Epic Interactions: Perspectives on Homer, Virgil, and the Epic Tradition Presented to Jasper Griffin by Former Pupils

EPIC INTERACTIONS

jasper griffin, ma (Oxon.), fba was until his retirement in September 2004 Professor of Classical Languages and Literature, University of Oxford and a Fellow and Tutor of Balliol College, Oxford. He was Public Orator for the University of Oxford from 1992 to 2004. His books include Homer on Life and Death (Oxford, 1980), Latin Poets and Roman Life (Oxford, 1985) and Homer : Iliad IX (Oxford, 1995)

Epic Interactions Perspectives on Homer, Virgil, and the Epic Tradition Presented to Jasper GriYn by Former Pupils

E d i t e d by M . J. CLA R KE , B. G . F. CU R RI E, AN D R. O. A . M . LYN E

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3 Great Clarendon Street, Oxford ox2 6dp Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With oYces in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York ß Oxford University Press 2006 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2006 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Epic interactions : perspectives on Homer, Virgil, and the epic tradition : presented to Jasper Griffin by former pupils / edited by M. J. Clarke, B. G. F. Currie, and R. O. A. M. Lyne. p. cm. ISBN-13: 978-0-19-927630-1 (alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-19-927630-7 (alk. paper) 1. Epic poetry. Classical–History and criticism. 2. Homer–Criticism and interpretation. 3. Homer–Influence. 4. Virgil–Criticism and interpretation. 5. Griffin, Jasper. I. Clarke, M. J. II. Currie, B. G. F. III. Lyne, R. O. A. M. PA3022. E6E75 2006 809. 1’32–dc22 2006007427 Typeset by SPI Publisher Services, Pondicherry, India Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper by Biddles Ltd., King’s Lynn ISBN 0–19–927630–7

978–0–19–927630–1

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Preface This collection of essays dedicated to Jasper GriYn aims to investigate the vibrancy of the classical epic tradition. The book as a whole considers the uses made by writers at widely diVerent times and places of a single literary form to explore the author’s place in literary and cultural history. Jasper GriYn retired as Fellow and Tutor of Balliol College and Professor of Classical Languages and Literature at Oxford University in autumn 2004. Six of the chapters (Chs. 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, and 11) were presented at a conference on 11 September that year to mark his retirement; all speakers at the conference, and all contributors to this volume, were pupils of Professor GriYn. A volume of essays by former pupils on Homer, Virgil, and their reception seemed a Wtting tribute to a scholar distinguished for a teaching career spanning more than forty years and for numerous publications on Greek and Latin literature in which Homer and Virgil consistently occupied pride of place. The range of this volume—whose chronological limits are the eighth century bc and the nineteenth century of our era, encompassing literature written in ancient Greek, Latin, Old English, Old Irish, Italian, and modern English—is intended as a tribute to GriYn’s own extraordinary range in teaching and research, while also catering to the interests and expertise of the contributors. The choice of chapter subjects and of contributors is hardly arbitrary, but it necessarily gives only a selective representation of the subject matter and (no less embarrassingly for the editors) only a selection of the professional classicists who have been pupils of GriYn. The volume oVers sequential readings of several signiWcant moments in the classical epic tradition. While the chapters can very well be read in isolation, they are meant to bear reading as a meaningful sequence. Unavoidably, signiWcant moments in the tradition have not been included (the Latin historical epic of Ennius, Lucan, and Silius is a notable absence); but there are, we hope, compensatory gains. The book is, predictably enough, more and less than a history of a genre.

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The book’s tripartite structure will be evident at a glance. It considers ‘epic interactions’ Wrst within ancient Greek literature (Chs. 1–4); second, within Latin literature (Chs. 5–8); and last, in the vernacular literatures of medieval, renaissance, and modern Europe (Chs. 9–11). There are more detailed correspondences between the Wrst and second parts, on epic interactions in the Greek and Roman worlds. The Wrst chapters of each part (Chs. 1 and 5) consider how the foundational epics of Greece and Rome, those of Homer and Virgil respectively, interact with earlier epic tradition. The second chapters (2 and 6) consider the interaction of these foundational epics with a cultural phenomenon: Homer with Greek religion, and Virgil with the monuments of Augustan Rome. The third chapters (3 and 7) explore how non-epic literary genres interacted with the foundational epics: how Herodotus’ Histories interact with the Iliad and the Odyssey, and how Horatian lyric and Propertian and Ovidian elegy (and Ovidian epic) interact with the Aeneid. The fourth chapters (4 and 8) explore how epic poems once considered ‘post-classical’, Hellenistic and ‘Silver’ Latin epic (especially Apollonius’ Argonautica and Statius’ Thebaid), interact with the foundational epics. Despite its great range, we see the book—and conceived it at the outset—as having a uniWed subject, conveyed for us in the concept of ‘epic interactions’. We have tried not to impose the theme heavyhandedly on the individual chapters, but to let it emerge from the contributors’ own treatments. A concluding Epilogue explores common ground and diVerences between the chapters, and considers ways in which they form a continuous or an interlocking sequence. Neither term in the book’s main title, we are aware, is straightforward. We have favoured ‘interaction’ as a non-technical word without any Wxed theoretical implications. No dogma is envisaged by it. For us, ‘interactions’ suggests an open-ended set of related questions that can be asked of the texts handled. As used by the writers in this volume, ‘interaction’ has aYnities to notions of literary history, reception, intertextuality, and cultural poetics; but it is identical with none of these, and that is the word’s chief recommendation to us. There are well-known problems in deWning ‘epic’, too; and it is well known that these have an ideological as well as a literary aspect. This Preface is not the place to explore these; they will resurface in the chapters that follow.

Preface

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This is the place, however, to pay tribute to another Fellow and Tutor of Balliol College and Professor of Classical Languages and Literature at Oxford University. Oliver Lyne died aged 60 in March 2005 when the editorial process of this book was entering its closing stages. At the time of his death Professor Lyne, who had been a colleague of Professor GriYn’s for over thirty years (but not a pupil), was about to start writing the Epilogue for the book. His input into the book had already been considerable: since the summer of 2002 he had, together with his younger co-editors, determined the book’s conception and shape, and in the months from September 2004 to March 2005 edited several of the chapters. Many of the contributors to the volume were pupils of Lyne as well as GriYn, and this is an intellectual debt too that is recognized in the following pages. Finally, we thank Hilary O’Shea of Oxford University Press for encouraging the project, our copy-editor Heather Watson, and proof-reader Anne Marriott. Katrin Stelter gave us the benefit of her critical acumen throughout. M.J.C. and B.G.F.C. Dublin and Oxford July 2005

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Contents Conventions and Abbreviations Contributors 1. Homer and the Early Epic Tradition Bruno Currie 2. Homer’s Religion: Philological Perspectives from Indo-European and Semitic Simon Pulleyn 3. Homer and Herodotus Christopher Pelling

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47 75

4. Hellenistic Epic and Homeric Form Gregory Hutchinson

105

5. The Aeneid: Inheritance and Empire Rebecca Armstrong

131

6. The Epic and the Monuments: Interactions between Virgil’s Aeneid and the Augustan Building Programme Stephen Harrison

159

7. Augustan Responses to the Aeneid Matthew Robinson

185

8. Statius and the Sublimity of Capaneus Matthew Leigh 9. Achilles, Byrhtnoth, and Cu´ Chulainn: Continuity and Analogy from Homer to the Medieval North Michael Clarke

217

10. Quantum Mutatus ab Illo: Moments of Change and Recognition in Tasso and Milton Emily Wilson

243

273

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Contents 11. The Idea of Epic in the Nineteenth Century Richard Jenkyns

301

12. Epilogue Bruno Currie

331

References Index of Passages General Index

375 413 433

Conventions and Abbreviations For abbreviations of Greek and Latin sources we have followed The Oxford Classical Dictionary, ed. S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth (3rd revised edn., Oxford, 2003), pp. xxix–liv. Note in addition the following standard abbreviations of non-classical texts: ANET AV GL PL RV TBC Not in OCD3: Buc. Eins. Cic. Opt. Gen. OLD Phld. Poem. SGO

Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, ed. J.B. Pritchard (2nd edn., Princeton, 1955) Atharvaveda T. Tasso, Gerusalemme liberata J. Milton, Paradise Lost Rigveda Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge Bucolica Einsidlensia Cicero, De Optimo Genere Oratorum Oxford Latin Dictionary, ed. P.G.W. Glare (Oxford, 1982) Philodemus, De Poematis Steinepigramme aus dem griechischen Osten, ed. R. Merkelbach and J. Stauber, i–v (Stuttgart, 1998–2004)

Contributors Rebecca Armstrong, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is a Fellow and Tutor of St Hilda’s College, Oxford. She is the author of Ovid and his Love Poetry (London, 2005) and Cretan Women: Pasiphae, Ariadne, and Phaedra in Latin Poetry (Oxford, 2006). Michael Clarke, BA (Dublin), D.Phil. (Oxon.) is a Lecturer at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. He is the author of Flesh and Spirit in the Songs of Homer: A Study of Words and Myths (Oxford, 1999). Bruno Currie, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is a Fellow and Tutor of Oriel College, Oxford. He is the author of Pindar and the Cult of Heroes (Oxford, 2005). Stephen Harrison, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is Professor of Classical Languages and Literature, University of Oxford, and a Fellow and Tutor of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. His books include Vergil: Aeneid 10 (Oxford, 1991) and Apuleius: A Latin Sophist (Oxford, 2000). Gregory Hutchinson, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is Professor of Greek and Latin Languages and Literature, University of Oxford, and a Fellow and Tutor of Exeter College, Oxford. His books include Hellenistic Poetry (Oxford, 1988) and Greek Lyric Poetry: A Commentary on Selected Larger Pieces (Oxford, 2001). Richard Jenkyns, MA, M.Litt. (Oxon.) is Professor of the Classical Tradition, University of Oxford, and a Fellow and Tutor of Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford. His books include The Victorians and Ancient Greece (Oxford, 1980) and Virgil’s Experience: Nature and History; Times, Names, and Places (Oxford, 1998). Matthew Leigh, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is a Fellow and Tutor of St Anne’s College, Oxford. He is the author of Lucan: Spectacle and Engagement (Oxford, 1997) and Comedy and the Rise of Rome (Oxford, 2004).

List of Contributors

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yOliver Lyne, BA, Ph.D. (Cantab.) was until his death in March 2005 Professor of Classical Languages and Literature, University of Oxford, and a Fellow and Tutor of Balliol College, Oxford. His books include The Latin Love Poets from Catullus to Horace (Oxford, 1980), Further Voices in Vergil’s Aeneid (Oxford, 1987), and Horace: Behind the Public Poetry (Oxford, 1995). Christopher Pelling, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is Regius Professor of Greek, University of Oxford, and a Student of Christ Church, Oxford. His books include Literary Texts and the Greek Historian (London, 2000) and Plutarch and History: Eighteen Studies (Swansea, 2002). Simon Pulleyn, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is a solicitor in the City of London. He is the author of Prayer in Greek Religion (Oxford, 1997) and Homer: Iliad 1 (Oxford, 2000). Matthew Robinson, MA, D.Phil. (Oxon.) is a Lecturer at University College, London. He is the author of a commentary on Ovid Fasti book 2 (Oxford, forthcoming). Emily Wilson, MA (Oxon.), Ph.D. (Yale) is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Classics, University of Pennsylvania. She is the author of Mocked with Death: Tragic Overliving from Sophocles to Milton (Baltimore, 2004).

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1 Homer and the Early Epic Tradition Bruno Currie

I am concerned in this chapter to establish what kind of interaction was possible between the Homeric poems and other early Greek epics.1 The question is crucially aVected by our recognition that the early Greek epic tradition is oral-derived traditional poetry. It seems obvious that we must judge the interaction of the early Greek epic poems by diVerent standards from the interaction of, say, Virgil’s Aeneid with the epics that preceded it; but just how diVerent will be a theme of the chapter. The question cannot be addressed without considering the relationship between the Homeric epics and the poems of the Epic Cycle, and the diVerence between an oral poetics and the literary criticism of a written poem: two themes with which Jasper GriYn is particularly associated.2 We must reckon in general with three types of limiting factors on interaction in the early epic tradition. First, in the wake of A. B. Lord’s comparative work on ancient Greek and Yugoslavian oral traditions, Homeric scholarship has consistently emphasized the phenomenon of composition in performance in oral poetic

For Jasper: il miglior fabbro. 1 This has been a particular concern of neoanalytical Homer scholarship. See, for the Iliad, Kullmann (1960); for the Odyssey, Danek (1998). Note too Dowden (1996), who also favours the term ‘interaction’: pp. 47, 47–8, 61. For deWnitions of neoanalysis, see Rutherford (1996) 91–3; Willcock (1997) 174–5. 2 GriYn (2001 [1977]); (1980), esp. p. xiv (much quoted: see e.g. de Jong (1995) 131; Nagy (1996) 31 n. 7).

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traditions.3 On this view, a song is recreated in every performance; an oral poetic tradition is characterized by Xuidity, so that there is no concept of a Wxed or original text.4 Where there is no (Wxed) text there can be, it seems, no intertextuality.5 But Wxity and Xuidity are vague terms.6 How much textual Wxity should we require for allusion to become possible? And how much Wxity was there in the early Greek epic tradition?7 We do have some controls. The Wrst nine lines of the fourth and the eighteenth poems in our corpus of Homeric Hymns are evidently an attempt to give the ‘same’ version of a hymn to Hermes.8 It is, admittedly, possible to emphasize the divergence between these two versions: as one scholar notes, ‘only three lines are shared, exactly, between them’.9 But, on the other hand, the correspondence is extremely close: there would not seem to be any diYculty in alluding to a poem whose text Xuctuated within such parameters. Moreover, the indications of linguistic Wxation in the early Greek epic tradition suggest a relatively high level of textual Wxity, whether or not this was underpinned by written texts.10 The Yugoslavian comparanda may have led scholars to overemphasize Xuidity in the early Greek tradition; R. Finnegan has emphasized the existence of oral poetic traditions where ‘near word-for-word reproduction’ (in other words, Wxed texts) was important.11 Finnegan 3 Lord (1960 and 1995), developing the work of M. Parry (1971, 1st pub. 1928–37). 4 Lord (1979) 314; (1960), esp. 99–101, 149; cf. Garvie (1994) 6 and references in his n. 17. 5 Burgess (2001) 133; Danek (2002) 3; R. Fowler (2004b) 228. For the problems posed for allusion by the absence of a ‘Wxed text’, cf. further Willcock (1997) 186; Danek (1998) 6, 13; D. L. Cairns (2001) 35. 6 Cf. Lord (1995) 20–1. 7 A relatively high degree of stability is argued for by Kirk (1960) 278–9; Dowden (1996) 47–8, 49–50; (2004) 188; D. L. Cairns (2001) 36; cf. Hainsworth in Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) 29. For this question in relation to Serbo-Croatian epic, cf. Lord (1981). 8 So Hainsworth in Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) 29–30. DiVerently, M. L. West (2003c) 4–5, 18, seeing Hymn. Hom. 18 as an ‘excerpt’ from Hymn. Hom. Merc. For another control, compare attempts to reproduce the ‘same’ passage within the Iliad: Janko (1990) 332–3. 9 Hainsworth in Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) 30. 10 See Haslam (1997) 80, on the Wndings of Janko (1982). 11 Finnegan (1977) 73, 75, 144, 148. On the whole, though, this goes for ‘shorter forms of poetry’, rather than ‘lengthy epic poetic narrations’: ibid. 78. Cf. Lord (1981) 459–60.

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insisted that one cannot deduce the Xuidity of one oral poetic tradition from the Xuidity of another; each tradition must be approached on its own terms. Accordingly, our need is less for theorizing about the behaviour of oral tradition in general than for empirical study of the dynamics of a particular tradition.12 This generates—far from a blanket prohibition on the search for intertextual relationships in oral poetic traditions—a positive spur to investigate possible interaction in the early Greek epic tradition.13 A second inhibiting factor on interaction in an oral tradition concerns the audience. For two reasons the audience cannot be left out of my account. First, because the public of early Greek epic was (I assume) a listening, not a reading one: even if the Homeric poems were committed to writing at the moment of their composition, readers are unlikely to have been a signiWcant factor in their contemporary reception.14 Until as late as perhaps the fourth century bc only a minority of Greeks were probably coming to know poetry through writing.15 Epic poetry—internal and external evidence concurs on this point—was intended for a large public, which it can only have reached through performance.16 The second reason why I emphasize the role of the audience is that I take the interaction of one poem with another only to be really interesting when it enters into the poem’s meaning: that is, when it is there to be appreciated by the poem’s public. Neoanalytical methods have often been valued for the insight they give into the poet’s manner of composing.17 If, however, the interaction is to have literary signiWcance, our focus should more properly be on the act of reception by the public than 12 Finnegan (1977) 152. 13 DiVerently, Allan (2005) 14 ‘the pursuit of speciWc dependence or inXuence . . . is, in the pre-textual stage of early Greek epic, a misleading methodology’. 14 Cf. diVerently, R. B. Rutherford (2001) 125; (1992) 45; (1996) 14–15; Blu¨mer (2001) i. 70 and n. 148, 81–3, 147–51. 15 For reading of tragic texts, cf. Ar. Ran. 52–3; Arist. Poet. 1462a12–18. Still eccentric in the late 5th cent. bc: Dover (1993) 34–5. 16 See Taplin (1992) 42; M. L. West (1998) 98. For the internal evidence, cf. Od. 9.6
B –ÆÆ, 17.383
Øæª , and for the external evidence, cf. Heracl. fr. 104 DK
ø IØ
EØ; Sim. 564.4 PMG (ap. Athen. 4.172e) oø ªaæ …æ M
b Æ æ ¼Ø ºÆE . 17 Esp. Willcock (1997) 175, 183, 187, 188; cf. (1987) 185; J. T. Kakridis (1949) 7. This ‘neglect of the audience’ is deprecated by Scodel (2002) 4.

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that of composition by the poet.18 But if we embrace the audience’s perspective, we must face the question how an audience could have been receptive to interaction between poems experienced only in performance. The problems here are not negligible. But they are not necessarily greater than with tragedy and comedy in the Wfth century, where intertextuality was likewise, at least for most theatregoers, a relationship between plays known only from performance, not texts.19 We tend to think of intertextuality as a property of written or printed texts. But modern audiences also appreciate intertextual relationships in music and in Wlm without ever seeing a score or script, and they may do so without the beneWt of repeated listenings or viewings.20 The fact that early Greek epic was destined for an audience need not militate against there being meaningful interaction in the early epic tradition. The third problem concerns our ability to identify when a poem may be interacting with another. The language of early Greek epic is a traditional one.21 But if so, how can we tell when two poems employ the same or a similar phrase or motif that the one poem is alluding to the other, rather than that both are drawing independently on a common stock of forms of expression? This has long been an ideological battleground between scholars of neoanalytical and of oralist persuasion.22 Neoanalysts try to discover a ‘history of motifs’ for the early epic tradition: where a motif was used Wrst and where it was used derivatively; hence ‘motivgeschichtliche Forschung’ has been proposed as an alternative name for ‘neoanalysis’.23 Yet where neoanalysts see a relationship of dependence, trying to establish which poem was the donor and which the recipient, oralists deny any direct dependence between speciWc poems and ascribe the similarity instead to the independent use of a common tradition, in which 18 The audience’s perspective is emphasized by Taplin (1990) 109; R. B. Rutherford (1992) 35, 36; D. L. Cairns (2001) 41, 43; Danek (1998) 1, 6, 506. 19 Cf. Easterling (1997b) 168–9. Also, Hutchinson (2004). 20 Cf. D. P. Fowler (2000) 132. 21 The classic demonstration is by M. Parry (1971). 22 From an oralist perspective: Notopoulos (1964) 36; Fenik (1968) 231–40; Hainsworth (1969) 30–1; Nagy (1979) 42; (1996) 133; cf. Janko (1982) 195, 225–8. From a neoanalytical perspective: Kullmann (1992b) 140–55, esp. 144; D. L. Cairns (2001) 35–7, 41; R. B. Rutherford (2001) 124–6; Danek (1998) 13–14. 23 Kullmann (1992c).

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there can be no one ‘archetype’.24 It should be noted that, in an extreme form, this view may have the unwelcome consequence of impugning intratextuality as well as intertextuality.25 But in fact recognition of the traditionality of the language of early Greek epic need not preclude the possibility of speciWc allusion. In the Wrst place, allusion between poems might be defended on the grounds that there was, alongside the traditional language, much scope for untraditional, unique, forms of expression which could be the vehicle for allusion.26 Secondly, it can be argued that allusion is possible even through the medium of traditional language: it might be possible for one poem to allude to the distinctive use by another poem of a traditional formula or motif or theme.27 Finally, and more generally, we should arguably not think of allusion, the transferral of motifs between speciWc contexts, as being the preserve of literary traditions, while oral traditions operate only with type-scenes. There is the possibility that allusion is itself a technique of traditional oral poetry. G. Danek has argued, with regard to Yugoslavian oral epic (the comparative material that has been so inXuential in the development of oral poetry theory), that intertextual reference to other ways in which a song had previously been sung—either by oneself or by others—was part of the singer’s traditional art.28 If so, we should 24 Lord (1960); Fenik (1968); Hainsworth (1969). J. M. Foley’s more recent explorations of ‘traditional referentiality’ and ‘immanent art’ in Homer also privilege the role of the tradition over that of individual poems within the tradition: see Foley (1991) and (1999), and cf. n. 48 below. 25 A. Parry (1971) p. liv; R. B. Rutherford (2001) 126; cf. Schwabl (1982) 14, 32–3. On intratextuality in Homer, cf. Macleod (1982) 16–35; Rutherford (1985); Reichel (1994). 26 This is the approach of Usener (1990); cf. Kullmann (1992c) 120. Cf. Dowden (1996) 59 ‘identify non-formular verbatim quotations’, cf. n. 65. 27 Cf. Schwabl (1982); Taplin (1990) 112; Usener (1990) e.g. 12, 210; R. B. Rutherford (2001) 140 n. 42; cf. Danek (1998) 53 on Od. 1.96–102; D. L. Cairns (2001) 42. Korenjak (1998), esp. 142–3, argues for the possibility of Homeric intertexuality obtaining both by redeployment of formulas and between non-formulaic passages. 28 Danek (1998) 10 ‘The . . . technique of signalling an alternative development of the plot is recognizable in countless cases in Muslim heroic song. What stands out is the general principle of signalling alternative directions of the plot; and the large number of occurrences leaves it in no doubt that we are dealing not with an ingenious discovery by individual singers of the possibility of intertextual references, but the regular application of a traditional technique’ (trans. from the German; my italics). Cf. ibid. p. viii ‘the referencing which is postulated here to rival versions within an oral tradition . . . can possess the status of a traditional technique’ (trans; my italics).

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not discount interaction with other singers’ compositions—or one’s own—in the early Greek epic tradition, where competition between singers was so prominent (compare Hesiod, Works and Days 26).29 This brief discussion does scant justice to the complexity of the theoretical issues involved, but I must move on to the three test cases which I mean to bear the brunt of my argument for interaction in the early Greek epic tradition. I approach these in what I take to be order of increasing controversy, although all in fact are controversial. Before my test cases, however, I set out Wve possible indices of interaction to which I will frequently recur in my discussion. (A) Quotation of an earlier poem. Allowing for the complications arising from the traditional nature of the language of early Greek epic, there may be a case for seeing one poem as quoting another if the correspondence is both close and signiWcant. The actual wording may be evoked (a verbatim quotation), or else a motif or narrative sequence may be quoted without any verbal correspondence. Both possibilities are of course less problematically evidenced in Virgil’s interaction with the Homeric poems.30 (B) Explicit acknowledgement of the poem interacted with.31 The Odyssey seems to acknowledge the Argonaut saga as its model for various of Odysseus’ wanderings through its reference to the Argo at Od. 12.70.32 Similarly, with its reference to the labours and especially the katabasis of Heracles at Od. 11.601–26, the Odyssey seems to acknowledge the model for Odysseus’ katabasis.33 Again the technique may be paralleled in Virgil: at Aen. 10.469–70, for example, the reference to Sarpedon explicitly acknowledges the Iliadic model.34 29 Cf. M. W. Edwards (1987b) 60; (1990) 314–16; M. GriYth (1990); R. B. Rutherford (2001) 126; Danek (1998); D. L. Cairns (2001) 38. Compare Scodel (2004). 30 Cf. Knauer (1990) 395–6; Wigodsky (1972) 8–12. 31 Cf. Danek (1998) 506–7. 32 R. B. Rutherford (1992) 2; Dra¨ger (1993) 17–18; Danek (1998) 23, 252–3, 255– 7. DiVerently, Ho¨lscher (1988) 170–85. 33 Kullmann (1992c) 131; Danek (1998) 23–4, cf. 247. Cf. Ho¨lscher (1988) 120–1. 34 On Aen. 10.469–70, cf. Knauer (1964) 299; Barchiesi (1984) 18–19. Other Virgilian examples include Aen. 8.382–4 (see below) and 11.662 (Lyne (1987) 136 n. 57). In general, Lyne (1987) 103 and n. 5 and ‘Index’ s.v. ‘ ‘‘Signals’’ to other texts’.

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(C) Narrative inconsistency. There may be interaction of one poem with another when two alternative versions are evoked in a text in such a way that ‘the poet is consistently following one version while playing on his audience’s awareness of another’.35 (D) Reference to the constraints of fate (EæÆ, ÆrÆ) or to the will of the gods. These may be used to convey either the dictates of the received poetic tradition or, conversely, the poet’s own innovative design.36 (E) Elliptical reference. Pointed exclusion of material familiar to, and in some sense expected by, the audience may constitute an allusion: this may be a way of making reference by refusing reference.37

INTERACTION OF THE O DY S S E Y WITH THE I L I A D My Wrst test case concerns the interaction of the Odyssey with the Iliad. Only here do we have the terra Wrma oVered by two extant epic texts. (Regrettably there is no scope in this chapter to consider the interaction of Hesiodic poems with the Homeric poems, of the Hesiodic poems with one another, or of the Homeric hymns with the Homeric and Hesiodic poems, although all have a bearing on our question.)38 It will not be possible here to demonstrate that the Odyssey interacts with the Iliad; that demonstration has, to my mind, already been suYciently made.39 Here I must take it for granted that the Iliad pre-dates the Odyssey and that the Odyssey responds to the earlier poem. The priority of the Iliad over the 35 R. B. Rutherford (1996) 71. 36 S. Richardson (1990) 194; Nagy (1979) 40 and §17 n. 2; Janko (1994) 6. 37 Cf. Dowden (1996) 53; D. L. Cairns (2001) 36–7. 38 Interaction between Hesiod and Homer is sceptically viewed by G. P. Edwards (1971) 166–89; diVerently, Rosen (1997). SpeciWcally Hesiodic inXuence on Homer is argued by M. L. West (1978) on Hes. Op. 656; Blu¨mer (2001) ii. 213–24. On the interaction of Hes. Op. with Theog., cf. Most (1993) 76–91; Blu¨mer (2001), esp. i. 93–106, ii. 137–200. On the interaction of the hymns with Homer and Hesiod, cf. Richardson (1974) 30–41. 39 See especially R. B. Rutherford (2001); cf. (1992) 2–7; (1996) 58–61; Burkert (1997); also, Usener (1990), but see the criticisms of GriYn (1991); Blo¨ßner (1992) 389; Danek (1992).

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Odyssey is suggested Wrst by a diachronic study of epic diction.40 There are also compelling literary arguments that the Odyssey sees itself as a sequel to the Iliad.41 The converse position, that the Iliad sees itself (also) as a prequel to the Odyssey, cannot easily be maintained.42 The Iliad was, surely, familiar with epic treatments of the subject matter of Odysseus’ homecoming.43 But it does not follow that it is familiar with the Odyssey : the subject matter of the Odyssey was treated repeatedly in hexameter poetry before the Odyssey itself (see below). The Odyssey, by contrast, shows knowledge not only of the subject matter of the Iliad, but of the Iliad’s distinctive handling of that subject matter. I take the interaction of the Odyssey with the Iliad, then, to be one-directional.44 This excludes the view that Iliad and Odyssey were not Wxed poems but Xuid poetic traditions, evolving contemporaneously over an extended period and inXuencing one another.45 It may, however, be reconcilable with a more moderate view that there was localized and small-scale inXuence of the Odyssey on the Iliad: this would amount to a modiWcation, not a denial, of the Iliad ’s basic priority.46 Taking the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad for granted, I restrict myself to a consideration of the nature of that interaction. Much of the attention has been directed at establishing whether there are verbatim quotations of the Iliad in the Odyssey.47 This has been 40 Janko (1982). 41 GriYn (1987a) 63–70; (1987b) 101; (1995) 6; Heubeck (1988) 13; R. B. Rutherford (1996) 58–61; Kullmann (1992c) 121. 42 Cf. Cook (1995) 3–4. 43 Suggested, perhaps, by Odysseus’ (traditional?) periphrases for himself, ºØ Æ æ (Il. 2.260), ºØ  º ÆæÆ (Il. 4.354). See GriYn (1987a) 45; S. R. West (1988) 51; Rutherford (1992) 18–19. 44 Cf. R. B. Rutherford (2001) 146, an ‘additional note’ to the original publication of 1991–3. 45 Nagy (1979) 8, 41, 42–3; (1990b) 53–4 and n. 8; Pucci (1987) 18; cf. Burgess (2001) passim. For the ‘evolutionary model’ of the Homeric poems, cf. e.g. Nagy (1996) 29–63. Criticized by e.g. Finkelberg (2000); Blu¨mer (2001) i. 23–91; cf. Rutherford (1996) 29 n. 86; D. L. Cairns (2001) 3 n. 12. 46 See Pinsent (1992) 78, 82; N. J. Richardson (1993) 24; cf. GriYn (1991) 291. 47 Usener (1990) 9–182, considering 15 candidate verbatim quotations. Cf. also Taplin (1990) 109–10. In general, R. Fowler (2004b) 229–30. One of the most interesting cases is the possible quotation of Il. 6.490–3 by Od. 1.356–64, 21.350–8, 11.532–3. See Usener (1990) 47–66; Kullmann (1992c) 120; R. B. Rutherford (2001) 140–2; diVerently, GriYn (1991) 290; Danek (1998) 61–2.

Homer and the Early Epic Tradition

9

opposed on the principle that we can only have formular language, not allusion, in this oral(-derived) tradition.48 Defenders of verbatim quotation have responded by arguing for the non-formularity of the Iliadic passage in question; or they have argued the possibility of quotation even of formular phrases (see above). The possibility of verbatim quotation of the Iliad by the Odyssey needs to be taken seriously; I shall focus, however, not on verbatim quotation, but on the probable quotation of a whole narrative sequence. The case for the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad is especially strong when it concerns not just phrases and scenes evoked in the Iliad, but also the position and signiWcance that they had in that epic.49 R. B. Rutherford has demonstrated thematic correspondences with the Iliad at equivalent points in the Odyssey throughout the poem.50 One example must stand for many. Od. 2.163–76 (the speech of the seer Halitherses to the Ithacan assembly) resembles Il. 2.300–32 (the speech of Odysseus to the assembled Achaean host) in at least Wve respects. First, in wider context: a speaker at an assembly urges (in the Iliad) continuance of the long war eVort or (in the Odyssey) discontinuance of the long abuse of Odysseus’ household. Second, in content: a bird omen (recalled in the Iliad, actual in the Odyssey) and a prophecy given at the time of the Achaeans’ departure for Troy (Il. 2.303–4, Od. 2.172–3) predicts the length of the coming ordeal (10 years for the Achaeans, 20 years for Odysseus; in each case, the Wnal year has arrived) and forecasts eventual success after setbacks. Third, in narrative form: a prophecy given in the past is recalled (analepsis) by a secondary narrator (Odysseus, Halitherses), in direct or indirect 48 e.g. Nagy (1979) 42 §1 n. 3, citing G. P. Edwards (1971) 189. It should be noted that the deadlock between these two entrenched positions is to some extent broken by the concept of ‘traditional referentiality’, on which see especially Foley (1991), (1997), and (1999); Graziosi and Haubold (2005). Traditional referentiality Wnds in an individual employment of formular language an inbuilt allusion to the traditional uses of that formula. Formular language thus emerges as essentially allusive. But traditional referentiality allows allusion to obtain only between a poem and an abstracted epic tradition, which relate to one another much as parole to langue; it does not allow (as I am arguing) allusion between one poem and another within the early epic tradition. 49 Compare, exploiting the numerical precision possible in a literary poetics, the phenomenon of ‘stichometric intertextuality’ in Latin poetry: Hinds (1998) 92 n. 80. 50 R. B. Rutherford (2001) 127–30.

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speech respectively (Il. 2.323–9, Od. 2.174–6). Fourth, in phraseology: a (
b)
c F Æ ºEÆØ, ‘all these things are now being accomplished’, occurs in both passages (Il. 2.330, Od. 2.176). Fifth, in their position within the poem: both episodes come near the beginning of their respective poems; and both are programmatic, in that they evoke the beginning and the end of their stories (departure for Troy and sacking of Troy, Il. 2. 303–4 and 329; departure for Troy and killing of the suitors, Od. 2.172–3 and 165).51 It is signiWcant that in the Cypria, if Proclus’ summary (§6 p. 72 West) is not misleading, the omen at Aulis was narrated about halfway through that poem and not in an analepsis by a secondary narrator, but by the primary narrator in a straightforward sequence in which the story coincides with the fabula.52 The Odyssey poet thus evokes not just a traditional episode which happened to appear in the Iliad, but the distinctive way in which it was handled in the Iliad. We should note, too, that a speciWc allusion is eVected even though the building-blocks are traditional: the ‘recalled prophecy’ is a traditional motif and the phrase a (
b)
c F Æ ºEÆØ is formular.53 Finally, this interaction of the Odyssey with the Iliad serves a purpose: the Odyssey equates its action, the return of Odysseus and vengeance on the suitors, with the action of the Iliad. A competitive literary relationship seems to be signalled. But the Odyssey does not just evoke the Iliad at comparable points in each poem. The beginning of the Odyssey also picks up the end of the Iliad.54 The similarities involved are not to be explained as resulting from the use of shared traditional language.55 The 51 R. B. Rutherford (2001) 128; Danek (1998) 75. 52 For the terms ‘story’ and ‘fabula’, see conveniently de Jong (2001) pp. xiv and xviii. 53 The ‘recalled prophecy’ motif comes 6 times in the Odyssey, 5 times in the Iliad: de Jong (2001) 54. a ð
bÞ
c F Æ ºEÆØ comes twice in the Iliad, 4 times in the Odyssey. 54 e.g. Schwabl (1982) 18–22; R. B. Rutherford (2001) 131–2; N. J. Richardson (1993) 21–4; Cook (1995) 37–42. Cf. Danek (1998) 51. Again, this is a feature more readily associated with later epic. In a signiWcant respect, the beginning of Apollinus’ Argonautica also recalls the last part of the Iliad: see Hutchinson, Ch. 4 below. Comparable, but also diVerent, is the way the ending of post-Virgilian epics (Statius’ Thebaid and Silius’ Punica) recall the beginning of the Aeneid: Hardie (1993) 13–14, cf. 62. 55 See N. J. Richardson (1993) 24.

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Table 1. Odysseus’ entry into Scheria compared with Priam’s journey to Achilles’ tent Iliad 24.281–508 1. Priam drives a chariot to the Achaean camp; in front, Idaeus drives a cart bearing Hector’s ransom (265–80, 322–7). 2. They stop at a location appropriate to an epiphany of Hermes, Ilus’ grave (349–51).a 3. Priam receives the disguised Hermes in the likeness of a young man (347–8) as his escort (437, 461). 4. Hermes gives Priam advice on how to approach Achilles (465–7). 5. Hermes departs for Olympus (468–9). 6. Within Achilles’ tent they are concluding a meal when Priam arrives (475–6). 7. Priam makes a dramatic, sudden appearance and supplicates Achilles (477–9). 8. The Wrst reaction is amazement (482–4). 9. Priam makes a speech of supplication (486–506). 10. The verbal response is delayed (507–12). 11. The supplication is successful. a

Odyssey 6.255–7.154 Odysseus goes by foot to the Phaeacians’ city; in front, Nausicaa drives a cart bearing the laundry (6.252–3, 260–1, 317–20). They stop at a location appropriate to an epiphany of Athena, Athena’s grove (6.291–6, 321–2). Odysseus receives the disguised Athena in the likeness of a young woman (7.20) as his guide (7.30). Athena gives Odysseus advice on how to supplicate Arete (7.50–77). Athena departs for her temple in Athens (7.78). Within Alcinous’ palace they are concluding a meal when Odysseus arrives (7.49–50, 137–8). Odysseus makes a dramatic, sudden appearance and supplicates Arete (7.142–3). The Wrst reaction is amazement (7.145). Odysseus makes a speech of supplication (7.146–52). The verbal response is delayed (7.154–5). The supplication is successful.

On the appropriateness of Hermes’ appearance at Ilus’ grave, see GriYn (1980) 23.

intertextuality between Odyssey 1 and Iliad 24 might be seen as an extension of the intratextuality between Iliad 24 and Iliad 1.56 Iliad 24 signals closure by echoing the Wrst book of the poem; Odyssey 1 marks out the Odyssey as a sequel of the Iliad by echoing the ending of that poem. I shall analyse under this heading the relationship between two narrative sequences which have had less attention than others: Odysseus’ entry into Scheria (Od. 6.255–7.154) and Priam’s journey to Achilles’ tent (Il. 24.281–508) The correspondences between the two sequences are set out in Table 1.57 56 Macleod (1982) 32–4; N. J. Richardson (1993) 1–14, esp. 4–7. 57 The parallels are noted by Hainsworth in Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) 321; N. J. Richardson (1993) 309, 321.

