. met. 3,158 f.) verstanden werden. 39 Vgl. Hom. Od. 4,364 ff. 40 Lukian. salt. 19: δοκεῖ γάρ μοι ὁ παλαιὸς μῦθος καὶ Πρωτέα τὸν Αἰγύπτιον οὐκ ἄλλο τι ἢ ὀρχηστήν τινα γενέσθαι λέγειν […] ὁ δὲ μῦθος παραλαβὼν πρὸς τὸ παραδοξότερον τὴν φύσιν αὐτοῦ διηγήσατο, ὡς γιγνομένου ταῦτα ἅπερ ἐμιμεῖτο. ὅπερ δὴ καὶ τοῖς νῦν ὀρχουμένοις πρόσεστιν, ἴδοις δ’ ἂν οὖν αὐτοὺς πρὸς τὸν αὐτὸν καιρὸν ὠκέως διαλλαττομένους καὶ αὐτὸν μιμουμένους τὸν Πρωτέα. 41 Dazu ausführlicher Schlapbach (2008) 320–325.

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Stoff Glaubwürdigkeit bescheinigen, doch kommt im Akt der Beglaubigung gleichzeitig die Überlegenheit des Sichtbaren gegenüber dem bloß Erzählten zum Ausdruck. Diese Überlegenheit wird umso mehr betont, wenn die Inszenierung den Mythos sogar noch überbietet, womit sich die Bestätigung des Mythos gleichsam in dessen Bedrohung verkehrt. Es scheint also, dass sich die Echtheit der Inszenierung nicht unbedingt zugunsten der Bekräftigung des Mythos auswirkt, sondern dass die augenscheinliche, materielle Gegenwart der Performance diesen bisweilen geradezu aus dem Bild drängt. Etwas überspitzt könnte man sagen, je echter (und damit je gelungener und erfolgreicher) die pantomimische Inszenierung ist, desto mehr emanzipiert sie sich vom Mythos. Dass umgekehrt jedoch die Buchstabentreue der Mytheninszenierung zum künstlerischen Problem für dieselbe werden kann, soll abschließend gezeigt werden.

III. „Alles getreu dem Mythos …“ Die Authentizität der Aufführung ist kein sicherer Weg zum Erfolg derselben; ein ‚Übermaß an Echtheit‘ kann vielmehr das künstlerische Gelingen der Inszenierung gefährden. Dies musste gemäß einer bei Lukian erzählten Anekdote ein Darsteller des Ajax am eigenen Leib erfahren. Er ging so sehr in der Rolle des wahnsinnig gewordenen Helden auf, dass er δι’ ὑπερβολὴν μιμήσεως die Kontrolle über sein Spiel verlor und beinah einen Statisten tötete42. Interessant ist freilich die Reaktion des Publikums: Die meisten sind begeistert von der Darbietung, jedenfalls die weniger kultivierten Zuschauer (συρφετώδεις καὶ αὐτὸ τοῦτο ἰδιῶται), denen der Unterschied zwischen Schauspieler und Rolle komplett entgeht. Die Gebildeten unter ihnen erkennen zwar, dass die Darstellung außer Kontrolle geraten ist, doch ziehen auch sie es vor, gute Miene zum bösen Spiel zu machen43. Umgeben von einer Menge, die des Kunstverstandes entbehrt, nützt ihnen offenbar ihre Kennerschaft nichts. Ein ähnliches Übermaß an Buchstabentreue bei Mytheninszenierungen liegt einigen Spottepigrammen der Anthologia Palatina zugrunde. Der Witz dieser Gedichte beruht auf der spielerischen Verwechslung von Stoff und Performance, wie folgendes Epigramm von Martials älterem Zeitgenossen Lukillios illustriert (Anth. Gr. 11,254):

42 Lukian. salt. 83. 43 Lukian. salt. 83: οἱ ἀστειότεροι δὲ συνιέντες μὲν καὶ αἰδούμενοι ἐπὶ τοῖς γινομένοις, οὐκ ἐλέγχοντες δὲ σιωπῇ τὸ πρᾶγμα, τοῖς δὲ ἐπαίνοις καὶ αὐτοὶ τὴν ἄνοιαν τῆς ὀρχήσεως ἐπικαλύπτοντες, καὶ ἀκριβῶς ὁρῶντες ὅτι οὐκ Αἴαντος ἀλλὰ ὀρχηστοῦ μανίας τὰ γιγνόμενα ἦν.