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The similarities between the two narrative sequences are striking and not diminished by the diVerences—for instance, that Athena, unlike Hermes with Priam, does not reveal herself to Odysseus (the reason is given at Od. 6.329–31 and 13.339–43).58 The decisive situational similarity consists in the sudden appearance of a suppliant who by divine assistance has managed to inWltrate a society of diners without being noticed (items 6, 7, and 8 in the table). But the similarities extend both forwards and backwards. The same degree of similarity between two passages within a single epic, Iliad or Odyssey, would surely justify talk of intratextuality and the same degree of similarity between a passage in the Aeneid and a passage in Iliad or Odyssey would warrant talk of intertextuality.59 (Our Odyssean passage, Od. 7.18–154, indeed has Apollonian and Virgilian intertexts, with which it may in turn be compared: Arg. 3.210–41 and Aen. 1.314–493, 586–613.) It seems natural to speak of quotation (A) here, but of narrative structure, not wording. The question then is how far Homeric epic’s traditional formulaic character should inhibit this way of thinking about the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad. The similarities between the two sequences are not adequately accounted for by supposing that we have two instantiations of a type-scene.60 Even if they were, a case for an Odyssean allusion to the Iliadic scene would still remain (see above). It is relevant, too, that we are dealing with one of the most powerful scenes of the Iliad and doubtless a strong candidate for allusion.61 58 Cf. on a diVerent correspondence, Burgess (2001) 75 ‘the diVerences do not negate the correspondence’; Taplin (1990) 110 (on Od. 23.233 V. and Od. 5.394 V.). 59 Stephanie West queries (per litteras) whether Odysseus’ entry into Scheria might not look to Jason’s entry into Colchis in lost Argonautic poetry rather than to Priam’s entry into the Achaean camp. For a later telling of Jason’s entry into Colchis, cf. Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.210–41. But it is notoriously diYcult to establish how much Apollonius owes to a non-Homeric Argonautic tradition and how much to the Odyssey itself: see Ho¨lscher (1988) 178; Garvie (1994) 21. I Wnd it hard to imagine another model for Odysseus’ dramatic supplication of Arete (item 7 in the table) than Priam’s supplication of Achilles in Iliad 24. 60 Hainsworth (1988) 321 seems to think in terms of a type-scene or theme: ‘Thematically the closest parallel . . . ’(my italics). The ‘visit type-scene’, on which cf. de Jong (2001) 17 and n. 39, does not go far in accounting for the similarities in question. Nor does the ‘supplication-scene’: cf. de Jong (2001) 178 ‘Supplications are not type-scenes . . .’. 61 The scene arguably inspired Archaic artists: Friis Johansen (1967) 127–38; Kossatz-Deissmann (1981) 158–9 (cf. LIMC s.v. ‘Alexandros’ no. 71 ¼ ‘Priamos’

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The end of the Iliad addresses the problem of how the body of Hector is to be released from Achilles and restored to his loved ones in Troy. The Wrst books of the Odyssey (taken to include books 1, 5, 6, and 7) tackle the problem of how Odysseus, who is ‘dead’ to his family (Od. 1.161–2, 235–43, and elsewhere), is to be released from Calypso and the Phaeacians and restored to his loved ones in Ithaca. In both poems the resolution comes in two movements. The Wrst movement involves, in the Iliad, a council of the gods, Apollo’s championing Hector’s cause, Zeus sending Iris to Thetis, Thetis speaking to Achilles (Il. 31–140); and, in the Odyssey, a council of the gods, Athena championing Odysseus’ cause, Zeus sending Hermes to Calypso, Calypso speaking to Odysseus (Od. 1.22–87, 5.1–224). The second movement involves, in the Iliad, Priam going to the Achaean camp, Hermes acting as his escort, Priam supplicating Achilles; and, in the Odyssey, Odysseus going to Scheria, Athena acting as his escort, Odysseus’ supplication of Arete. We are concerned here with the second movement. Here, characteristically for Odyssean allusions to the Iliad, there is inversion.62 The hero of the Iliad receives the supplication, the hero of the Odyssey makes it. This suits a general inversion of the active heroism of the Iliad to the passive heroism of the Odyssey : Achilles inXicts pains (Il. 1.2 ¼ºª ŁŒ, compare 22.422); Odysseus endures them (Od. 1.4 Ł ¼ºªÆ).63 In other supplications by Odysseus in the Odyssey, the Iliad is also evoked with inversion: Odysseus’ supplication of Nausicaa is preceded by a lion-simile that evokes the Iliad (Od. 6.130–6), and Odysseus’ supplication of the Cyclops juxtaposes an evocation of the Achaeans’ great heroism at Troy with their helplessness in the Odyssey (Od. 9.263–7).64 Characteristic of the Odyssey too is the heightened female presence. In place of Idaeus as the human charioteer, Hermes as no. 64); Shapiro (1994) 38–45. DiVerently, Snodgrass (1998) 133; Burgess (2001) 68–70. For a Herodotean interaction with this scene (Hdt. 1.88.1), see Pelling, Ch. 3 below. 62 Cf. in general GriYn (1987a) 64, 68, 93–8. 63 See S. R. West (1988) 67; R. B. Rutherford (2001) 128 for comparison between Od. 1.4 and Il. 1.2; but there is also a contrast. Not that Achilles does not also suVer pains, or Odysseus inXict them; but the basic comparison stands. On ‘active’ and ‘passive’, see further Hutchinson, Ch. 4 below. 64 See R. B. Rutherford (2001) 139–40 on Od. 6.130–6.

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divine escort, and Achilles as the person supplicated, we have Nausicaa, Athena, Arete in these roles. Odysseus in the Odyssey moves in a world of important females: Athena, Calypso, Nausicaa, Arete, Circe, and Penelope.65 The Odyssey’s distinctive presentation of the heroic world is highlighted by its interaction with the Iliad. It is notable here that the allusion works not on the level of wording, but of narrative structure. This is suggestive of what an audience in the early epic tradition might above all be expected to remember and to recognize.66 This example of the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad cannot be seen in isolation, but needs to be set alongside others which have already received scholars’ attention.67 We thus have here one good case, among others, for the interaction between two speciWc poems—Iliad and Odyssey—in the early epic tradition. The technique of allusion employed is quotation (A), though on the level of narrative sequence, not verbatim quotation. It may not be inappropriate to speak (in the language of neoanalysts) of a ‘transferred motif ’: an extended Iliadic motif has here been transferred to the Odyssey, and the audience’s recognition of the original context of the motif is of fundamental importance to their appreciation of the Odyssean scene. Here is a counter to the view that it is not, as a rule, the speciWc Iliadic context that matters in the Odyssey’s allusions to the Iliad.68 Another general feature to note in this interaction (it is one to which we will return) is its ‘multiple correspondence’: not only does Odysseus correspond to Hector (as the ‘dead’ person to be restored to his loved ones), he also corresponds to Priam (as the suppliant).69 Likewise, Hermes in 65 On women in the Odyssey, cf. GriYn (1987a) 84–6; R. B. Rutherford (1996) 69– 74; Schein (1995); Felson and Slatkin (2004). 66 Cf. Danek (1998) 26; Korenjak (1998) 142 ‘Although the epic formula represented one of the most important means for the aoidos of creating intertextual references within the Homeric epics, he was not exclusively dependent on these for this end. He saw himself as thoroughly capable of suggesting such references also through verbal echoes and, especially, through similarities of content and context. One could also entertain the possibility of deliberately free paraphrase’ (trans. from the German). 67 Esp. R. B. Rutherford (2001). 68 Contrast Danek (1998) 26–7, 62 (on Od. 1.96–102), 63 (on Od. 2.1–14), 367, 469, 509–11; (2002) 17. 69 I borrow the term ‘multiple correspondence’ from D. West (1990).

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Odyssey 1 and 5 corresponds to Hermes in Iliad 24, but Athena in Odyssey 1 also corresponds to Hermes in Iliad 24.70

I N T E R AC T I O N OF TH E O DY S S E Y WITH AN EARLIER POEM ON ODYS SEUS’ H OMECOMING The Odyssey, I have argued, adapts motifs from the Iliad. It interacts also with other lost epics: most overtly, with epic poetry on the voyage of the Argo (Od. 12.70) and on the labours of Heracles (Od. 11.601–26).71 It interacts besides with earlier poetry on the homecoming of Odysseus which, like the nostoi of other Achaeans, had been a frequent subject of song before the Odyssey.72 The invocation to the Muse in the Odyssey’s proem acknowledges earlier treatments of the subject matter: ‘from some point in this story, goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak to me too’ (Od. 1.10).73 At the beginning of his account of his Wanderings, Odysseus is made to show awareness of himself as a subject of song: ‘I am Odysseus son of Laertes, an object of concern to all men for my tricks’ (Od. 9.19–20, where compare AØ . . . IŁæØØ ºø with Od. 12.70 æªg AØ ºıÆ, ‘the Argo, an object of concern to all’). It is the Odyssey’s possible interaction with an earlier poem on Odysseus’ homecoming that I wish to consider next. Here we lack the external control provided by a second extant text; the contours of the earlier poem(s) with which the Odyssey may be interacting must be inferred from features inherent in the text of the Odyssey itself. Naturally, the conclusions from such an approach will be tentative and hypothetical. 70 R. B. Rutherford (2001) 131. 71 In these passages, the Odyssey acknowledges a lost early Argonaut epic (see now M. L. West (2005)) and a lost early Heracles epic as models for the wanderings and for the katabasis of Odysseus respectively. 72 Cf. S. R. West (2003) 303. 73 With Od. 1.10 H ±Ł ª . . . N, cf. 1.339 (Penelope to Phemius) H  ª . . . ¼Ø
; cf. 8.500 Ł º. With Od. 1.10 E of the bard, cf. Il. 2.486; Hes. Theog. 1, 36; Hymn. Hom. Ap. 174–5. On Od. 1.10, see Burkert (2001) 100–1; Foley (1997) 172; Danek (1998) 36–7. Cf. on Od. 8.500, Hardie (1993) 11–12.

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The most important feature of the Odyssey’s text as a possible pointer to interaction with an earlier poem is narrative inconsistency (C). We are here treading ground Wrst mapped by scholars of the ‘old’ analytical persuasion, who put the inconsistencies they discovered down to the imperfect combination of independent texts from diVerent authors.74 For scholars of the oral-formulaic school, a diVerent explanation was at hand: from a unitarian perspective, they were able to ascribe the inconsistencies to the singer’s imperfect combination (due to the pressure of composition in performance) of independently occurring traditional ‘themes’.75 A not dissimilar explanation was available to neoanalytical scholars: the poet was modifying a source or sources (perhaps a version which he had himself sung), but inadvertently leaving some details unassimilated to the new context.76 A reWnement on this last position incorporates the audience’s perspective: the inconsistencies are not an unwitting by-product of the process of composition (whether conceived along oral-formulaic or neoanalytical lines), but a deliberate strategy of allusion.77 On this view, the narrative inconsistencies are there for the beneWt of the audience, and the poet is not culpable of carelessness or incompetence.78 It is this last view, positing a meaningful interaction of the Odyssey with an earlier poem (or poems), which I will develop here. I concentrate on a single narrative sequence of the Odyssey which has attracted attention and controversy: Od. 19.96–604. Inconsistencies have long been felt here.79 The postulate of a lost earlier version with which the Odyssey is interacting can go some way to explaining peculiarities of the Odyssey’s narrative. In Table 2 I use square brackets in order to emphasize that all elements of the hypothetical earlier poem are unattested. 74 Cf. on Od. books 18–19 Page (1955) 123–4; Kirk (1962) 246–7; Merkelbach (1969) 1–15. 75 Cf. in general Lord (1960) 94; Fenik (1974) 50–3. 76 See GriYn (1987a) 31–2. Cf. in general J. T. Kakridis (1949). Summarized by Russo (1992) 7–9; Ferna´ndez-Galiano (1992) 183–4. 77 R. B. Rutherford (1992) 35, 36; (1996) 71; Danek (1998) passim. 78 Compare the approach taken by Morrison (1992) on ‘Homeric misdirection’, esp. p. 3. 79 Esp. Page (1955) 123–4, 126–8; for a survey of views, see Russo (1992) 7–12; R. B. Rutherford (1996) 80 n. 56.

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17

Table 2. Eurycleia’s recognition of Odysseus compared with a hypothetical earlier recognition of Odysseus by Penelope Hypothetical earlier poem on Odysseus’ homecoming 1. [Penelope and Odysseus converse; Penelope recognizes garments which Odysseus is wearing as being of her own making.] 2. [Penelope washes Odysseus’ feet.] 3. [Penelope recognizes Odysseus.] 4. [Odysseus and Penelope plot the killing of the suitors.] 5. [Odysseus tells Penelope to propose the contest of the bow, so that he may kill the suitors.]

Odyssey 19.96–604

Penelope and ‘the beggar’ converse; she recognizes the garments that ‘the beggar’ describes Odysseus as wearing 20 years ago on Crete as being of her making (19.104–334). Eurycleia washes Odysseus’ feet (19.386–467). Eurycleia recognizes Odysseus; Athena prevents Penelope from recognizing him (19.467–81). Penelope has dreamt of the return of Odysseus and the killing of the suitors; but she does not believe it (19.537–69). Penelope moots the contest of the bow, believing that she must take a new husband (19.570–87).

This reconstruction of the lost poem is necessarily speculative. If, however, it is correct in outline, then the sequence in the Odyssey would adhere to it so closely that we could reasonably talk of the Odyssey ‘quoting’ it.80 As with Odyssey 6–7 and Iliad 24 (see above), we might think of a narrative sequence being quoted, not the words themselves. Unlike with Odyssey 6–7 and Iliad 24, however, we are not dealing here with a motif that has been transferred from a diVerent poetic context: the context in the Odyssey is the same as that of the poem with which the Odyssey is interacting. The reconstruction needs explanation. Regarding item (1), an earlier poem which described the recognition of Odysseus by Penelope will doubtless have featured an initial conversation between them: this is a regular element in the recognition type-scene.81 We cannot be sure that Penelope recognized garments of her making on Odysseus in the earlier poem. A parallel passage, however, is important: at Od. 7.234–97 Arete recognizes that Odysseus is wearing 80 Cf. Danek (1998) 380–1 ‘Our text cites . . . the possibility that the recognition takes place at this stage in the plot’ (trans.). 81 For the ‘type-scene’, cf. Emlyn-Jones (1998) 131; de Jong (2001) 386–7.

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clothes from her loom.82 A number of signiWcant correspondences have been noted between Odysseus’ sojourn among the Phaeacians (books 6–8) and his experiences on Ithaca (books 13–22): this should be counted among them.83 Then Od. 7.234–97 foreshadows Od. 19.213–60. Or rather: it creates the expectation of a comparable scene to come on Ithaca—a scene the audience are expecting anyway from their familiarity with an earlier version.84 But in Odyssey 19 the motif ‘Penelope recognizes her clothes on Odysseus’ has been made remote in various ways. First, the clothes feature only in a narrative of Odysseus, as secondary narrator; they are not seen by Penelope. Second, Odysseus’ narrative is set 20 years in the past. Third, the token of the clothes does not help Penelope to realize that she is face to face with Odysseus, merely that her interlocutor (supposedly the beggar Aethon) once entertained Odysseus on Crete—in any case a Wctional story. On the hypothesis that the motif of Penelope recognizing her own clothes on Odysseus featured in an earlier poem, the Odyssey would interact with it, twice. In Odyssey 7 it would have been transferred to a diVerent person and setting (Arete among the Phaeacians) and would therefore necessarily have assumed a quite diVerent narrative function. In Odyssey 19 the motif would be applied to Penelope, but would have become multiply remote, signifying for her not recognition and reunion with her husband, but continuing ignorance and isolation. Concerning item (2), it might be thought beneath Penelope’s dignity to wash a visitor’s feet. But noblewomen in the Odyssey do wash feet.85 Important light is again thrown on our scene by an 82 The motif of a woman recognizing a returning male relative by a garment of her making occurs with Electra and Orestes (Aesch. Cho. 231–2, whence Eur. El. 539–40), and is perhaps a folktale motif: cf. Thompson (1955–8) H110–19. On clothes in general in Od., see R. B. Rutherford (1992) 176. 83 For other correspondences, see R. B. Rutherford (1985) 140–4. 84 Odysseus removes his clothes (made by Calypso) at Od. 5.372 and puts on the ones (made by Arete) given him by Nausicaa at 6.228. Thus the narrative contrives a scene between Odysseus and Arete capable of recalling a (traditional?) scene between Odysseus and Penelope. One might compare the way the Iliad apparently contrives an encounter between Achilles and Hector each in divinely made armour so as to recall a (traditional?) scene between Achilles and Memnon in divinely made armour: see below. 85 See S. R. West (1988) 189 on Od. 3.464 V. and 210 on Od. 4.252. On the general, paradoxical, tendency for heroes and heroines to engage in menial tasks, cf. GriYn (1992) 29–30.

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earlier passage in the Odyssey. At Od. 4.240–64, Helen recounts to Telemachus and Menelaus how Odysseus once entered Troy as a beggar, unrecognized by the Trojans; how she alone recognized him and questioned him; how he evaded her with guile; how she washed and clothed him; how Odysseus swore her to silence and then told her the Achaeans’ plans; and how he Wnally killed many Trojans and returned safely to the Argives. This story, too, foreshadows events in Ithaca.86 Or rather again it anticipates not so much how events will actually turn out in the Odyssey as how they had turned out in our hypothetical earlier poem. ‘Old’ analytical scholars argued that Eurycleia’s foot-washing and recognition of Odysseus in the Odyssey were taken over wholesale from an earlier version of the story, in which the recognition of Odysseus by Penelope immediately ensued.87 This is unlikely: it would involve a serious anticlimax to have Penelope’s recognition of Odysseus mediated by Eurycleia.88 It is more attractive to see the foot-washing and recognition as having been transferred from Penelope in an earlier poem to Eurycleia in the Odyssey: we might then see an explicit acknowledgement (B) of the earlier poem at Od. 19.476–9: ‘she [sc. Eurycleia] glanced over to Penelope with her eyes . . .’.89 Eurycleia’s recognition of Odysseus (unlike Penelope’s) is notably without consequence for the plot—as one might expect of a scene standing in for a more consequential one.90 Regarding item (3), Athena’s intervention to prevent Penelope’s recognition of Odysseus is very contrived.91 In epic, the gods sometimes function as embodiments of the poet, directing the course of events within the poem (D).92 Athena’s intervention here, dispensable as it is, arguably serves to draw attention to the fact that the poet is denying the audience an expected recognition between husband and wife at this point. The poet’s decision not to have Penelope 86 Andersen (1977) 9 and n. 11, 12; S. R. West (1988) 209; Olson (1995) 154; de Jong (2001) 102. 87 e.g. Page (1955) 128. Cf. also GriYn (1987a) 31. 88 Danek (1998) 380. 89 What, in Virgil, Oliver Lyne has called ‘signalling’: cf. Lyne (1987) 103 and (1989) 151. 90 Danek (1998) 380. 91 Cf. GriYn (1987a) 31. 92 Esp. ‘table of contents’ speeches: de Jong (2001) 15; cf. Macleod (1982) 28 n. 1. Cf. Easterling (1993): the gods in tragedy as
Ø
ŒÆºØ, ‘play directors’.

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recognize Odysseus until after the killing of the suitors is Wgured in the poem here as Athena’s intention, a function frequently exercised by Athena in the Odyssey.93 Concerning item (4), in an earlier poem Odysseus’ recognition by Penelope would reasonably have been followed by a conspiracy to kill the suitors. In the Odyssey, there can be no conspiracy between the couple as there has been no recognition. Yet a plan to kill the suitors is arguably alluded to in Penelope’s dream, in which an eagle killed geese in the palace, which Odysseus interprets to her as portending Odysseus’ vengeance on the suitors. A conspiracy between Odysseus and Penelope is thus evoked, but again made remote by being relegated to a dream, and one which Penelope does not even believe. (A comparable use of a dream comes at Od. 20.88–94.) On (5), we may assume that Odysseus in an earlier poem conceived the contest of the bow as a trap for the suitors. In the Odyssey, Penelope proposes the contest of the bow herself, not as a trap, but in the genuine belief that she must take one of the suitors. In place of complicity, there is resignation and desperation: Penelope cries herself to sleep, thinking of her absent husband (Od. 19.571–81, 602–4; cf. 21.56–7). Narrative inconsistency has played an important part in this reconstruction. The Odyssey poet has, I have suggested, retained scenes and narrative sequences from an earlier poem while radically changing their signiWcance. This combination of close adherence to an earlier poem (‘quotation’?) with pointed departure from it should be seen as a deliberate narrative strategy, not a Homeric ‘nod’, an unwitting by-product of oral composition. The earlier poem arguably remains vestigially present in the text in order that the innovation of the Odyssey may be apparent to, and may be appreciated by, the audience.94 The assumption here of a deliberate narrative strategy is supported by the apparent self-consciousness of the interaction. One way this comes out is through the use of Athena (see above). Another is the 93 Olson (1995) 141–2, 156; de Jong (2001) 11, 73. Rather diVerently, Schwinge (1993) 27–8, 159. 94 A parallel argument has suggestively been made vis-a`-vis the interaction of Hymn. Hom. Cer. with earlier poetry on the subject of the rape of Persephone: see Clay (1989) 205–6, 224–5, 259.

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use of Amphimedon’s shade at Od. 24.124–85.95 Recounting his fate to the shade of Agamemnon, this dead suitor oVers a retrospect on the action of the Odyssey, comparable to that given by Odysseus in his pillow talk with Penelope at Od. 23.310–41.96 Amphimedon’s account faithfully reports the events of the Odyssey, except in three points.97 First, he implies that Penelope contrived the murder of the suitors (Od. 24.127). Second, he elides the time that elapsed between the discovery of Penelope’s trick of the web and Odysseus’ return (Od. 24.149). Third, he states that Odysseus put Penelope up to propose the contest of the bow to bring about their murder (Od. 24.167–9). Strictly speaking, none of this is narrative inconsistency, since the discrepancies between Amphimedon’s version and the action of the Odyssey are adequately explained by the subjective perspective of the internal narrator.98 Yet it is intriguing how close Amphimedon’s version is to that of the reconstructed hypothetical forerunner of the Odyssey, especially in his insistence on a recognition between husband and wife before the killing of the suitors and on Penelope’s complicity in that slaughter. ‘Old’ analysts supposed that the poet of this part of the Odyssey had failed to integrate his version of the Homecoming with the (main) version of the Odyssey.99 More attractively the Odyssey poet is exploiting the dead suitor’s perspective in order, once again, to juxtapose his version of Odysseus’ homecoming with that of an earlier poem.100 The two versions, that of the Odyssey and its putative predecessor, would coexist in Amphimedon’s ‘mirror-story’ so as to highlight the story the Odyssey poet could have told, but did not.101 A nekyia may be an especially 95 I assume the authenticity of Od. 24. For a balanced account of the problems of the end of the poem, see R. B. Rutherford (1996) 74–7. If Od. 24 is not authentic, we should still assume a ‘continuator’ well attuned to the concerns of the rest of the poem. 96 Cf. de Jong (2001) pp. xv, 571, seeing both as ‘mirror-stories’. 97 Danek (1998) 478; de Jong (2001) 571. 98 So Erbse (1972) 76–7; GriYn (1987a) 30; Heubeck (1992) 374; Danek (1998) 479–81; de Jong (2001) 571–2. In general on the narrator’s perspective, cf. R. B. Rutherford (1996) 94–5. 99 Page (1955) 120–3. 100 Danek (1998) 478–84. 101 Compare the way the lying speech of the ‘Merchant’ at Soph. Phil. 591–7, 603–21 evokes a traditional version of the myth—that of the Little Iliad (Proclus §2 p. 120 West) and of Euripides’ lost Philoctetes (Dio Chrys. 52.14)—by way of contrast with the version which Sophocles has actually dramatized.

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Wtting place for a poem to explore self-reXectively its relationship to earlier poetry: to confront its own literary ghosts.102 Can we assume that the Odyssey really was interacting with a poem with the contours that we have reconstructed for it here?103 An alternative might be to suppose that the Odyssey poet exploits, not knowledge of an earlier poem, but the audience’s familiarity with type-scenes: for example, of recognition.104 We might then just have an example of Homeric ‘misdirection’.105 But this type of explanation perhaps does not do justice to the range of indices of interaction argued for here: (A), (B), (C), and (D). Those prepared to accept an interaction between the Odyssey and the Iliad along the lines argued above in my Wrst test case may be the more willing to accept a similar interaction between the Odyssey and an earlier poem on Odysseus’ homecoming. Here too the interaction will be a creative one; and here too there will be inversion, motifs turned on their head. In both cases, an earlier poem would be evoked to point up the individual treatment of the present one. In this case, the narrative elements that in an earlier version conduced to a recognition between husband and wife and to their conspiracy against the suitors will have been given a quite diVerent signiWcation in the Odyssey. A major challenge facing the singer was, one may assume, to oVer a diVerent interpretation of a familiar plot: compare the diVerent tragic treatments of, say, the Electra or the Philoctetes theme. The innovations of the Odyssey created enormous potential for dramatic irony, and enabled the climactic recognition of Odysseus by Penelope to be kept back in reserve. They also had major implications for characterization: 102 Cf. Most (1992); Hardie (1998) 53 n. 1. Note that, in the so-called Deuteronekyia, Od. 24.196–202 ‘comes very close to self-reference’: R. B. Rutherford (1996) 60. At Od. 11.482–91 (in the Wrst Nekyia), the Odyssey is implicitly compared with the Iliad through comparison of their respective heroes, Achilles and Odysseus. A similar comparison is entailed by the rapport of Od. 24.36–7 with 24.192–3 and of Od. 24.93–4 with 24.196. The Odyssey confronts an earlier lost *Herakleı¨s at Od. 11.601– 26, and an earlier lost *Catalogue of Women at Od. 11.225–332: cf. Danek (1998) 231 ‘Odysseus shows himself . . . as a hero who could potentially be brought into contact with every heroic story known to the listener, and our Odyssey presents itself as an epic which could potentially take up the material of all known epics and thus ultimately replace all other epics’ (trans.). 103 Cf. Danek (1998) 381–2. 104 Cf. Emlyn-Jones (1998) 133. 105 Cf. Morrison (1992).

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Penelope becomes exceptionally isolated and long-suVering, a neartragic Wgure in her own right; Odysseus becomes excessively cautious, almost addicted to disguise. Innovations in plot typically entail innovations in character.106

INTERACTION BETWEEN THE IL IAD A N D A N E A R LY EP IC ON MEM NON The Iliad interacts with a wide range of earlier poetry, Greek and Near Eastern.107 I will consider here, as my third test case, the question of its interaction with a lost epic on the Ethiopian hero Memnon. Uniquely, the Iliad can be argued to engage in the reception not just of isolated motifs, but of a whole, extensive, narrative sequence from an epic on Memnon. As with our previous test case, the argument here for the interaction with a lost poem must depend on features of the extant poem, here the Iliad. But, unlike with the previous case, these arguments may be supplemented here by testimony to a poem on Memnon, the Aethiopis. There are virtually no extant fragments, but the existence and basic contents of this poem are known, chieXy from a summary made by Proclus in the second or the Wfth century ad.108 I will refer to Proclus’ summary in the paragraph numeration of M. L. West’s recent Loeb edition of the Greek Epic Fragments.109 The Aethiopis was current in the Archaic and Classical periods; it was known to the artists of that period, the lyric poets (Alcman, Pindar), and the tragedians. At some point (not later than the Hellenistic period, but perhaps not before) it was incorporated into a ‘Cycle’ along with other Archaic epics; it may have undergone some modiWcation in the process.110 It was 106 Cf. GriYn (1995) 20–1; (1990a) 139–40; cf. (1980) 73–4; (1986) 56. 107 Kullmann (1992c) 104–8; R. B. Rutherford (1996) 6–8. For Near Eastern motifs in the Iliad, cf. Burkert (1992) 88–120; M. L. West (1997a) 334–401. 108 See Huxley (1969) 123; Burgess (2001) 12. 109 M. L. West (2003a) 108–17. Cf. Bernabe´ (1987) 65–71; Davies (1988) 45–8. 110 An apparent terminus ante quem for the existence of the ‘Cycle’ is Callim. Epigr. 28.1 (¼ Anth. Pal. 12.43.1) e  Æ e ŒıŒºØŒ. See Burgess (2001) 8; Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 96 n. 30. M. L. West (2003a) 3 dates its creation to the 4th cent. bc.

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accessible in this form to the scholars of Alexandria and arguably to Virgil (see below); it was still being read in the second century ad, when it is cited by Pausanias and Athenaeus.111 The Aethiopis is, on the conventional dating, later than the Iliad and Odyssey. However, the Odyssey is clearly already familiar with (some of) the subject matter of the Aethiopis (Od. 4.187–8, 11.522).112 It has therefore become conventional to refer to the poem which was clearly known to the Odyssey (and, arguably, to the Iliad) as the *Memnonis.113 The *Memnonis, then, is, like the Aethiopis, a lost early epic; but, unlike the Aethiopis, its existence is only hypothesized, not attested (I use an asterisk to signal this fact). This hypothetical lost poem is assumed to have the same subject matter as the later Aethiopis, although the story of the Amazon Penthesilea, prefaced in that poem to the story of Memnon (Proclus §1), may be alien to the *Memnonis.114 This conceptual distinctness of *Memnonis and Aethiopis is important: the (perhaps only oral) poem known to the Odyssey (and perhaps the Iliad) is taken to be the *Memnonis, while the poem known to Classical and later authors (Pindar, Virgil, and others) is taken to be the Aethiopis. However, it cannot be entirely excluded that we are dealing with one poem, if it turns out that the Aethiopis is after all earlier than the Homeric epics.115 The interaction of the Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis) has received a great deal of attention, especially from neoanalysts and their critics. There has been much disagreement about the nature of the interaction. The *Memnonis (Aethiopis) has been claimed as a ‘source’ for the Iliad; it has been seen as derivative on the Iliad; and any interaction between Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis) has been denied, both epics being seen as instances of the same ‘oral typology’.116 The similarities between the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and the Iliad are indeed striking, on both a grand structural level and on the level of small detail. Tables 3 and 4 show just the most 111 M. L. West (2003a) 4; Burgess (2001) 198 n. 29. 112 Cf. Heubeck (1992) on Od. 11.467–70, 24.16–18. 113 See R. B. Rutherford (1996) 92; M. L. West (2003b) 3. 114 Pestalozzi (1945) 5; M. L. West (2003b) 13, cf. 14. 115 Cf. Kullmann (1992c) 105. 116 For the last view, cf. Notopoulos (1964) 35; Hainsworth (1969) 31. DiVerently, e.g. Dowden (1996) 56.

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Table 3. *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and Iliad: I. Achilles in *Memnonis (Aethiopis) corresponds to Achilles in Iliad *Memnonis (Aethiopis) 1. Achilles receives a prophecy from Thetis about Memnon (Aethiopis Proclus §2) [and withdraws from battle]. 2. [Antilochus Wghts in Achilles’ absence.] 3. Memnon kills Antilochus (Aethiopis Proclus §2). 4. Achilles kills Memnon (Aethiopis Proclus §2). 5. Paris and Apollo kill Achilles (Aethiopis Proclus §3).

Iliad Achilles is enraged with Agamemnon and withdraws from battle (Il. 1.240–4). Patroclus Wghts instead of Achilles (Il. 16.64–817). Hector kills Patroclus (Il. 16.818–57). Achilles kills Hector (Il. 22.322–63). Paris and Apollo will kill Achilles (Il. 22.359–60: prolepsis).

Table 4. *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and Iliad: II. Achilles in *Memnonis (Aethiopis) corresponds to Patroclus in Iliad *Memnonis (Aethiopis) 4. Achilles kills Memnon (Aethiopis Proclus §2). 5. Achilles falls at the hands of Paris and Apollo [at the Scaean gates] (Aethiopis Proclus §3; Apollod. Epit. 20.1; cf. Il. 22.360). 6. Battle over the corpse of Achilles, removed by Ajax and Odysseus (Aethiopis Proclus §3). 7. Mourning for Achilles by Thetis and Nereids and Muses (Aethiopis Proclus §4; cf. Od. 24.47–62). 8. Funeral and funeral games for Achilles (Aethiopis Proclus §4; cf. Od. 24.85–92).

Iliad Patroclus kills Sarpedon (Il. 16.480–505). Patroclus falls at the hands of Euphorbus and Hector and Apollo (at the Scaean gates?) (Il. 16.788–857). Battle over the corpse of Patroclus, removed by the two Aiantes with Meriones and Menelaus (Il. 17.715–61). Mourning at Patroclus’ death by Thetis and the Nereids (Il. 18.35–71). Funeral and funeral games for Patroclus (Il. 23.110–897).

fundamental similarities. I put the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) in the lefthand column, without yet committing to a view on priority. The situation is further complicated as the interaction seems to come in two overlapping episodes: one in which the part of Achilles in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) corresponds to the part of Achilles in the Iliad, and one in which the part of Achilles in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) corresponds to the part of Patroclus in the Iliad. Again, I put in square brackets those details which are not actually attested.

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The argument that the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is a ‘source’ for the Iliad has been a cornerstone of neoanalytical scholarship and has increasingly gained acceptance in English-language scholarship. (D. L. Cairns has called it ‘established beyond any reasonable doubt’.)117 But there have been notable recent dissenters.118 J. Burgess denied that the Iliadic theme of Achilles’ vengeance on Hector for his killing of Patroclus is modelled on Achilles’ vengeance on Memnon for his killing of Antilochus in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), questioning whether the killing of Memnon was presented as an act of vengeance in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis).119 This amounts to a denial of the correspondences in Table 3, but an endorsement of those in Table 4; crucially, it would entail that Antilochus in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is not a model for Patroclus in the Iliad. Burgess is keen to deny that the Iliadic Patroclus is modelled on the Antilochus of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), given that he is modelled on Achilles in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis).120 Burgess is concerned that the Iliadic Patroclus should not simultaneously have two prototypes in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis): this concern will be addressed below. For now it may suYce to note that a parallelism between Patroclus and Antilochus is signalled in the Iliad: Antilochus’ tearful approach to Achilles at the beginning of book 18 echoes Patroclus’ tearful approach to him at the beginning of book 16.121 It would be highly suggestive if this intratextual relationship in the Iliad between Patroclus and Antilochus were building on an intertextual relationship between the Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis). It is striking, moreover, that Antilochus is juxtaposed with Patroclus in this part of the Iliad: arguably a way in which the Iliad explicitly acknowledges (B) the role 117 D. L. Cairns (2001) 42. 118 The criticisms made by Burgess and M. L. West (below) are endorsed by Allan (2005) 14 n. 61. 119 Burgess (1997). 120 M. L. West (2003b) 10–11 also contests the signiWcance attached by neoanalysts to Antilochus in the Iliad. 121 Il. 18.1–2 S Q b æÆ . . . j  º
 غBœ . . . ,18.17
ŒæıÆ Łæa ø: compare 16.1–3 S Q b . . . : j —挺
 غBœ . . . j
ŒæıÆ Łæa ø. Cf. M. W. Edwards (1991) 143 on Il. 18.17 ‘
ŒæıÆ Łæa ø. . . is formular . . . but perhaps we should recall its last occurrence, when Patroclus pleaded for permission to enter the battle (16.3)’: another important illustration that intratextual allusion might be eVected through formulas.

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of the Iliadic Patroclus as a surrogate of Antilochus in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis).122 Finally, an equivalence of Patroclus in the Iliad and Antilochus in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is deWnitely assumed in the Odyssey (Od. 24.77–9; compare 11.468 ¼ 24.16): the Odyssey here acknowledges the literary relationship between Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis).123 Tantalizingly, though, it remains unclear (for us, but presumably not for a contemporary audience) whether the Odyssey assumes that Antilochus in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) provided the model for Patroclus in the Iliad or vice versa.124 M. L. West has more radically than Burgess contested the relationship between the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and the Iliad maintained by neoanalysts.125 Rather than the Iliad reacting to a pre-Iliadic *Memnonis (Aethiopis), he reverts to the view that the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), along with its hero Memnon, are post-Iliadic creations. On West’s view, the Iliad would be interacting instead with a diVerent earlier poem on the same theme by the Iliad poet himself. West himself, however, is less inclined to speak in terms of an ‘interaction’ than a poet’s ‘change of mind’.126 For West, crucially, neither Hector nor Sarpedon in the Iliad will be modelled on Memnon in an earlier 122 Cf. Willcock (1987) 190–2; cf. (1983). 123 Kullmann (1960) 42; A. T. Edwards (1985) 223–7; M. W. Edwards (1990) 312; Heubeck (1992) 368; Danek (1998) 475. 124 The Odyssey insists on the priority of Patroclus over Antilochus as Achilles’ dearest friend: Od. 24.77–9. But this may be a playful reversal of the known literary chronology of Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis), rather than just a limpid restatement of it. It is diYcult also to establish the literary relationship between Il. 23.82–92, Od. 24.71–84, and a hypothetical passage in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) which would have outlined the funerary arrangements for Achilles and Antilochus. 125 M. L. West (2003b). Cf. (2003a) 14–15. Contrast e.g. J. T. Kakridis (1949) 93–4; Dowden (1996) 56. 126 M. L. West (2003b) 7–8 the poet ‘suddenly [sc. at Il. 22.385] changes his mind’. DiVerently, Macleod (1982) 28 ‘This is no doubt a planned surprise’. West has repeatedly argued for a similar view of the composition of epic poetry, always controversially. See, apropos of Od. 1.93 and 1.285: West (1998) 100 ‘As he wrote this Wrst portion of the poem, the poet had it in mind to send Telemachus to Pylos and Crete . . . Later . . . he changed his plan’; diVerently, Danek (1998) 48 ‘the thesis is implausible that Homer changed his mind in the course of the narrative’ (trans.). Similarly, West (1978) 41–59, esp. 44 ‘We can often see them [sc. the epic poets] having new ideas as they go . . .’; diVerently, Heath (1985) 247 ‘West oVers us a Hesiod who is constantly having to extricate himself from the tight corners in which he has trapped himself by failing to think more than a few lines ahead; the composition of the poem is thus portrayed as a sequence of cliV-hanging escapades.’

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epic. West makes a number of fundamental objections to a pre-Iliadic *Memnonis, which cannot be systematically addressed here.127 Instead, I will focus on two speciWc points of contact between Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and try to determine the likely direction of inXuence: these are the armour made by Hephaestus and Thetis’ prophecy. First, the armour made by Hephaestus. In the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), Memnon had a suit of armour made by Hephaestus (Proclus §2), and so too, doubtless, did Achilles, though Proclus does not explicitly say so. In the Iliad, Achilles likewise receives arms made by Hephaestus (Il. 18.369–19.13). In West’s view, divine armour ‘ought to be the special property of one hero, not two, and Achilles’ set, fully and naturally accounted for as it is in the Iliad, is clearly primary, Memnon’s wantonly derivative’.128 Yet the set of arms Achilles receives at Il. 19.12–13 is his second set, and the second to have been made by Hephaestus.129 The Wrst was a gift of the gods to Peleus at his wedding and was given by him to his son (Il. 17.194–7, 18.84–5). It was then lent by Achilles to Patroclus (Il. 16.130–44), lost by Patroclus to Hector (Il. 17.125), and Wnally recovered by Achilles when he killed Hector (Il. 22.368). The lending of the arms to Patroclus and their subsequent loss is demonstrably untraditional: it has as a famous consequence that Achilles, after Hector’s death, ends up with two sets of arms made by Hephaestus—leaving no scope for the traditional contest of Achilles’ arms between Odysseus

127 Against the argument that the developed mythology of the Ethiopians in general and of Memnon in particular is post-Iliadic (M. L. West (2003b) 6–7, 9), see Kullmann (1960) 43; (1992) 114–15; and (questionably) R. D. GriYth (1998), arguing for the possible antiquity of Memnon. Although the Ethiopians are removed from the world of the heroes in the Iliad, this does not necessarily reXect an older strand in the epic tradition. Ethiopians are listed alongside real regions and peoples at Od. 4.83–5: Cyprus, Phoenicia, the Egyptians, the Sidonians, and the mysterious Erembi, all visited by Menelaus on his travels; see Morris (1997) 615, also mentioning possible attestations of the proper name `NŁ ł in Mycenean (A3-ti-jo-qo; see Aura Jorro and Adrados (1985) s. v.). As a matter of principle, of course, we are not entitled to assume that a mythical tradition passed over by Homer is unknown to him: see Davies (1989) 4; Dowden (1996) 52–3. In the case of the Ethiopians, suppression by the Iliad seems more likely than ignorance: cf. GriYn (2001 [1977]) 367–8. 128 M. L. West (2003b) 10. 129 Peleus’ set was made by Hephaestus: P. J. Kakridis (1961) 290 and n. 2.

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and Ajax.130 This Iliadic innovation has various poetic advantages.131 One of these is to bring Achilles and Hector face to face each in armour made by Hephaestus: it is thus by means of a demonstrable innovation that the Iliad creates a scene which is central to the *Memnonis (Aethiopis).132 It is reasonable, I think, to see this as a way in which the Iliad ‘quotes’ the *Memnonis (Aethiopis). It is, moreover, likely that in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) the divinely made armour was impenetrable, and that this was the rationale of divinely made weapons in the epic tradition.133 The Iliad then has retained the motif of the divinely made weapons and the divine mother’s concern to furnish her son with them (cf. Il. 18.189–91). Yet the Iliad insists that the value of the divinely made weapons is aesthetic, not functional (Il. 18.144, 18.191, 22.323).134 Above all, the arms made by Hephaestus cannot, in the Iliad, protect Achilles from his death (Il. 18.464–7).135 We seem to have here an inversion of motifs comparable to that argued for above with the Odyssey. There are, moreover, reXections in the Iliad of the notion that divinely made armour was impenetrable (Il. 20.264–6, 20.268, 21.594): here we have a case of narrative inconsistency.136 Again, though, we should not suppose that the poet is unhappily straddling two versions.137 As above with the Odyssey, this may be more attractively seen as a way for the Iliad poet of pointedly evoking an earlier poem (the *Memnonis (Aethiopis)) while in the act of diverging from that poem. The Iliadic treatment of the arms made by Hephaestus is consistent not only with the priority of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) over the Iliad, but also with the Iliad’s interaction with that poem. Second, Thetis’ prophecy. In the Iliad, Achilles is warned by Thetis that his death is fated to follow ‘straight after Hector’s’ (Il. 18.96). In 130 See P. J. Kakridis (1961) 289; cf. Pestalozzi (1945) 51–2; M. W. Edwards (1991) 40; Janko (1994) 310. 131 Cf. M. W. Edwards (1987b) 57–8; Janko (1994) 311. 132 Cf. M. W. Edwards (1991) 19. 133 Cf. Berthold (1911) 37–8; P. J. Kakridis (1961); GriYn (2001 [1977]) 368; Slatkin (2001) 417. 134 GriYn (2001 [1977]) 368. 135 Cf. M. W. Edwards (1991) 140. 136 Cf. also Il. 16.793–804, 22.322–7. See P. J. Kakridis (1961) 291–4; M. W. Edwards (1991) 322, cf. 139. 137 Contrast P. J. Kakridis (1961) 297.

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the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), Thetis probably foretold to Achilles that he would die if he killed Memnon—if that is what is meant by Proclus’ clipped sentence, ‘Thetis foretold to her son the matters pertaining to Memnon’ (Proclus §2). West sees the prophecy of Thetis in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) as having been inspired by Il. 18.96.138 Yet the theme of Thetis’ prophecy in the Iliad is handled allusively and elliptically. The possibility that Achilles has withdrawn from the Wghting out of reverence for a prophecy from Thetis is raised, signiWcantly, by secondary narrators (Nestor and Patroclus) (Il. 11.794–7 ¼ 16.36–9: in a conditional clause); it is emphatically repudiated by Achilles himself (Il. 16.50–1). The Iliad thus insists that Achilles is not inXuenced by a prophecy from his goddess mother, but at the same time arguably reminds the audience of an earlier poem (presumably the *Memnonis (Aethiopis)) in which he was. The prophecy from Thetis and the choice facing Achilles are not as central to the plot of the Iliad as they apparently were to the *Memnonis (Aethiopis); yet the Iliad constantly evokes their signiWcance in the other poem. At Il. 9.410–16, for instance, Achilles’ choice is between death at Troy with undying fame or a long life lived out at home without fame: this is not identical with the choice we infer from Proclus for the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), but it is close enough to recall it. Further details of Thetis’ prophecy to Achilles are leaked out, elliptically, at Il. 18.8–11 and 18.95–6. The Wrst two allusions in the Iliad to the prophecy are typical of the Iliad’s allusive treatment of it. In book 1, Achilles’ short life is not conditional, but taken for granted as a fact: Il. 1.352 (Achilles to Thetis) ‘since, mother, you bore me for a short life’, 416–18 (Thetis to Achilles) ‘since your destiny is short, not at all long . . .’.The short life of Achilles is, arguably, a ‘fact’ because the audience knows—from its familiarity with an earlier version—which way Achilles is ultimately going to make up his mind: ‘destiny’ here (Il. 1.416 ÆrÆ) is synonymous with poetic tradition (D). Note, too, that Thetis’ words at Il. 1.416, ‘now you are above all people quick to die (TŒæ )’, presuppose as a foregone conclusion the choice that Achilles is actually going to make only after the death of Patroclus: Il. 18.95 (Thetis to Achilles) ‘you will be quick to die (TŒæ ), child, in the light of what you say’: 138 M. L. West (2003b) 10.

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that is, in the light of Achilles’ resolve to kill Hector. The treatment of Thetis’ prophecy in the Iliad thus makes good sense on the view that the Iliad is interacting with an earlier poem (one assumes, the *Memnonis (Aethiopis)) which was known to the audience.139 It has been argued that the Iliad cannot show familiarity with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) at Il. 18.96, because, if Achilles’ death is to follow ‘immediately’ after Hector’s, this leaves no scope for the arrival of Memnon, his killing of Antilochus, and his own death at Achilles’ hands.140 The argument is not compelling. As with the Iliadic innovation of two sets of arms for Achilles (leaving no scope for the ‹ºø Œæ Ø ), the poet need not always have his eye on how a putative continuation of his song could be reconciled with tradition. It is even conceivable that Il. 18.96 ‘quotes’ the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), while simultaneously negating its plot: this might have a parallel in Il. 16.444–7, which arguably both ‘quotes’ a scene in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and simultaneously negates the possibility of its realization (see below). In that case, we would have another instance of playful interaction of the Iliad with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis). In short, the traditional neoanalytical position seems fully viable: that the Iliad interacts with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and not vice versa. Then the relationship between the two poems is correct as given in Tables 3 and 4, and the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) rightly occupies the left-hand column as the earlier poem. The striking parallels between Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis) can be considered a way in which the Iliad ‘quotes’ the *Memnonis (Aethiopis). As in my other two test cases, this is ‘quotation’ of a narrative sequence, rather than a speciWc phrase or motif. In this light, we might also consider the Iliadic reception of a speciWc motif from the *Memnonis (Aethiopis): the hero’s translation from the battleWeld and his immortalization by his divine mother. This motif was employed twice in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), at two climactic moments. First, the goddess Dawn immortalized her son Memnon after he had been killed by Achilles: Proclus §2 ‘and Dawn gives him [Memnon] immortality, after begging for it from Zeus’. 139 DiVerently, M. W. Edwards (1991) 158–9 (suggesting the prophecy that the hero will die if a condition is fulWlled was a traditional motif). 140 R. B. Rutherford (1996) 93; M. L. West (2003b) 7. But cf. D. L. Cairns (2001) 43.

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Second, in a parallel scene, Thetis immortalized Achilles after his death: Proclus §4 ‘and after that Thetis snatched up her son from the funeral pyre and conveyed him to the isle Leuke’. The latter scene may, like the former, have followed a supplication of Zeus by Thetis, if indeed Pindar is indebted to the Aethiopis at Ol. 2.79–80 (‘and his mother brought Achilles [to the Isle of the Blessed], after she had persuaded the heart of Zeus with her entreaties’). The Iliad very probably plays with this motif. Achilles’ death and all that comes after it lie outside the action of the Iliad. But it is arguable that a scene of Thetis entreating Zeus for Achilles’ immortality from the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is evoked at Il. 1.496– 530.141 (Compare Il. 1.502 ºØ with Pindar, Ol. 2.80 ºØÆE , if Pindar is following the Aethiopis.) The object of Thetis’ supplication in Iliad 1 is, however, emphatically not Achilles’ immortality, as Achilles’ early death is taken for granted in that supplication (Il. 1.505–6). And the scene in Iliad 1 is paralleled, with inversion, in Iliad 24. In the Wnal book, Thetis does not, this time, seek out Zeus, but is summoned; the scene is no longer a private one (Il. 1.498, 541–2), but occurs in the presence of all the gods (Il. 24.98–102); and Thetis does not extort a reluctant favour from Zeus, but receives instructions from him (Il. 24.112). Throughout this part of book 24, the accent is on the imminent death of Achilles and the grief of the mother (Il. 24.84–6, 93–4, 104–5). The scene from the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) seems to be evoked in both Iliad 1 and 24 in order to be powerfully inverted. The scene between Dawn and Zeus in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is evoked at Il. 16.431–61. Sarpedon, son of Zeus, is well placed to evoke Memnon, son of Dawn.142 In the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), Dawn carried oV Memnon’s corpse from the battleWeld and brought it to Ethiopia.143 In the Iliad, Sarpedon’s body is Wrst removed from the battleWeld by Apollo (Il. 16.678), then translated by Sleep and 141 Schoeck (1961) 59. 142 Cf. Janko (1994) 313, 371; Burgess (2001) 218 n. 95; Scodel (2002) 27. 143 This episode is not mentioned by Proclus. But the Aethiopis is probably the source for the episode in the Psychostasia (or Memnon) of Aeschylus (or his son Euphorion: see M. L. West (2000) 345–6): TrGF iii. 375. It is probably likewise the source of iconography—vases, mirrors, etc.—showing Dawn carrying oV a lifeless Memnon: LIMC iii. i. 783–7, vi. i. 456–8, 460–1. See Janko (1994) 372.

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Death to Lycia (Il. 16.453–7, 671–5, 681–3). The motif of the abduction and translation of a mortal by an immortal probably typically signiWed immortalization or heroization.144 (It does not do so—save exceptionally—in the Iliad.)145 This was certainly the signiWcation of Dawn’s abduction and translation of Memnon in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis): her grant of immortality to him will have followed (Proclus §2). The Iliad has retained the motif of divine abduction and translation for Sarpedon; yet it insists on a purely routine burial for him: Il. 16.457 ¼ 675 ‘for that is the honour of the dead’ (apparently formular: compare Od. 24.296). There is no suggestion here that Sarpedon is anything more than ordinarily dead.146 It is hard to determine, beyond the shared motif of abduction and translation, how closely the scene with Sarpedon in the Iliad may have ‘quoted’ a scene with Memnon in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis). It is possible that Dawn in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) bathed Memnon’s corpse, as Apollo bathes Sarpedon’s (Il. 16.667, 679).147 Perhaps Sleep and Death assisted at Dawn’s removal of Memnon’s corpse, as they do at Apollo’s removal of Sarpedon’s.148 The duo of 144 In the early epic tradition, cf. Aphrodite with Phaethon, Hes. Theog. 987–91; Athena with Erechtheus, Il. 2.549–51; Artemis with Iphigeneia (Iphimede), Cypria, Davies, EGF p. 32 ¼ Bernabe´, PEG p. 41 and ‘Hes.’ Cat. fr. 23a.17–26; Zeus with Ganymede, Hymn. Hom. Ven. 202–6. See Rohde (1925) i. 68–90; Strecker (1962) 465–70; Larson (2001) 66–70. 145 In the Iliad, Trojan heroes are snatched out of mortal danger by gods: Paris, Il. 3.380–2; Idaeus, 5.23; Aeneas, 5.311–18 and 20.291–340; Hector, 20.443–4; Agenor, 21.597; etc. But this is a temporary rescue from an immediate death, without any hint of immortalization. Is this a bold Iliadic transformation of a traditional motif, or a type-scene, as maintained by Fenik (1968) 12, 36–7; Hainsworth (1969) 30? An exception is the allusion to the translation to Olympus of Ganymede at Il. 20.234–5. But this comes in a secondary narration (spoken by Aeneas) and Ganymede belongs to an earlier generation: arguably, therefore, the Iliad contrives to evoke the traditional version concerning Ganymede (cf. Hymn. Hom. Ven. 202–6) in order to point up its own habitual transformation of this motif. 146 The verb ÆæıØ (Il. 16.456, 674) is sometimes etymologized as ‘heroize’, ‘deify’: see Chantraine (1968–80) 1095; Nagy (1990a) 131–3, 138–9; but, diVerently, Janko (1994) 377; Janda (1996). If that was the original meaning, then it has been reinterpreted in the Iliad to mean just ‘bury’: Il. 7.85; cf. Hsch. ÆæØ: ŁØ; KÆØØ. 147 Schadewaldt (1951) 160, 165; Janko (1994) 313, 395. 148 The presence of Sleep and Death in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is argued by Kullmann (1960) 34, 319; Clark and Coulson (1978) 71–3; Weiss (1986), esp. 780, 783 nos. 320, 321; Janko (1994) 313, 395. It is rejected by Kossatz-Deissmann (1992) 448–9, 456, 456–7 on no. 69, 460–1; Simon (1992) 238, 240.

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Sleep and Death suggests the reversibility of the hero’s condition, the possible conversion of his death into a sleep: heroization, perhaps.149 If so, the motif will have belonged in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), where Memnon was indeed made immortal. In the Iliad, by contrast, Sleep and Death will have been relegated to non-functional, if honoriWc, pallbearers. (Compare, perhaps, the Iliadic transformation of divinely made weapons into aesthetic, non-functional artefacts.) In the Iliad, Wnally, Sarpedon’s interment includes his anointment with Iæ  and his dressing in ¼æÆ ¥ÆÆ (Il. 16.670 ¼ 680), both suggestive of immortalization.150 It is probable that both featured in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), and there constituted Dawn’s act of ‘giving immortality’ (Proclus §2) to Memnon. The state of our knowledge of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is too incomplete to make this argument more than hypothetical; this argument, however, runs parallel with my previous arguments that the Homeric poems may ‘quote’ earlier poems in some detail. On this hypothesis, we would have here again a narrative inconsistency. The Iliad would insist that Sarpedon is not immortalized or heroized, unlike Memnon in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis); but it would retain details evocative of that immortalization, transferred to a diVerent hero and given a quite diVerent signiWcation. Again, we should not assume that the Iliad poet was simply caught between two versions: the vestiges of the version of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) in the Iliad serve to highlight the diVerences in poetic treatment. The Iliadic inability (or refusal) of a divine parent to save their oVspring is even generalized into a principle in that poem: see Il. 15.138–41, 16.521–2, 18.117–19, 21.109–10. 149 See Pestalozzi (1945) 13–14; Kullmann (1960) 34; Albinus (2000) 92. DiVerently, Rohde (1925) i. 86 n. 1. In general for death as ‘sleep’, cf. Lattimore (1962) 78, 82, 164–5, 307. 150 For the immortalizing power of ambrosia, see also Pulleyn, pp. 66–7 below. Cf. e.g. Hymn. Hom. Cer. 237; Pind. Ol. 1.62–3, Pyth. 9.63, and see N. J. Richardson (1974) 238–9. In Homer, the uses of ambrosia are more liberal. It is given to mortals at Il. 19.38 (Thetis with the dead Patroclus), 19.347, 353 (Athena with the living Achilles), 23.186–7 (Aphrodite annoints the dead Hector KºÆ fiø j Iæ fiø); cf. Od. 4.445, 18.193. For the immortalizing quality of ‘immortal clothes’, cf. Janko (1994) 396; cf. Thieme (1952b), esp. 22. In Homer: Od. 7.259–60, 265 (Calypso with Odysseus, where it may be relevant that she aimed to make him immortal, Od. 5.136, 5.209, 7.256–7, 23.336); Od. 24.59.

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The conference between Zeus and Hera on Sarpedon’s fate also deserves attention (Il. 16.431–61). Zeus’ dilemma here dramatizes— draws attention to—the poet’s choice (D). (Compare the frequent role of Athena in the Odyssey.) The question whether the Iliad is to immortalize its Memnon is thus insistently raised: the references to ‘fate’ (Il. 16.433 Eæ , 441 ÆYfi ) suggest that the Iliad poet is selfconsciously shaping up to the poetic tradition. It is then all the more striking that the Iliad poet Xies in the face of what the audience must expect for a Memnon surrogate; the poet seems to pass oV a bold innovation as what, in his version, ‘must be’.151 There is a possibility that the Iliad explicitly acknowledges its interaction with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) at Il. 16.444–7: ¼ºº
 Ø Kæø; f
 Kd æd ºº fiBØ: ÆY Œ g łfi Ææ
Æ n
b

; æ  Ø ØÆ ŁH KŁºfiØ ŒÆd ¼ºº Ø n  º ıƒe Ie ŒæÆæB   . And I will tell you something else: you lay it in your heart. If you send Sarpedon alive to his home take care that no one else of the gods may want hereafter to send their own son from the mighty battle.

Hera alarms Zeus with talk of setting a precedent. In literary terms, though, this is a hysteron proton.152 The Iliadic scene looks forward to Zeus’ discomWture when Dawn (and Thetis) will ask for the immortality of their sons. For an audience familiar with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), Il. 16.446 ‘take care that no one else (ŒÆd ¼ºº )153 of the gods may want hereafter to send their own son from the mighty battle’, cannot fail to bring to mind Dawn (and Thetis) in the 151 Compare and contrast S. Richardson (1990) 193–5. 152 Od. 24.76–9 (implying that Antilochus became Achilles’ dearest friend only after Patroclus’ death) may be another such hysteron proton: see above. This proton hysteron is typical of ‘secondary’ epic: cf. Ap. Rhod. Argon. 4.1028, where the Apollonian Medea is prior to the Homeric Nausicaa in terms of the fabula, posterior in terms of their literary relationship: cf. Hunter (1993b) pp. xxiv–xxv. Similarly the subject matter of Milton’s Paradise Lost—man’s fall—is antecedent to the subject of the classical epics. Cf., in lyric, Pind. Ol. 1. 43–5; in tragedy, [Eur.] Rhes. 974–7. 153 For the metapoetic implications, cf. Hardie (1993) 17 ‘Alius . . . is one of a number of words of iteration, alius, alter, iterum, rursus, etc. whose occurrence in epic is always worth attention’.

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*Memnonis (Aethiopis).154 What is already known to the audience as a literary ‘fact’ from the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is presented by the Iliadic Hera as a future possibility (ØÆ, ‘hereafter’), and one to be prevented. This interaction with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is playful: the earlier poem is simultaneously evoked and negated. There is also inversion: Zeus now is the parent concerned for his son and the goddess is opposed. And, crucially, the outcome is the opposite one for the mortal son. (For the reversal of roles, compare above on Odyssey 6–7 and Iliad 24.) An intriguing sidelight is thrown on this by Virgil’s transferral of this same motif to Hercules and Jupiter contemplating the fate of Pallas at Aen. 10.464–73.155 I have argued that the Iliad poet acknowledges in ŒÆd ¼ºº the poem from which the motif has been transferred. Virgil, in turn, explicitly acknowledges his Iliadic source by making Jupiter refer to Sarpedon: Troiae sub moenibus altis tot gnati cecidere deum, quin occidit una Sarpedon, mea progenies . . . beneath the high walls of Troy fell many sons of gods; indeed, there fell along with them Sarpedon, my offspring . . .

Here, too, we have a transferred motif with inversion. The realignment brings us closer to the Aethiopis; the outcome for Pallas, however, is the same as for Sarpedon in the Iliad. Another inversion is that, instead of Hera’s fear of setting a precedent, Jupiter stresses the necessity of following one. The Aeneid, moreover, seems here to subscribe to the Iliadic rule that gods do not save their sons. Yet this is undercut through being addressed by Jupiter to Hercules, a son of his who has been deiWed in the Aeneid (compare also Aen. 8.301 decus addite divis); undercut too because the apotheosis of a son of Venus, and of her much more distant progeny, hangs over the whole poem (Aeneas: Aen. 1.259–60, cf. 12.794–5; Julius/Augustus Caesar: 1.286–9). 154 Cf. Schoeck (1961) 25. Cf. Eustathius on Il. 16.432 (1069.23–9) ‘Hera complains . . . saying in a way that not even Achilles will die in the future, as he is the son of an immortal mother, Thetis’. 155 The intertextuality of the two passages is discussed by Barchiesi (1984) 16–30.

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I have thought the Virgilian passage worth dwelling on because the Aeneid oVers a unique extant poetic commentary on the relationship of Homer and the Epic Cycle.156 Jasper GriYn has emphasized the value of the ancient Greek critics for guiding our interpretation of Homer.157 Virgil is no less valuable. In his reception of the Iliad (and Aethiopis) in Aeneid 10, Virgil is doing something remarkably similar to the Iliad poet in his reception of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis).158 There may be two ways of making sense of this. One possibility is to suppose that Virgil found the techniques in Homer and learned them from him, namely quotation with inversion (A), explicit acknowledgement of the model (B), and the gods as representatives of the poet’s will (D). In that case, Virgil turns out to be an unexpectedly useful guide on how to read Homer. At least three subsidiary questions would then arise. First, had Virgil read the Aethiopis in a non-epitomized form?159 Second, is Aen. 10.464–73 a ‘contamination’ of the Iliad with Aethiopis (as, for instance, Aen. 8.382–4 seems to be)?160 Third, did Virgil, as a reader of both Iliad and Aethiopis, take Homer to engage in a reception of the Cyclical poem (as modern neoanalytical scholars have assumed) and not vice versa, the Cyclical poets responding to Homer? This possibility is suggestively raised by the above reading of Aen. 10.464–73. But it seems to run counter to other considerations.161 In particular, one 156 Cf. N. J. Richardson (1993) 43; Hardie (1998) 55. In general on Virgil’s selfconscious relationship with the Epic Cycle, cf. Barchiesi (1994) 117–18, on Aen. 1.456–7. 157 GriYn (1980) p. xiv. Cf. Pelling, p. 104 below. 158 Cf. Burrow (1997) 90, on Milton’s interaction with Virgil: ‘One way, and perhaps the most powerful way, of imitating a predecessor is to imitate his methods of imitation, and to treat his text as he had treated his own sources.’ 159 As supposed by Fraenkel (1932) 247–8, cf. 242; KopV (1981), esp. 920–1; Burgess (2001) 45. DiVerently, Heinze (1993) 159; Horsfall (1979) 46–7. 160 On ‘contamination’, cf. Hinds (1998) 141–2. On Aen. 8.382–4, see KopV (1981) 932, 935; diVerently, M. L. West (2003b) 9 n. 42. 161 Alexandrian scholarship (especially after Aristarchus) was generally insistent that the poets of the Cycle were ‘later’ (æØ) than Homer (see Severyns (1928) 99–100); and Virgil’s relationship to Alexandrian scholarship was close (cf. Schlunk (1974); Schmit-Neuerberg (1999)). The ancient, and Virgilian, view of Homer as ‘Ocean’ apparently presupposes that Homer was the wellspring of all other poets: see Williams (1978) 88–9, 98–9; Morgan (1999) 32–9. But that was not a universal view in antiquity: Apollonius, for instance, seems to have recognized that Homer was interacting with an earlier Argonaut epic (Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 90). Various

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scruples to ascribe the technique of quotation with inversion, so fundamental and pervasive a feature of Virgilian imitation, to Virgil’s observation speciWcally of how Homer engaged with his epic predecessors.162 An alternative would be to suppose that Homer and Virgil each interacted with earlier poems in surprisingly similar ways, but independently of one another. The technique of the oral poet would then turn out to be unexpectedly close to that of the literary poet.163 That would give us a startling rapprochement between an oral and a literary poetics—and an additional reason to rethink any classiWcation of Homeric epic as primary, Virgilian as secondary.164 A further signiWcant feature of the interaction of the Iliad with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is the many-to-one and one-to-many correspondence between the two poems.165 The Iliadic Patroclus has a prototype in both Antilochus and Achilles in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), the Iliadic Hector in both Memnon and Paris in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis).166 Conversely, Memnon in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is reXected in both Hector and Sarpedon in the Iliad, Antilochus in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) in both Antilochus and Patroclus in the Iliad.167 We observed above multiple correspondence in the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad. Burgess has called this feature ‘confusing’.168 What is perhaps especially surprising is how closely it recalls the practice of Virgil, a literate poet with a reading predecessors of Homer in hexameter poetry are elsewhere acknowledged by name: Eumolpos, Olen, Pamphos, Orpheus, Musaios, and Hesiod (note the entry of Suda under ‘Eumolpos’: ‘an epic poet among those before Homer’; and already Hdt. 2. 23, 2. 53. 3; see e.g. M. L. West (1966) 40). Virgil need not, it seems, have taken Homer’s priority for granted. 162 On Virgilian ‘opposition in imitation’, see Hardie (1993) 118, and cf. (1986) 158–67, 233–6; (1998) 31, 44, 51; Farrell (1991) 207–72. I am grateful to Philip Hardie also for discussion of this point. 163 Cf. D. P. Fowler (2000) 134. 164 Cf. Feeney (1998) 57–60. The Odyssey has, of course, long been regarded as secondary to the Iliad. 165 Pestalozzi (1945) 41V.; J. T. Kakridis (1949) 60–1; Schoeck (1961) passim, e.g. 11, 15, 16, and cf. the subtitle, ‘kyklische Motive in homerischer Brechung’ (my italics). 166 DiVerently, Allan (2005) 16 eschews ‘recourse to extraneous non-Iliadic ‘‘parallels’’ ’. 167 Note the intratextuality associating Sarpedon and Hector in the Iliad (16.431– 61
22.166–87), as well as Patroclus and Antilochus (16.1–3
18.1–2, 17: see above). 168 Burgess (1997) 15.

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public.169 In another connection, M. W. Edwards (thinking not of the interaction of the Homeric poems with speciWc pre-existing poems, but of Homer’s transformation of traditional poetic topoi), commented: ‘the closest parallel that comes to mind is the use Virgil constantly makes of his great predecessor’s work’.170 Here we have another striking common ground between an oral and a literary poetics.171 The many-to-one and one-to-many correspondence between characters and their prototypes argues a sophisticated, and self-reXective, interaction with earlier poems in the early epic tradition.172 The Iliad ’s interaction with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) is a crucial part of the meaning of the former poem, just as the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad is a crucial part of its meaning.173 We should assume a ‘competitive’ relationship of the Iliad with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), as of the Odyssey with the Iliad: a ‘conscious rivalry’ or ‘creative mimesis’.174 This kind of competition may be respectful; it may even be highly complimentary to the model, as with the Odyssey’s ‘rivalry’ with the Iliad and Virgil’s imitatio of Homer. This kind of competitive relationship need not even rule out joint authorship of Iliad and *Memnonis (Aethiopis), as the relationship of the Odyssey with the Iliad need not rule out joint authorship of those poems. The provocatively diVerent world-view taken by the Iliad vis-a`-vis the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) (Iliadic gods and goddesses do not save their sons; divinely made armour does not in the Iliad render the wearer invincible; Iliadic transportation from battle and anointing with ambrosia does not entail immortalization) should be seen (like the contrasting heroism and theodicy of the Odyssey vis-a`-vis the Iliad) as a poetic response, not as the poet’s personal expression of his world-view.175 169 Cf. GriYn (1985) 193–7. Cf. Armstrong, p. 136 below. 170 M. W. Edwards (1987b) 60. Cf. Dowden (1996) 49 n. 14, 58 and n. 62. 171 Cf. Dowden (1996) 49; Foley (1997) 173. 172 Contrast Schoeck (1961) 25–6 (assuming an unreXective interaction). 173 SigniWcance is eVectively denied by Schoeck (1961) 25–6, 30. Cf. Burgess (2001) 218 n. 92 on the diVerent neoanalytical interpretations of correspondences between Iliad and *Memnonis. 174 Heubeck (1954) 100 and (1988) 13, after Jacoby (1961) 109 ‘scho¨pferische Imitation’; cf. Usener (1990) 205. 175 Contrast Heubeck (1954) 100; (1988) 21–3. DiVerently, Cook (1995) 43.

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Another important point emerges from the comparison between the Iliad’s interaction with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad. It is striking that the Iliad does not overlap in content with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and never mentions Memnon, despite frequent prolepses of Achilles’ death. The Odyssey likewise does not overlap in content with the Iliad, despite frequent analepses of the Trojan war (‘Monro’s law’).176 D. L. Page used the latter observation Wfty years ago to argue that the Odyssey poet was wholly ignorant of the Iliad.177 M. L. West has very recently invoked the former to argue that the Iliad poet was ignorant of the *Memnonis.178 Yet given, in both cases, the evidence for interaction between the two poems, the avoidance of overlap is much better seen as itself a form of allusion: a way of making reference by refusing reference (E).179 I have said nothing about verbatim quotations of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) in the Iliad; a number have been proposed.180 Of these the most suggestive is the idea that the striking (non-formular?) phrase ªÆ ªÆºød ðŒEÞ was used to describe the prostrate corpse of Achilles in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) and taken up from there at Il. 18.26 (of Patroclus’ death, transferred from Achilles’ death in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis)) and at Od. 24.40 (in the context of an account of Achilles’ own death, apparently following the version of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis)).181 In passing I mention an intriguing 176 Cf. Monro (1901) 325 (who in turn cites Niese!). 177 Page (1955) 159 ‘This curious fact, that the Odyssey shows no awareness of the existence of the Iliad . . .’, ‘the reason why the Iliad is ignored by the Odyssean poet is simply that the Iliad was unknown to him’. 178 M. L. West (2003b) 6 ‘The Iliad contains not the slightest hint that the story of Achilles will involve such a person [sc. Memnon], or that such a person exists’, 7 ‘The conclusion is plain and unavoidable. The Iliad poet . . . did not know the Memnon episode . . .’. 179 On Od. and Il. cf. Usener (1990) 205; R. B. Rutherford (2001) 120–1; Danek (1998) 27. 180 Cf. Pestalozzi (1945) 20, on Il. 17.289–90; J. T. Kakridis (1949) 84, on Il. 23.13–14. The issue is controversial. Contrast e.g. Kullmann (1960) 36, 40 with M. W. Edwards (1991) 17. 181 Pestalozzi (1945) 18; J. T. Kakridis (1949) 84–5; Kullmann (1960) 38–9; Schadewaldt (1951) 168; Dowden (1996) 59 and n. 63; Willcock (1997) 177; Danek (1998) 468–9 and (2002) 17. Cf. Janko (1994) 408. DiVerently, Usener (1990) 104–8, arguing that Od. 24.40 quotes the Iliad, and that Il. 16.776 is the original context; diVerently, Danek (1998) 468–9.

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fact: the epithet ƺŒŒæı

is used only of Memnon, Hector, and Sarpedon in extant hexameter verse.182 Could it have been transferred from the Ethiopian hero, whose divinely made armour was so important, to his two Iliadic surrogates?183

C ON C LU S I ON The Homeric poems clearly aspire to be new songs.184 Familiar episodes are transferred to novel settings: Priam’s supplication of Achilles is transferred in the Odyssey to Odysseus’ supplication of Arete; Achilles’ killing of Memnon is transferred in the Iliad to Patroclus killing Sarpedon and to Achilles killing Hector. Plots are changed in their essential elements: the recognition of Odysseus by Penelope is transposed in the Odyssey to come after the killing of the suitors. The traditional signiWcation of scenes is radically altered: Penelope’s conversation with Odysseus and his foot-washing in the Odyssey do not entail Penelope’s complicity in the killing of the suitors; nor do Sarpedon’s translation, washing, and interment in the Iliad entail his immortalization. The premium placed on innovation in the early epic tradition is suggested by Telemachus’ statement that ‘men celebrate that song more which echoes freshest in the ears of the listeners’ (Od. 1.351–2). The Homeric poems certainly oVer support for this picture of restless innovation. The Iliad, I have argued, interacts with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) in transferring the pivotal role of Antilochus (the friend whose death Achilles will die to avenge) to Patroclus. Neoanalytical scholars have sometimes wondered whether Patroclus is an invention of the Iliad poet.185 But the Iliad seems to show a 182 Hes. Theog. 984 Æ ƺŒŒæı ; Il. 15.221 ‚ŒæÆ ƺŒŒæı  (cf. Il. 16.536, 16.654); Il. 5.699 ! ¯ŒæØ ƺŒŒæıfiB (cf. Il. 6.398, 13.720, 15.458, 16.358); Il. 6.199 Ææ
Æ ƺŒŒæı . 183 Analogously, one might compare æ æø ¯P挺ØÆ (Od. 19.357, 491, 20.134, 21.381) and æ æø —ºØÆ (41 times in Od.). 184 For the importance attached to ‘new songs’ in the early epic tradition, cf. perhaps ‘Hes.’ fr. 357.2 M–W. 185 See, sceptically, Janko (1994) 313–14.

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further stage of innovation. Arguably, the Iliad has transferred the (familiar?) role of Patroclus to Phoenix, who thus becomes a surrogate for Patroclus even while he is a surrogate for Antilochus. As Jasper GriYn has already given a balanced discussion of the problems of the Embassy of Iliad 9, I may perhaps be excused for presenting a one-sided view of this most controversial episode which is consonant with the arguments of this chapter.186 The Iliad very likely interacts with an earlier version of the embassy to Achilles; it may even do so in a way comparable to that in which I argued the Odyssey interacts with an earlier poem on Odysseus’ homecoming. In an earlier version of the embassy, Odysseus and Ajax may have gone as sole ambassadors to Achilles; Patroclus, from inside Achilles’ tent, may have echoed their pleas, and Wnally prevailed on Achilles to let him go into battle in his armour. In the Iliad’s Embassy, Patroclus’ expected intervention does not occur, the embassy fails, and we wait Wve books (discounting the Doloneia) for Patroclus’ pivotal intervention.187 (Similarly in the Odyssey, the expected recognition between Odysseus and Penelope does not occur in book 19, but is put oV for three books.) The Iliad implies in a couple of places after book 9 that an embassy to Achilles has yet to take place (Il. 11.608–10, 16.72): this is another instance of narrative inconsistency, by which the Iliad arguably recalls the earlier version from which it is departing.188 We may take a similar view of the most famous of all Homeric narrative inconsistencies: the duals of Il. 9.182–98 remind the audience that in an earlier version two ambassadors, not three, went to Achilles from Agamemnon. Phoenix himself is both an untraditional Wgure and an anomalous presence in Agamemnon’s train rather than in Achilles’ tent (Il. 9.168: compare 617–22). It is tempting to think that the role formerly played by Patroclus has been transferred to this old retainer.189 (Comparably, in Odyssey 19 the recognition of Odysseus by Penelope 186 See GriYn (1995) 51–3. 187 For the failed embassy to Achilles as an innovation of the Iliad poet, cf. GriYn (1995) 21. Epic tradition, as Adrian Kelly reminds me, knew of other failed embassies: cf. Il. 4.384–98, 5.803–8, 7.345–420. 188 Cf. GriYn (1995) 25. 189 Cf. M. W. Edwards (1987a) 228; R. B. Rutherford (1996) 86–8. Phoenix himself is unlikely to be an Iliadic invention: S. R. West (2001) 4, 10–11.

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is transferred to the old nurse Eurycleia.) In Iliad 9, Phoenix tells a story of Meleager in which the hero’s wife is called ‘Cleopatra’: both her (untraditional?) name and her role in persuading the hero to return to the battle evoke the role of Patroclus in the Iliad.190 (This secondary narrative of Phoenix, foreshadowing albeit imprecisely the plot of the poem as a whole, may be compared with Helen’s secondary narrative at Od. 4.240–64: see above.) The fact that it is Phoenix who is the secondary narrator may be an implicit acknowledgement that Phoenix is a surrogate for Patroclus. This reconstruction, like the others, is speculative and hypothetical. If correct, it would entail that the Iliad interacts not just with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), but with another, intervening, earlier poem on Achilles and Patroclus that interacted with the *Memnonis (Aethiopis). The early epic tradition would then seem to be in a state of permanent Xux: you could not step twice into the same river of oral song. Yet Xux can only be part of the picture. The interactions we have looked at presuppose the existence of poems in a stable enough form to be interacted with.191 For the interaction to work, familiarity is required on the part of the audience (and not just the poet) with fairly well-deWned poems: familiarity which in a performance culture must depend on repeated exposure to (essentially) the same songs.192 The Epic Cycle perhaps oVers some support for this possibility. It is a premiss of neoanalysis that the post-Homeric poems (according to the conventional dating) of the Epic Cycle preserve the subject matter and the plot of lost pre-Homeric poems: the post-Iliadic Aethiopis preserves the plot of the pre-Iliadic *Memnonis. Whereas the Iliad and Odyssey interact so vitally with forerunners of the Cyclical epics, the Cyclical epics may, in the Archaic period, have been surprisingly indiVerent to the Homeric poems.193 We can hardly suppose the Homeric poems and the Epic Cycle to have been independent traditions, given that the Iliad and the Odyssey show themselves to be heirs to the same tradition as the Cyclical epics. We might, however, 190 191 192 193

Cf. Willcock (2001 (1964)) 449; GriYn (1995) 135–6; Edmunds (1997) 431. Cf. Usener (1990) 210. Cf. Usener (1990) 208, focusing, however, on the poet, not the audience. Esp. Burgess (2001) 132–71.

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suppose that the Iliad and Odyssey represent a particularly innovative or interactive strain of the early epic tradition, but that the poems of the Epic Cycle (especially, perhaps, Cypria and Aethiopis) represent a conservative and reproductive strain. Such duality would be paralleled in the other main genres of Archaic and Classical Greek poetry: lyric and tragedy. Lyric poetry evidently prized new compositions. The locus classicus is Pindar’s injunction to ‘praise an old wine, but garlands of songs that are newer’ (Ol. 9.48–9). And in several other places lyric poets advertise their compositions as ‘new’.194 But this emphasis on ‘new songs’ presupposes a context where ‘old songs’ were a possibility; and indeed, we hear of a strong conservatism in the lyric tradition whereby old songs were reperformed.195 And similarly with tragedy. Innovation was rated highly, for competition at the City Dionysia in the Wfth century was, as a rule, with new plays. But old tragedies were regularly revived in the Wfth century, both at ‘Rural Dionysia’ (in the Attic demes) and outside Attica.196 After Aeschylus’ death, ‘old’ tragedies were increasingly admitted at the City Dionysia.197 Within both the lyric and the tragic tradition, then, we see the creation of the new and the preservation of the old being valued side by side. Within the epic tradition we are accustomed to thinking of active creation and passive reproduction as the provinces respectively of the IØ
 and the ÞÆłfiø
 . This distinction is often diachronically conceived: rhapsodes ‘replaced’ aoidoi in (perhaps) the late sixth century bc.198 But we should consider the possibility that the 194 Alcm. 3.1–3 (with Page’s supplements), 14(a).1–3 PMG; Pind. Nem. 8.20–1, Ol. 3.4–6, Isthm. 5.62–3; Bacch. 9 (Dith. 5) 9; Timoth. 791.202–36, esp. 202–5, 211–12 PMG; Ar. Lys. 1295. 195 Hdt. 4.35.3; Timoth. 791.211–12, 791.216–17, 796 PMG; Pl. Leg. 802a; Athen. 14.632f (in Sparta); Polyb. 4.20.8–10 (in Arcadia). Cf. Pl. Symp. 187d1–2. See Herington (1985) 207–10. 196 Pl. Resp. 475d. Cf. Whitehead (1986) 212, 222 n. 74. Cf. Hdt. 6.21.2: banning of reperformances of Phrynichus’ Sack of Miletus. Csapo and Slater (1994) 14–17. 197 After 456 bc: cf. Ar. Ach. 9–11, Ran. 868; schol. Ar. Ach. 10c; cf. Radt, TGrF iii T 1.48–9, 51–2, T 133. In 387/6 bc, competition with an ‘old play’ became a regular feature of the City Dionysia: IG ii2. 2318 col. 8 ¼ TGrF i p. 24 (Fasti); cf. IG ii2. 2319–23 ¼ TGrF i pp. 25–7 (Didaskaliai for 341–339 bc). 198 e.g. Burkert (2001) 101; cf. Hainsworth in Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) 30; Latacz (2001) 947–8. Rhapsodes’ creativity is stressed by Nagy, e.g. (1996) 82; cf. Finkelberg (2000) 1.

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distinction was also a synchronic one. Comparative study of oral poetic traditions suggests that ‘creative’ and ‘reproductive’ singers often exist side by side.199 R. Finnegan has warned against adopting a ‘monolithic theory’ of oral poetry, an exclusive model of either composition in performance or the reproduction of Wxed texts.200 My account of interaction between poems in the early epic tradition presupposes both Xux and stability in the tradition. Although it was only in the late sixth century in Athens that rhapsodic performance of the Homeric poems became institutionalized and an ‘oYcial’ text of Homer was established (the ‘Pisistratean recension’), these eVorts to ensure the faithful reproduction of a ‘Wxed’ text of Homer may have been formalizations of something present less formally in the tradition much earlier. We see this kind of development for tragedy: there had been a practice of reperforming old tragedies since the (early) Wfth century bc, but their reperformance only became institutionalized at the City Dionysia in 386 bc and oYcial texts of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides were established only in c.330 bc.201 Thus, an interest in reperforming old songs and in ‘Wxed’ texts could comfortably pre-date their formalization. This way of envisaging the early epic tradition oVers a complementary perspective on what GriYn called the ‘uniqueness of Homer’.202 Whereas the Iliad and Odyssey would represent the output of highly gifted, creative, singers in the tradition, the Cyclical epics would reXect its more reproductive side.203 199 Kirk (1960) 278–9; Finnegan (1977) 57, cf. 83–4, 142–3. 200 Finnegan (1977) 86, cf. 139–53, esp. 153. 201 Cf. Easterling (1997b) 213, on the 4th-cent. formalization of a long-standing practice of tragic reperformance. Cf. Csapo and Slater (1994) 4 and 10 no. 14 on the establishment of oYcial tragic texts in c.330 bc. 202 Cf. GriYn (2001 [1977]). 203 My thanks are due to all who contributed to the discussion following the oral version of this paper delivered at Balliol on 11 Sept. 2004; and especially to my student Sarah Cullinan, Prof. P. R. Hardie, Dr A. Kelly, Prof. C. B. R. Pelling, Dr N. J. Richardson, Dr R. B. Rutherford, Dr M. L. West, and Dr S. R. West, for commenting on written drafts. As always, responsibility for any errors and for the argument remains the author’s own.