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Alles getreu dem Mythos hast du getanzt. Nur das Eine, nämlich die Hauptsache, hast peinlicher Weis’ du versehn. Als du die Niobe tanztest, da standest du da wie ein Felsklotz. Als du den Kapaneus gabst, fielst unversehens du hin. Doch bei der Kanake dann – wie talentlos: hattest ein Schwert und … Gingst doch als Lebender ab. Dieses dem Mythos zum Trotz!44

Die physische Identität von Darsteller und Rolle dient hier als Basis für die Übertragung von Attributen der dargestellten Figur auf die Art und Weise der Darstellung. Während im Mythos Niobe zu Stein wird und Kapaneus zu Boden stürzt, wird in der Aufführung, gesehen durch die Linse dieses Epigramms, die Steifheit zu einem Attribut des Pantomimen, der Sturz zum Beweis für schauspielerische Unbeholfenheit. Einmal mehr bezieht sich die Wahrnehmung der Echtheit auf das Hier und Jetzt der Aufführung, nicht auf die mythischen Figuren – allerdings ohne dass hier (wie bei Xenophon) das Bewusstsein für den Unterschied zwischen Schauspieler und Rolle verloren ginge. Ziel der ‚Verwechslung‘ ist vielmehr eine schonungslose Kritik an der ästhetischen Qualität der Aufführung, wie das letzte Distichon klarmacht 45. Echtheit ist somit nicht ein eindeutiger Maßstab des Erfolgs der Aufführung; vielmehr kann anhand des Kriteriums der Echtheit auch das künstlerische Versagen eines Pantomimen verspottet werden. Während dies zweifellos das vordergründige Ziel des Epigramms ist, wird hier gleichzeitig das ästhetische Ideal der Authentizität entlarvt, indem mit Figuren wie Ajax oder Niobe implizit auf die Tücken der Buchstabentreue hingewiesen wird. Die Echtheit der Aufführung war daher ein zweischneidiges Schwert. Einerseits scheint Aristoxenos’ Assoziation von Echtheit und Erfolg im Stichwort pandēmos einen breiten Konsens gefunden zu haben, wie die Popularität von den bei Martial beschriebenen Mytheninszenierungen zeigt; andererseits wird das Ideal der Echtheit bei Lukillios und Lukian ad absurdum geführt. Für den Mythos ergibt sich folgendes Bild: Wenn die Götter auf der Bühne von Xenophons Gastmahl aufgrund der vermeintlichen Wahrheit des Spiels aus dem Blickfeld zu verschwinden drohen, so ist umgekehrt 44 Anth. Gr. 11,254: Πάντα καθ’ ἱστορίην ὀρχούμενος, ἓν τὸ μέγιστον / τῶν ἔργων παριδὼν ἠνίασας μεγάλως. / Τὴν μὲν γὰρ Νιόβην ὀρχούμενος, ὡς λίθος ἔστης, / καὶ πάλιν ὢν Καπανεύς, ἐξαπίνης ἔπεσες· / ἀλλ’ ἐπὶ τῆς Κανάκης ἀφυῶς, ὅτι καὶ ξίφος ἦν σοι / καὶ ζῶν ἐξῆλθες· τοῦτο παρ’ ἱστορίην. Übersetzung: Weinreich (1948) 87; weitere Beispiele ibid. 84–97. 45 Eine Abweichung vom Mythos wird auch in Mart. spect. 24 (21) geschildert: Orpheus wird von einem Bären getötet (V. 8: haec tantum res est facta παρ’ ἱστορίαν, mit Housmans Konjektur παρ’ ἱστορίαν). Dies bedeutet dort allerdings kaum ein Scheitern der Aufführung, sondern geschah wahrscheinlich nach Plan (Coleman 2006, 174 f.).