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2 Homer’s Religion Philological Perspectives from Indo-European and Semitic Simon Pulleyn

In this chapter I intend to examine some aspects of the religion of the Homeric poems in a manner which it is hoped will reveal some signiWcant interactions. The epic tradition as it came down to Homer was shaped over many centuries, so that the contents of the poems represent an accretion of elements belonging to quite diVerent periods. The linguistic and material traces of this are plain to see. A prominent linguistic example is the coexistence of the ancient genitive form in -Ø beside the more recent one in -ı.1 Another example is the phenomenon of tmesis (the separation of a preverb from its verb, as at Iliad 1.25 Kd FŁ ºº): in Homer, this must constitute the retention of an archaic linguistic feature of great antiquity.2 Certain metrical anomalies, too, can only be explained on the assumption that they reXect the state of the Greek language before the date of the 1 The form in –Ø appears in Mycenaean texts and is thus of high antiquity; –ı seems to have evolved from it by reduction of the intervocalic glide and subsequent vowel contraction. See Chantraine (1958) 193–4; but cf. Sihler (1995) 259–60. For the Indo-European background, cf. Szemere´nyi (1996) 182–8. 2 The separation of preverb from verb is found in other Indo-European (Vedic and Hittite) texts, but it is absent from our earliest attested Greek, the Linear B texts of around 1200 bc.

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Linear B tablets, some Wve centuries before Homer.3 On the material side, it is striking to Wnd in a narrative relating to the Trojan War in the Late Bronze Age (c.1200 bc) mention of items belonging to the poet’s own Iron Age (c.1000–750 bc). Notably, Pandarus is said to use iron arrowheads and Areithous has an iron club.4 This phenomenon is extremely signiWcant for the study of the religious aspects of the Iliad and Odyssey. It will be the purpose of this chapter to examine more closely what religious concepts the Greek epic singers found in the epic tradition that came down to them and what changes they made to that tradition. It is a question easier to ask than to answer which of these changes may be laid at the door of the monumental poet, ‘Homer’; but that question will be posed wherever appropriate. The techniques of comparative philology will be central to my approach, as they oVer an access (albeit not unproblematic) to the Indo-European inheritance of the Greek epic poets.5 In what follows, accordingly, I shall have recourse to the Old Indic Vedas and other comparative material. Equally suggestive, though from an importantly diVerent angle, are various Semitic texts from the Near East, which are evidence for a non-Indo-European tradition, also of great antiquity. Whereas the Indo-European comparanda point to inherited, native 3 See M. L. West (1997b) 229. 4 Il. 4.123, 7.141. See in general Sherratt (1992). 5 The term ‘Indo-European’ was originally used to describe a group of related languages (Mu¨ller (1888)). There has been extensive debate as to whether it makes sense to think of there having been an Indo-European culture in an identiWable homeland: contrast Renfrew (1987) 75–98 and passim with Lehmann (1993) 258–88. For maps setting out the diVerent conjectures for an Indo-European homeland, see e.g. Baldi (1999) 40. Arguably, the Indo-Europeans were a people originally at home probably somewhere in what is now Southern Russia; towards the end of the third millennium bc, they began a series of migrations that took them as far aWeld as India and Ireland; and they probably entered the Greek peninsula during the Wrst half of the second millennium bc: see Palmer (1980) 3; Mallory (1989). The IndoEuropean linguistic heritage is seen in the fact that the words for ‘mother’, ‘father’, ‘sister’, and ‘brother’—to take only the most obvious examples—are etymologically cognate in Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, Tocharian, Gothic, and Irish: Baldi (1999) 10. But there are not only cognate words; there are cognate stories and rituals as well (Puhvel (1989)). Scholars have attempted to reconstruct the original IndoEuropean religion, just as they reconstruct the grammar and lexicon of the Indo-European language. However, this process is inevitably much more complex and controversial (Burkert (1985) 16–19).

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material preserved within the Greek epic tradition, the Near Eastern Semitic comparanda tend to point rather to non-native material imported into the Greek-speaking community from outside.6 In the interplay of these two fundamentally diVerent types of comparative material, we might see evidence of Greek poets’ modiWcation of their inherited tradition. However, it remains unclear when such modiWcation occurred, and whether the Near Eastern material would have been keenly felt as a foreign import or was assimilated more or less imperceptibly into the Greek tradition.7 My discussion of these issues will focus on three Greek words: ˘ , Iæ , and ŒÆæ. These will oVer the opportunity to reXect on the nature of the Greek pantheon through its supreme ruler and on the relations between gods and men as presented in the Greek epic tradition.

˘ The case of the Greek god Zeus is particularly instructive for the study of this kind of interaction between inherited Indo-European material and ideas imported from the Near East. His name, at least, is ‘the only name of a Greek god which is entirely transparent etymologically’—to such an extent, indeed, that ‘it has long been paraded as a model case in Indo-European philology’.8 Comparative philology here aVords modern scholars an insight denied to the ancient Greeks if, as Wilamowitz claimed, the Greeks themselves did not understand the name Zeus.9 The key to the matter is that ˘ , with its genitive ˜Ø , has a parallel in the name of the Indic 6 It has long been recognized that Greek religion exhibits numerous inXuences from the Near Eastern peoples with whom the Greeks came into contact at one time or another: see especially Burkert (1992) and M. L. West (1997a). Extensive Egyptian inXuence is controversially claimed by Bernal (1987) and (2001). 7 See e.g. Burkert (1988); Mondi (1990); M. L. West (1997a) 33–60. 8 Burkert (1985) 125. 9 Wilamowitz (1984 (1931)) 220. Wilamowitz does not substantiate his remark; for an example of the conjectural etymologies of later Greeks, see Fraenkel on Aesch. Ag. 1485–6. See also Dunbar on Ar. Av. 570 and Leumann (1993) 288–90.

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god Dyaus, with its genitive Divas. Both names appear to derive from a common Indo-European form, reconstructed as *dyews, with a genitive *diwos. When one recalls that Zeus is sometimes called ‘father’, in the Homeric formula ˘F æ (e.g. Iliad 1. 503), the parallel with Latin Iup(p)iter is arresting.10 In Sanskrit, too, we Wnd the collocation Dyaus pitar (‘Father Dyaus’). The morphology of ˘ and its cognates has been elucidated elsewhere.11 The meaning of the name has also long been agreed by philologists. It seems beyond doubt that ˘ =˜Ø is etymologically cognate with Latin dies (‘day’).12 This is particularly apparent when one takes into account the Latin name Diespiter13 alongside Iup(p)iter. Zeus is thus the ‘Father of the Day’ or, in other words, lord of the bright sky. That the three sister-languages, Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit, should agree with each other so closely suggests that Zeus is indeed a god the origins of whose name are to be found in the remote Indo-European past.14 We know remarkably little about Indo-European religion. In an attempt to apply a comparative approach, scholars have turned to the evidence of the Old Indic Vedas. The Rigveda comprises more than a thousand sacriWcial hymns composed over a period of many centuries, the oldest of which are unlikely to be later in date than the thirteenth century bc.15 The Atharvaveda contains spells and other magical texts and is somewhat later in date than the Rigveda, although its oldest parts are contemporary with the later material 10 Cato, Agr. 132.1; for spelling see OLD. 11 Sihler (1995) 194, 337–9. 12 Sihler (1995) 338–9 with 195–6. Whilst dies is from the same root as deus (‘god’) and divus (‘divine’), it is important to realize that none of these words is related to Greek Ł : Sihler (1995) 1. 13 Paulus, Fest. p. 103M. 14 Already appreciated by Mu¨ller (1875) 221–2 ‘Does not this one word [sc. Zeus] prove the union of those ancient races? Does it not show us, at the earliest dawn of history, the fathers of the Aryan race, the fathers of our own race, gathered together in the great temple of nature, like brothers of the same house, and looking up in adoration to the sky as the emblem of what they yearned for, a father and a God. Nay, can we not hear in that old name of Jupiter, i.e. Heaven-Father, the true key-note which still sounds on in our own prayer, ‘‘Our Father which art in heaven,’’ and which imparts to these words their deepest tone, and their fullest import?’ (It ought to be noted that Mu¨ller’s use of this word has no racist overtones at this period: ‘Arya-’ was simply the word which speakers of Sanskrit used to refer to themselves.) 15 Macdonell (1917) p. xi.

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in the Rigveda.16 In the Rigveda we Wnd that Dyaus has a somewhat lower proWle than one might expect of a deity whose name would appear to indicate that he presides over the whole bright vault of heaven.17 Nevertheless, his name is frequently found in a compound with that of the goddess of the Earth, Prithivi (RV 1.159, 1.160, 1.185, 4.56, 6.70, 7.53). Furthermore, in the Atharvaveda, there are references to Dyaus as ‘all-knowing’ or ‘father’ (AV 1.32.4, 6.4.3).18 The former greatness of Indic Dyaus is apparently reXected in the Homeric portrait of Zeus. It would seem reasonable to suppose that, in so far as this is derived from an Indo-European original, it is an inheritance of the religious tradition as it was when the IndoEuropean ancestors of the speakers of Greek and Sanskrit still formed a cultural unity. Like Dyaus, Zeus is said to be a god of the sky; he lives in the ÆNŁ æ, ‘heaven’ (Iliad 2.412, 4.166).19 What is striking, however, is that Zeus is not simply a god of the clear, bright vault of heaven as the etymology of his name would imply. In Homer, he is particularly associated with clouds and storms. He is Iæ

, ‘the lightner’ (Iliad 1.580, 12.275), ºªæÆ, ‘cloud-gatherer’ (Iliad 1.560, 4.30), and łØæ , ‘high-thundering’ (Iliad 1.354, 14.54). The epithet PæÆ, applied to Zeus, appears to be a reference to his ‘wide voice’ and thus another reference to thunder (Iliad 1.498).20 Homer refers to ˜Øe Zæ , ‘the rain of Zeus’ (Iliad 5.91), and Hesiod speaks of Zeus as ‘raining’ in the late autumn (Works and Days 415). Martin Nilsson explained this state of aVairs by saying that the clear bright heavens were meaningless to primitive men. What they understood were dynamic atmospheric phenomena such as thunder and lightning.21 Burkert conjectures that this is why Dyaus was 16 Whitney (2000) p. xvi. 17 Durante (1976) 38. 18 The word for ‘all-knowing’ might equally mean ‘all-possessing’: see Mayrhofer (1995) 579–81. I am obliged to Dr Elizabeth Tucker for bringing this reference to my attention. 19 It is possible that this word is etymologically connected with the idea of brightness, if LSJ are correct to associate it with the verb ÆYŁø (‘to burn’). See also West on Hes. Theog. 697 and Kirk on Il. 8.15–16. 20 Pulleyn (2000) ad loc. 21 Nilsson (1967) 391.

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already overshadowed by more active gods in the Vedic texts.22 It is not clear that the attempt to explain religious phenomena by an appeal to the notion of the primitive mind has much to commend it. In any event, we can discern a much more obvious source for the idea of Zeus as a weather god: that source is Semitic rather than Indo-European. Ugaritic texts dating from the second millennium bc and discovered at Ras Shamra in Syria in 1928 have much to say about the exploits of the Canaanite god Baal.23 This Baal was already known from references in the Bible.24 In the Ugaritic texts, he is commonly given the epithet rkb ‘rpt.25 This is generally taken to mean ‘rider on the clouds’.26 The image presumably compares the thunderous noise of Baal riding over the clouds with the noise of a warrior riding on his horse. If that is the correct meaning, then one may discern a parallelism between Baal and Zeus. Both are pre-eminent among the gods and both are storm gods (although it is questionable whether Zeus’ epithet ÆNª  refers to that function).27 It has also been suggested that the original meaning of the Semitic root rkb was ‘to harness’ or ‘to yoke’.28 If that is the case, it would appear that there is an even closer parallelism between Baal and Zeus. Baal is ‘harnesser of the clouds’ and ºªæÆ ˘ is ‘gatherer of clouds’. Whichever interpretation is correct, it is clear that the origin of Zeus as a god of storms rather than of the clear skies is to be sought in the Semitic, non-Indo-European milieu of the Near East. 22 Burkert (1985) 126. 23 On the discovery of these texts, see Bauer (1930a, b); Doblhofer (1961) 203–26. 24 On Baal and his attributes, see van der Toorn, Becking, and van der Horst (1999) 132–9. On Ugarit in general, see M. L. West (1997a) 84–90. For translated Canaanite texts, see ANET 129–55, and Gibson (1978). 25 e.g. in the text known as ‘Baal and Yam’ in Gibson (1978) 43, col. iv, line 8. 26 In the Old Testament, too, we read that God rides on the storm clouds: Psalm 68: 4. 27 M. L. West (1997a) 115 takes ÆNª  to mean ‘he who rides on a goat’. He argues (cf. West (1978) 366–8) that the ‘goat’ in question was actually a homonymous bird—a species of snipe—the vibrating noise of whose tail feathers was taken to presage a coming storm. But West makes this conjecture because he believes that it is linguistically impossible for the word ÆNª  to mean what it would appear to mean at Wrst blush, namely ‘he who bears the aegis’. It is not, however, certain that these linguistic objections are well founded: see Pulleyn (2000) on Il. 1.202. 28 UllendorV (1963–4) 242–4; Brock (1968) 395–7.

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There is an ambiguity, then, in the Greek epic tradition whether Zeus is conceived as the god of the clear skies or as a storm-god, an ambiguity that seems to arise from the combination of IndoEuropean and Semitic conceptions. A comparable ambiguity seems also to aVect the dwelling-place of Zeus. In Homer we frequently hear that Zeus lives in heaven. At Iliad 21.199, for example, he is said to send down his crashing thunder from heaven; at Iliad 8.18–27 Zeus memorably tells the other gods that they could never overpower him, not even if they were to attach a golden chain from heaven and strive together to pull him down. If we remember the celestial Dyaus of early Indic religion, nothing seems more natural than the idea of a supreme deity who lives in the sky. Indeed, Homer has Poseidon tell of a threefold division of the cosmos between himself, Zeus, and Hades. Poseidon took the sea, Hades took the dark netherworld, and Zeus took the heavens (Iliad 15.184–92).29 He goes on to say that the earth is common to them all, together with Mount Olympus. But we are frequently told in Homer that Zeus lives on Olympus. At Iliad 1.420, it is to Olympus that Thetis says she will go in an attempt to persuade Zeus to help Achilles. At Iliad 21.505, Leto goes up to Olympus ˜Øe d ƺŒÆb
H (‘to the house of Zeus with its brazen threshold’). Zeus is often given the epithet  ˇºØ (Iliad 1.609). In fact, his association with Olympus is so complete that he is sometimes simply called  ˇºØ (‘the Olympian’) without the name Zeus being needed at all (Iliad 1.353, 18.79). In the same way, the other gods are collectively referred to as  ˇºØØ (Iliad 1.399, 20.47). But they are sometimes also called ˇPæÆ ø , ‘heavenly ones’ (Iliad 24.547). This conXation of heaven and Olympus as the home of Zeus and the other gods is pervasive in the Homeric poems. At Iliad 1.497, we have an account of the ascent of Thetis, who Mæ 
 I ªÆ PæÆe ˇPºı  (‘went up early in the morning to the great heaven and Olympus’).30 Olympus and heaven are here run together as though they were the same place. She Wnds Zeus sitting alone on the highest peak of Olympus, apart from the other gods (Iliad 1.498–9). 29 Here, too, a Near Eastern source has been argued: Burkert (1992) 89–91; M. L. West (1997a) 109–11. 30 On the meaning of Mæ , see Pulleyn (2000) ad loc.

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It is hard not to feel that the scenery of Olympus is much more fully worked out than that of heaven. It is a concrete location that shakes when Zeus nods his head (Iliad 1.530). It is there that Thetis goes for one of the most important and memorable scenes in the Iliad. It is also on Olympus that the gods feast after that scene. The gods are referred to as  ˇºØÆ
Æ  , ‘having their homes on Olympus’ (Iliad 2.13, and elsewhere). Zeus also refers to them as ‹Ø Ł N K  ˇºfiø, ‘as many gods as are on Olympus’ (Iliad 1.566, and elsewhere). Given that Indic Dyaus was a sky-god, it is reasonable to suppose that the inherited Indo-European tradition had the gods living in the sky. In that case, we have to ask what was the source of the idea of the gods living on Olympus. Once more, questions arise of a Near Eastern inXuence. When Israel went out of Egypt, the Bible tells us that God led the Israelites through the wilderness towards the Red Sea, going before them as a pillar of cloud by day and as a pillar of Wre by night. At the beginning of the fourteenth chapter of the book of Exodus, we read: Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Tell the people of Israel to turn back and encamp in front of Piha-Hiroth, between Migdol and the sea, in front of Baal-Zephon; you shall encamp over against it by the sea.’31

Those of us who do not have the geography of Egypt in the exilic period at our Wngertips might wonder at these place-names. It may be conjectured that they were Egyptian frontier fortresses. Whatever might be said of Piha-Hiroth and Migdol, Baal-Zephon is plainly a most suggestive toponym. It means ‘Lord of Mount Zaphon’. In the North-West Semitic languages, Zaphon is Wrst attested in the Ugaritic texts as a name for Jebel al-Aqra , a mountain some 25 miles to the north of Ugarit.32 In Classical Hebrew, the word sa¯poˆn means ‘north’. ˙ It appears to be connected etymologically with the root sa¯paˆ (‘to spy’). ˙ Thus we have an image of Baal sitting atop a mountain in the north—a sort of lookout post that allows him to view the doings of others.33

31 Cf. Numbers 33: 7. 32 van der Toorn, Becking, and van der Horst (1999) 927–9; cf. Eissfeldt (1932). 33 Jenni and Westermann (1997) iii. 1093. It is interesting semantically that Zeus is called Œ at Aesch. Supp. 381.

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It is obvious that the reference to Baal-Zaphon in Exodus cannot be referring to the mountain in Syria because the Israelites were not in Syria. But it has been suggested that the image of Mount Zaphon as the divine mountain par excellence in North-West Semitic religions was responsible for the application of this toponym to Baal sanctuaries outside Ugarit.34 Such a transference is not without parallel; Dodds has remarked how the holy Mount Nysa was hard to pin down geographically and that Hesychius enumerated Wfteen local Nysas.35 The idea of the great god Baal living on a mountain in the north doubtless inXuenced Israelite ideas of the divine abode. At Psalm 48: 1–2, we Wnd: Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised in the city of our God! His holy mountain, beautiful in elevation, is the joy of all the earth, Mount Zion, in the far north (sa¯poˆn), the city of the great King. ˙

Mount Zion is in fact one of the hills upon which Jerusalem was built.36 The old Jebusite city is referred to at 2 Samuel 5: 7 as mesu¯dat siyyoˆn (‘fortress Zion’).37 The writer glosses this as ˆır da¯wı¯d (‘city of ˙ David’). The location of ‘fortress Zion’ is today taken to be at the southern end of the eastern hill of Jerusalem.38 This has nothing to do with the north, of course; but this psalm, doubtless under the inXuence of Canaanite beliefs, conXates Mount Zion with Mount Zaphan, the mountain in the north. So in the Semitic sources we have the idea of a divine mountain in the north. Mount Olympus, of course, is in Macedon, in the north of Greece, albeit the massif of which it is part stretches somewhat further south into Thessaly. It is a tempting inference that the inspiration for the idea that the divine abode was a mountain rather than the sky was an inXuence from Canaanite and other Near Eastern sources. It is plainly alien to the Indo-European idea of gods living in the sky. Furthermore, we may conjecture that this inXuence on the 34 van der Toorn, Becking, and van der Horst (1999) 152. 35 Dodds (1960) 146. 36 Smith (1907) 134–69; Vincent (1912) 142–6; Dalman (1930) 126–30; Simons (1952) 60–4. 37 Cf. 1 Chronicles 11: 5. 38 Jenni and Westermann (1997) ii. 1072.

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Greek epic poets was operating quite some time before Homer’s day. Olympus is so frequently referred to in the poems and so well supplied with formulae that it is unlikely that this innovation was the work of the monumental composer (‘Homer’). Also likely to be of Near Eastern and, more speciWcally, Semitic origin is the epic picture of the gods meeting in assembly on their mountain. We hear nothing of the kind from the Vedic sources; the silence might be taken to indicate that the idea is not Indo-European in origin.39 In the Old Testament, by contrast, we Wnd (Psalm 82: 1): God has taken his place in the divine council ( adat  e¯l); in the midst of the gods he holds judgment.40

The idea of there being an assembly of gods, that is, a plurality, is not consistent with the developed theology of the Old Testament, according to which there are no other gods but Yahweh. It reXects an earlier polytheistic phase out of which the monotheistic beliefs of Judaism were later to develop. The idea of a divine council appears again at Psalm 89: 7, where there is a reference to God being feared in the assembly of the holy ones (qehal qedo¯ˇsˆım). There is a similar idea in Babylonian texts, where the assembly of gods is called puhru(m),41 as well as in Ugaritic ˘ texts, where the corresponding term is dt.42 Martin West has pointed to Iliad 8.2–4:43 ˘f
b ŁH Iªæc Ø Æ æØŒæÆı IŒæfi  ŒæıfiB ºı
Øæ
 ˇPºØ: ÆPe
  Iªæı; Łd
 e  ¼Œı: Zeus who delights in the thunderbolt assembled the gods On the highest peak of many-ridged Olympus: He himself spoke to them, and all the gods listened to him.

Here the fusion is complete between the idea of the mountain of the gods and the assembly of the gods. Both of these ideas in the tradition 39 Note, however, the gods living together and holding assemblies on a mountain in Old Norse tradition. 40 Cf. Mullen (1980). 41 Lambert and Millard (1969) 191. 42 Gordon (1947) iii. 255 (glossary entry no. 1455). 43 M. L. West (1997a) 178.

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of Greek epic poetry seem to have a Semitic provenance. On the ground, in practised Greek religion, the picture is rather diVerent: the individual gods have their individual cult-centres in speciWc locations.44 In the Linear B tablets, for example, we Wnd references to Hera receiving oVerings at Pylos (PY Tn 316 v. 9).45 Even the Greek epic poets reXect this local nature of divine cult from time to time. Hera has the epithet æª , ‘Argive’ (Iliad 4.8)—a reference to the major centre of her cult between Argos and Mycenae.46 Athena is, of course, especially associated with Athens.47 Whether the word a-ta-na-po-ti-ni-ja on a Linear B tablet from Cnossus means ‘Lady of Athens’ is debatable;48 but in Homer, the centre of Athena’s cult is plainly Athens (Iliad 2.547, Odyssey 8.80–1). Examples could be multiplied, but we need only note further that Zeus was said to have a  ø  Łı Ø , ‘sacred enclosure and smoking altar’ at Gargarus on Mount Ida (Iliad 8.48), and that Aphrodite had the same on the island of Paphos (Odyssey 8.363). However, once the epic tradition has brought all the gods together on Olympus (with only a few outliers),49 it is much easier for the idea to emerge of Zeus as pre-eminent lord of the gods. A leader arises more readily from the framework of a coherent group than in circumstances where the gods are geographically scattered. Thus Zeus can make that striking speech at Iliad 8.17–27 where he asserts his absolute primacy over all the gods. The gods listen to him in stunned silence. None of them denies what has been said. Athena, in fact, admits that Zeus’ strength is irresistible (Iliad 8.32). Whilst it is, of course, notorious that Zeus is capable of being diverted from his purpose by his wife’s sexual blandishments (Iliad 14.153–360), it 44 See Kearns (2004) 61–3. 45 See Ge´rard-Rousseau (1968) 94–5. 46 Waldstein (1902–5); Amandry (1952). 47 It cannot be established whether the city’s name or the goddess’s was the earlier: cf. Burkert (1985) 139. 48 KN V 52
Il. 6.305. See Ge´rard-Rousseau (1968) 44–5; Palmer (1963) 239. 49 Thetis is sometimes said to live in the briny depths of the sea (Il. 1.358) and sometimes in the house of her husband Peleus (Il. 18.59–60; cf. 1.396). Compare InoLeukothea (Od. 5.335) and Calypso (Od. 5.55). At Il. 20.4–6, Homer depicts Themis summoning the gods to an assembly. She does so ‘ranging everywhere’ (fi j Ø ÆÆ)—that is, she has to go beyond Olympus to call in the rivers and nymphs. But Wgures such as these, divine as they might be in some sense, do not Wgure as great gods in the epic poets’ vision of the pantheon.

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is never seriously in doubt in the Homeric poems that Zeus is the most powerful of the gods. A Wnal aspect of the Homeric Zeus to consider is his family life on Olympus. Perhaps the most striking feature is that he is married with children. Although scholars have noted a number of parallels between the text of Homer and the Old Testament,50 it is unthinkable that the God of the Old Testament might be married, much less have lots of children. Whilst Canaanite and Babylonian sources tell us of the loves of Baal and the wife of Anu, it seems that none of these sources depict the dynamics of divine society quite as subtly as Homer does. Zeus is married to Hera, who also happens to be his sister. She is not under his thumb, however, and is openly critical of him. This seems to be a traditional element, since, when he promises to Thetis that he will aid her son Achilles, he is already concerned about what will happen when Hera Wnds out, saying that Hera will surely provoke him with reproachful words. Indeed, as things are, she always upbraids him and accuses him of giving too much help to the Trojans (Iliad 1.518–21). Here is a picture of a husband who, if not henpecked in the comic sense, is at least wary of the temper of his shrewish wife. The scene on Olympus which closes the Wrst book of the Iliad is drawn with much psychological insight and presents a powerful contrast with the tragic events unfolding on earth: human disputes are not so easily put to one side. One might well feel that this facet of the poems bears the distinctive stamp of the monumental composer Homer, forming as it does part of the consistent moral outlook of the Iliad. The one place where the family life of Zeus is drawn in a manner closest to what we Wnd in Near Eastern sources is also the most surprising. In book 5 of the Iliad, Aphrodite comes down from Olympus and saves her son Aeneas from death at the hands of Diomedes; he, however, encouraged by Athena, wounds her in the wrist and insults her for beguiling young girls to suit her amorous schemes (Iliad 5.339, 349). Aphrodite, unlike her Near Eastern counterpart, is no warrior and immediately returns to Olympus to complain to her parents. 50 Bogan (1658); Gordon (1965); M. L. West (1997a) passim.

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One of the many curious things in this scene is that Aphrodite’s mother is said to be Dione (Iliad 5.370, 381). This is the only place in either epic where Dione appears. Aphrodite, according to an epic formula, is a daughter of Zeus.51 But the presence of her mother Dione in Olympus, alongside Hera, is perplexing. Kirk thought that Homer ‘wished to gloss over the savage old tale of her birth in the sea from Ouranos’ genitals (cf. Hes. Theog. 188–93)’.52 Etymologically, at any rate, the name ˜Ø is a feminine proper noun built to the same root as ˘ , ˜Ø . It has been suggested that the presence of Dione in this scene was in fact motivated by a similar episode in the Babylonian Gilgamesh epic.53 In the latter poem, Ishtar, goddess of love, asks the hero Gilgamesh to have sex with her. Like Diomedes to Aphrodite, Gilgamesh reproaches her with her sexual wantonness. Ishtar immediately speeds oV to heaven and complains to her parents. Her father is called Anu and her mother Antu. Apart from the general thematic similarity between the two passages, it is striking that Antu is nothing other than the feminine of Anu. In other words, Antu is to Anu as Dione is to Zeus. The parallel seems exact and compelling. Jane Harrison thought that Zeus was originally the god of some northern tribe with a patrilinear system. His original wife would have been Dione. But in passing southwards, he left Dione at Dodona and married Hera, an indigenous Wgure representing a matrilinear system.54 This is the purest speculation, of course, and beyond proof—save to say that Dione is recorded as Æ (‘templesharer’) with Zeus at Dodona.55 Gilbert Murray also believed that Dione was an earlier wife of Zeus, before Hera came on the scene.56 Burkert seeks to refute Murray by pointing out that, in the Linear B texts (PY Tn 316 v. 8–10), Hera is already presented as the consort of Zeus sharing his sanctuary at Tiryns.57 But it remains possible that 51 ˜Øe Łıªæ æ
 occurs 8 times in the Iliad, once in Odyssey, and 3 times in Hymn. Hom. Aphr. 52 Kirk (1990) 99. See also Heubeck (1965). 53 Gilgamesh vi 1–91; ANET 83–5 or George (1999) 48–54. See Burkert (1992) 96–8. 54 Harrison (1963) 491. Assumptions about transitions from female to male control are challenged by Sourvinou-Inwood (1988); but see Maass (1993) 3 and 238 n. 19. 55 Strabo 7.7.12, p. 452. 56 Murray (1925) 77. 57 Burkert (1985) 205.

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the Iliadic ˜Ø looks back to a phase of Greek religion even earlier than that recorded in the Linear B tablets.58 There is in the Linear B texts a deity called di-wi-ja, whose name might at Wrst blush appear to be a feminine version of the name of Zeus.59 However, she does not share his sanctuary, but has one all to herself called di-u-ja-jo.60 It is likely that the scene with Dione commended itself on account of its striking content to a poet composing in the Greek epic tradition. We cannot say for sure whether or not this poet was the monumental composer Homer. My own feeling is that the name ˜Ø is not likely to have been called into being by this poet simply in order to render into hexameter verse the Babylonian name Antu. Just as Babylonian can form feminine nouns by means of the inWx /t/, so Greek can do the same by means of the suYx -ø, which was still productive in the Archaic period.61 The name Dione could perfectly well have been of high antiquity, formed within the Indo-European tradition, as is indisputably the case for ˘ =˜Ø .62 Furthermore, we know that Zeus already had a cult at Dodona—hence his epithet ˜ø
øÆE (Iliad 16.233). Strabo (7.7.12, p. 452) tells us that Dione shared Zeus’ temple at Dodona in his day (Wrst century ad). It is conceivable that Dione was already a Æ of ˘f ˜ø
øÆE when the early Greek epic poets were at work.63 It seems unlikely that one of these poets invented the name ˜Ø under the inXuence of the Gilgamesh epic and that her cult at Dodona sprang into being as a result of that literary reference. Given that there was already a cult of Zeus at Dodona, it is perhaps more plausible to suppose that the goddess Dione already existed there too and that her name was thus available to the poet who fashioned this scene. The story of Dione is an example of a Greek epic poet taking a scene from an Akkadian poem and putting it to striking and apposite eVect in its new context. This is a clear example of interaction with Near Eastern sources, although we cannot determine whether the 58 59 60 61 62 63

Cf. Dunkel (1988–91) 17. Ge´rard-Rousseau (1968) 67–70; cf. Dunkel (1988–91) 15–16. Ge´rard-Rousseau (1968) 66–7. Cf. Danae Akrisione at Il. 14.319 and Hera Argeione at Hes. fr. 23 a 20. Ploix (1868) 213–22; Usener (1896) 16, 35–6, 326; Dunkel (1988–91). Cf. Huxley (1969) 29.

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original audiences would have perceived it as such. But we may at least suspect that the same poet was relying on the inherited IndoEuropean tradition when he reached for the name ˜Ø to render the Babylonian Antu.

Iæ  The episode of the wounding of Aphrodite is interesting to students of Homeric religion not only because it motivates the visit to Dione. It also tells us more than perhaps any other passage about the physical nature of the gods as it could be conceived in the Greek epic tradition. When Diomedes’ spear grazes Aphrodite’s skin, Homer tells us (Iliad 5.339–42): Þ
 ¼æ ÆxÆ ŁE Næ, x æ  ÞØ ÆŒæØ ŁEØ: P ªaæ E 
ı , P  ı ÆYŁÆ r , hŒ IÆ  NØ ŒÆd IŁÆØ ŒÆºÆØ. The immortal blood of the goddess Xowed— Ichor, such as runs in [sc. the veins of] the immortal gods. For they do not eat bread nor do they drink sparkling wine;64 Therefore they are bloodless and are called immortal.

First of all, it is noteworthy that the gods are not invulnerable. They might not be able to be killed, but they certainly can be wounded.65 But what is more striking is the direct authorial explanation about divine bloodlessness. Such asides are uncommon in Homer and it is 64 The epithet ‘sparkling’ (ÆYŁÆ) probably refers to the glint of light on wine in a goblet. The adjective, of course, is being used descriptively rather than restrictively (cf. Devine and Stephens (1999) 27); all wine is ‘sparkling’. 65 Admittedly, gods might die according to some traditions: Zeus on Crete (Ennius, ‘Euhemerus’ fr. 11 p. 228 Vahlen; Callim. Hymn 1.8–9); Apollo at Delphi (Euhemerus T4f FGrH; Porph. Pythag. 16; see Fontenrose (1959) 86–9, 381); Dionysus (Orphic Theogony frr. 301–17 Bernabe´; Callim. fr. 643). But the closest Homer seems to come to such traditions is the unreal condition of Il. 5.388: ‘then Ares might have died, if . . .’.

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thus all the more signiWcant that the narrator should step in here to explain a crucial diVerence between men and gods. Eating and drinking are fundamental human characteristics; the gods do not eat and drink as men do. A correlate of this is that they do not have blood; instead, ichor runs in their veins. Elsewhere, too, the epic tradition describes human beings in terms of their particular food. We see this in a phrase such as (æHÞ Q Iææ ŒÆæe 
ıØ (‘[sc. mortals] who eat the fruit of ploughed land’).66 There is also the epithet Iº

. It is not found in the Iliad and only three times in the Odyssey, but always referring to Iæ (‘men’).67 If, as seems likely, it means ‘who eat grain’, then it is another piece of evidence for the idea that men are distinguished by the food they eat.68 Odysseus comments that the Cyclops was a monster, not at all like an I
æ ª تfiø, ‘a man who eats corn’ (Od. 9.191). It is especially revealing that the passage set out above begins by referring to the ¼æ ÆxÆ of Aphrodite. It is worth pausing to consider the meaning of ¼æ. The IE root signifying death was *mrt-.69 The Latin cognate is mors, mortis.70 From this root was ˙ formed a denominative adjective *mr-to-s, ‘mortal’ (the reXex of ˙ which in Greek is æ ).71 The initial /a/ in ¼æ is privative. It derives from IE *n-. Thus an original IE *n-mr-to-s yields ambrotos. ˙ ˙ ˙ Whereas initial *mr- becomes *br-, medial *-mr- becomes *-mbr-. The adjective ¼æ therefore means ‘immortal’.72 66 Il. 6.42; cf. Hymn. Hom. Ap. 365. 67 Od. 1.349, 6.8, 13.261. 68 On the etymology, see further S. R. West on Od. 1.349 in Heubeck, West, and Hainsworth (1988) 119; M. L. West on Hes. Theog. 512. 69 In some of the daughter languages, the noun is built as an i-stem: Lithuanian mirtı`s and Avestan m@r@ ti-. 70 Latin also shows an i-stem treatment. Within Latin, the evolution was probably *mrtis > *mortis > *morts > mors. See Sihler (1995) 318. ˙ The presence of /b/ might seem hard to explain at Wrst sight, but there is in fact a 71 well-established assimilative tendency under which initial *mr- becomes *br-. Thus *mr-to-s > brotos (Gk. æ ). There is a parallel in Greek æÆ , Latin brevis. The ˙ original Indo-European /m/ is vouchsafed by Avestan m@r@zu-, from which the Indo-European original *mrghu is reconstructed. See Sihler (1995) 212. 72 According to Thieme˙(1952b), there were in Greek two homonyms ¼æ I and ¼æ II meaning ‘conferring vitality’ and ‘immortal’ respectively. He seems to come to this position chieXy because he believed that it did not make sense to describe as immortal things such as night (Od. 11.330) or olive oil (Od. 8.364–5) or a

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Although the Greek epic tradition is at pains to make it clear that the gods are ‘bloodless’ (IÆ  ), this cannot be done without referring to blood. So we are told that Aphrodite has ¼æ ÆxÆ (‘immortal blood’), but then that this is not actually blood at all, but a special immortal Xuid with a name of its own, Næ. Does all of this mean that the gods do not eat or drink at all, or rather that they eat and drink diVerent things from mortals? According to Homer, what the gods eat is called Iæ .73 This word appears etymologically quite transparent; it must mean either ‘immortality’ or ‘immortal [sc. food]’.74 The root is the same as that seen in ¼æ ; the intervocalic sigma is the result of the coalescence of the /t/ of the root with the /y/ found in the common

loom (Od. 10.222) or armour (Il. 17.193–6). But it is not clear why it should be any easier to think of these as ‘Lebenskraft spendend’ (conferring vitality). The armour of Achilles was made by a god at the request of a goddess and given to the son of a goddess; it is not diYcult to imagine that the poet could Wguratively describe as immortal something so closely associated with divinity. The loom of Circe might likewise be explained: is it any more plausible to suppose that a loom confers vitality than to say that it is immortal because it belongs to an immortal? The same is true of the olive oil: the immortal Graces apply it to the body of the immortal Aphrodite and we are speciWcally told that the oil is intimately connected with immortality as it Łf K Ł ÆNb KÆ , ‘surrounds the everlasting gods’ (Od. 8.365). Night presumably is immortal because the gods are responsible for it (Od. 23.242–3, Il. 16.567) as they are for the day (Il. 19.1–2); it is less plausible that night ‘confers vitality’ because it is the time for restorative sleep (cf. S. R. West on Od. 4.429). The use of the related adjective IæØ to describe sleep might also owe something to the personiWcation of Sleep as a quasi-divine power that can overcome all gods and men, even Zeus (Il. 14.233–7, 352–3). 73 The precise nature of ambrosia has been the subject of much scholarly discussion, chieXy focused on whether it was a liquid or a solid. See Roscher (1883); Onians (1951) 292–9; M. L. West on Hes. Theog. 640. At Il. 5.777, Simois is said to ‘send up’ ambrosia for horses to feed on (ŁÆØ); it is instructive to compare Il. 13.35, where, if IæØ r
Ææ is the same as Iæ , the use of the verb 
ÆØ suggests solid food. At Od. 5.94, Circe puts out nectar and ambrosia for Hermes and we are told ÆPaæ › E ŒÆd qŁ (‘and he ate and drank’). Given that nobody really doubts that nectar is a liquid, it would appear from this that ambrosia is a solid food. But when the Cyclops describes the wine that Odysseus gives him as Iæ  ŒÆd ŒÆæ . . . Iææ%, ‘a drop of ambrosia and nectar’ (Od. 9.359), it sounds almost as though the two could be mixed to form a Xuid. 74 Iæ  is either a feminine abstract noun in its own right (the feminine gender is perfectly normal for abstract nouns in Greek) or else it is an adjective and there is an ellipse of a noun such as K
ø
. The former view was taken by Buttmann (1840) 133 and Durante (1976) 56–7; the latter favoured by Gu¨ntert (1919) 158.

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adjectival suYx -Ø .75 So the gods have a special food that in its very name recalls their immortal nature.76 In spite of this apparently straightforward Indo-European etymology, Walter Leaf thought that Iæ  had nothing to do with immortality but meant ‘fragrant’. He thought that it was a loanword from Semitic amara, meaning ‘ambergris, the famous perfume to which Oriental nations assign mythical miraculous properties’.77 Following his line of argument, it may be noted that ambrosia is sometimes described as something used to anoint the body, or as a cleanser. At Iliad 16.670, we are told that the corpse of Sarpedon is to be anointed with ambrosia. It does not follow, however, that its primary characteristic is that of a perfume; indeed, it is more likely that its role here is that of a preservative. At Iliad 14.170–1 Hera uses ambrosia to clean oV dirt from her skin (Ie æe ƒæ j ºÆÆ Æ ŒŁæ). But there is no mention here of any perfume. It is true that the Greeks do appear to have associated ambrosia with an agreeable fragrance,78 but it does not follow from this that it was originally a perfume or unguent. A more fundamental obstacle to Leaf ’s theory is that no word amara is attested in any Semitic language at the appropriate period. It is not even clear to what Semitic language(s) Leaf was referring.79 W. B. Stanford considered another loanword: not amara, but ‘Babylonian amru ’.80 Garvie has described this notion as implausible.81 The situation is, in fact, worse than that, since there is no Babylonian 75 Sihler (1995) 149. 76 Thieme (1952b) 28 thought that Iæ  was derived from his ¼æ I (‘conferring vitality’) and so took it to mean ‘vitality’. For the reasons given above, I do not believe that there were two wholly diVerent meanings of ¼æ and so I view Iæ  as primarily denoting immortality. 77 Leaf (1886) i. 38 on Il. 2.19. 78 Hymn. Hom. Bacch. 36–7 (and with the epiphany of gods Hymn. Hom. Merc. 229–32; Hymn. Hom. Dem. 277–8; Thgn. 8–9; [Aesch.] Prom. 115). At Od. 4.445–6, we are told that Iæ  has the power to suppress bad smells. 79 Arabic has a term anbara meaning ‘ambergris’ but it is of the wrong shape and not attested until around the 8th cent. ad. Akkadian murru and Hebrew mo¯r/moˆr both mean ‘myrrh’ rather than ‘ambergris’. But, even if one allowed for some very considerable semantic slippage, it is not clear that either could yield Gk. Iæ . In any case, they already have their counterparts in the Greek ææÆ=æÆ (see LSJ). 80 Stanford (1947) 281 on Od. 4.445; cf. on Od. 18.192–4. 81 Garvie (1994) 222.

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word amru with an appropriate meaning. Once, certainly, an Akkadian ideogram (SˇIMþKUSˇU) was tentatively read as ˇsimam-ruum and interpreted as ‘ambergis’.82 But the more accurate reading of the ideogram seems to be kukru.83 In an alphabetic script, it is scarcely possible to imagine such an error arising; but where ideograms are involved, a mistaken reading can easily result in a wholly wrong pronunciation being assigned. Stanford thus seems to have had in mind a vocabulum which has subsequently been shown not to exist.84 Only the Indo-European etymology of Iæ  remains viable. So the gods eat an immortal food. This digniWed notion of divine diVerence is undermined by a unique but signiWcant passage in which the gods are portrayed as dining on the hecatombs oVered to them (Iliad 9.535). Elsewhere in the Homeric epics, we never Wnd the gods feeding upon sacriWcial portions, nor even upon the fatty Œ  that rises to heaven from burning victims.85 Indeed, Zeus says that sacriWces are the ªæÆ of the gods (Iliad 4.49). And ªæÆ is nothing other than the physical expression of one’s Ø or ‘worth’ in the eyes of others. The gods do not need sacriWce to survive; they demand it as a mark of respect. This avoidance of the idea that the Olympian gods might need to feed on roast meat and fat is in marked distinction to the picture we Wnd in some parts of the Near Eastern tradition. One may contrast the revolting scene where the Babylonian gods are said to gather like Xies around a sacriWcal victim—such was their hunger after the Xood interrupted the usual stream of sacriWcial oVerings from humans on earth.86 Likewise, when the Hittite god Telepinus disappeared, a famine arose and the gods started to perish from hunger (ANET 126).87 There is also a marked contrast with other 82 See von Soden (1965) i, s.v. ‘amrum II’, referring to Landsberger and Krumbiegel (1934) 120. 83 See Gelb et al. (1956–), s.v. ‘amrum’. 84 There are other words in Akkadian that appear as amrum in the lexica but they do not have an appropriate meaning—one means ‘seen’ or ‘chosen’ and the other means ‘beam’ or ‘timber’. 85 See Pulleyn (2000) on Il. 1.66. 86 Epic of Gilgamesh xi 162 ¼ George (1999) 94. 87 Contrast the similar version of Hymn. Hom. Cer., where, however, the gods are not starved, but just deprived of their ‘honoriWc privileges and sacriWces’ (311–12).

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parts of the Greek epic tradition itself. The whole story of Zeus and Prometheus at Mecone only makes sense if Zeus actually wants to eat the best portions of the sacriWcial animal (Hes. Theog. 535–60). In the Homeric Hymn to Hermes we are told that the infant god was Wlled with desire to eat the meat that he roasted (130–2). We can see clearly how the Iliad and the Odyssey diVer on this point both from some Near Eastern ideas and from other parts of the native Greek epic tradition. It is likely that the reference to the gods eating meat at Iliad 9.535 represents the survival of an earlier, perhaps cruder, conception of their nature. By the time the Iliad and Odyssey reach their Wnal form, this has been all but entirely suppressed. Whether we can lay this change in outlook at the door of the monumental composer is unknowable. It is, however, improbable that such a fundamental change can be attributed to one person. It is deeply established in the fabric of the poems and seems to go beyond the sort of stylistic choice that one might ascribe to one individual. This state of aVairs in not unlike what we Wnd in the Old Testament. Whilst it is true that the Pentateuch contains a wealth of detailed instructions concerning the abundant sacriWces that God required to be made every day at the Temple in Jerusalem, there is no sense that He needed these for sustenance. They are oVerings demanded by God’s majesty for the maintenance of good relations with humanity. But even this view comes to be reinterpreted, as when the psalmist says: For thou hast no delight in sacriWce; were I to give thee a burnt oVering, thou wouldst not be pleased. The sacriWce acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise (Psalm 51: 16–17).88

Whilst Iæ  is food for the immortals, it is not clear that it confers immortality, or that the vital power of the gods somehow depends on it. There is in Homeric epic no episode like that in Wagner’s Das Rheingold, where the gods become weak for want of the life-giving apples cultivated by Freya. Indeed, we have already 88 But there is in the Psalms at least a glance at the idea that angels eat a food diVerent from that of mortals: Psalm 78: 25. Briggs and Briggs (1986) ii. 193 see a reference here to ‘a late conception, like the Greek ambrosia’.

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seen that nectar and ambrosia were given to Achilles; but he did not thereby become immortal. For all that, the bard of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes speaks of three large larders in the Cyllenean cave where the nectar and ambrosia were kept under lock and key (247–8). Where these substances ultimately came from is not clear. Simois could generate it spontaneously for the horses of Hera and Athena (Iliad 5.777), but one imagines that the gods had other supplies. There is a reference in the Odyssey to doves bringing nectar to Zeus and having to take a detour to avoid the Clashing Rocks (12.61–3). Overall, there does seem to be a sense in Homer that the words Iæ  and IæØ have a special prestige. They are piled up in certain episodes so as to give the impression that the poet perceives them as especially emblematic of the gods. Thus, when Aphrodite is wounded by Diomedes, we hear that not only her blood but also her very clothing is IæØ (Iliad 5.338). The aura of immortality permeates the dress as well as the wearer.89 In the case of Hermes, this extends even to his sandals (Iliad 21.507). Even more markedly, when Hera is beautifying herself to inveigle Zeus into bed, we hear that she puriWes her skin with Iæ  (Iliad 14.170), that she anoints herself with IæØ olive oil (Iliad 14.172), that her hair is IæØ (Iliad 14.177), and that her clothing is IæØ (Iliad 14.178). Perhaps the word is to be understood within the tradition to denote anything that is infected by the charisma of the deathless gods. Their food is just the most striking example of that phenomenon.

ŒÆæ When Euripides’ chorus of Bacchants sing of the earth Xowing with the ‘nectar’ of bees (Bacchae 141), they are of course referring to honey. But nectar in the Homeric poems is not honey; that is ºØ. In the epics, people consume honey in the normal course of events 89 There are similar references to ¼æÆ ¥ÆÆ at Od. 7.259–60, 265, 24.59. Currie, p. 34 above, perceives a link between ¼æÆ ¥ÆÆ and the conferment of immortality at Iliad 16.670 ¼ 680.

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together with cheese and wine.90 Nectar, on the other hand, is usually reserved for the consumption of the gods. It is therefore natural to consider it in connection with ambrosia. The very Wrst mention of nectar in the Iliad is in the scene at the end of book 1 where the gods are feasting and Hephaestus is acting as their waiter (Iliad 1.597–8): ÆPaæ › E ¼ººØØ ŁE K
%ØÆ AØ NØ ªºıŒf ŒÆæ Ie ŒæBæ Iø. Then he, going from left to right, to all the other gods Poured out sweet nectar, drawing it from the mixing bowl.

There are several features worthy of note here. First, nectar is described as a drink. This might seem an obvious point, but plainly it was not universally understood because in later Greek we Wnd reference to the gods eating nectar rather than drinking it.91 Secondly, nectar is said to be sweet. The root of the adjective used (ªºıŒ ) is also applied to honey (Odyssey 20.69 ªºıŒæ ). But wine is also said to be sweet, although the adjective is a diVerent one (
 : Odyssey 10.519, 11.27).92 The sweetness of honey is plainly connected with that of wine—thus wine is often referred to as ºØ


, ‘honeysweet’ (Iliad 6.258, Odyssey 18.151). Thirdly, it is striking that Hephaestus serves nectar just as though it were wine. Thus, it is mixed in a mixing-bowl and the verb used (Nø) means literally ‘to pour wine’. Elsewhere, nectar is said to be red (Iliad 19.38), just like wine (Odyssey 5.165).93 In fact, the consumption of nectar is one of the chief ways in which gods and humans are diVerentiated in the epics. For all that Hephaestus is described in language more appropriate to a wine-waiter, the 90 Il. 11.624–31, Od. 10.234, 20.69. 91 Alcman fr. 100 Bgk ¼ fr. 42 Davies. Either this was an alternative (and possibly parallel) conception or else a misunderstanding; cf. Hes. Theog. 640, ŒÆæ  Iæ  ;  æ Łd ÆPd 
ıØ. On its face, this is a reference to eating nectar, but the verb might be being used zeugmatically. 92 Wine is never described as ªºıŒ or ªºıŒæ , but as 
 . This word is etymologically cognate with Latin suavis. It is likely that, even in the context of taste, ªºıŒ and 
 have a slightly diVerent semantic range. The diVerence is perhaps clearest at Od. 20.69, where both wine and honey appear in the same line with diVerent adjectives. 93 Honey, on the other hand, is ºøæ, ‘pale’: Il. 11.631.

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gods are never depicted drinking wine in Homer.94 We have already looked at the bloodlessness of the gods in the context of Iliad 5.339– 42. There is an elegant symmetry in the idea that Olympian gods do not drink wine and do not have blood. But when Homer describes Hephaestus as an N using a Œæ æ, are we to suppose that this is a metaphor? It is a little hard to see what would be the point of describing divine potation in human terms. An alternative is to posit an earlier stage in the epic tradition in which the gods did indeed drink wine. When we hear of Ganymede being taken up to Olympus to be Zeus’ cup bearer, the verb used of him is Nø; but this time, there is no mention of nectar (Iliad 20.234). On its face, this passage suggests that Ganymede’s job was to serve wine. Later, however, this idea has been abandoned in favour of a more rareWed and digniWed conception of gods who drink only nectar. We cannot tell for sure when this conception entered the Greek epic tradition; on balance it is probably unlikely that such a fundamental change in religious outlook was the innovation of the monumental composer. That it was once felt that gods somehow wanted wine may be inferred from the practice of libation, of pouring wine onto the ground before drinking or onto sacriWcial animals.95 We never Wnd it said in Homer that the gods actually drink the wine that is poured out for them. There is thus a parallelism in the way that the Homeric poems present ambrosia and nectar. Although we are once told that the gods feed upon hecatombs, elsewhere they eat only ambrosia. Likewise, although some scenes involving the consumption of nectar are inXuenced by the paraphernalia of the sommelier, the prevailing picture is of gods who drink something very diVerent from wine. We have seen that the food of the gods was, by its very name, immortal. It is natural to ask what can be gleaned about ŒÆæ by considering its etymology. Two main theories have been put forward. According to the Wrst, ŒÆæ is of Semitic origin, being derived from the root qtr, which denotes ‘smoke’ or ‘incense’.96 The theory is that 94 But there is probably a reference to it happening in the past at Il. 20.234: see below. 95 For a sacriWcial context: Il. 1.463 with Pulleyn ad loc.; for a non-sacriWcial libation, Il. 10.579. 96 See Levin (1971); followed by M. L. West (1997a) 39 n. 157.

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Greek ŒÆæ is derived from a passive form of qtr 97 (formed by preWxing /n/) meaning ‘incensed’ and refers to a ‘supernal beverage (not necessarily wine) scented with myrrh or other incense from the altar’.98 Morphologically, this is possible. There is certainly a passive of this sort of shape (if we do not worry about the vowels) in Hebrew,99 Akkadian,100 and Ugaritic.101 But the problem is that the root qtr is never found in any Semitic source in this N-passive form before the time of Rashi,102 and even then not in a context where it applies to a drink that was somehow connected with the gods. It is hard to believe that a word that was supposedly important enough in Near Eastern civilizations to be borrowed into Greek to describe the drink of the gods can simply have disappeared without trace. However, there is a perfectly respectable alternative etymology for ŒÆæ.103 Various scholars have demonstrated that such an Indo-European etymology for the word is possible.104 A number of conjectures have been made. The old-fashioned view was that the word was made up of a supposed negative preWx =-,105 followed by the Œ- seen in Œ ø (‘I kill’).106 The meaning would be ‘unkillable’ or, eVectively, ‘immortal’. The obvious defect with this is that the root of Œ ø is Œ- and the /n/ cannot simply be ignored. On another analysis, the word is made up of the preWx =- followed by a zero grade of the root found in the word Œæ , found only in Hesychius and glossed by him as Œæ (‘corpses’). The meaning would be something like ‘un-death’. We do not know where Hesychius found

97 For Hebrew qtr, see Baumgartner (1958) 835–6; for Akkadian qata¯ru, see Black, ˙ (2000) 286; for Ugaritic qtr, see Gordon (1947) iii. 266 (glossary George, and Postgate ˙ no. 1778). 98 Levin (1971) 34. 99 Genesius, Kautzsch, and Cowley (1910) 137–9, 510. 100 Huehnegard (2000) 358. 101 Sivan (2001) 132. 102 Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki, b. ad 1040, d. ad 1105. See Levin (1971) 35. 103 The range of views is indicated by Frisk (1960–72) s.v. 104 Thieme (1952a) 5–15; (1961) 88; (1974) 158–63; Watkins (1995) 391–7. 105 Cf. æ

(‘unerring’< ±Ææø),   (‘windless’< ¼ ). Note that, with the widespread acceptance of laryngeal theory, Greek æ

;   cannot now be related to a putative privative preWx, ne¯-/ne. See Sihler (1995) 106. 106 Autenrieth (1984 (1873)) s.v.

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the word Œæ and nowhere is there attested a word *ŒÆæ- exhibiting zero-grade vocalism and meaning ‘death’. Although that is not of itself fatal to the etymology, one strongly suspects that Hesychius’ gloss was based on a mistaken back-formation from the Homeric word Œæ ø, deWned by LSJ as ‘to bury with due honours’. One can see how somebody might suppose that a verb with that meaning was built on a noun meaning ‘corpse’; but the likelihood is that it refers rather to grave goods and was built on the root Œæ- seen in the noun ŒæÆ , ‘possession’ (Iliad 10.216, 24.235). The verb would thus mean something more like ‘deck with possessions’, an appropriate term in a society that uses funeral gifts. The etymology based on Œæ is therefore not secure. Of all the Indo-European etymologies put forward to date, the best is undoubtedly that according to which the word is built from *nek- þ*terH2 . The Wrst element means ‘death’, reXected in Latin nex; the second element is a verb meaning ‘to overcome’ and is attested in other Indo-European languages.107 Thus nectar is that which ‘overcomes death’. Not only is this etymology satisfactory on the formal level, but the idea of transcending death by special food or drink appears to go back to the inherited Indo-European poetic tradition, to judge from the evidence of Vedic. The Atharvaveda contains a number of spells and magical recipes; in particular this line:108 te´naudane´na¯´ti tara¯ni mrtyu´m ˙ ˙ by that rice-mess let me overpass death109

Paul Thieme showed that Is´opanisad 14 is also directly relevant:110 ˙ vina¯s´e´na mrtyu´m tı¯rtva¯´ sa´mbhu¯tya¯mr´tam as´nute ˙ ˙ having crossed death by destruction, he reaches immortality by becoming

As Watkins observes,111 this line contains three inherited IndoEuropean lexical items: 107 See Watkins (1995) 343–4. ReXexes are seen in Hittite tarhta (‘vanquished’) ˘ and Vedic ata¯rı¯t (‘overcame’). Greek -Ææ must represent a zero-grade -trH2. ˙ 108 AV 4.35.1. 109 See Schmitt (1961) 88. 110 Thieme (1965). 111 Watkins (1995) 392.

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Simon Pulleyn vina¯s´e´na112 . . . tı¯rtva¯´ . . . amr´tam ˙

that are etymologically identical to, and recapitulate in the same order, the elements of Iliad 19.347: mœj-taq  ŒÆd Ilbqos 

This is a most elegant demonstration.113 I would only add that it is highly satisfactory to have an Indo-European etymology both for the food of the gods and their drink that places both words in the same readily understandable semantic Weld. We have already seen how the prestigious term IæØ was sometimes used to refer to the clothing of the immortals.114 Interestingly, the word Œæ is also used of garments—but not those belonging to gods. It is used to describe the clothing that Achilles deWles in his mourning by pouring down ashes over his head when he learns of the death of Patroclus (Iliad 18.25). It is also used of the dress worn by Helen, at which Aphrodite tugs to attract her attention (Iliad 3.385). Are these clothes ‘deathless’ or somehow divine? It is possible that Achilles’ chiton acquires some divine association if we are to think of it as having been among the clothes that we are told his mother Thetis packed up for him in a trunk (Iliad 16.221–4). Helen, of course, is a daughter of Zeus, and so has divine associations. It certainly seems more appropriate to think of ŒæØ clothes as being somehow associated with immortality, like IæØØ ones,115 than as deriving their peculiar character from having been censed or likened to wine that has been smoked by incense.116 112 na¯´s is etymologically connected with Latin nec- and IE *nek-; that /s´/ is the Sanskrit reXex of inherited IE */k/ can be appreciated if one looks at the /s´/ in Skt. das´a (‘ten’) beside the /k/ in Lat. decem and Gk.
ŒÆ. This is the so-called ‘centum/ satem’ division; see Szemere´nyi (1996) 59. 113 It also goes some way answering Levin’s criticism that there is no Sanskrit or other cognate for ŒÆæ. Whilst there is no single word, the collocation of Skt. vina¯´se´na . . . tı¯rtva´¯ is highly suggestive and might reXect the ultimate source of the Greek word in the inherited Indo-European poetic tradition. 114 Il. 5.338, 14.178, 21.507. 115 See above, n. 89. 116 Notwithstanding the Hesychian gloss ŒæŁ _ KŁıŁ.

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Given that the chief thrust of my analysis of the terms Iæ  and ŒÆæ has been to concentrate on their immortal aspects, it is instructive to ask what happens when these substances are administered to humans. After the death of Patroclus, Achilles fasts relentlessly. He will not eat because he cares now only for killing and blood and the groans of the dying (Iliad 19.205–14). This is a terrible image of the warrior who is single-minded and so set apart from his comrades that he does not even recognize the basic human need for food. Odysseus, on the other hand, is far more practical (albeit far less mighty in battle) (Iliad 19.217–19). He tells Achilles Wrmly that no soldier can ignore the needs of his belly (Iliad 19.230–2). As he memorably puts it, the Achaeans cannot mourn the dead with their stomachs (Iliad 19.225). But Achilles will not eat. It is therefore eventually Zeus who has to tell Athena to go to Achilles and instil117 nectar and ambrosia into his breast ¥Æ  Ø ºØe ¥ŒÆØ, ‘lest hunger come upon him’ (Iliad 19.348). One might detect a delicate undermining of the image of Achilles’ robustness here; but, at the same time, it is surely only the most extraordinary mortals who are to be fed on the food of the gods. Just as nectar and ambrosia can save Achilles from starvation, so they can preserve the corpse of Patroclus from corruption. Thus Thetis instils a mixture of the two into Patroclus. Homer rather interestingly says that she pours it into his nostrils (Iliad 19.39); doubtless this is a touch of delicacy to avoid the grotesque image of a sort of food being forced into the mouth of a dead man. The purpose, after all, is not to feed but almost to embalm.118 All of this emphasizes the enormous physical gulf that separates humans from gods. But, as GriYn has pointed out, there is a corresponding moral gulf.119 When Aphrodite visits the battleWeld, she does so safe in the knowledge that she has a return ticket to 117 The verb % at Il. 19.348 suggests a liquid mixture. 118 It cannot necessarily be inferred from this that Homeric Greeks were familiar with that part of the Egyptian practice of embalming described by Herodotus (2.86.3) that involved the removal of the brain via the nostrils and the pouring in of preservative preparations. 119 GriYn (1980) 93 ‘It is the pressure of mortality which imposes on men the compulsion to have virtues; the gods, exempt from that pressure, are, with perfect consistency, less ‘‘virtuous’’ than men.’

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Olympus. She can be a tourist, a spectator on the struggles and death of others, safe in the knowledge that she is never in hazard of her life. The contrast between her dilettante excursion to the battleWeld and the heroic bravery of Hector and Patroclus is absolute and arresting. It is sometimes said that mortal warriors are digniWed or ennobled when, at the peak of their powers, they become
Æ Ø r (‘like a god’). But one might in the end conclude that the human world of bread, wine, comradeship, and real moral courage is more admirable than the shining allurements of Olympus.

3 Homer and Herodotus Christopher Pelling

Let us start not with Homer or with Herodotus, but with tragedy. Jean-Pierre Vernant famously suggested that the ‘tragic moment’, the combination of circumstances that made tragedy so dominant a Wfth-century genre, came at a time when the sense of a past heroic age and code of values coincided with a new sensibility for the community and the rule of law.1 That individualistic world needed to be distant, but not too distant, just as the role of interventionist gods needed to be distant, but not too distant, from everyday experience. The whole created a conceptual mix where the relation, often the clash, of these two worlds of thought and action could be explored with particular urgency and force. This is not the place to engage directly with Vernant’s analysis of tragedy, though thinking about Herodotus in a similar way may suggest some reXections that apply to tragedy too. Perhaps, indeed, the world of the great individuals may not be so distant from Wfth-century culture after all; and perhaps, whatever we Wnd happening in Herodotus or indeed in tragedy, we may Wnd that Homer was already doing himself. Vernant’s analysis certainly provides a thought-provoking set of ideas to play with, and this chapter will play with them in historiography too. The Herodotus I shall portray is one who asks questions which overlap with the ones that Vernant suggests: a Herodotus who operates with some idea of a distinctive set of 1 Vernant (1988 (1972)). Since Vernant these ideas have been much discussed: particularly helpful in diVerent ways are Goldhill (1986), esp. ch. 6, Gould (1996), and Easterling (1997).

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Homeric values, and one who is interested in questioning how distant any such way of thinking is from the world of Wfth-century politics. The answer suggested by the text is doubtless that it varies; that is always the answer with Herodotus. But if at times Herodotus presents us with people who are thinking and acting in ways surprisingly close to their Homeric counterparts, that suggests a way in which he read Homer as well as an interpretation of the more recent past. Nor is it a bad way. Not merely does the Homeric text itself look back to an earlier generation, and weigh how much things have changed;2 it also must have raised for its early hearers, just as for all hearers and readers since, the question how diVerent the world of these heroes really is from the world around them. There is all the glamour, all the wonder of a grand expedition on that scale, all the peculiarly visible role of the gods: men then were so much stronger than men are now (Il. 12.445–9). Yet so much comes closer to home,3 and not just the perennial contrast of good kings and bad, nor even the love of Hector and Andromache. One of the lasting paradoxes of the Iliad is that, in that world which is apparently so diVerent, even an Achilles—apparently the most special of special cases—faces dilemmas and makes choices and is wracked by guilt which we all can understand, which are indeed counterparts of dilemmas and choices and guilt-feelings that can be felt in the world we know. 2 Cf. Strasburger (1972) 28–9, who also wonders if the past generation that Nestor and others look back to (e.g. Agamemnon and Diomedes at Il. 4.370–418) has some counterpart in the portrayal of the gods too, themselves so much more sleek and fashionable than the rugged mortals of an earlier age—and, we might add, than the more rugged past of immortals too: e.g. Il. 1.396–406, 590–4, 5.383–404, 15.18–24. Divine violence like that in the past may still be threatened, e.g. 8.10–17, but the threat is now enough to impose order. 3 Perhaps, indeed, more comes close to home than can be suggested here: van Wees (1992) argues that much of the poem’s social construction reXects conditions of the Dark Age or early Archaic period rather than (or as well as) a heroized distant past (e.g. 58, ‘the economic organisation of the household, the social organisation up to the level of the town, and the political organisation up to the level of the state appear not only coherent but also entirely compatible with what we know of conditions in Greece in the eighth and early seventh century’). van Wees also argues forcefully for a degree of idealization in the Homeric presentation of the princes, able as they so often show themselves to turn battles in a way that may justify their elite privileges: that too is in line with what I am suggesting here, as the other, more glamorous side of the coin.

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‘ M OS T H O M E RI C ’ For Longinus Herodotus was ˇæØŒÆ , ‘most Homeric’ (13.2); in the new Halicarnassus inscription he is ‘the prose, historical Homer’.4 It is easier to make, and indeed to accept,5 those grand generalizations than to be sure that ‘Homer’ is what comes to Herodotus’ listeners’ minds every time he occurs to us, or indeed that ‘Homer’ would have meant to Herodotus what he means to us.6 Some Homeric phrases doubtless became more general cliche´s, and perhaps were already proverbial or colloquial when Homer used them himself;7 other thematic patterns that we Wnd in Homer and in Herodotus we can doubtless Wnd in tragedy or comedy too, or indeed just in life. But this chapter will focus on the why and the where of Homeric touches, and will therefore concentrate on passages where Homeric ‘touches’ are reasonably uncontroversial, either because they are particularly roistering or because they come in 4 Isager (1998): see also Lloyd-Jones (1999) and now Isager and Pedersen (2004). 5 For what Longinus in particular may have had in mind cf. Russell (1964) 115, quoted and discussed by Woodman (1988) 3–4. Among the many more general discussions I have found Huber (1965), Strasburger (1972), Hornblower (1994b) 63–9, and Boedeker (2002) particularly illuminating, along with the commentaries of Stein. 6 On this last point see esp. Graziosi (2002), showing that ‘Homer’ would in Herodotus’ day have meant considerably more than the poet of the Iliad and Odyssey —though Herodotus himself rejects Homeric authorship in the case of the Cypria and is suspicious in that of the Epigoni (2.117, 4.32 with Graziosi (2002) 124 n. 82, 181, 193–5). In general on Herodotus’ critical approach to Homer, especially as a historical source (a topic I cannot go into here), cf. Neville (1977), Marincola (1997a) 225–6, Ford (2002) 146–52, Graziosi (2002) 110–18, and the works they quote. Nor is this the place to debate the diVerent ways that a background of oral tradition may be relevant for both authors: there is much of interest here in Luraghi (2001). 7 See e.g. Macleod (1982), index s.v. ‘colloquial phrases’. This sort of language traditionality can in principle be distinct from the traditionality of the epic formula, for such proverbs can be independent of metrical form: thus Bruno Currie points out to me the proverb constructed around
æF and æ reXected at Il. 22.126, Od. 19.164, and Hes. Theog. 35, each time with a diVerent metrical shape. That said, the metrical shape given to proverbs by canonical literature can itself help to Wx their form as cliche´s, even if the precise metre is sometimes lost (as Shakespeare’s ‘the winter of our discontent’ became ‘the winter of discontent’ when endlessly applied to the events of 1978–9). This has something in common with the ‘almost-but-notquite-metrical’ phenomenon mentioned in n. 40 below.

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clusters: this, presumably, should trigger in readers or listeners a greater readiness to think distinctively of ‘Homer’, whatever or whoever they would take ‘Homer’ to be. If we ask ‘why’ (or, if we prefer to speculate about audience response rather than author’s intention, ‘what eVect does Herodotus’ text have’), some of the answers will doubtless be very general ones,8 answers that cover the whole work: the suggestion that the theme is as important and as grand as Homer’s, that the Persian War is the new Trojan War—the equivalent of those claims that his war is the biggest and bloodiest that Thucydides makes in the Archaeology, or indeed that Herodotus himself makes at 7.20; or of the Homeric resonances in the new Simonides elegy, where the death of Achilles and the eternal fame that Homer brought him are brought into parallel with Simonides’ own immortalization of the Spartan heroics at Plataea (fr. 11 W2);9 the equivalent too of other cases where a lyric poet aspired to play the Homeric role in conferring fame on his Wfthcentury laudandus (e.g. Pind. Isthm. 4.37–44). In Herodotus’ case those suggestions are already there in the proem, with the initial stress on epical fame—these things must not become lacking in kleos (glory), IŒºÆ—working round to the speciWc resonance of the Odyssey—Herodotus will ‘move through the cities of humans, small and big alike’ now in his work as he earlier did in his travels.10 (One theme indeed that links Herodotus and the Odyssey is that 8 Though not as general as Dion. Hal. Pomp. 3 might suggest, Herodotus ‘wished to give variety to his writing by imitating Homer’ (ØŒ º Kıº Ł ØBÆØ c ªæÆc ˇ æı ºøc ª ): true, but the ‘variety’ at stake is more than stylistic. 9 ‘Simonides proposes to do for the Persian War what Homer did for the Trojan War’, Parsons (2001) 57, cf. (1992) 32; ‘surely the point of the Achilles paradigm is . . . the fact that his war was a panhellenic eVort, like the Plataea campaign, and that his exploits were immortalized in song, just as Simonides promises to immortalize the Plataiomachoi’, I. Rutherford (2001) 38. There are further interesting ideas on the way Simonides marks out his relationship to Homer in several of the other contributions to Boedeker and Sider (2001): e.g. Obbink (2001) 71–2; Aloni (2001) 93–5; Stehle (2001), comparing Herodotus at p. 119; Boedeker (2001a) 124–6 and (2001b) 153–63; Shaw (2001) 165, 180–1; Clay (2001); Barchiesi (2001a) 257. See also M. L. West (1993) 6–7; Lloyd-Jones (1994); Bowie (2001). 10 Cf. e.g. Krischer (1965); Nagy (1987); Moles (1993) 92–8; Marincola (1997b); Bakker (2002); but We˛cowski (2004), esp. 155–6, argues that the Herodotean stress on the transience and instability of greatness marks an important diVerence.

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immense sense of space as well as of time that we get from both.)11 Already there is an elevation of Herodotus himself as of his subject: he is the new Odysseus, a man who has travelled and talks about those travels, as well as the new Homer; the ‘things put on display’, I
ŁÆ, of the people he writes about are matched, indeed dependent on, his own ‘putting on display’, I
%Ø .12 And that insertion of his own person not just into the proem but also frequently into the narrative, partly as the one with the insight and knowledge to give authority (no need for the Muse for him, then),13 partly as the one whose curiosity and human understanding are so infectious—that is an important new step. He and his heroes make a team, and they each have a role to play. There are some similarly ‘elevating’ passages mid-text, though there may be a twist. When the Athenian ships sent to help the Ionian Revolt are the ‘beginning of evils (Iæc ŒÆŒH) for Greeks and barbarians’ at 5.97.3, that starts this new equivalent of the Trojan War: and again it is ships, as with those ‘well-balanced ships which started the ills’ (BÆ K Æ j I挌ı ) ‘for the Trojans and for Paris himself ’ at Iliad 5.62–3.14 The twist there is that in the Iliad ‘the Trojans’ were after all on the same side as ‘Paris himself ’; in 11 Marincola (1997b). 12 e.g. Erbse (1956); Nagy (1987); Dewald (2002) 269–71: cf. also Dewald (1999). Thomas (2000) 221–8, 267–9 gives a diVerent and equally valid perspective on Herodotus’ I
%Ø , stressing its links with other contemporary forms of agonistic performance; cf. Bakker (2002). 13 Cf. e.g. Krischer (1965) 162, 166–7; Stambler (1982) 210–11; Giraudeau (1984); Boedeker (2002) 100. This is another link with Simonides’ Plataea, where Stehle (2001) emphasizes that the poet himself is now the principal validator of the poem’s truth: the Muse is his ‘ally’, no more. Cf. Boedeker (2001a) 133–4 and Bowie (2001) 58 and 62–4, both with interesting remarks on the diVerences as well as the similarities between Simonides and Herodotus here. Pindar too vouches for truth himself (e.g. Nem. 7.62–3), and co-operates with the Muse (e.g. Nem. 3.9) as an ‘ally’ (Ol. 13.96–8). (I am again grateful to Bruno Currie here.) Of course, within Odyssey 9–12 Odysseus himself becomes a sort of prototype for this, with his own experience rather than the Muse validating his narrative, and the character at times approximating to the poet: Alcinous explicitly compares Odysseus’ knowing narrative to that of a bard, 11.368. Cf. Strasburger (1972) 21–2. For the external audience, though, the ultimate authority in that part of the narrative remains the Muse. 14 Interesting remarks on these Homerically signiWcant ships in R. Fowler (2003) 317. Of course things do not really start with these ships in the Histories, as the momentum leading to war has been traced much more fully: in a way this is closer

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Herodotus these evils are ‘for Greeks and barbarians’—the two diVerent sides, now linked by their shared suVering. Just so did Herodotus’ own proem bring Greeks and barbarians together, there for doing rather than suVering: a b ‚ººØ; a
b ÆææØØ I
ŁÆ—some of those achievements were put on display by Greeks, some by barbarians. But even that Herodotean uniWcation is in a deeper sense fully Homeric: the similarity of the suVerings of both sides is basic to the insight of Achilles in Iliad 24.15 We have already seen that Herodotus can be like the characters in his text in his magniWcent ‘display’: and so also can his characters be like Herodotus. Thus such ‘elevation’ may be what those characters are adding to the events, not (or not just) Herodotus himself.16 When the Ionian Revolt is reaching its decisive moment and the Ionians had gathered at Lade, . . . there were some public meetings. Doubtless others too made speeches (Mªæø), but in particular Dionysius the Phocaean general spoke as follows: ‘Everything stands on a razor’s edge (Kd %ıæF . . . IŒB ), men of Ionia, whether we are to be free or slaves, and runaway slaves at that (j rÆØ KºıŁæØØ j
ºØØ, ŒÆd ØØ ‰
æfiØ)’ (6.11.1–2).

That ‘on a razor’s edge’ may already be a cliche´, but even if it is the hint of Nestor’s speech in the Doloneia may still be felt:17 to Il. 11.604, where Patroclus’ involvement is the beginning of evil for him (ŒÆŒF
 ¼æÆ ƒ º IæfiB). But even in Homer the causal chain goes back earlier than Paris, even in this same passage: Paris acted as he did because he ‘did not know the gods’ decreed will’, 5.64. The important point is that isolating such ‘beginnings’ is always dealing in half-truths, and that is so in both Herodotus and Homer, as we shall see in the next section. A half-truth can still be insightful, and a good deal better than no truth at all. 15 And not just to that: see the perceptive remarks of R. B. Rutherford (1986) 155–6 on Od. 8.530–1, where Odysseus’ weeping is like that of a bereaved wife as her city falls: ‘he realises, like Achilles, the common ground between friend and foe. This is the lesson of shared and common suVering, common not just to friends and allies, but to all mankind.’ Soph. Ajax 124–6 is the most famous articulation of that insight in tragedy: other examples are collected by R. B. Rutherford (1982) 158–9. 16 So Hornblower (1987) 28–9, coupling Dionysius’ case with Thucydides’ Melesippus, who marks the importance of the coming conXict with this same Iæc ŒÆŒH allusion at 2.12.3 (as, to judge from Ar. Pax 435–6, he did in real life). In the Herodotean context Mªæø may be a pointer to Homer too: Hornblower (1994) 66–7. 17 Rather as Hinds (1998) 26–34 develops for Roman literature the axiom that ‘[t]here is no discursive element . . . no matter how unremarkable in itself, and no matter how frequently repeated in the tradition, that cannot in some imaginable circumstance mobilize a speciWc allusion’.

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F ªaæ
c Ø Kd %ıæF ¥ÆÆØ IŒB j ºÆ ºıªæe ZºŁæ ÆØE Mb ØHÆØ. For now it stands on a razor’s edge for all the Achaeans, whether to die grimly or to live (Il. 10.173–4).

If so, the stylistic enhancement of the moment is part of Dionysius’ own rhetoric. He is trying to stir the troops into taking things seriously, and the mismatch between the grand language and their slack behaviour is precisely his point. What is more, he is right— things are that serious. And if what lay on each edge for Homer’s Nestor was ‘life’ and ‘grim death’, for Herodotus’ Dionysius ‘to be free’ or ‘to be slaves, and runaway slaves at that’, that too captures something important: freedom is indeed to matter to the Greeks as much as life itself. As in so much of this pre-play, they are not thinking that way yet; but they will be soon, and the next time we hear language like that it will have more impact and eVect.18

EXP L ANATION Let us go back to the proem, indeed to the proems of both Homer and Herodotus. Both swiftly focus on causes, blame, ‘who started it’: in Herodotus, ‘the reason why they came to Wght one another’,
Ø m ÆN  KºÆ Iºº ºØØ; in the Iliad, ‘Which of the gods threw the two men to Wght with one another in strife?’,   ¼æ ø ŁH æØ
Ø %ıŒ ŁÆØ; (Il. 1.8). Both passages link closely with their contexts too: the Persians (Herodotus’ text continues) say that the Phoenicians were ‘the reason’ or ‘to blame’, ÆYØØ, that 18 Consider for instance the similar language used by Miltiades to Callimachus before Marathon at 6.109.3: ‘It is up to you now, Callimachus, either to enslave Athens or to make her free, and leave a memorial even greater than that left by Harmodius and Aristogeiton, one that will last as long as humans live . . .’.There too, so Miltiades’ rhetoric suggests, Homeric Œº can still be won in a much more modern world, and inspiration and parallels can be sought from the recent (Harmodius and Aristogeiton) as well as the distant past. Such language itself swiftly becomes exemplary: it is echoed by Mnesiphilus at 8.60a, and given a tellingly diVerent twist on the Persian side at 8.118.2. (I am indebted here to a comment made by Lionel Scott in discussion at Balliol.)

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is, that they started it; Homer’s question picks up the call to the Muse two lines earlier to begin at the point when Agamemnon and Achilles ‘separated in strife’,
ØÆ  Kæ Æ.19 And the proem of the Odyssey too focuses quickly on blame and causation: Zeus exclaims in indignation at the habit of mortals of blaming the gods for everything, when so often it is their own outrageous behaviour that brings them down (Od. 1.33–43). Zeus cites a clinching case to prove his point, that of Aegisthus, about to suVer vengeance at the hand of Orestes: and it is all his own fault, for he was warned. So in the Iliad the initial assumption is that it will be one of the gods that started things; in the Odyssey, that we should look Wrst to mortals. But in both cases (and also in Herodotus, as we shall see) the attempt to deWne where the troubles really begin is swiftly complicated. For in the Iliad Apollo’s role is itself triggered by human action, by the behaviour of Agamemnon; and there is a good deal more in book 1 to suggest that, on the human level, this is a quarrel waiting to happen. Nor are we lacking in divine backstory too, even if it takes till book 24 for the judgement of Paris to be mentioned.20 In the Odyssey the movement goes the other way: despite Zeus’ initial declaration, within forty lines he is explaining that Odysseus’ troubles are coming from the gods, more speciWcally from Poseidon (64–75)—and that the gods can now set things right (76–9). Yet that is complicated too: Poseidon’s anger goes back to Odysseus’ own action in blinding the Cyclops (68–71); and, whatever its application to Odysseus’ present troubles, Zeus’ programmatic declaration is certainly appropriate to the Odyssey as a whole, where the suitors will indeed pay, as Aegisthus has paid, for their ‘outrages’, 19 Krischer (1965); Nagy (1987) 179–80, 184; Bakker (2002) 7. 20 Il. 24.22–30: Reinhardt (1938); Davies (1981); GriYn (1980) 8–9, 66, 195 and n. 49. This issue naturally relates also to the question raised by the mention of Zeus’ will (˜Øe . . . ıº ) at Il. 1.5, a question which is itself complicated by the recurrence of the same half-line in the proem to the Cypria, where Zeus’ plan to relieve the world from over-population is made clear: is that the plan to which the Iliad refers? Or is it some other plan which encompasses the whole war and has orchestrated this quarrel too, perhaps as a way of generating still more destruction, perhaps to start the movement that will bring the war to an end? Or is it a plan that simply starts at 1.528–30 after Thetis’ intercession, and is it only at that point (whatever Hera may say as a partisan, 1.519–20) that Zeus targets the slaughter on Greeks in particular? No reader or hearer can yet be sure, and that is part of the provisionality.