Stoff und Performance in pantomimischen Mytheninszenierungen

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bei der Inszenierung von Ajax’ Wahnsinn ein gewisses Maß an Trug (apatē) nötig, damit diese gelingt46. In beiden Fällen geht etwas verloren, wenn die Fiktionalität des Mythos im Spiel nicht respektiert wird. Mit anderen Worten, die Fiktionalität des Mythos ist unhintergehbar, und eine Aufführung, die dem Mythos gerecht werden soll, darf die Aufmerksamkeit der Zuschauer in gewisser Weise nicht zu sehr auf die physische Gegenwart ihrer selbst lenken. Nicht zufällig ist es wohl das körperbetonte Medium des Tanzes bzw. Pantomimus, das mit der Spannung zwischen fiktionalem Stoff und aktueller Inszenierung spielt; zweifellos fördert die Abwesenheit der Sprache ein verstärktes Augenmerk auf die physische Präsenz der Performance.

Literaturverzeichnis Barker (1984). – Andrew Barker (ed.), Greek Musical Writings. Bd. 1: The Musician and his Art (Cambridge etc. 1984). Coleman (1990). – Kathleen M. Coleman, „Fatal Charades: Roman Executions Staged as Mythological Enactments“, JRS 80 (1990) 44–73. Coleman (2006). – Kathleen M. Coleman (ed.), M. Valerii Martialis Liber Spectaculorum (Oxford 2006). Csapo/Slater (1995). – Eric Csapo/William J. Slater, The Context of Ancient Drama (Ann Arbor 1995). Gaines (2005). – Robert N. Gaines, „Philodemus“, in: Michelle Ballif/Michael G. Moran (edd.), Classical Rhetorics and Rhetoricians (Westport, Conn./London 2005) 259–263. Garelli (2002). – Marie-Hélène Garelli, „Le spectacle final du Banquet de Xénophon: le genre et le sens“, Pallas 59 (2002) 177–186. Garelli (2007). – Marie-Hélène Garelli, Danser le mythe. La pantomime et sa réception dans la culture antique (Louvain etc. 2007). Gilhuly (2009). – Kate Gilhuly, The Feminine Matrix of Sex and Gender in Classical Athens (Cambridge etc. 2009). Gulick (1970). – Charles Burton Gulick (ed.), Athenaeus, The Deipnosophists, Bd. 6, with an English translation (Cambridge, Mass./London 1970). Hall (2008). – Edith Hall, Introduction: Pantomime, A Lost Chord of Ancient Culture, in: Edith Hall/Rosie Wyles (edd.), New Directions in Ancient Pantomime (Oxford 2008) 1–40. Lada-Richards (2003). – Ismene Lada-Richards, „ ‚A Worthless Feminine Thing‘? Lucian and the ‚Optic Intoxication‘ of Pantomime Dancing“, Helios 30 (2003) 21–75. Lada-Richards (2007). – Ismene Lada-Richards, Silent Eloquence. Lucian and Pantomime Dancing (London 2007). Moretti (1992). – Gabriella Moretti, „L’arena, Cesare e il mito: Appunti sul De spectaculis di Marziale“, Maia 44 (1992) 55–63. Pollitt (1974). – Jerome Jordan Pollitt, The Ancient View of Greek Art: Criticism, History, and Terminolog y (New Haven/London 1974). 46 Zu apatē als Schlüsselbegriff für die ästhetische Illusion vgl. Pollitt (1974) 50–52.

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Schlapbach (2008). – Karin Schlapbach, „Lucian’s On Dance and the Models for a Discourse on Pantomime“, in: Edith Hall/Rosie Wyles (edd.), New Directions in Ancient Pantomime (Oxford 2008) 314–337. Schlapbach (im Druck). – Karin Schlapbach, „Dance and Discourse in Plutarch, Table Talks 9.15“, in: P. Fleury/Th. Schmidt (edd.), Regards sur la deuxième sophistique, Phoenix supplementary volumes (Toronto, im Druck). Webb (2008). – Ruth Webb, Demons and Dancers. Performance in Late Antiquity (Cambridge Mass./London 2008). Weinreich (1948). – Otto Weinreich, Epigrammstudien I: Epigramm und Pantomimus, AAWH 1944/48, 1 (Heidelberg 1948). Wiles (2000). – David Wiles, „Théâtre dionysiaque dans le Banquet de Xénophon“, Cahiers du GITA 13 (2000) 107–117. Wohl (2004). – Victoria Wohl, „Dirty Dancing: Xenophon’s Symposium “, in: Penelope Murray/Peter Wilson (edd.), Music and the Muses. The Culture of ‚Mousike‘ in the Classical Athenian City (Oxford 2004) 337–363.