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IÆŁÆº ÆØ (the word that is used here at 34, and that so often recurs with the suitors), and this is indeed their own fault. So in both poems we can begin with a set of assumptions of what sort of cause, human or divine, we might be looking for: but causal explanation is a very complicated business, and the interaction of gods and humans is bound to be complex too. There has to be a provisionality about any explanations in a narrative as subtle as this. The movement in Herodotus’ proem shows a similar provisionality. The Wrst sentence suggests that this may be a godless story, a ªÆ K% IŁæø, the ‘things originating from humans’. That Wts the way the initial myths are told too, with no divine lovers for Europa or Io, no magical arts for Medea, no beauty contest for Paris.21 It is a feint towards writing as Thucydides was to write. But within a few chapters we are discovering that we cannot leave out the gods, or something like them: ‘it was necessary that things would turn out badly for Candaules’ (1.8.2), and Gyges begins that ancestral curse (1.13.2).22 Similar patterns reassert themselves on several other occasions when Homeric echoes are most felt. When news arrives of the fall of the Acropolis, the frenzied rush to the ships at 8.56 is clearly modelled on Iliad 2.149–54: and notice that the source-passage in Homer is one of human weakness and terror, bad leadership and misunderstanding, not one of uplift and ‘heroism’. Someone needs to take a hand. In Homer it is Athena, Wrst inspired by Hera and then in what she herself says to inspire Odysseus. In Herodotus the Athena-Wgure is Mnesiphilus, who puts ideas into Themistocles’ mind:23 for the moment the divine role has been taken over by human inspiration, and that says something about the qualities that explain the Greek victory. But only for the moment; one cannot leave the gods out of this completely any more than one could at the 21 On this ‘determined rationalization’ of the Wrst chapters see esp. S. R. West (2002) 8–15: she revives Rawlinson’s suggestion that Herodotus here draws on Phrynichus’ Phoenician Women. 22 Pelling (1999) 334 –5; cf. We˛cowski (2004) 153, ‘[i]n his abduction stories, he light-heartedly dismisses the tendency of some of his predecessors and contemporaries to deprive the world of its ethico-religious aspect’. Cf. Pelliccia (1992) on the abduction-stories as a ‘false-start recusatio’; Lateiner (1989) 38; Thomas (2000) 268–9. 23 Pohlenz (1937) 144; Huber (1965) 39.

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beginning of book 1; we have already seen them active in Delphi and before, and we shall very soon see them again.24 Ultimately, we will have to move closer to a Homeric divine register after all. In that case, as (we shall see) in some others, it is tempting to view Herodotus as plotting how traditional story-patterns come to operate in a diVerent world, rather as Thucydides’ juxtaposition of the Melian Dialogue and the Sicilian expedition oVers a version of a traditional moral pattern, but indicates secular and human explanations for it.25 And there is much in that view, even though in Herodotus we would not limit those newer explanatory strands to the human and secular. Indeed, one of the points that links him to Homer is the way that he may strip away a great amount of the fabulous, as GriYn showed that Homer’s epics shed a good deal of the more miraculous baggage we see in the Epic Cycle;26 but the divine element that is left renders things more credible, not less.27 Would it after all be more credible to have an Odysseus surviving a storm like that without divine assistance? Or Priam Wnding his way unaided through enemy lines to Achilles’ tent? Or Achilles just managing to restrain himself, thinking of all the extra gold that he might gain that way, rather than knowing that when Athena pulls you by the hair the wise person decides that it is time to draw back? Would it be more credible to have Greece surviving the Persian invasion without some divine dimension? Or the shower of rain that saves Croesus being just a meteorological coincidence? Or all those oracles coming out so true just because Delphi has a particularly good sense of which long-odds horse to back? Try the human dimension Wrst, and you will always Wnd something, and 24 Divine involvement will indeed be clear very soon, with the earthquake that follows at the next dawn (64.1) and the dust-storm from Eleusis with its eerie accompaniment (65.1–2). Earthquakes and dust-storms are natural phenomena— but they are as unlikely to be coincidental here as the rainstorm, precisely on cue, was at 1.87.2. 8.77 then gives Herodotus’ most explicit statement of belief in oracles. And once the Wghting starts the supernatural is again sensed, with the possible (though not explicitly preferred) version that a supernatural female stirred the retreating Greeks into action (8.84.2). 25 Connor (1984) 161–2. Those patterns were naturally central to the argument of Cornford (1907) for a Thucydides Mythistoricus, esp. 220: ‘What need of further comment? Tycheˆ, Elpis, Apateˆ, Hybris, Eros, Phthonos, Nemesis, Ateˆ—all these have crossed the stage and the play is done.’ 26 GriYn (2001 [1977]). 27 Strasburger (1972) 32 makes this point very well.

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usually Wnd enough; but there are times when you will not, just as there are times when those Thucydides-like gestures have to be abandoned as only feints.

PAT TE RN S O F E X P E R I E N C E If we go back to the proem we shall Wnd more of those feints and redirections. The strong phrasing of 1.5.3—‘I am not moving with any intention to say that these things happened in this way or any other way; I shall indicate the man who I myself know began unjust deeds against the Greeks, and then go forward to the rest of my narrative . . .’—may seem to dismiss all those early stories, not (it seems) because they are irrelevant but because he cannot be sure that they are true;28 he will turn to the man who he knows started the train of injustices—another Thucydides-like move, dragging the story into limits imposed by Wrm knowledge and into a world much closer to his own. Yet the story turns out to be distinctly Homeric after all. Like the Iliad—Chryseis, Briseis, and Helen—it starts with a woman: this may look like a typical male strategy (a woman’s place is in the wrong), yet there is more to it than that, for—again as in the Iliad—it is when the men take over that the conXict becomes shattering. It is not the beautiful woman, but the male’s assertion of proprietorial pride, that makes the real diVerence.29 There are some interesting further redirections in the narrative of Croesus: moments when it seems that a diVerent sort of story, driven by diVerent motives and values, may assert itself—one of fear and expansion, say, rather than pride and revenge; and yet the story of the Lydian dynasty ends by reverting to something like a Homeric pattern, with bereaved fathers, a wealthy country destroyed by a more eVective Wghting force, a divine perspective which cannot be avoided and personalized gods who negotiate with one another to do the best they can for their favourite. At the end ‘Cyrus released 28 Gould (1989) 64. 29 A point not too far from that suggested in the abduction-stories at 1.4.1–2, precisely in the context of the Trojan War.

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Croesus, invited him to sit close to him, and took great care of him: he marvelled as he looked upon him, he and all those around him’ (1.88.1): this is very much the ‘marvel’, the Ł with which Achilles so memorably gazed upon Priam ‘and the others marvelled too’, at Iliad 24.480–4.30 That presages, indeed partly reXects, a deeper union of perspective of conqueror and conquered, as Cyrus and Croesus discover they can understand one another rather well. Indeed, Cyrus’ reading of the lesson is closer both to Solon’s own words (1.32) and, in part, to Iliad 2431 than to anything Croesus has explicitly said: Cyrus, reXected that he too was a human, and now it was another human, one who had been no less fortunate (P
Æ ø) than himself, whom he was consigning alive to the pyre . . . (1.86.6).

The victor and the king who is losing everything sense the human vulnerability that they share, and in Croesus’ fate Cyrus sees a version of what might be his own. There have also been those strands in the Croesus-logos that would seem to suggest a more ‘modern’ world to Herodotus’ audience, just as they do to us—themes of pre-emptive strikes, of land-hunger, of leaders who understand a good deal less than they think they do, of fear triggering exactly the consequence most feared. Yet even in diVerent worlds the same insights can apply: that last theme of disastrous fear itself came out in two very diVerent registers, Wrst in the Atys episode and then in Croesus’ move against the growing Persian threat. Jasper GriYn has brought out similarly that themes 30 The parallel is noted by Stein: cf. e.g. Chiasson (2003) 27–8 n. 78. The same context was evoked at the beginning of the Atys–Adrastus episode (1.35.1), one of many close links between the two sequences: Croesus’ Wnal pity for Adrastus (1.45.2) also has something in common with Achilles’ for Priam (Il. 24.516, 525–6) and Adrastus as the ‘ÆæııæÆ of any man he knew’ (1.45.3) with Priam’s words at 24.505–6; and if it is the killer in Homer and the bereaved father in Herodotus who pities, and the bereaved father in Homer and the killer in Herodotus who is so marked out by disaster, that reXects the unity of loss and suVering that both parties share. This is not to deny the presence of tragic elements too, as argued elaborately by Chiasson (2003); the disentangling of ‘epic’ and ‘tragic’ components is a complex question, and one that is largely unreal in view of so much ‘tragic form and feeling’ already in the Iliad itself (R. B. Rutherford (1982); cf. GriYn (1980), esp. ch. iv; Macleod (1983) 157–8; and R. B. Rutherford (forthcoming)). 31 So R. B. Rutherford (1982) 158–9.

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can be borrowed from fable, and still have application in the hard, cynical world of aggressive nations and cities.32 There are indeed many more inXuences than Homer at play here, as GriYn stresses in that paper, but now we are seeing some similar adaptation of Homeric patterns too. Nor is that just a literary game, a ‘Xourish’,33 a way of bonding with a cultured reader who conspiratorially delights in recognizing a clever allusion. If these patterns held for Homer, then that goes with the way that they have held earlier in Herodotus’ own narrative and—we can add—may go on to hold in the audience’s contemporary experience as well. All that makes them, indeed, ‘patterns’: not necessarily universal ones, for not everyone need fall into every peril and some may have good luck as well as bad, but patterns which universally threaten, universally have potential validity.

HISTORICAL CONTINUITY AND HISTORICAL CHANGE

(a) Psammenitus This is not to say that Herodotus plays down historical change; perhaps it is saying only that Herodotus felt what we all feel, that the insights of Iliad 24 are eternally moving, even true, no matter how the world may change. (That, indeed, is why we can use such readings of Herodotus to ‘interact’ with our reading of Homer, conWrming—perhaps also occasionally renuancing—‘what we all feel’.) But there are ways too in which Homer can be used by Herodotus to plot historical development. Homer’s Priam is recalled on another occasion, one where memories of Cyrus and Croesus are not far to seek. After Egypt has fallen another king, this time Cambyses, tries a gruesome experiment of his own with his defeated enemy. At 3.14–16 Cambyses ‘made trial of the soul of Psammenitus’ by—once again—setting up a ceremonial 32 GriYn (1990a). 33 ‘Floskel’ is the favourite word in the German literature.

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execution.34 Psammenitus is brought to tears, not by the sight of his daughter carrying water in the dress of a slave nor even of his son being led oV to execution, but by the sight of his old drinkingcompanion reduced to beggary ‘on the threshold of old age’, Kd ª æÆ P
fiH (14.10): that ‘threshold of old age’ that Priam dwells on when contemplating his own coming death at Iliad 22.60. Even in Homer that may be a proverb and certainly seems to be a formula, but that need not exclude the speciWc allusion in Herodotus.35 What makes this particularly clear is the way that Priam went on gloomily to foresee ‘his sons being killed and his daughters being dragged away’ into slavery (22.62), very much the previous elements in Psammenitus’ misery here.36 Then Croesus himself is introduced unheralded to the scene, itself a pointer to the contact with his own parallel experience.37 Croesus gets the pathetic point, and weeps; so do the Persians; Cambyses himself is touched by pity, and like Cyrus before him orders a stay of execution, this time of the son who has been led to his death. But this time everything misWres. The attempt to save Psammenitus’ son is too late, for he has already been killed by the time the message arrives; Psammenitus is accepted Croesus-like to Cambyses’ entourage, but starts plotting and has to take his own life; and, 34 On the taste of Herodotus’ kings for experimentation, sometimes gruesome, Christ (1994); on Cambyses as a particularly perverse experimenter, Munson (1991) 58–62. 35 Cf. above, p. 80 and n. 17. The phrase’s formulaic and perhaps proverbial character is suggested by Il. 24.487, Od. 15.348, and, less closely, 15.246 and 23.212. But even within the Homeric poems the climactic character of Il. 22.60–5 may allow it to be recalled pathetically in later passages: 24.487–9 is explicitly drawing a parallel between Peleus’ misery and Priam’s own, and the ‘aZictions’ imposed on the defenceless Peleus ( æıØ, 489) are a peacetime version of those that await Priam; and Priam may well also be recalled at Od. 15.348 as a parallel to Laertes, left helpless by Odysseus as Priam was by Hector. (This note is again indebted to Bruno Currie.) 36 Huber (1965) 33. The daughter is ‘dressed in slave-clothing, carrying a pot to a well’. The commentators rightly Wnd a further reminiscence there of Il. 6.457–8, Hector’s vision of Andromache in slavery. The Homeric passages complement one another, as husband and father both foresee the collapse of the family dearest to them; and the contrast with the present regality once again points the universality of such human vulnerability, for Psammenitus is not alone in suVering so much. 37 Another pointer may be Psammenitus’ addressing Cambyses as t ÆE ˚æı at 14.10.

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despite that echo of Homer’s Priam, Cambyses is far from the insight of Iliad 24 in his vicious vindictiveness towards the dead Amasis (16).38 That may recall the Achilles who maltreats Hector; but this is not the Achilles who reaches his calmer insight with Priam. As in Croesus’ case in book 1, the echo of Iliad 24 and the other king’s archetypal miseries underlines the universal vulnerability of any human, however prosperous. That point was grasped by Cyrus and, at least for the moment, he allowed it to guide and restrain his own conduct; but it is not grasped by Cambyses, even though the destruction of his own house and descent will indeed have something in common with Psammenitus’ own, not least because it is caused by the same person (himself). Croesus and Cyrus come to some sort of shared understanding; Cambyses and the Egyptian king miss one another.39 So the Homeric touch again points to a level of universal truth, one marked by the recurrence of a pattern both from the Iliad and from Herodotus’ own earlier narrative. In one way it marks historical change, as Cambyses is already a lesser Cyrus and Psammenitus a lesser Croesus, failing morally and intellectually where the earlier men did not; in another it marks continuity, as the lesson is still the same and still there to be learnt, by Herodotus’ readers if not by Cambyses himself.

(b) Gelon One of the reasons why old patterns Wt so well is that sometimes the old world has not changed that much—even if the participants think it has. Take one of the most famous Homeric moments, when Gelon of Syracuse suggests he ought to have supreme command if he is to Wght at all. q Œ ª N%Ø › —º
 ªÆø, cries the horriWed Spartan ambassador, ‘Agamemnon descendant of Pelops 38 Yet even that may misWre, as his victim may not have been Amasis at all, 16.5–6. Even though this Egyptian version is rejected, §7, it contributes to the air of uncertainty and misapprehension. 39 Asheri (1990) 228 notes the parallels between the scenes, but not the diVerences of tone: ‘the Wgure of Cambyses shows humane features and is not fundamentally diVerent from that of Cyrus in his conversation with the captured Croesus’.

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would indeed cry loudly’ (7.159.1)—not merely Homeric phrasing (Il. 7.125) but almost, not quite,40 a full hexameter too. What a terrible travesty of Greece’s past that would be, how unworthy of an epic hero. Yet would it? After all, jealousies over leadership issues, with the leader being one person, the man who was making the greatest contribution another, and the Panhellenic cause suVering for it— that is what the Iliad and its Agamemnon are about. The very sourcepassage in the Iliad again comes in a not specially heroic setting, after the Greeks have been notably reluctant to respond to Hector’s challenge and Agamemnon himself has urged Menelaus not to risk his life: ‘Old Peleus the horseman would indeed cry loudly’ to see such craven behaviour. It is a moment when Achilles is particularly missed: no wonder that Achilles’ father Peleus is the man who comes to Nestor’s mind.41 Not that the Athenians in Herodotus are any more respectful than the Spartans. When Gelon raises the question of commanding either the sea-force or the land-force, the Athenian envoy immediately jumps in, rather more wordily than the Spartan, appealing to Athens’ unique autochthony and to—Homer, and the complimentary mention of Menestheus in the Catalogue of Ships (2.552–4).42 This is not the only time where we will see characters in the Histories striking 40 Cf. Hornblower (1994) 65–9 on that almost-but-not-quite, esp. 66 on this passage. An epic Xavouring may already be introduced by another near-hexameter at 7.156.2, when under Gelon Syracuse Ia  
æÆ ŒÆd ºÆ: so Stein ad loc., suspecting an epic original Ia  
æÆ M
 IºÆ. The closest Homeric parallels again concern Achilles: Il. 18.56, 437. Further examples of ‘hexameters and hexameters manque´s’ are collected by Boedeker (2001a) 123–4, who like Stein is in most cases inclined to believe that they reXect adaptations from speciWc epic or elegiac originals (she thinks poetic narratives of these events). I am not convinced. For Agamemnon as a Spartan symbol of Panhellenism, cf. 1.67 with Asheri (1988) 310 ad loc., and Stein and How–Wells on 7.159.1. 41 The scholia observe, and are concerned by, the way that Peleus is not otherwise relevant in the Homeric passage. ‘Peleus was a respected Wgure who typically Wlled the role of the father sending oV his son to Troy, and whom Nestor once visited’, Kirk ad loc.; but there is more to it than that. There is a similar point in Agamemnon’s own remarks at 7.114–15, claiming that even Achilles used to shy from Wghting Hector: not it seems true (cf. Hera at 5.788–9 as well as Achilles himself at 9.352–5), just ‘persuasive exaggeration’ (Kirk), but still typically and tellingly defeatist. 42 Compare the similar (though more perfunctory) Athenian appeal to the Trojan War at 9.27.4, in an episode that multiply recalls Gelon. Loraux (1986) 70–2 points

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Homeric poses or postures in ways which are disquieting, characters who may try like Dionysius of Phocaea (above, p. 80) to ‘elevate’ their rhetoric or their cause but manage only to suggest a lack of stature.43 But once again it is not as if these squabblings among Greeks are themselves un-Homeric. Indeed, by this stage of the debate the smooth approach of the Spartans and Athenians, pleading for ‘all Greece to come together’ and approaching Gelon as a Greek—‘as ruler of Sicily not the smallest part of Greece is yours’, 7.157.2—is beginning to be unmasked; he is now asked to ‘help the Greeks’ as an outsider (159.1, cf. 161.1).44 And it is interesting how much of the unmasking deals in terms and ideas familiar from the Iliad, and particularly from the initial quarrel of Agamemnon and Achilles. Now Gelon can reasonably, if less wrathfully than Achilles, protest that he deserves to be treated with more respect: the Greeks’ neglect of his reasonable claims in the past is a matter of ‘dishonouring’, IØ  (158.4, cf. Il. 1.171, 356, 507, 9.111, etc.); their treatment of him now is dishonouring too (æ ÆÆ, 160.1, cf. Il. 1.203, 214, 9.368), and, even though the Athenians may deny it, ‘insult’ (ZØ
 , 161.3, cf. Il. 1.211, 291). And Gelon’s Wnal parting message—tell Greece that the spring has gone out of the year, 162.1—not merely acknowledges that Greece is one thing and he is another. It also suggests more than its surface meaning45 that the Greeks had lost the hope of their choicest forces; for its more natural application is the one which we are told Pericles gave it in a funeral speech,46 that out that Trojan War rhetoric is noticeably played down in the later epitaphioi, and relates this to its Panhellenic Xavour: that taste was lost once Athenian aspirations became more hegemonic. That seems right—but in both Herodotean passages the emphasis still falls on how such rhetoric is annexed for local civic pride, and it shows the Panhellenic cause as threatened and fragmented rather than uniWed and strengthened. 43 Lateiner (1989) 100. 44 A small but signiWcant diVerence from 157.2, where the invitation was ‘to help’—ŁØ, the same word as at 159.1—‘those who are Wghting for Greece’s liberty, and join them in that Wght for freedom’. 45 This point holds whether or not we follow Wesseling and Hude in deleting the explanation of that surface meaning at 162.2. Rose´n keeps the passage in his 1997 Teubner text, I think rightly. 46 Arist. Rhet. 1365a31–3, 1411a2–4. The context may be the speech on Samos in 440/439 bc (Plut. Per. 8.9, 28.4: so e.g. Treves (1941), and Stadter (1973b) 119 and (1989) 110) or the historical counterpart of Thuc. 2.35–46 in 431/430 (so Fornara

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the city had lost in combat its Wnest young men in their prime. The one meaning, the pigheadedness which leads to the loss of the most valuable contribution, can so easily lead to the other, the massacre of the Xower of Greece’s youth. And that happened in the Iliad too. So it happened in the Homeric past; it happened in 480; and— especially pointedly if the particular allusion to Pericles is sensed47— overreaching hegemonic ambitions and inter-polis jealousies were continuing to devastate Greece still. Later in this chapter we shall see further ways in which the backward glances aVorded by Homer can go closely with forward glances to Herodotus’ own day.

(c) Leonidas Sometimes questions of continuity or change can be more complicated and enigmatic. The battle over Leonidas’ corpse at the end of book 7 shows Herodotus ‘at his most Homeric’,48 as this sequence (1971) 83 n. 12). But Girard (1919) may be right in assuming that both ‘Gelon’ and Pericles are echoing a proverb, or Stein ad loc. in supposing a poetic allusion (‘und jedenfalls hat es Perikles zutreVender angewendet als Gelon’), or Hauvette (1894) 337 in suggesting a poetic quotation that became proverbial: not that this need exclude a Periclean hint in Herodotus as well. 47 So Treves (1941) and, with diVerent interpretation, Fornara (1971) 83–4; Munson (2001) 218–19. In the Samian speech (see last n.) Pericles claimed that his own achievement was greater than Agamemnon’s (Ion of Chios FGrH 392 F 16 ¼ Plut. Per. 28.7). That contrast too—if the Periclean context is the Samian speech and if it is recalled here—gives an extra perspective: Pericles’ point was to exalt the achievement of the present (cf. Thuc. 2.36.3), Herodotus’ to stress its continuity with the past. The implications of this lead in a diVerent direction from the emphasis of Treves, Wnding here ‘further evidence of the Periclean and pro-Athenian leanings of the historian’ (322). 48 Boedeker (2003) 34–6; cf. Munson (2001) 175–8. Particular Homeric echoes or parallels include the dawn-light glimmering through, just as the crucial days of the Iliad Wghting begin with dawn-breaks (7.217.2, 219.2
Il. 11.1–2, 19.1–2); the same phrase will recur before Salamis and before Plataea, linking the three great episodes with one another (8.83.1, 9.47); the description of the struggle as an TŁØe . . . ºº (225.1
Il. 17.274, see p. 97, below); the corpses falling on one another (223.2, 225.1
Il. 17.361–2); the Greeks valorously % æıÆ the corpse and turned the enemies four times (225.1
the Trojans were turned three times and the Greeks thankfully —挺 bŒ ºø KæÆ j ŒŁÆ K ºØ, Il. 18.232–3); the Greeks seeing that the battle is turning to the enemy (225.2
Ajax’s perception at Il. 17.626–33); the stele with the lion (
‘Leonidas’) ‘standing ’ emblematically where the Greeks took their Wnal stance (225.2
Il. 17.434–5, and

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replays the struggle over Patroclus’ body in Iliad 17–18. It is a particularly good opportunity to face up to the question put, perfectly fairly, by Tony Woodman: ‘What about battle-scenes? If they are in some sense Homeric, does this mean that Herodotus believed that history repeats itself, and, if he does, what implications does this have for his work as history?’49 The answer to the Wrst part of Woodman’s question is ‘yes and no’; to the second, I hope, ‘interesting ones’. When Leonidas insists that it would be dishonourable for Spartans to leave their post, Herodotus explains why: ‘if he stayed there, great glory (kleos) would be left for him, and the prosperity of Sparta would not be wiped away’ (Ø
b ÆPF Œº ªÆ Kº ; ŒÆd  æ P
ÆØ  PŒ K%º ),50 7.220.2—phrasing that recalls Herodotus’ own proem, and the link there between preserving kleos and ensuring that deeds did not ‘fade away’.51 In a microcosm of that proemial interplay of heroes and writer, Leonidas and Herodotus himself both have their roles in monumentalizing that kleos, one in doing, the other in describing; and Leonidas is as self-conscious about the immortality he is securing as characters within the Iliad itself, Helen and Achilles prime among them (more on this in a moment). He, like them, even has insight into the divine scheme of things: here it is the oracle, promising that Sparta will either be destroyed or will lose a king (220.3–4). That enables him to see his own role in the broader plot. lion-imagery is specially frequent in this Iliad sequence); Xerxes’ decapitation of Leonidas’ corpse (7.238
Hector’s desire to do the same to Patroclus, Il. 17.126–7, 18.176–7, below, n. 62). Even the wording of the oracle at 220.4 has more in common with the Iliad sequence than its metre: cf. its last two lines with Il. 17.502–4. Also perhaps I , 223.4: Stein cites Il. 20.332, apparently the only Homeric instance (but the Homeric reading is not secure). 49 Woodman (1988) 3. The questions raised, again in the context of the Thermopylae narrative, by Dillery (1996) 217 are not too diVerent. 50 An almost Gorgianic jingle, as Gregory Hutchinson points out to me, both in the balance of its clauses and its near-rhyme: and the poised interlinking of individual Œº and the public prosperity reXects a balance and connection of substance as well as of style. Compare Alcibiades’ link of his own
%Æ and the public Tº Æ at Thuc. 6.15.1, where again future memory becomes important (16.5): but the claimed balance of public and private is there more sinister (Macleod (1983) 70–6). 51 Cf. Nagy (1990b) 221–7, Munson (2001) 177. It may also allude to Simonides PMG 531 on, precisely, the dead of Thermopylae: ÆæıæE
b ŒÆd ¸ø
Æ , j

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It is indeed natural to use such language of ‘role’ and ‘plot’, for Leonidas and the Spartans are almost writing their own script, carefully ensuring that everything looks right (hair nicely combed for these modern equivalents of the Homeric ‘long-haired Achaeans’,52 208.3; memorable lines about arrows and shade as ‘memorials of himself ’, 226.2). Leonidas wanted to ‘lay down the kleos of the Spartans alone’ (7.220.4) (ŒÆÆŁŁÆØ: another poetic allusion, it seems, as in the hexameter quoted or made up53 at Plato, Symp. 208c, ŒÆd Œº K e Id æ IŁÆ ŒÆÆŁŁÆØ), and the allies must be sent away. Everything must be just Spartan, just right. And it works. There is indeed something magniWcent about Leonidas and the three hundred. Xerxes may have ‘laughed’ at Demaratus when he Wrst told the king about Spartan obedience to the rule of law (7.105.1, cf. 209.1–2); he is not laughing now, and he treats Demaratus with new respect (234–7). MagniWcent, and ‘heroic’ too: the kleos Leonidas wins is virtually immediate, and has eVect within the later phases of the narrative itself. Before Plataea Mardonius scornfully asks, with echoes both of Demaratus and of Leonidas, what has happened to that kleos of the Spartans: where are these people who never desert their post? (9.48).54 Are they afraid to square up against the Persians, equal numbers against equal numbers æÆ Æغ ; IæA ªÆ kekoip¿r j Œ IÆ  jkœor (‘Leonidas, king of Sparta, bears testimony, who left behind a great adornment of valour and everlasting kleos’). Or perhaps it is just that Simonides and Herodotus are both ‘making the case’ in similar ways for the heroization of Leonidas and his men (so Dillery (1996) 246–9). 52 Œæ ŒøÆ ÆØ , Il. 2.11 etc: I owe this nice point to Stephanie West. 53 Dover (1980) 152 ad loc. assumes it is a citation; Bury (1932) 118 ad loc. thinks ‘it is just as possible that Diotima herself is the authoress—rivalling Agathon’. Either way, it is a most un-Homeric hexameter, not least in its use of the deWnite article (e Id æ). Even if it is a citation, it need not follow that Leonidas is thinking speciWcally of the hexameter which Diotima quotes; both may be reXecting traditional epic diction. That is also likely to be the case at 7.178.2, where the Delphians reveal to the Greeks the oracle to pray to the winds, and K%ƪª ºÆ æØ IŁÆ ŒÆŁ: the hexametric rhythm there is noted by Stein, How–Wells, and Stehle ap. Boedeker (2001a) 123. The language is in its turn echoed by Lampon at 9.78.2: below, p. 98. The pattern of inspiring language, and the heroic behaviour it inspires, is indeed instantaneously becoming a tradition. Cf. also Brasidas’ resonant conclusion at Thuc. 4.87.6. 54 On Mardonius’ taunts cf. esp. Dillery (1996) 242–4. The story of Lampon (last n. and p. 98 below) is another pointer to this immediate monumentalization.

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(9.48.4)—these people who, Demaratus had claimed (7.103–4) and Leonidas had shown,55 would not be cowed even if outnumbered ten to one? Nothing could contrast more with Leonidas than the shambles of the Spartan troop-movements at Plataea, to and fro in front of the enemy’s eyes. That heroic past, however recent, is already coming to seem monumentalized and distant. Still, even in the Thermopylae narrative itself there was a hint of the less glorious world that they are living in, the need to orchestrate. Remember that concern ‘to lay down the glory of the Spartans alone’: better to send the allies away than to have them squabble and melt away dishonourably, for that is the alternative that looms. There are other points, too, that suggest that glamour is not quite what it used to be. Now the kleos to be ‘laid down’ is that ‘of the Spartans’: it is no longer a matter just of individual glory, but to be part of a group, one of Three Hundred Spartans. And 220.2 is again telling, Ø
b ÆPF Œº ªÆ Kº , ŒÆd  æ P
ÆØ  PŒ K%º  (‘if he stayed there, great glory would be left for him, and the prosperity of Sparta would not be wiped away’): individual glory still matters—this is kleos ‘for him’—but it is more directly, or at least (if one thinks about Hector) more explicitly, intertwined with the fate of his community.56 Then the response of the Spartans to the one man who missed the battle through ophthalmia is one of menis, ‘wrath’ (229.2). In Herodotus as in Homer—except of course for Achilles—that word is generally used of gods or heroes, as a few chapters earlier at 7.197.3.57 The relation of menis to staying out of 55 For the echoes of the Xerxes–Demaratus scene at Thermopylae notice especially 7.223.3, where the Persians are driven into battle by whips: for Xerxes at 7.103.4 that was the feature that focused the diVerence between his disciplined army and that of the free Greeks. Demaratus’ own comment—speciWcally about the Spartans, as he emphasizes (104.1)—is that their fear of the law will not let them Xee from battle, and they will stand their ground and win or die (104.5). Thermopylae will show as much. 56 It is no coincidence that this intertwining should be particularly focused in this narrative of Spartan virtue, for, as Bruno Currie points out to me, it seems that in real life rewards for individual achievement were a feature of Sparta. Thus it is there that Themistocles goes to get his crown and other honours (8.124.2–3 with Jordan (1988)); and notice the (somehow formalized?) ‘praise’ of Brasidas at Sparta in 431 bc (Thuc. 2.25.2) and of the theios aner (Pl. Meno 99d, Arist. EN 1145a27). 57 On the connotations of BØ in Homer see now D. L. Cairns (2003) 31–3, improving on Watkins (1977), esp. 189–90, and Muellner (1996): Cairns emphasizes that mortals too feel BØ , but still ‘[t]he preponderance of ‘‘supernatural’’ applications,

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the battle is turned on its head from the Iliad: now it is the collective who feel the wrath—extreme, perhaps excessive wrath—when an individual is not where he ought to be, there in the front line; and later ‘the Athenians’, all of them, will feel menis at ‘the Spartans’ for letting the broader Greek cause down (9.7b.2).58 And the object now of this Spartan wrath, the unfortunate and shamed Aristodemus, ends by plunging into the battle-line at Plataea and wanting to die ‘openly’ (ÆæH ), raging (ºıHÆ) and abandoning his post in the line (7.231, 9.71.3–4). That is a version (but with a diVerence, that rage, that abandoning of post) of Thermopylae, and a version of Achilles too, yet in this case a death driven by others’ menis rather than his own. So the Homeric themes are there, but indeed with a diVerence: and we should not talk simply of ‘contrasts’, rather of more interesting ‘interplays’ of the worlds of then and of now. Menis works diVerently; perhaps the self-conscious role-playing is more pronounced than in Homer; perhaps there are diVerent attitudes to standing and dying or Xight and life (one notices that Xeeing is much more unthinkable for Leonidas than it is within the Iliad itself);59 and, once we move into

in Homer and after, lends some weight to the view that there is something about menis that makes it particularly appropriate [his italics] as a term for divine anger . . .’, and suggests that ‘it is the gravity and intensity of menis that makes it suitable as a term both for divine wrath and for human anger which exceeds the norm in those two respects’. On the Herodotean passages note esp. Kurke (2005) 113 n. 94, arguing that at 7.229 bis and 9.7 there are still some suggestions of supernatural wrath: ‘Even the [i.e. these] apparent exceptions to this usage denote corporate civic anger as a kind of supernatural force.’ Perhaps a thoughtful reader/hearer might initially take it rather ‘as a modern counterpart’ of such a supernatural force—but such a reader/hearer, attuned to the typical rhythms of divine–human interaction in Herodotus, would be unwise to exclude the supernatural dimension completely. 58 There is another story one could tell there about the way that the relevant ‘collective’ is no longer the one the Spartans can understand, that of ‘the Spartans alone’, but that of the wider Greek alliance. 59 The locus classicus for this praise of discretion comes at the beginning of this very sequence, with Menelaus at Il. 17.91–105 (see below;
Odysseus at 11.404–10); then of course Hector’s Xight at 22.135–6; in book 17, also 414–19, 556–9; cf. also Pind. Nem. 9.27. Perhaps, though, this is no more than an early instance of how the ‘Homeric’ world becomes stereotyped as something more extreme and cruder than the poems themselves convey (a point particularly familiar from Sophocles’ Ajax, where ‘Ajax is not just the typical Homeric, the Achillean, hero, but rather one who carries the implications of the heroic code to the extreme possible point, as no one in

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books 8 and 9, we also see the way that self-centred bickering is supplanting man-to-man combat—a ‘pushing and shoving of many words’ (TŁØe ºªø ººH) that takes the place of the literal big ‘push’ which begins the crucial Wghting both at Thermopylae and in Iliad 17.60 And yet—immediately one starts pressing on these contrasts, they start to blur and complicate. The group, the Spartans, may now be the ones to feel menis when their man lets them down: but such thoughts are not so distant from the Iliad either. Something similar, if not quite so wrathful, is there in this very sequence, not least in the indignation that Menelaus anticipates if he fails to rescue the corpse of the man who had fought for Menelaus’ own honour (Il. 17.91–3), and it is not hard to Wnd cases elsewhere.61 Indeed, that feeling of rage at failing to do the right thing by one’s comrades is pretty well what Achilles himself comes to think about his own behaviour at 18.98–126. Achilles there is conscious of his place in future memory too—‘now may I gain good kleos’ (F
b Œº KŁºe Iæ , 121)—even if that is not the only or the main thing that drives him; so was Helen, as she mused on the fate that the gods had ordained for her (6.357–8, cf. 3.126–8). She famously thinks of herself as the object of song, of course including Homer’s own songs, just as Leonidas is inextricably linked with the Herodotus text that will ensure that his glory does not fade. And those allies Homer, and perhaps no one in life, ever did’, Winnington-Ingram (1980) 19). Cf. D. P. Fowler (2000) 16, on ‘the familiar phenomenon of literary history whereby texts pass in and out of complexity depending on whether they are serving as target or as model: the Aeneid of Vergilian scholars is very diVerent from the Aeneid of Lucan specialists’. Cf. also Hinds (2000), esp. 222–3. 60 tÆ
b ææØ æH º ŒøÆ ÆØ , Il. 17.274; ŒÆd bæ F ŒæF F ¸ø
ø —æø  ŒÆd ¸ÆŒ
ÆØ ø TŁØe Kª  ºº , Hdt. 7.225.1. Before Salamis the TŁØe ºªø ºº of the generals (8.78.1) intensiWes the verbal ‘skirmishes’, IŒæºØØ, of 8.64.1. That pattern repeats before Plataea, with—again—the ºªø ººe TŁØ of the Tegeates and the Athenians at 9.26.1. It does all come right on the day: there is real pushing and shoving, TŁØ , at Plataea (9.62.2), just as the ships grappled closely with one another triumphantly at Salamis. But it only just comes right. 61 Thus in this episode Glaucus symmetrically upbraids Hector at 17.140–68. Earlier Hector tried to instil some shame into Paris at 6.521–5; then e.g. Poseidon at 13.120–2. And elements of anger and shame underlie several phases of Agamemnon’s epipolesis in Il. 4, esp. the exchange with Odysseus and Diomedes at 4.336–421.

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that would prefer to go rather than stay: are they so diVerent from the Greeks who race to the ships in book 2? As for the wrangling spent on words rather than action and fury directed at allies rather than enemy—why, is that not central to the Iliad, with the menis only redirected to the enemy once catastrophe has already struck? The contrast blurs on the Herodotus side too. One at least of these Persian War bickers is about, precisely, honour: the question of who should have the station of honour at Plataea (9.26). Perhaps these worlds are really not so very diVerent after all; perhaps the ‘heroic’ has always gleamed the brighter for its commingling with the ordinary and the messy and the humanly frail.

US AND THEM There is one further echo of Thermopylae in, or rather after, the Plataea narrative. This is the proposal of Lampon of Aegina at 9.78–9, urging Pausanias to maltreat Mardonius’ body. This proposal is immediately stigmatized as ‘most impious’ (IØÆ, 78.1): yet its phrasing echoes not merely Leonidas but also words of Mardonius himself several books earlier when he was urging Xerxes to invade (7.5 and 9). Now Lampon addresses Pausanias as the saviour of Greece (Þı c ¯ºº
Æ): that phrase was used of Leonidas at 8.114.2, and Lampon’s proposal too echoes the heroic language familiar from Leonidas. For (he goes on) now Pausanias can lay down—ŒÆÆŁŁÆØ again—the greatest fame (Œº ) among posterity of any Greek in history, so that even greater reputation (ºª ) may attend him; now is the chance to ensure that any barbarian in future might be on his guard (ıºÆØ) against committing outrageous deeds against Greeks (æªÆ IŁÆºÆ, the keynote of the suitors in the Odyssey) (78.2); now is the time to extract vengeance for the Persians’ own crimes. Just so did Mardonius urge Xerxes to exact his own vengeance, so that he might be attended by good repute among men (ºª . . . IªÆŁ ) and that in future everyone should be on his guard (ıºÆØ) against attacking his country (7.5.2). Other points too suggest how closely this ‘vengeance’ would indeed repay the Persians in kind: for the vengeance Lampon

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now urges is to repeat what ‘Mardonius and Xerxes’ did to Leonidas’ body, cutting oV its head and impaling it—as indeed had been done, though in the narrative of the events themselves there had been no mention of Mardonius, only of Xerxes and the implacable hatred that drove him to issue those orders (7.238). Do this, Lampon concludes, and you will win praise Wrst from the Spartans, then from all the Greeks: that distinctive ‘what people will say’ mentality again. And, of course, the maltreatment that Lampon suggests is not wholly alien to the Iliad, and that is not just a matter of the frenzied Achilles and his dragging of the dead Hector (22.395–404, 23.24–7, 24.15–22), or indeed his earlier threat to behead his corpse (18.534–5): beheading a corpse is also what Hector himself threatened to do to Patroclus (17.126, 18.176–7).62 But now, in Herodotus, Pausanias will have none of it. Such things, he Wrmly says, beWt barbarians rather than Greeks (79.1); Leonidas has been amply avenged. He even trumps Lampon’s Homerics with something of his own, if we sense the echo of Odysseus’ rebuke of Eurycleia at Odyssey 22.411–18, ‘it is impious [P › , just as Pausanias pronounces himself content to ‘do and say holy things’, ‹ØÆ, and Lampon’s proposal was IØÆ] to gloat over dead men . . . their outrages [IÆŁÆº ÆØ] have brought them to a bad end . . .’.63 If Greek speakers are adept at quoting Homeric phrases and concepts, we also see here how a Lampon has perverted them, just as he perverts the notion of symmetrical reciprocity that runs so persistently through the work: so he also now uses that foundation-text of Hellenism to justify behaviour which, for the moment, is thoroughly un-Greek. For the moment . . . But there are hints, again not unlike the end of the Iliad but in a more disquieting register, that the two sides are not so diVerent: the comforting contrast of Greek civilized behaviour and Persian barbarity may not last. It is signiWcant that this is Pausanias talking: this is not the only time in the Histories that a contrast is felt with the later notorious allegations against Pausanias, when he was 62 Cf. Segal (1971); GriYn (1980), esp. 44–5, 84–5. It is true that such mutilation is not regular in the Iliad: it marks an intensiWcation of the Wghting’s savagery (esp. in those cases concerning Hector, but also at 11.146, in a phase where Agamemnon’s Wghting style is particularly gruesome: Segal (1971) 10–11)—just as it does at Thermopylae. 63 Stambler (1982) 211.