Beiträgerinnen und Beiträger

Christoph Auffarth, Professor für Religionswissenschaft Universität Bremen, Institut für Religionswissenschaft und Religionspädagogik, Badgasteiner Str. 1 (Sportturm), Postfach 330 440, D-28334 Bremen Anton Bierl, Ordinarius für Griechische Philologie Universität Basel, Seminar für Klassische Philologie, Nadelberg 6, CH-4051 Basel René Bloch, ausserordentlicher Professor für Judaistik Universität Bern, Institut für Judaistik, Länggassstr. 51, CH-3000 Bern 9 Josine H. Blok, Professor of Ancient History and Classical Civilization Universiteit Utrecht, Dep. Geschiedenis en Kunstgeschiedenis, Drift 10, NL-3512 BS Utrecht Philippe Borgeaud, Professeur ordinaire d’histoire des religions antiques à la Faculté des Lettres de Genève 10 chemin de Sandedis, CH-1218 Grand Saconnex Jan N. Bremmer, Professor of Religious Studies Rijksuniversiteit Groningen, Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, Oude Boteringestraat 38, NL-9712 GK Groningen Luc Brisson, Directeur de recherche au CNRS, Paris-Villejuif 4bis rue d’Italie, F-75013 Paris Walter Burkert, em. Professor der Klassischen Philologie (bes. Griechisch) der Universität Zürich Wildsbergstr. 8, CH-8610 Uster Claude Calame, Directeur d’études à l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales (EHESS), Paris; Professeur honoraire de langue et littérature grecques, Université de Lausanne Centre Louis Gernet, 2 Rue Vivienne, F-75002 Paris Angelos Chaniotis, Senior Research Fellow for Classics All Souls College, Oxford OX1 4AL, UK Ueli Dill, Leiter der Abteilung Handschriften und Alte Drucke Öffentliche Bibliothek der Universität Basel, Schönbeinstr. 18/20, CH-4056 Basel

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Wendy Doniger, Mircea Eliade Distinguished Service Professor of the History of Religions University of Chicago, Divinity School, 1025 East 58th St, Swift Hall, Chicago, IL 60637, USA Lowell Edmunds, Professor Emeritus, Department of Classics, Rutgers University 440 Grant Ave., Highland Park, NJ 08904, USA Christopher A. Faraone, The Frank Curtis Springer and Gertrude Melcher Springer Professor in the Humanities and in the College University of Chicago, Department of Classics, 1010 East 59th St, Chicago, IL 60637, USA David Frankfurter, Professor of Religious Studies and History University of New Hampshire, Department of History, Horton Social Science Center, Durham, NH 03824-3586, USA Milette Gaifman, Assistant Professor of Greek Art and Archaeology Yale University, Departments of Classics and History of Art, 190 York St, New Haven, CT 06520, USA Cornelia Isler-Kerényi, Klassische Archäologin Rankstr. 31, CH-8703 Erlenbach Sarah Iles Johnston, Professor of Greek and Latin and Director of the Center for the Study of Religion The Ohio State University, Department of Greek and Latin, 414 University Hall, 230 N. Oval Mall, Columbus, OH 43210-1319, USA Anthony Kaldellis, Professor of Greek and Latin The Ohio State University, Department of Greek and Latin, 414 University Hall, 230 N. Oval Mall, Columbus, OH 43210-1319, USA Hans G. Kippenberg, Professor of Comparative Religious Studies (WisdomProfessorship) Jacobs University Bremen, Campus Ring 1, Postfach 750 561, D-28725 Bremen Mary R. Lefkowitz, Mellon Professor in the Humanities, Emerita, Wellesley College 15 W. Riding St, Wellesley, MA 02482, USA Bruce Lincoln, Caroline E. Haskell Professor of History of Religions University of Chicago Divinity School, Swift Hall, 1025 East 58th St, Chicago, IL 60637, USA Juan Antonio López Férez, Professor of Greek Philology Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia (UNED), Departamento de Filología clásica, Facultad de Filología, Senda del rey 7, E-28040 Madrid Carolina López-Ruiz, Assistant Professor of Greek and Latin The Ohio State University, Department of Greek and Latin, 414 University Hall, 230 N. Oval Mall, Columbus, OH 43210-1319, USA