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anything but the epitome of un-Persian Greekness.64 It is indeed strongly felt in the story that follows, where he puts out the Greek dinner and the Persian dinner, and his conclusion is—not ‘no wonder we hardy Greeks won’, as we might expect, but ‘why on earth did they bother to come, to eat meals like this?’ Spartan dinners, one senses, are already not altogether his thing.65 And in the Lampon story itself he already has the power of an autocrat: that is clear in the way he dismisses him—do not come again to me with such advice, be grateful that you go away unscathed (79.2)—which is not unlike Xerxes’ parting shot to Artabanus (7.11.1). For the moment, he is using that power in much less vindictive a way; just as he will be less vindictive than a Persian might be a few chapters later in sparing the families of the Theban traitors (9.88: contrast, for example, Darius’ treatment of nearly all of Intaphernes’ family, 3.119, or Xerxes’ of Masistes’ children, 9.113.2, or Cyrus’ musings on the senselessness of sparing a victim’s children, 1.155.1). But such torturous cruelty, and to sons as well as culprits, will by the end of the Histories be emerging as a trait which Greeks, not merely Persians, may show, in the exposure of Artayctes and the stoning of his son before his eyes (9.120.4). We have not got there yet, and we do not get there with Pausanias in the text itself; but we will get there soon.

T H E H E ROIC , THE HEROD OTE A N, A ND TH E PRESENT In Pausanias’ case, and perhaps in Gelon’s (pp. 91–2), we have already seen how a reading of Homeric ‘echoes’ can come together with another line of inquiry, one that moves forward from the events 64 Most clearly at 5.32 and 8.3.2: cf. Munson (2001) 68–70; Flower and Marincola (2002) 12–14, esp. 13, and 247 on the Lampon episode itself, though Flower and Marincola doubt whether Herodotus would have accepted the anti–Pausanias stories: scepticism is certainly clear at 5.32. 65 At Pelling (2000) 183–4 I suggest that Athenaeus’ citation of this passage (4.138b–c) shows him sensitive to Herodotus’ tone. Athenaeus there juxtaposes it Wrstly with Plato’s ironic passage on Spartan fare at Republic 2.372c–d and secondly with the Sybarite who thought it no wonder that the Spartans are so brave: anyone in their right mind would die a thousand times rather than eat meals like that. Herodotus’ passage has something in common with both sets of ironies.

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rather than backwards, exploring how far the events of 480 were moving along the same lines as those rather closer to Herodotus’ contemporary world. The links of the two approaches can become more thoughtprovoking still. Take for instance the famous sequence at 5.91–3, when Soclees of Corinth (if that is his name) talks the Spartans out of restoring tyranny at Athens. He is warned that the Corinthians will one day have particular cause to rue the overthrow of the Pisistratids, when the time comes for them to ‘be pained by the Athenians’ (5.93.1): that surely directs attention to very recent events, the brushes that led to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War.66 Then too the Corinthians were locked in debate with the Spartans on what to do about Athens, though the roles had changed and Corinth was pressing for action rather than restraint. That time, if we can trust Thucydides, the Corinthian pressure was cruder, with a threat to turn to another ally, the sort of menace that left Sparta no real choice (Thuc. 1.72.4). Something is going on in Herodotus here: the diYculty is to say what. One way or another, part of the point must be to suggest how much things have changed, with that switch of Corinthian role. One of those changes has been the style of logos itself, how people think and argue67—and threaten. But we have Homeric echoes in the threats too. There is a Homeric feel to the beginning, when no one likes what the Spartans are saying as they mount their threat to Athens, but Soclees of Corinth is the only one to get up and tell Cleomenes some home truths about the Spartans’ short-sightedness (and, we might add, selWshness): rather like all those Homeric silences when all except one is dumbstruck or spellbound—the way, for instance, that Diomedes speaks up at the beginning of Iliad 9, when everyone else is struck silent by Agamemnon’s outburst, and again symmetrically at the end of the book when Odysseus reports back (9.28–30, 693–5).68 Soclees knows how to begin an expostulation in style, too: q
c, his Wrst 66 See esp. Strasburger (1955); RaaXaub (1987) 223–4; We˛cowski (1996) 235–58; R. Fowler (2003) 316–17; Moles in Greenwood and Irwin (forthcoming). 67 Gould (1989) 56–7 comments on the way that Soclees’ ainos is the way people argued then, not now. 68 Cf. GriYn (1995) ad locc.: ‘In both cases it is the high-spirited Diomedes who breaks the gloomy silence’ (78); ‘The brave and uncomplicated Diomedes again steps

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words, are thoroughly epic in manner.69 And here too there is a symmetry of a sort, with Soclees’ conclusion, ‘We summon the Greek gods to attend [or ‘against you’] and call upon witnesses70 as we implore you not to install tyrannies in the cities. Will you then not desist, but try to bring Hippias back contrary to justice? Be sure that the Corinthians at least will not approve’ (Y E ˚æØŁ ı ª P ıÆØÆ , 92.Ł.5). And not just the Corinthians, as the narrative goes on to make clear, as the other representatives too ‘call upon witnesses’ and implore the Spartans not to meddle in another state’s internal aVairs, 93.2. Do it if you want to, Spartans, but we Corinthians will not approve: this is very much the way Hera and Athena respond to Zeus when he thinks of going against divine public opinion (Il. 4.29, 16.443, 22.181), and just as eVective.71 For now that Soclees has ‘spoken freely’, 93.2, the episode ends with Cleomenes and the Spartans choosing to—or feeling they have no choice but to—defer in’ (146). Other Homeric cases include Menelaus at Il. 3.95 and 7.92 when no one else speaks up in response to Hector’s challenges; Diomedes in response to Idaeus’ proposal at 7.398–9, and in response to Nestor’s challenge at 10.218, mirrored by Dolon at 10.313. Euryalus in the games at 23.676–7 is the less intense equivalent, and Anticlus at Od. 4.285–6 a quizzical variation inside the Horse. Antinous at Od. 2.82–4 is a more shameless, and Amphinomus at 16.393–9 and Agelaus at 20.320–1 are more moderate, equivalents among the suitors. At Od. 11.333 (Arete) and 13.1–3 (Alcinous) others are spellbound rather than dumbstruck. Johnson (2001) 7, 14–15, 19 discusses the pattern in Herodotus, comparing Artabanus at 7.10–11. 69 As Stein notes. Cf. Denniston (1954) 285. 70 There are some beautiful linguistic peculiarities here. Which witnesses are summoned in KØÆæıæŁÆ? The gods? The other allies? Both? The echoing KÆææ of the allies, 93.2, does not seem to limit it to the gods: as in Homer, human notice matters too. The Corinthians (in the middle, K،ƺØ) and Hippias (in the active, K،ƺÆ , 93.1) both ‘call in’ the gods. Both middle and active are normal, but it is not normal, as in the Corinthian case, for the verb to have a personal dative (E): that suggests ‘over’ or ‘against’ the Spartans (cf. 1.199.3), a more personal tinge than is usual in such invocations. Then the dative in Hippias’ f ÆPf K،ƺÆ Łf KŒ fiø may be either ‘called in the same gods against him’ or ‘called in the same gods as he had done’. The eVect of the ambiguities is to blur issues of human and divine, and personal and civic motivation, while keeping the focus on the language of shame. If my argument here is correct, the pointers backwards to Homer and forwards to the Peloponnesian War blur in similar ways. (Some of the above is indebted to discussion at the 2002 Cambridge conference which generated the papers in Greenwood and Irwin (forthcoming).) 71 The word in the Homeric passages is KÆØø, here ıÆØø: the subtle diVerence marks a change in the way that the rhetoric becomes eVective. The ı-

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to the public moral opinion of the other cities, which are now coming to have the sort of authority and behaviour that in Homer was shown by individual humans and individual gods. All that the discomWted Hippias can do is make that prophecy—and he is the expert on the oracles (93.2), so he should know—that the Corinthians, more than anyone, will come to yearn for the Pisistratids (q b ˚æØŁ ı ºØÆ ø KØŁ Ø —ØØæÆ
Æ ) when the time arrives for them to be pained by Athens: rich in contemporary resonance, as we have seen, but again Homer too is not far away, and no slight passage of Homer at that. It was Achilles himself who knew that the day would come when all the Achaeans would yearn for him (q  غºB Łc ¥%ÆØ ıxÆ ÆØH j ÆÆ ) when the time came for many to die at the hands of Hector (Il. 1.240–4). What are we to make of this, and particularly that distinctive ‘do it if you want to, but we will not approve’? Is it that Zeus really could go against the public will if he chose, but Sparta cannot, and Herodotus’ Corinthians are just masking a power play as clear-cut as that of 432? Or is it that it was still a matter of ethical rather than practical pressure in 504, and it was since then that the world had changed? Either way, the distant past is as thought-provoking as the immediate present: putting them together promotes reXection on how, and how far, and when things had changed. And—to return to the point made at the outset—that also suggests a way of reading Homer too, exploring with a Hector, an Odysseus, even an Achilles if their issues and experiences are really so distant from those which we see around us every day. They may be extreme; but extremes happen. Indeed, it is really not too diYcult to Wnd Vernant’s tension of two sensitivities, one for everlasting kleos and one for what a community needs, all there already in the Iliad, and hard at work.

implies that the Corinthians, were they to approve, would be ‘joining in with’ (all) the other states’ approval: in Homer Hera and Athena simply say that not all the other gods would approve, with ominous vagueness on the extent of the disapproval or the danger it threatens. Yet in Herodotus that ı- itself paradoxically helps that chorus of approval to disappear: its rhetorical eVect is to needle the other states’ representatives with this assumption that they are more acquiescent, and it is unsurprising that they so swiftly and proudly follow Soclees’ lead.

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Is that ‘interaction’, quite? Possibly, in one of several ways. We could say that, once we have thought about Herodotus in this way, it is inevitable that our reading of Homer, like all other texts, will be aVected, and we would be fooling ourselves if we struggled against it: that is a point more about us and about reading. Or we might dwell on the pointers to how Herodotus himself read Homer, and what he found interesting and expected his readers to Wnd interesting: that recalls the way GriYn has used Homeric scholia as an indicator to what later antiquity found interesting in Homer.72 If a culture closer to Homer read him in a particular way, then that can be a guide and a check to our own responses; so this looks more like a historical siting of critical insight within Greek culture itself. Or perhaps it is simply the identiWcation of particular structural or conceptual patterns in Herodotus’ text that may make us more conWdent in Wnding them in Homer too. If those patterns include an interest in cultural continuity and change, but also a wry and critical scepticism about one-size-Wts-all explanations, a curiosity and indulgence towards the quirky diversity of human nature, a reluctance to reduce everything to politics or power or sex but a readiness to see how all those worlds combine and mesh—that too is a sensibility that this volume’s honorand would Wnd familiar. Isaiah Berlin counted Herodotus as a fox rather than a hedgehog;73 he has something of the GriYn too.74 72 Especially in GriYn (1980). 73 Berlin (1953); cf. We˛cowski (2004), arguing that Herodotus aligns more closely with Berlin’s Tolstoy, a writer who ‘was by nature a fox, but believed in being a hedgehog’, striving to impose a uniWed vision of human experience, marked as it is by transience and instability, on the multiplicity of particularities. 74 Thanks to many, especially Simon Hornblower, Lionel Scott, and Gregory Hutchinson, for their contributions to discussion in Balliol; and for comments since then to Christina Kraus, Emily Baragwanath, Judith Mossman, Stephanie West, Liz Irwin, Roger Brock, Elton Barker, and especially the editors, whose detailed suggestions I have adopted in many more cases than I have acknowledged.

4 Hellenistic Epic and Homeric Form Gregory Hutchinson

The main aim of this chapter is not historical: it is not to discover, for the history of literature and culture, how the poets of the Hellenistic period made use of Homer. The hope is rather to illuminate Hellenistic poems by pursuing what they did with some aspects of Homer and with some ideas that were connected with Homer in the Hellenistic period. Accordingly, the inquiry will not consider the abundant and important evidence for poems that have been more or less lost; it will concentrate on one surviving epic, the Argonautica, and one partially surviving epic, the Hecale. Epic is the most obvious and natural category in which to place the Hecale. Its brevity may be provocative when set against the two famously lengthy Homeric poems; but even the provocation only makes sense from within the genre. The Argonautica itself may be thought strikingly short when likewise compared with Iliad and Odyssey. It is at any rate not evident that poems of twenty-four and four books belong together and count as epics, while a poem of one book does not.1 It gives me much pleasure to write in honour of Jasper GriYn, and about this subject: he has inspired me on Homer since my very interview at Balliol. Many thanks to Dr N. Gonis for assistance with papyri of and relating to the Hecale, and to Professor M. Fantuzzi for encouragement. 1 Merriam (2001) 1–24, seems, despite 2, in practice to regard the epyllion as a genre distinct from epic; Gutzwiller (1981) 2–9, views it more as a subset. No argument could be drawn from Crinag. xi.1 Gow–Page, GP æıe (‘intensively crafted’)  . The phrase may show surprise, cf. perhaps Antip. Sid. lviii.2 Gow–Page, GP (Erinna’s ÆØe  , with Anon. Anth. Pal. 9.190.2); but the point is not actually about length, cf. Dion. Hal. Comp. 25, ii. 132–3 Usener–Radermacher. It is more notable that Erinna’s own poem of 300 lines is regarded as an ‘epic’, cf. Suda  521.15–16.

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This discussion will concentrate on form, but on form in its relation to meaning, and on form in diVerent orders of magnitude. Especially when we are dealing with works of such varied size, diVerent scales of form quickly begin to interact. The Hellenistic period, one may add, both pondered the large issues of structure which the Homeric poems exempliWed and investigated the Homeric text in extremely close detail. The present discussion in fact begins, not directly from Homer, but from debate involving Homer. The procedure is not without value. When we are investigating the relationship of texts from diVerent periods, we need to look not merely at the bare texts (i.e. as we see them ourselves), but at the critical ideas surrounding the earlier text at the later time. In looking at these critical ideas we also subject our own conceptions of the texts to scrutiny, in this case not because the critical ideas are unfamiliar but because they are all too familiar. Of course, the Homeric text itself remains crucial, especially with writers so intimately occupied by their model and with so deeply intertextual a genre. The line of argument will bring us back to the Homeric poems themselves, and to the Hellenistic poets’ continuation of Homeric form and thought. Their relation to Homer will emerge as a complicated mixture of experimental divergence and profound connection. At the beginning of the Hellenistic period, an account of the epic genre was produced which eventually came to possess fundamental importance, Aristotle’s Poetics. The part of Poetics book 1 that concerns the present paper is ch. 8, in which Aristotle discusses what constitutes one FŁ , ‘plot’. He claims that all those who have written a Heracleid or Theseid are much in error: the actions of one man do not make one action, nor does the agency of one man make the FŁ one. The Iliad and Odyssey are contrasted with such productions: the Odyssey is not about all the things that happened to Odysseus but about one action.2

2 The passage is discussed esp. by Heath (1989) ch. 4; the whole book gives a rich store of ancient material. Hunter (2001) includes the passage in his important discussion of Apollonius’ structure; cf. Hunter (1993a) 190–5. Rengakos (2004) connects interestingly with some of the issues considered here (I am grateful to Professor Rengakos for showing me this admirable article before publication). Sharrock (2000) oVers a thoughtful discussion of unity and disunity in literary works.

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We must ask Wrst whether these ideas and this formulation were known and important to third-century authors. It is completely uncertain whether or not the Poetics was current. Polymath cataloguers or librarians like Callimachus and Apollonius will have read any Aristotle available (cf. Callim. fr. 407.xl Pf.). Aristotle’s threebook dialogue De Poetis was undoubtedly known (second in the list of works at Diog. Laert. 5.22–7). It seems to have had a general and argumentative element (Arist. Poet. 1454b15–18). Certainly Aristotle’s ideas were known to Philodemus (Wrst century bc), shaped and expressed in a way very similar to, but not identical with, that of the Poetics (PHerc. 207 and 1581). Aristotle lauded and discussed Homer in ‘many’ dialogues (Dio Chrys. 53.1 von Arnim); De Poetis certainly said much more on individual poets than the Poetics. There is thus a high probability that Callimachus and Apollonius were familiar with not only the ideas in the Poetics on unity but the exempliWcation of those ideas through Homer. It is quite likely, for related reasons, that poems on Heracles and Theseus were familiar in this context. (Arist. fr. 70 Rose, from De Poetis, makes the same point on Homer and Empedocles as the Poetics.) It would in any case be likely that such poems would be drawn into discussion of these issues. Callimachus himself speaks of the huge number of Heracles’ deeds, in a context of choosing subjects (see below); he also speaks of a poem on Heracles wrongly ascribed to Homer (Epigr. 6 Pf.).3 The importance of these issues for the period is also apparent. Hellenistic criticism was much concerned with the poet’s choice and handling of plot, and with whether this was the most important of the poet’s tasks (so Aristotle), or not really a speciWcally poetic task, and so forth. Homer was usually for critics the supreme exemplar of excellence. The handling of plots speciWcally in epic was probably discussed: cf. Andromenides (third century bc?) F 28 Janko ¼ Phld. Poem. 1.15.21–6 Janko Ø ½
b qŁ  ŒÆd B K'Æ Œ½Æa a 3 Theocritus writes an epigram for a statue of Pisander, whose Heraclea must be one of Aristotle’s targets. On knowledge of Aristotle, cf. the sceptical treatment of Sandbach (1985); he cannot remove all signiWcance (cf. (1985) 4–5) from the crucial passage of Epicurus (127 Arrighetti). At Diog. Laert. 5.26 note Bernays’s <æ ÆÆ> ØØŒa Æ
, printed by Marcovich (1999–2002) i. 324. On Philodemus and Aristotle on poetry see Janko (1991); Professors D. Armstrong and J. Fish have kindly shown me their new text of PHerc. 1581 before publication.

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OÆ Æ , ½ŒÆd, ŒÆŁæ ½Kd : B ıŁ: ½'Æ , . . . ‘epic too has its own character with regard to vocabulary, and just as with the construction of plots . . .’. The detailed handling of the plot interests the exegetical Homeric scholia; Aristotle originates, or Wrst displays, their stem (-)ØŒ- (‘handle, arrange’, in the scholia with regard to the plot). In Polybius we seem to see a striking extension of Aristotelian language and ideas. His approach to the design of his work is governed by ideas of proper beginning and ending, and of reXecting the metaphorically aesthetic unity of Fortune’s metaphorically teleological achievement in the events of his particular period: a unity as of a beautiful body, which his readers can perceive.4 Other evidence suggests that Polybius’ use of such language reXects wider historiographical debate. The criticism that Callimachus’ Aetia is not ‘one continuous song in many thousands of lines’ (fr. 1.3–4 Massimilla) is in my opinion directed to the second edition, the second half of which was discontinuous in form. On this view the ‘one’ connects clearly with the discussion also seen in Aristotle.5 We have thus seen the signiWcance for this period of these issues, of Aristotle’s formulation, and of Homer and other epic in relation to them. We must now engage with Aristotle’s ideas as ideas, in order to further our own exploration of Hellenistic epic, and of Homer. Aristotle’s use of the Homeric poems is a powerful persuasive weapon, in ch. 8 and elsewhere. The reader feels satisfyingly united with the author and Homer against the wretched poetasters. Yet Panyassis, whose Heraclea Aristotle must have in mind, was lauded

4 1.3–5, cf. 3.1–5. 5 Cf. ıF ŒÆd ØA at Arist. Poet. 1452a15, and continuity as a possible criterion for oneness at Ph. 1.185b7, Metaph. ˜ 1015b36–1016a12, ( 1052a19. See on Callimachus Hutchinson (2003) 48. For diVerent views on FŁØ; ŁØ , and the poet cf. Phld. Poem. 1.42.5–8 Janko (Pausimachus); 5.x.24–31 Mangoni; 5.xiv–xv (Neoptolemus). For NŒE, etc. (Arist. Poet. 1453a29), see e.g. schol. Hom. Il. 6.491, 18.312–13a, and Suppl. Hell. 339A.14. On Polybius and other Hellenistic historiography cf. Walbank (1972) 67–8, Heath (1989) ch. 4, esp. 80–1. Heath emphasizes doctrine and denies a connection between Aristotle and Polybius; but the inspiration of language and ideas need not work so rigorously (one might think similarly e.g. at Dion. Hal. Thuc. 10, ii. 338. 4 –10 Usener–Radermacher). To doubt that Polybius read at least some Aristotle (Ziegler (1952) 1470) seems perverse in the light of 12.9.1 (very cautious Walbank (1957–9) ii. 330, 344).

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for his NŒ Æ, his organization of the poem (Dion. Hal. De Imit. fr. 6.2.4, ii. 204 Usener–Radermacher).6 Aristotle’s account of structure is much more elaborate and subtle than might appear. His view seems to be that any series of events, however long, which forms a causal sequence is in fact ‘one’. But the tragic or epic poet must cut oV for himself a sequence that is not too long to be perceived as a unity by the audience (note also 1459a30–4). The poet’s sequence must be deWned too by movement from tension to resolution and by a great change or changes in fortune. The emphasis on perception invites the question whether a sequence which was perceived as a unity but was not in fact so would be aesthetically acceptable. It seems hard to see how Aristotle could legitimately answer No. Indeed, he seems to countenance false and impossible actions which are made to seem probable (1460a11–b5). His account of causality seems to be weakened to suit either human events or, more likely, human perceptions;7 his account of what constitutes a whole must make related compromises.8 If, then, all that were suVered and done by Heracles could be subjectively felt by the reader as an entity, aesthetic objections to such a Heracleid might be unfounded. A voyage of Argonauts with an envisaged objective and end, with a limited time and a geographical sequence, might seem even easier.9 From this subjective point of view, the necessity of causal sequence for a reader’s sense of ‘oneness’ may be doubted. One might further wonder about ‘oneness’ itself. If the underlying point were the reader’s pleasure or satisfaction, the basic aesthetic need might be deemed not a need to experience something that was one rather than 6 Whence Quint. Inst. 10.1.54. Panyassis was not admired only in Halicarnassus: see the testimonia in Matthews (1974) 1–4, and M. L. West (2003a) 188–92 (for SGO 01/12/02 cf. Isager (1998), Lloyd-Jones (1999)). 7 Poet. 1450b29–30, 1451a27–8 (1455b10); cf. Rhet. 1.1357a22–b1, 2.1402b12– 1403a10. 8 Poet. 1450b29–30; cf. Metaph. ˜ 1023b26–1024a10. 9 Poet. 1451a16 uæ Øb YÆØ is probably a barbed reference to the poets rather than a disapproval in advance of a unity perceived but not actual. On the passages in the Rhetoric, cf. Burnyeat (1996). Poet. 1450b29–30 and 1451a37–8 might suggest that if the causal connection of elements in a æA%Ø is not actual, it is not really one æA%Ø . On æA%Ø cf. BelWore (1992) 83 with n. 2. The application of the term ‘one’ depends on perception at Metaph. ˜ 1016a20–4 .

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two, but a need to avoid a lack of cohesion. If cohesion of experience is the aim, the ways of achieving it are enlarged; they might even go beyond plot, which is Aristotle’s present subject. Aristotle’s emphasis on oneness is not eVectively justiWed (1451a31–2 seems to argue from the nature of imitation). An implicit justiWcation may be found in the revealing analogy of a beautiful creature (1450b36–51a6): living beings, evident unities for Aristotle (cf. Metaph. 1077a20–36), are the starting-point for considering beauty. This apart, some sense of structure or shape in the audience’s experience, which Aristotle in practice demands, might be thought to presuppose the idea of a whole—or at any rate to be expressed by that idea. ‘A whole’ is naturally, if not perhaps necessarily, seen in singular terms (cf. Metaph. ˜ 1023b26–36); but concepts like ‘whole’ and ‘complete’ (1450b24, etc.) may be aesthetically more revealing than ‘one’.10 If we pursue Aristotle’s approach, but emphasize perception, we can see aesthetic risks that are incurred by what can be called paratactic narrative (a sequence of parallel elements). The material might seem too diverse to cohere; the whole might have no shape; the whole might last too long to be grasped as an entity. But the last problem must also be faced by the poet following Aristotle’s instructions, and the other two could self-evidently yield to poetic artistry. A less hostile approach might be needed to paratactic narrative, and, what frequently coincides with it, to narrative that coheres around an individual person rather than around a causal sequence of events.11 Interestingly, the Odyssey in particular shows signs of adapting paratactic sequences (adventures of Odysseus, returns from Troy) into a hypotactic structure. The work subordinates these sequences through mise en abyme, and generates a cohesive thematic network, woven round the idea of homes and hospitality. But it is not that a paratactic structure would have made such relations impossible. The speciWc form of the Odyssey’s hypotaxis, which sets true and untrue 10 Cf. Ricœur (1983–5) i. 66. A crucial antecedent to Aristotle here is Pl. Phdr. 264c2–5, 268c2–269a3 (note Madvig’s deletion of ıØÆ in 268d5, not mentioned in Burnet). 11 Even the ideas of romance discussed by Quint (1993) suggest a looseness of connection between episodes, however evaluated (so 34, 179). Immerwahr’s postFra¨nkelian use of ‘paratactic’ for Herodotus’ structure ((1966) 47) should be kept separate from this discussion.

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intradiegetic narratives in situations of hospitality, underlines this aspect of the narratives: their relation to hospitality and homes. A sense of accumulation, through a latent parataxis and through plurality, is actually necessary to the perception of Odysseus’ and Penelope’s experience; this is above all the case from their own perspective. Interestingly, too, the selectivity of the Iliad, praised at Poet. 1459a30–7, involves centring the action around one predominant Wgure (or, if we prefer, two). This could be thought positively to enhance the listener’s sense of powerful cohesion, beyond the criteria of size and perceptibility which Aristotle emphasizes there.12 We are approaching a more positive conception of paratactic narrative. One may broadly distinguish between two extremes, which often blur. These are essentially: active and passive, a distinction often implicitly deployed by Aristotle. In an active form, the deeds of the powerful hero mount up, and so as an entity enhance his glory. In a passive form, the suVerings of a person deprived of power mount up, and so as an entity create the sense of an unfortunate life. The two blend in a series of adventures, where suVering is as important as achievement. It is notable that even the deeds of Heracles, the archetypal CV of success, are often viewed as a series of suVerings, from the Iliad on (8.360–9). Conversely, to endure numerous suVerings is in itself admirable. The passive model particularly lends itself to emotive or (from the suVerer) self-lamenting depictions, uniWed by the consciousness of the person aZicted. This consciousness may also give force to accounts of an individual’s life too simple, or too lacking in internal parallelism, to possess the idea of a paratactic series. In Homer (and beyond), an individual’s life is for him or her a primary and all-important narrative, necessarily an entity and normally perceived as possessing a signiWcant shape. A listener or reader can share or comprehend this perception through sympathy.13 12 Some passages in the Odyssey stressing the multitude of Odysseus’ and Penelope’s suVerings: 1.1–5, 4.722–8, 5.221–4, 7.211–12, 8.155, 9.37–8, 12.258–9, 14.196–8 (Cretan tale), 19.129, 344–8, 483–4 (cf. 21.207–8, 23.101–2), 20.18–21, 23.300–9. Lowe (2000) 135–7 gives a good account of space in the Odyssey (while underexploiting homes); space should possibly be a more prominent element in the narratology of de Jong’s valuable commentary (2001). 13 For recent discussion of narrative and perception of one’s own experience, cf. Fireman et al. (2003). The question of the totality of a narrated life becomes less central from this viewpoint; cf. Brooks (1984) 52, 60.

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These ideas can form a way of looking at the story of entire poems, or aspects of it; they also often function on a smaller scale, no less important for the impact of the work. The Iliad itself can be seen as endless parataxis, of aristeiai and still more of inXicted deaths; the point, as in the Catalogue of Ships, is accumulation. (Catalogue— which virtually begins the Argonautica—is parataxis at its most elemental.) And crucial to the Iliad and its meaning are the evocation, not only of Achilles’ life, but of a multitude of lives, each the thing that matters to its owner.14 We may add that visual art, not least in the classic century of tragedy, happily depicts paratactic narratives, including the labours of Heracles and Theseus. So the metopes of the Athenian treasury at Delphi, c.500–490 bc (both Heracles and Theseus, as in some other Athenian monuments), and the temple of Zeus at Olympia (Heracles), c.460 bc; and so (Theseus) the Attic red-Wgure cup, Ferrara T. 18 C VP (Beazley, ARV 2 882.35; 72 cm. in diameter!), ascribed to the Penthesilea Painter, c.460–450 bc, or a calyx-krater, Oxford 1937.983, ascribed to the Dinos Painter, c.425 bc (Beazley, ARV 2 1153.13). The conception was continued for Heracles by artists of the stature of Praxiteles (Paus. 9.11.6), and on into the Hellenistic period. The synoptic possibilities of art are pertinent to these works; but so too is clearly delimited and balanced design. Art makes obvious the formal and cohesive possibilities of parataxis.15 The Hecale concerns itself with the life of Theseus. This was a wellknown series of achievements, originally modelled as a structure on those of Heracles. The connection with Heracles is evident in the material and language of the Hecale, with its bull, its club (fr. 69.1 Hollis), and its explicit mention of the Nemean Lion (fr. 101). Callimachus’ treatment of Heracles’ deeds in the Aetia is in any case germane. In book 1, after a Muse has told of one of his deeds (as beWts the selectivity of the Aetia), there is some slightly two-edged praise of Heracles for the huge number of his actions. This leads to 14 On the Catalogue of Ships, see Visser (1997), who views it as simply part of the poem, not a pre-existing entity or the like. 15 For the Athenian treasury, see de la Coste-Messelie`re (1957); there are problems of arrangement with both these metopes and those at Olympia. In general see Neils (1987); Boardman (1990); Neils and Woodford (1994) 925–9; Froning (1992).

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the irrepressible narrator telling of another deed. The Aetia is here interested both in its own form and in the quantity of the actions. K ÆŒÆ b %ŒØ
Ø, j KŒ
 ÆPƪæ  ººŒØ ººa ŒÆ, ‘you performed six times two labours to order, and many times many of your own choice’ (fr. 25.21–2 Massimilla), also distinguishes wryly between deeds inXicted and deeds willed. The distinction has links with that between active and passive. Further deeds of Heracles appeared in later books. In the Hecale Æ IŁºı: ½ ‘all labours’ (fr. 17.3) seems to view the series of Theseus’ deeds in advance. But Callimachus has taken the striking decision to concentrate on only one deed of this one man, a hyper-Aristotelian solution: Theseus overcomes the Bull of Marathon. At the same time, other deeds are brought in hypotactically; and the lives of two characters are handled in the work. These lives interweave around the simple main action: Hecale, a poor old woman, entertains Theseus en route to the bull; he conquers it, and comes back to Wnd her dead; his promised reward for her hospitality must now be posthumous honours.16 The main sequence seems in fact so simple, the surrounding material so abundant and so elaborately presented, that we may wonder if the Aristotelian reading of Homer’s epics (a single action enlarged with episodes) has been pushed to a point of conscious and subversive play. It is noteworthy that Aegeus’ recognition of his son Theseus and rescue of him from a plot by his stepmother was narrated by the poem, with powerful direct speech (Y, Œ , c EŁØ, ‘stop, my child, do not drink’, fr. 7 Hollis).17 This occurred either early in the main sequence or in a digression. In Aristotelian terms, one would expect such an event to form a climax. Presumably Callimachus’ shaping or selection of the main action was made to

16 For the text of the Hecale see Hollis’s very learned edition (1990) and his tireless later articles (1991a, 1991b, 1993, 1994, 1997a, 1997b, 1998, 2000, 2004). On catalogues of Theseus’ deeds see Hollis (1990) 209, with 289; the later hymnic catalogue at Ov. Met. 7.433–50 deliberately answers that of Hercules’ deeds at Verg. Aen. 8.293– 302. Attic vases often pair a deed of Theseus’ with one of Heracles’. Diod. Sic. 4.59.6, Ov. Met. 7.434, etc., actually make the two bulls the same. On the club (commonly used in this exploit) see Hollis (1990) 216, 219; Neils and Woodford (1994) 927 no. 43, 937–9 nos. 185, 188–9, 199, 202–10, 214–15. In fr. 17.3 Hollis ]Ø:: looks possible to me; cf. the Wrst  in line 4. Cf. Hollis (1997b) 47–8. 17 Cf. fr. 79.

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;

;

appear unexpected. There seems also some toying in the poem with Aristotelian aversions: the poem suggests a narrative of the life not even of one person but of two. In fact the two contrasted lines of narrative, extended into the main action, gain cohesion precisely by their relation to each other. This relation may actually be compared to the relation in Homer himself of the lines of action concerning Odysseus and Penelope, or to the relation of the lives of old Priam and the young hero Achilles as they meet and take food together. But there are diVerences from Homer: Hecale and Theseus have hitherto existed in greater isolation from each other. The point of all this, however, is not purely metaliterary or ludic.18 The poem begins and ends with Hecale, and so implies the signiWcance of her life. Her constant hospitality, despite her poverty, suggests in a way a succession of moral achievements ( ›
EÆØ, ‘all travellers’ fr. 2.1 Hollis; –ÆØ, ‘all’ (travellers) 80.5); one might possibly compare the series of Theseus’ heroic achievements (cf. fr. 17.3 (above) ‘endure’ (?) Æ IŁºı: ½ , ‘all labours’). Hecale principally appeared in one central scene of dining and story-telling: a hypotactic setting that recalls the Odyssey, but also many a Heracles poem (and, within the œuvre, Aetia 3?). She narrates her fall, and successive disasters, which involved the loss of two or probably three loved ones. Fr. 49.2–3 bring out the terrible series of misfortunes, with emotive apostrophe: Mæ ¨ÆØ ƺ Æ: Ø ŒÆº  IŒFÆØ j c a
 ¥Æ ŒÆd d K ææ %ÆØØ : øÆ; ‘Was I refusing to heed Death, who had long been calling, so that I should soon after rend my garment over you too?’ The paratactic sequence, and the narrative form, were more marked than in many pathetic Homeric speeches on the speaker’s life; but two Iliadic life-stories ;

;

18 The centrality of aetiology for Callimachus may have aVected the impact of the last part of the poem: that is in a sense the true º . But it is noteworthy that Lehnus (1997) thinks that the poem ended with fr. 80; cf. also McNelis (2003). The order of events is not guaranteed by the ‘Milan’ Diegesis or by POxy. 2258 A fr. 9 back: cf. frr. 98 and 198 PfeiVer. The contribution of POxy. 3434 is aVected by whether one takes 6]nƽ½º
Ø as work or character. (One might have some doubts ˙ about the putative kappa; but there are not many examples in the papyrus. Cf. e.g. POxy. 2216 fr. 1 r. 4.) On Callimachus and ‘one’ note the dispute of Ia. 13 (one metre). The relation to Aristotelian oneness is an aspect of the two actions in Theocritus 22 that could proWtably be enlarged on (cf. Hunter (1996) ch. 2).

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in particular should be connected. Briseis tells (Il. 19.287–300) of enduring one woe after another (19.290): the death of her husband and three brothers at Achilles’ hands, and then the death of Patroclus. Priam’s story is told mostly but not entirely by himself: how he was wealthy and then lost many sons, and then Hector, and endured to come and kiss his killer’s hands (22.416–29, 24.493–506, 543–9).19 Those Homeric speeches show the validity of diVerent viewpoints, and the importance of one’s own story. Briseis’ unexpected speech suddenly displays events from her perspective; it is revealingly followed by other women weeping notionally for Patroclus, but really each for her own woes (Il. 19.301–2). Just so Priam weeps for Hector, but Achilles for Peleus and Patroclus (24.509–12). In Callimachus’ scene, two quite diVerent perspectives combine and are contrasted, to moving and thought-provoking eVect: the Wgures are contrasted in age, sex, fortune, and power. The contrast is more extreme than between Achilles and Priam. But also two lines of plot interlock: Theseus has killed (at least) a killer of one of Hecale’s family. The interweaving of paratactic narratives here shows an ingenuity going beyond the straightforward designs of Aristotle. We may interject here the characteristically Callimachean refraction by which a bird tells of its own (and its race’s?) sad life, which combines with Hecale’s; another tale of drastic peripeteia is thus brought in. In this case the proliferation of dubiously related but parallel material shows more a sense of sporting with narrative than an extension of the ethical point.20

19 Note Priam in Callim. fr. 491 Pf. On the speech and story of Briseis cf. Due´ (2002). Before Patroclus’ death, her many woes were simultaneous rather than successive; cf. Andromache’s account of losing at once her father and seven brothers, then her mother, soon to be followed, she fears, by Hector (Hom. Il. 6.407–39). In fr. 49 Hollis, it is probably the second son that dies, in view of the rhetorical preparation at the bottom of col. i in POxy. 2376 (fr. 48). It seems papyrologically more natural to let fr. 47 follow fr. 49: it would be suspicious that there is no overlap between frr. 47 and 48 if 47 preceded 49 in the codex POxy. 2377. If 47 is the later side, it is perhaps less likely that it concerns Hecale’s husband (note fr. 49.2). On the opening of the poem cf. Hollis (1997a);  in fr. 2.1 echoes Hom. Il. 6.15, but as she is poor unlike Axylus, the word stresses a more remarkable accomplishment. 20 On ‘refraction’ in Callimachus, cf. Hutchinson (2003) 51 n. 13, 52, 54.

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The life of Theseus before the recognition was probably subordinated in various ways: by hypotaxis in the case of his previous great deeds, told to Hecale; relative brevity will have been another means of subordination (notice the fullness of description within the main action, as in the storm of fr. 18). However, direct speech appeared in the narrative both of the deeds (fr. 60) and of the childhood (fr. 10; 13?): treatment of the childhood gives a strong indication that Theseus’ whole life so far is being covered. The deeds are very much envisaged as a connected series: Theseus wishes, precisely, to be allowed to go on with the list (fr. 17.2–4).21 These are not imposed labours but relished opportunities for glory. The active model of paratactic narrative is implied, by contrast with the passive model for Hecale. The death of Hecale brings a turn. It contrasts with Theseus’ own escapes from death and reunions with his father (whom his heroism will eventually destroy); though a relief from sorrow to Hecale,22 it causes sorrow to Theseus. The humanity and tenderness already seen in Theseus (fr. 69.4–9) now further enrich and limit the ethos of heroic triumph.23 Apollonius’ Argonautica is longer, better preserved, and far more complicated than the Hecale. The narrative occupies the same number of books as does, in the Hellenistic book-division, the inset narrative of Odysseus’ travels (Odyssey 9–12). It concerns itself strictly with a series of ¼ŁºØ. The word conveys the idea of toil and suVering; Pelias has inXicted on Jason the task, the ¼Łº , of fetching the Golden Fleece, which itself involves innumerable ¼ŁºØ. These make a paratactic series. The series forms a whole, a cumulative entity, both as an achievement and as suVering: the double aspect of active and passive is vital to the poem. The extent of the poem is entirely deWned by the ¼ŁºØ: after the briefest explanation of the single cause of the task, the poem starts to tell of how and by whom the task was executed. (The contrast with the narrative of Pindar’s

21 Cf. Ap. Rhod. 1.149–50. 22 Frr. 49.2–3, 80.1–2. 23 For the childhood cf. Arist. Poet. 1451a25–6; note the external analepsis of Achilles’ childhood in Hom. Il. 9.485–95. The scene with the rock is sometimes included on depictions of Theseus’ life (Neils and Woodford (1994) 928–9, nos. 50, 51, 57). On fr. 60 see Hollis (1965).