Beiträgerinnen und Beiträger

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Nanno Marinatos, Professor of Classics University of Illinois at Chicago, Department of Classics, 601 South Morgan, UH 1808, Chicago, IL 606605, USA Attilio Mastrocinque, Professor of Roman History Università di Verona, Dipartimento di Discipline storiche, artistiche, archeologiche e geografiche, Via S. Francesco 22, I-37129 Verona René Nünlist, Associate Professor of Classics Brown University, Department of Classics, Box 1856, Providence, RI 02912, USA Aurelio Pérez Jiménez, Professor of Greek Philology Universidad Malaga, Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Filología griega, estudios árabes, lingüística y documentación, Campus de Teatinos, E-29071 Málaga Marcel Piérart, Professeur ordinaire, chaire d’histoire de l’Antiquité Université de Fribourg, Département des sciences de l’Antiquité, Rue Pierre-Aeby 16, CH-1700 Fribourg Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, Senior Research Associate of the Fonds de la Recherche Scientifique (FNRS) Université de Liège, Département des Sciences de l’Antiquité, 7, place du 20-Août, BE-4000 Liège Francesca Prescendi, Professeure adjointe suppléante Université de Genève, Histoire des religions, Département des sciences de l’Antiquité, rue de Candolle 5, CH-1205 Genève Jörg Rüpke, Professor für Vergleichende Religionswissenschaft mit dem Schwerpunkt Europäische Polytheismen; Ko-Direktor der DFG-Kollegforschergruppe „Religiöse Individualisierung in historischer Perspektive“ Max Weber Kolleg der Universität Erfurt, Am Hügel 1, D-99084 Erfurt John Scheid, Professeur au Collège de France (Religion, institutions et société de la Rome antique) Collège de France, 11, pl. Marcelin-Berthelot, F-75005 Paris Karin Schlapbach, Assistant professor University of Ottawa, Department of Classics and Religious Studies, 70 Laurier Ave. East, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5, Canada Richard Seaford, Professor of Ancient Greek The University, Department of Classics, Amory Building, Exeter EX4 4RJ, UK Peter Toline Struck, Associate Professor of Classical Studies University of Pennsylvania, 201 Logan Hall, 249 South 36th St, Philadelphia, PA 19104-6304, USA Emilio Suárez de la Torre, Professor of Greek Philology Universidad de Valladolid, Departamento de Filología Clásica, Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Plaza del Campus, s/n, E-47011 Valladolid

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Beiträgerinnen und Beiträger

Michael D. Swartz, Professor at the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures The Ohio State University, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures, 300 Hagerty Hall, 1775 College Rd., Columbus, OH 43210, USA Christine Walde, Universitätsprofessorin für Klassische Philologie Seminar für Klassische Philologie der Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz, Jakob Welderweg 18, D-55099 Mainz Martin L. West, Emeritus Fellow of All Souls College All Souls College, Oxford OX1 4AL, UK Froma Zeitlin, Charles Ewing Professor of Greek Language and Literature and Professor of Comparative Literature Princeton University, Department of Classics, 141 E Pyne, Princeton, NJ 08544, USA Bernhard Zimmermann, Ordinarius für Klassische Philologie Seminar für Klassische Philologie der Albert-Ludwigs-Universität, Platz der Universität 3, D-79085 Freiburg i. Br.