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fourth Pythian is extreme.) The ending of the series is looked forward to throughout, and is especially stressed in the last stages of the poem, where a close is almost lost (4.1275–6, 1307), and then realized.24 The ¼ŁºØ are felt as a cohesive entity, despite their multitude; or rather, their multitude helps to constitute the entity. Their number is perceived as vast by the Argonauts and others (e.g. 4.1319–21, where Odysseus’ experiences are evoked). They are said to be IØæØØ, ‘countless’, but precisely in a context which deWnes their structural position. The prophet Idmon tells the Argonauts they are fated to come back with the Fleece, ‘but countless are the suVerings that lie in between your departure for Colchis and your return here’, IØæØØ
Kd fiø (lit. ‘in the middle’) j ŒE 
Fæ  ÆØ IæØØ ¼ŁºØ (1.441–2: the word-order expresses the protraction). One may compare the structure of Odysseus’ lot: ‘if he is fated to return, let it be late and wretchedly’, etc. (Hom. Od. 9.532–5). The Argonauts’ suVerings after the killing of Apsyrtus are planned by Zeus to be ıæ Æ, ‘innumerable’, but in a context which deWnes their place: they are to ‘return having suVered many woes Wrst’, æ  ıæ Æ ÆŁÆ j  Ø (4.560–1). The adjective, and the will of Zeus, make evident links with the plot of the Iliad.25 24 In Homer, ¼ŁºØ, save in an athletic context, often has the negative connotations of Ø, though endurance can be praiseworthy: Il. 3.126–8, 8.363 cf. 19.133 (Heracles), 24.734 (verb; servile work), Od. 23.248–50 (with stress on completion; more positive Od. 4.170, 240–3). Cf. S. Laser (1955). Hes. Theog. [992–1001] is important (though Apollonius probably had views on where the Theogony ended): (Jason) ºÆ Æ IŁºı (cf. Mimn. fr. 11.3 West, of Jason) j f ººf Kºº . . . æØc —º  (cf. Hom. Od. 11.622 of Heracles). . . j f ºÆ K  ( øºŒe I Œ ººa ª Æ . Cf. Pind. Pyth. 4.165 F ¼Łº Œg º, and Ap. Rhod. 1.15–16 (singular, as 469, 4.785), 362, 901–3, 2.615–18, etc. The discussion of Apollonius here is meant to complement that in Hutchinson (1988) ch. 3; for that reason, and because of the particular argument here, the emphasis is on books 1 and 2, and little is said on book 4. (That whole chapter has to be read for the argument on book 4 to become clear.) Nyberg (1992), Pietsch (1999), Wray (2000), Dra¨ger (2001), Hunter (2001), Clare (2002), are generally relevant; for Apollonius’ use of Homer, cf., among much other work, Knight (1995), Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) ch. 3 and 266–82, and the invaluable collection of Campbell (1981). 25 The suVerings of Odysseus, like those of the Argonauts, have essentially a single cause. For the determination in Hom. Od. 9.526–36 of what ensues, see Schmidt (2003); but note also 11.110–17, 12.137–41.

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This numberlessness may be contrasted with the exact number of twelve labours that Heracles has to fulWl (1.1318). Heracles forms, it is well known, a constant counterpoint to the Argonauts; what matters here is not only his more active approach to his labours but also the structural comparison. Theseus highlights a diVerent aspect. He appears at the start of the poem as one who would have signiWcantly helped the Argonauts (1.104–5). But later only one adventure is brought in explicitly, and repeatedly: Theseus’ encounter with Minos and, especially, his relationship with Minos’ daughter Ariadne. Ariadne freed Theseus, Jason persuasively observes to Medea, from the ŒÆŒH . . . IŁºø, ‘grim trials’, imposed by her father (3.997).26 For there is a crucial complication to the ¼ŁºØ and the structure of the poem. The centre (in terms of the journey) presents an ¼Łº =Ø imposed by Aeetes in the midst of the ¼Łº =Ø imposed by Pelias. Aeetes’ task, although consisting of two parts, is generally presented as singular: Jason must plough with bulls that breathe Wre and sow a crop of warriors. The third book ends º q ¼Łº , ‘the task was accomplished’ (3.1407), as the fourth book ends with the Œºıa  æÆŁ . . . j æø ŒÆø, ‘glorious end of your labours’, when there are no more ¼ŁºØ (4.1775–6). The confrontation of a central ¼Łº and surrounding ¼ŁºØ is a challenging development of oneness in the plot and of parataxis. The separation of the poem into very distinct books (papyrus rolls) increases the complication. All this in fact enhances the shaping of the reader’s experience, and the development of the poem as it proceeds.27 26 Cf. 1.255, 903. On Ariadne cf. Goldhill (1991) 301–6; Korenjak (1997). Note now POxy. 4640 (hypothesis to a tragedy?), which suggests an elaborate treatment of relations between Theseus, Ariadne, and Minos. There are other possible or probable connections with Theseus in Apollonius, like the dragging of the bull by the horn in 3.1306–7 (cf. Callim. Hec. fr. 68 Hollis, with Hollis’s note). See further Hunter (1988) 449–50; Dra¨ger (2001) 99–101. For the ¼ŁºØ of Heracles in the poem, cf. DeForest (1994) 53, 66–7, 113–14. 27 For  æÆŁ . . . ŒÆø cf. 2.424 Œºıa  æÆÆ . . . IŁºı, of Colchis (411 is doubtful), 3.1189  æÆ IŁºı (Aeetes thinks Jason will not accomplish it, cf. 4.1275–6, 1307 mentioned above); Pind. Pyth. 4.220  æÆ IŁºø
 Œı Ææø'ø; Hom. Od. 23.248–50 ø . . .  æÆ IŁºø, not yet reached by Odysseus. For Aeetes’ task as an ¼Łº cf. also Naupact. fr. 6.3 West. At Pind. Pyth. 4.229– 33 it is an æª to be Wnished; on 220 see Braswell (1988) 304–5. On 3.1407, see Hunter (1989) 255.

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The surrounding episodes look forward or backwards to the central trial, for the reader; the Argonauts are in ignorance of its nature before Colchis. So the women of Lemnos, wearing armour and ploughing, evoke Jason carrying arms as he ploughs with the bulls.28 This confusion of male and female roles links with the primary importance of the woman in the Colchian ¼Łº .29 The men that spring from the teeth Jason sows are ˆª , ‘Earth-born’, at one point actually ª ªÆ , ‘Giants’ (3.1054). There could hardly be a clearer connection, or contrast, with the defeat of the ˆª by Heracles and the other Argonauts (1.989–1011): a resumption of Heracles’ participation in the Gigantomachy. (The episode contains much evocation of the warfare in the Iliad.) Imagery and other references greatly augment the connections and distortions. So cattle begin the second book (2.1); Amycus, the enemy of the Argonauts, appears like a Giant produced by the Earth (2.38–40), Polydeuces, in meaningful contrast, like a star of the sky;30 Amycus and Polydeuces Wght like two bulls (88–9, cf. 91). Or the Argonauts row like bulls ploughing (2.662–8): Iß . . . æØ, ‘the breath’ of such bulls ‘roars’ (2.665–6), as, conversely, the Iß of Aeetes’ bulls resembles the æ , ‘roar’, of winds feared by sailors (3.1327–9). The central and other ¼ŁºØ thus join together to form an elaborate and cohesive thematic texture, woven round ideas of heroic and less heroic achievement.31 Even in the apparently most paratactic books, books 1 and 2, interconnections create a sense of cohesion, and form creates a sense of elegance. Some larger structuring elements may be brieXy 28 1.627–30; 685–8 their ploughing; 867–8 ploughing by the Argonauts if they remain, with sexual suggestions. 29 Cf. 1.637–8 Hypsipyle in father’s armour, 742–6 Aphrodite with Ares’ shield, 769–72 Atalanta’s spear, 3.623–7 Medea yoking the bulls instead of Jason; cf. e.g. 4.1032–5 for Medea’s all-important role. 30 Cf. also 2.1208–13 and 4.151, Aeetes’ snake too as the oVspring of Earth, ªª . 31 In further and more disconcerting extensions of the bovine motif, Heracles, who killed Hylas’ father when he was ploughing with a bull (1.1213–17), runs distraught at Hylas’ loss like a bull pursued by a gadXy (1.1265–72—a male Io). Jason kills Apsyrtus like a great bull (4.468–9): Aegisthus’ killing of Agamemnon in Hom. Od. 4.534–5 and 11.409–11 is plainly recalled. The motif may already be exploited by Pindar, cf. Pyth. 4.142 (very unusual), 205.

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mentioned here; we will come back to explore them later from a diVerent viewpoint. Phineus gives a detailed account in advance of the remaining trials to be faced on the outward journey (2.311–407); Jason summarizes events so far to Lycus (2.762–71).32 Both these lists make the totality easier to view as a whole, more P. The encounter with the sons of Phrixus near the close of book 2 (1090– 1227) helps to bridge the gap between the two halves of the poem.33 The distress of Jason’s parents at the start (1.247–305) helps to establish the ¼ŁºØ (cf. 1.255) as an entity, a lamentable whole. The most important of all the structural elements is the division of the two books. The Wrst is closed through a device that makes it seem like a distinct Attic tragedy: the sudden appearance of a god to intervene and settle (1.1310–28: Glaucus). The separation of the books groups the material into two diVerentiated units, with contrasting episodes. In book 1, things tend to go sadly wrong. The Argonauts dally with the Lemnian women, who had half-heartedly taken male roles; they are themselves temporarily made soft and amorous. By contrast in book 2, the Argonauts do not even meet the warlike Amazons, of whom we hear much; if they had, they would have fought them (2.985–95). The Argonauts are hospitably entertained in book 1 by Cyzicus, but then by accident engage in Iliadic yet pointless and disastrous warfare with their hosts. By contrast, in book 2 their Iliadic Wghting against Amycus’ people is entirely justiWed, and the hospitality of Lycus has no calamitous sequel. In book 1 they lose their greatest hero, Heracles, in awkward circumstances, which lead to a strife that is characteristic of the book. The loss of Idmon in book 2, by contrast, is a death in the arms of friends (833–4), which underlines the harmony more characteristic of this book, and recently aYrmed (715–19). The Boreadae urge against returning for Heracles; this is part of a quarrel, and will in the future cause Heracles actually to kill them (1.1298–1308). In book 2 the Boreadae rescue Phineus by pursuing the Harpies: a heroic deed, at the limits of human power. Book 2 is generally marked, until the blow of Tiphys’ death, by heroic achievement. 32 Cf. 4.730–7. 33 Their warnings end with Aeetes’ snake, like Phineus’ main prophetic speech, 2.404–7; cf. Pind. Pyth. 4.244–6.

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Polydeuces kills Amycus, and the Argonauts pass through the Plegades. Temporary despair at their helmsman’s death (2.858–63, cf. 885–93) marks to some extent a change of direction in the narrative; but it is evident how the division of books shapes the material into large masses and patterns. The separate rolls of books 1–4 are fundamental to the organization and perception of the poem.34 The structure of the poem is elegant and formalized. The strong divisions between books, episodes, scenes, do not only disrupt and express; they also, as in, say, metopes, articulate a design. The design focuses on the Argonauts and their deeds and experiences: not one man but many, not their lives but a tightly delimited action and period. As has become apparent, the structure creates complex ideas of the Argonauts themselves, as regards heroic achievement. But the poem also looks beyond the Argonauts, and in doing so broadens its vision and deepens its thought. All the structuring moments that were mentioned from books 1 and 2 in fact also display this looking beyond. The way they combine structuring the poem and enlarging its meaning demonstrates strikingly the importance of both these aspects. In complicating the focus of the poem, these passages do not only show structural daring and experiment; they also lead the poem, through Homeric forms, into Homeric, and especially Iliadic, complexity and emotional profundity. Let us look at how other people and lives are developed in these passages; some Homeric connections will also be mentioned. Phineus’ itinerary particularly recalls Circe’s (Od. 12.37–110); but Phineus has a more elaborate life-story than the Odyssean Circe (Od. 10.135–9). His speech presents the future and a new beginning for the Argonauts; about the end of their task, they fail to learn (2.408–25). ( æÆÆ Æıغ  . . . ¼ı   ŒºŁı (310), ‘the end of the voyage and accomplishment of the journey’, only refers to the outward voyage, it transpires.) Phineus himself, as juxtaposition brings out, has now had his peripeteia: the Harpies have gone for good. No further change to his blind old age is possible, and he would like to die (444–7). The irreversible blindness links him to Polyphemus (Od. 9.542–5): that scene, while determining Odysseus’ future, also opens

34 On the nature of book 1, cf. Clauss (1993).

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unexpected and pathetic vistas on the Cyclops’ ruined life (9.447– 60). The stages reached by Phineus’ and the Argonauts’ stories and lives are opposed. Phineus is an archetypal old man; the speciWc designation › ªæÆØ , ‘the old man’ (254, etc.), summons up Iliadic Wgures. Phineus contrasts with the youthful Argonauts (327).35 He joins up with the old people at the beginning of the poem, especially Jason’s father.36 The speech of the old man Phoenix in Il. 9 (434–605) may be compared: Phoenix’s life, and those of others, are set against Achilles’.37 In the Phineus episode, the narrator’s and Phineus’ own accounts, and Wrst-, second-, and third-person perspectives, produce a vivid and elaborate idea of Phineus’ story. The contrast with his previous reign and good fortune, before the earlier and unhappy peripeteia, recalls Priam.38 The general technique too is Iliadic: the Lycaon episode gives a conspicuous example of perspectives in diVerent persons on the same narrative (Il. 21.34–114). In the case of Phineus, for all his and the Argonauts’ mutual goodwill, we see his distinct and separate viewpoint; the separation is grounded in biography and biology.39 35 Cf. 1.341 etc. Ø, ‘young men’; 1.448 ŒFæØ, ‘youths’; 2.419–20. 36 1.263–4, cf. 253–5;
ıæ , ‘most unfortunate’, is used in the Wrst two books of Jason’s father at 1.253, his mother at 286, Phineus at 2.218, and in connection with old age at 1.685. 37 The name of (a diVerent) Cleopatra at Ap. Rhod. 2.239 may sharpen the connection with Phoenix’s speech (cf. Hom. Il. 9.556–65, 590–5). That speech is itself very much an expansion of the Iliad’s usual world. On the narrative of Meleager there and its relation to Achilles, cf. Alden (2000) ch. 7, Grossardt (2001) 9–43. For Phineus’ old age cf. e.g. 2.183, 197–201, 221 ªBæÆ I æı K º ºŒø. The Kleophrades Painter, with characteristically innovative pathos, shows a blind and bald old man: Attic r.-f. hydria-kalpis Malibu 85.AE.316, c.480–470 bc (Kahil and Jacquemin (1988) 446–7 no. 9). For various aspects of the episode cf. Hunter (1993a) 90–5, Knight (1995) 169–76, Manakidou (1995) 203–8, Clare (2002) 74–83, Cuypers (2004) 60–1. The link across works with fr. 5.4–5 Powell is of interest (cf. Krevans (2000)). 38 2.236–9; Hom. Il. 24.543–6. 39 Achilles purports to make Lycaon’s story unimportant by speaking of his own origin and death (Hom. Il. 21.108–12); but any simple adoption of Achilles’ perspective is averted by 122–35. (126–35 are bracketed in M. L. West’s edition (1998–2000), cf. West (2001) 258–9; but 122–5 are enough to arouse horror and pathos.) There is perhaps a metaliterary dimension to the episode too. The blind Phineus recalls not only the seer Teiresias but the poets Demodocus (cf. 2.257–8 with Hom. Od. 8.480–1, 488) and Homer (cf. M. L. West (1999) 371, and esp. Graziosi (2002) ch. 4). Phineus’

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Jason’s summary to Lycus is immediately followed by Lycus’ own reminiscences of his youth (2.774–91), in rather Nestorian vein (cf. Hom. Il. 1.260–72). When Lycus saw Heracles he was just leaving boyhood (2.779), but now he has a son of his own (homonymous with his own father),40 who is old enough to be sent with the Argonauts. He and his people have their own reasons to be delighted at the Argonauts’ defeat of the Bebryces, with whom they have always been Wghting.41 A sense of other lives and perspectives is thus built up, through Wrst-person speech and the adumbration of a biographical narrative. The Odyssey is very much in point here, not least book 4, where Menelaus both remembers Odysseus and reveals some of his own story.42 The sons of Phrixus are crucial to the plot and forcefully introduce us and the Argonauts to the central situation of Colchis. But they also forcefully bring in their own story, which is part of a longer story involving their father and their mother, Aeetes’ elder daughter Chalciope. Their story now interlocks with that of the Argonauts, and there are numerous points of connection and contrast. They are trying to get back to Greece from Colchis, so as to recover their property; they are following their father’s (not, like Jason, their uncle’s) Kø, ‘injunctions’ (2.1152). Their own ship has just been wrecked (by the father of the Boreadae, 1098–1103); their despair strongly connects with Jason’s in the poem.43 Though their fates will now combine, they become a lever for opening up further divisions of understanding. Their mother has a very diVerent attitude to their departure, based on her own sex and life-story (3.253–67). That scene is especially connected with Penelope’s reaction to Telemachus’ departure,44 as is the related scene between Jason and his avoidance of completeness compares and contrasts with the poet-narrator’s own strategy; the theme of controlling speech, in Apollonius’ version of the myth (cf. schol. 2.178–82b, Soph. frr. 704–5 TrGF), relates to a concern of the narrator’s prominent in the poem (cf. e.g. 1.919–21, handled as often with a near-Callimachean sense of play). 40 776, 803. 41 135–41, 757–8, 796–8. 42 On Lycus’ reminiscences cf. Nelis (2001) 360–2. 43 IÆø ŒÆŒØ, (one son) ‘in despair at their misfortune’, 2.1140; the same phrase of Jason 2.410, 3.423. 44 Hom. Od. 4.703–66, 17.36–56.

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mother (1.268–305). Book 3 will develop further signiWcant divergences between Chalciope’s perspective and that of her sister Medea, despite their alliance. Aeetes too has an angle of his own.45 Diverging perspectives are plainly involved in the mourning of Alcimede and others for Jason before he leaves. The speech of Odysseus’ mother at Od. 11.181–204, which is evoked in this scene, brings out the suVering that Odysseus’ absence has caused to diVerent members of his family; but it does not mark the distinctness of the hero’s own viewpoint with the force of this scene. (Jason, though sad, is determined, and he has more conWdence than Alcimede in the gods.) Particularly interesting is the elaborate connection of perspective and structure. The passage has strong associations with both opening and closing. S Zº (1.256, spoken by women), ‘if only’ Phrixus had perished on his ram, ÆYŁ Zº (278, spoken by Alcimede), ‘if only’ I had died, recall the opening of Euripides’ Medea: YŁ þº , ‘if only’ the Argo had never been made or sailed. That very connection marks a diVerent perspective again on the Argonauts. ¼ºªÆ ıæ Æ Ł  (259), (so that Phrixus’ ram might) ‘cause’ Alcimede ‘innumerable woes’, strongly recalls the opening of the Iliad; however, it relates the woes to a Wgure subordinate in the main story, but with her own viewpoint. The mourning of the parents, and the attempt to restrain the son, recalls the last part of the Iliad (books 22 and 24). Structurally, a striking inversion of the Iliad’s structure is implied: the family’s mourning begins the poem. But diVerences in characters’ viewpoint are much involved too. The idea of ending relates to Alcimede’s perceived pattern of life, distinct from her son’s: now she is old, but after joy and prosperity have come a peripeteia and a sad Wnal period.46 Such a fall in a life is a highly Homeric theme for speeches, and is seen even in a child and a dog.47 In the Iliad, lament provides a supreme form for presenting individual perspective and narrative. Apollonius pursues this Homeric inspiration, but at a greater distance from tragic Wnality.48 45 3.304–13, cf. 584–8, 594–605. For restraining parents cf. also e.g. Hom. Il. 22.33–92, Callim. Hec. fr. 17 Hollis and Diegesis. Contrast Ap. Rhod. 1.149–50. On the sons of Phrixus in the poem cf. Nyberg (1992) 62, 86–7, Clare (2002) 104–18. 46 1.251–2, 284–9, cf. 253–5. 47 Il. 22.484–507, Od. 17.312–23. 48 Alcimede is not seen in Pindar; the old father is presented at Pyth. 4.120–3. In Apollonius the parents appear as fortunate hitherto; Pelias’ treatment of their

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We have already touched on Glaucus’ speech, delivered ex mari rather than ex machina. It ends a quarrel within the expedition; the contrast with the opening of the Iliad is made inescapable by BØ (1.1339), Telamon’s ‘wrath’. There is also a contrast between this resolution of discord and Heracles’ behaviour: he will later kill his enemies (something Achilles only contemplated in the heat of the moment, Il. 1.189–92). Heracles has his own plot, which this one has been interrupting; his departure fulWls ˜Øe . . . ıº , as if he had his own Iliad.49 The Argonautica in fact includes a considerable number of Heracles’ labours, and his paratactic plot is both separate from this one and Xeetingly in contact with it. Hylas has already gained the end of marriage (and immortality); Jason will have to wait until 4.1121–69 for the former. Even Hylas’ biography has been brieXy conveyed, with conscious digression (1.1211–20). Other stories, then, appear, with their own timing and shape.50 These moments bring out how, even as Apollonius is marking the clarity and cohesion of his paratactic narrative, he is also, in pursuit of Homer, pointedly opening up a multiplicity of other stories and perspectives. Such opening up is not in the least conWned to these moments (cf. e.g. the episodes of Hypsipyle or of the Doliones, or Hera’s speech to Thetis, 4.783–832); but they bring out with special force how the poem is not conWned to its central structure, characters, and ethos. The sense of other lives and viewpoints does not undermine the sense of structure and of selection; but it enormously enriches the vision and complexity of the poem. These passages of books 1 and 2 also lead into the great Wssure in the narrative of the poem. property is not dwelt on (cf. Pind. Pyth. 4.110). The idea that Jason is Alcimede’s only child is presented in terms of her biography (1.287–9, cf. 97–100 and Helen in Hom. Od. 4.12–14). 49 1.1315, 1345, cf. 2.154. 50 Heracles in the poem is a complex mixture of lawlessness and lawfulness: shortly before, his motive with Theiodamas is raised to a concern with justice (1.1218–19); 2.147–50 more bluntly set Þºfiø against Amycus’ (deplorable) ŁEØ. Panyassis frr. 19–22 West (¼ 12–14 Matthews) may even seek to improve Heracles’ image as a drinker; cf. M. L. West (2003a) 207 n. 21. Diverging treatments of Heracles in poetry were a topic of explicit discussion: cf. esp. Megaclides (early 3rd cent. bc) F 9 Janko in Janko (2000) 142–3. Zeus’ will is made to play a more prominent role in Heracles’ story than in the Argonauts’ (even after Apsyrtus’ murder, note 4.576–9); cf. Feeney (1991) 58–69, DeForest (1994) 67–8, 108–9.

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As the poem moves into greater continuity and singleness with the central ¼Łº , it also splits into two strands and two perspectives (cf. the Hecale). Not only diVerent values and a diVerent world but diVerent styles and modes of narrative are seen in the writing on Jason and on Medea. It is characteristic that Jason has no long soliloquies.51 Medea’s life appears within and outside the borders of the poem. Within it, her active deeds and passive suVerings form a challenging mirror-image of the Argonauts’ (and especially Jason’s). Her deeds detract from his, her suVerings are his fault. Only a few points need be mentioned here. It is signiWcant, as was mentioned, that she dreams of performing Jason’s trial herself (3.623–7). The last line of book 3 states the accomplishment of the ¼Łº ; the Wrst of book 4 speaks of Medea’s ŒÆ, ‘suVering’ (joined with
Æ, ‘plans’, for which cf. 4.193); the last sentence of book 4 comes to the end of the Argonauts’ ŒÆø, ‘labours’ (1776). Her suVerings and their deeds thus join together. Passionate speeches by Medea emphasize her loss of her fatherland, parents, and home, which she has restored to the Argonauts.52 Jason’s, and the Argonauts’, success in ŒÆØ, ¼ŁºØ, and gaining of the Fleece, are due to Medea, and her suVering is due to those ŒÆØ and ¼ŁºØ.53 The symmetry, and its disquieting implications, are made clear.54 The Argonauts’ plot and Medea’s are just about kept together as stories, in that marriage is a climactic event for her (almost prevented by perjury from Jason, and brought within the poem’s narrative by 51 The monologue and dream of Medea in POxy. 4712 are interesting even if, as looks likely, the poem is later than Apollonius. 52 4.361–2, 1036–7, 1038–40, cf. 203 (Jason speaking). 53 4.360–5, 1031–5. 54 For a relatively recent discussion of the relation between Medea’s and Jason’s roles in the poem cf. Clauss (1997); see also the witty presentation in Calasso (1988) 372–4. Similes oVer another important device for giving Medea’s experience shape. Two suggest the radical changes in her life that confront Medea within the poem: 3.656–63, on a bride who has lost her husband before the wedding-night, and 4.1060–7, on a working widow with children, all mourning. As often with similes, there are also vital diVerences; the changes of life within the similes are in fact more tragic. (So too at 1.268–77.) The inset mini-narratives of the similes open up yet further lives. Such resonance is Homeric: especially pertinent is Od. 8.523–30, on a woman who has lost her husband at the fall of a city and is driven into slavery. (Cf. Macleod (1982) 4–5, 10–11; Garvie (1994) 339–40; de Jong (2001) 216–17.)

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surprise). But her story, more than Jason’s, is extended before and beyond the end of the poem; we can see how diVerent a span it has from the Argonauts’ journey. Her early childhood is recalled, like Achilles’ in Il. 9.485–95, at 3.732–5. She there borrows language from Andromache (Il. 6.429–30) to show her closeness to her sister: she is Wguratively Chalciope’s daughter too (732–3). SigniWcantly this language is later transferred to Jason, to whom she is daughter, wife, and sister (4.368–9): her circumstances have been drastically altered, as have Andromache’s in very diVerent fashion, and the change has disrupted all previous relationships. Her earlier life of witchcraft and power in Colchis is variously indicated.55 Some of her future deeds and experiences are explicitly signalled: her destruction of Pelias,56 her eventual marriage to the central Wgure of the Iliad (4.811–16), now a child himself (cf. 1.557–8). Less explicitly, there are pointers to her desertion by Jason: so at 3.1105 ¯ ºº
Ø ı 
 ŒÆº, ıÆ IºªØ, ‘I suppose in Greece it is thought good to care about agreements.’ The irony relates to Jason’s nearbreaking of his oath in book 4, but also, as ¯ ºº
Ø shows, to his actual breaking of that oath in Corinth. Heracles’ puriWcation from the killing of his own children, mentioned at 4.541, clearly connects with the puriWcation of Jason and Medea for the killing of her brother Apsyrtus;57 but it connects too with Medea’s killing of her own children. The link with Heracles is interesting: just as his story runs alongside that of the poem, so Medea’s, though in a way part of the poem, has also its own existence and validity.58 Like the Argonauts’ story, and Heracles’, Medea’s is a paratactic narrative, of accumulated suVering but particularly of deeds, many of them in her case wicked. Later literature shows the celebrity of her series of crimes. The poem makes it clear that she, more than the Argonauts, is a Wgure of power. To her numerous achievements of 55 So 3.250–2, 528–33, 4.50–65. 56 3.1134–6, 4.241–3. 57 4.541 Øł Æ
ø Oºe, cf. 560, 587–8 . . .  `łæØ j ºÆ  łØ. 58 On the marriage to Jason cf. POxy. 3698; Spanoudakis (2002) 309–12. The marriage to Achilles creates a connection and contrast with the ¸ı ˚ Ø (most likely by Apollonius) and the more disastrous life-story of Peisidice; cf. 4.815 with fr. 12.15 Powell, and Lightfoot (1999) 499. See also Korenjak (1997) 23–5.

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witchcraft (above), the poem adds her decisive help for Jason with the trial and the Fleece, and her quasi-Iliadic conquest of the bronze Talos through witchcraft (4.1651–88). The murder of Apsyrtus brings her into particularly shocking territory. Her fatalistic parenthesis at 411–13 suggests the sequence of crimes that are bound to follow later, just like this one: æØg ªaæ IØŒº ØØ K æªØ j ŒÆd 
  ÆŁÆØ, Kd e æH IŁ j IºÆŒ fi, ŁŁ
b ŒÆŒa XıÆ Ø , ‘it is necessary to bring this about too, to add to my shameful deeds, since I Wrst acted in folly and error and, because of the gods, accomplished deplorable plans’ (cf. 3.983). But this crime is also the responsibility of Jason himself, who weakly swings from possible oath-breaking to actual murder. It is not only by exposing passivity and showing pain that the Wgure of Medea raises questions about the Argonauts.59 The story of Medea, then, presents a paratactic series, based on the life of one person; this disrupts and problematizes the main narrative of the poem, itself paratactic but not based on one person or one life. Far from disunifying the poem, Medea enhances its cohesion, and thickens its complexity. The same may be seen in many other enlargements of the poem beyond the Argonauts. In some ways, the poem might seem to share the uniWed perspective of the Odyssey: there the sympathetic characters, though all with their own viewpoints, are more united and allied than in the Iliad. But these complications pull the Argonautica towards the more tragic and terrible poem. The reader perceives the happy ending of the Argonautica, the natural conclusion of its tight formality, as in some respects a self-consciously artiWcial imposition. Callimachus and Apollonius treat with the boldest experimentalism the fundamentals of design which Homer, in an important critical tradition, was thought to exemplify. These poets cannot be thought simply indiVerent to current discussion of the chief epic 59 The idea of Medea’s sequence of misdeeds is wittily exploited at Val. Fl. 8.106–8 (a catalogue which Medea hopes has ended with the putting to sleep of the snake; cf. e.g. Man. 3.9–13, Sen. Med. 910–15). See further for Medea’s life and image Moreau (1994), Clauss and Johnston (1997), Mastronarde (2002) 44–70. The image of the felled tree (4.1682–6) is an important one in the Iliad (Fra¨nkel (1977) 35–7), here developed with a twist; it also recalls the Argonauts’ conquest of ˆª (1.1003–5). Contrast Dosiadas, Ara 5–8.

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writer; nor should their poems be considered either less thoughtful or less eVective than Homer’s in the deployment of structure. But they do not only diverge from Homer. The detailed texture of their poems also shows these poets drawing on the Homeric and especially Iliadic heritage to create narrative which challenges the reader’s sympathies and values. The relation of these two strategies is evident: both the treatment of structure and the handling of perspectives surprise and stimulate the reader. Critically and ethically, the reader is engaged and provoked.

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5 The Aeneid: Inheritance and Empire Rebecca Armstrong

The Aeneid is a storehouse of literature, Wlled with references and allusions not only to other epics, but also to a vast range of diVerent genres from tragedy, lyric, elegy, and epigram to history and ethnography. This very inclusiveness could be said to mark the poet’s ambition.1 His new epic will respond not just to Homer, but to a gallery of authors from very diVerent literary worlds. Indeed, Virgil’s work is not just a response, a reaction, but an act of appropriation and reshaping. The relationship between the epic and its sources is not one-way: not only do the older texts inform the way we read the Aeneid, but the Aeneid also shapes the way we look at the original works. Virgil’s poem functions as a kind of treasury of literary history. Just as the epic’s narrative co-opts and transforms myth and world history into the history of Rome, so the all-pervasive web of literary reference makes the Aeneid, the deWnitively Roman epic, a repository of ‘world’ literature. Before, the Homeric epics deWned great literature; correspondingly, the Aeneid comes to deWne great literature for Many thanks to Stephen Heyworth and Oliver Lyne for helpful comments during the production process, and to the participants at the GriYn Symposium for their questions and suggestions. I am also grateful to Stephen Harrison for allowing me to read his work (forthcoming) on the generic inclusivity of the Aeneid, which has helped me to crystallize my own thoughts. 1 Farrell (1997) 223 deWnes this expansiveness of allusion as part of Virgil’s poetic signature, encompassing as it does both ‘casual’ reminiscence of a favourite text and complex, learned allusion to an earlier source.

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a new, Roman world. An epic which will rival Homer is no small undertaking, and there is no lack of ideology behind this as well as ‘purer’ literary ambition. Like Roman imperialism itself, this project of cultural redeWnition is a process which involves construction and assimilation as much as destruction and the brute imposition of new ideals. If the Aeneid could be seen to adopt and absorb all other great literature into a more uniWed, glorious whole, its position as deWnitive of literature would be unassailable. In this respect, again, there is an analogy to be drawn between the substance of the Aeneid, its narrative, and the act of literary construction which underlies it. Philip Hardie has discussed the importance in epic narratives of the theme of the single, extraordinary victor. Epic frequently looks for a single dominant hero, the one out of many who can win through to the end.2 Epic likes its heroes to be unique, to stand out from the crowd. Similarly, Rome (both as an epic goal and as a kind of epic hero writ large) cannot be satisWed with being one among a crowd of other world powers: witness the destruction of Carthage, so often represented as a necessary precondition for Rome’s ascendancy, and the recasting of Romandominated Athens as an intellectual training ground for the Empire’s elite. The Aeneid, as the deWnitive Roman epic—and thus, in some sense, deWnitive of Rome itself—is also aiming to achieve primacy, aiming to be unique. And its uniqueness is, paradoxically, achieved through its assiduous assimilation of other literature. The Aeneid creates a literary space which can accommodate just about everything. There is, to misuse a famous phrase, nothing outside this text. (Or so we are led to believe.) If we regard the Aeneid as building its own kind of literary empire, we can see how Virgil might circumvent the anxiety of inspiration, the discomfort of belatedness. Of course other poets got there Wrst. Indeed, they are necessary building blocks for the work. But the result is a poem greater than its parts. Virgil adopts the best bits, which still have resonance, and adapts them to Wt into Roman culture. The great literature of the Greeks does not have to be regarded as an unassailable monolith, and their artistic superiority

2 Hardie (1993) 3–10.

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does not have to be accepted without question.3 In the Tusculan Disputations Cicero remarks that the Greeks outclassed the Romans in poetry at a time when it was very easy to do so, since the Romans were a younger race, busy Wghting for their place in the world while the likes of Homer and Archilochus were at leisure to compose great works (Tusc. 1.3). Cicero, as it happens, is content to admit that the Greeks are better at poetry than the Romans, but insists that the Romans now outclass the Greeks in the Weld of oratory (Tusc. 1.5). He shows that it is possible to improve on a Greek cultural invention. Similarly, the Aeneid is Virgil’s testament to the Romans’ ability to take a good idea and improve upon it, or at least make it their own. He just disagrees with Cicero about the area in which they shine. In the climax of the description of the glorious heroes of Rome’s future in Aeneid 6, Anchises oVers a variation on Cicero’s acceptance of Greek superiority in certain Welds. Here, Cicero’s shameless championing of his own cause—since, for all the qualities of his own poetry, it is doubtless true that he was a greater orator than poet—is wittily undermined by Virgil, who has Anchises assert that others (for whom read the Greeks) will be better at oratory than the Romans. However, now the balancing talents turn out not to be poetic (indeed, poetry is not even directly mentioned), but political: excudent alii spirantia mollius aera (credo equidem), uiuos ducent de marmore uultus, orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus describent radio et surgentia sidera dicent: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (hae tibi erunt artes), pacique imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare superbos. Others will hammer out breathing bronzes more subtly (so I believe), and draw living faces from marble, they will plead causes better, and mark out 3 For a broad discussion of Rome’s complicated relationship with Greek art, see Gruen (1992) 84–182. His comment on L. Mummius’ imports of art has some resonance with my argument: ‘Rome would henceforth be not only the military and diplomatic centre of the Mediterranean, but the custodian of its cultural heritage’ (p. 130). Virgil, of course, aims to be far more than the mere curator of a literary museum, but the principle is similar.

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the heavens’ wanderings with the rod and describe the stars rising: you, Roman, must remember to rule people with your command (these will be your arts), and to add order to peace, to spare the defeated and war down the proud (Aen. 6.847–53).

This is often read as a confession from Virgil himself that he knows the Romans are, simply, not as artistically talented as the Greeks, but that statecraft is their true forte.4 Yet it could, on the contrary, be a purposefully one-sided version of what empire means—a limited imperium of bashing your enemy and imposing some minimal and utilitarian form of law and order.5 To some, that is what imperialism means (and the subjectivity of this view is highlighted by Anchises’ qualifying phrase, credo equidem, at line 848).6 To others, whose view may never be as directly stated, but which, I believe, is strongly implicit throughout the whole poem,7 an empire is about culture and the arts as well as about military success. There need not necessarily be a divide between military conquest and cultural supremacy; you do not have to choose one or the other. The poet can

4 As Jasper GriYn himself elegantly sums up: ‘It is the price of empire that the Roman must abandon for this imperial destiny, splendid and yet bitter, so many forms of beauty’, GriYn (1985) 170. Jenkyns (1999) 311 adapts this view, pointing out that Anchises uses comparatives—others will be better—and thus does not absolutely rule out Roman involvement with the arts, just Roman supremacy in the arts. 5 Rudd (1986) 28–9 argues convincingly that the vision of empire set out here is limited, and that in this context mos implies nothing more than the imposition of basic rules to regulate peace, and does not extend to more high-Xown things like art and literature. Where I disagree with Rudd is in his assumption that these lines deWne Virgil’s own view on empire. 6 Indeed, we could even see here a character’s dissatisfaction with his author. To the ghostly Anchises, what seems important about the Roman future is its gloria, viewed almost entirely in military terms, and the deeds of the heroes of the Republic (of whom Augustus is the last and best). What Virgil does, however, is oVer only brief glimpses of this, choosing to spend his time instead on an incredibly learned, intricate, and poetically aware epic, where literary interaction frequently seems more important than military. Anchises is not impressed and attempts to direct his son (whose gaze is several times in this poem occupied in the blissful contemplation of works of art) to see instead the beauty of stern martial practicality. 7 One might also bear in mind that the philistine Anchises is himself made to quote a line of Ennius directly before his eschewal of the arts (Aen. 6.846: cf. Enn. Ann. 363 sk., unus homo nobis cunctando restituit rem—‘one man restored the state for us by delaying’). Cf. Lyne (1987) 214–15.

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be an agent of imperial expansion just as much as the soldier: the pen and the sword can have a shared goal.8

VIRGIL AND HOMER Any investigation of Virgil’s use of inherited tradition in the Aeneid is bound to encounter Homer’s inXuence. Much has, therefore, already been said (and much more, no doubt, will go on to be said) on this subject.9 I cannot hope even to scratch the surface of the intimate relationship between Virgil’s poem and the Homeric epics. What I oVer here are some suggestions for ways of viewing this relationship as an important part of Virgil’s grand project of literary appropriation. We are nowadays used to thinking about the self-doubt that can aZict an author working in the shadow of the great writers of the past. Indeed, the picture we gain of Virgil from the biographical sources seems to Wt this: he often emerges as an anxious, not to say obsessive, poet, who writes only three lines of verse in a day, who says it is easier to steal Hercules’ club than to steal a line from Homer, who asks on his deathbed that the unWnished, imperfect Aeneid should be burned.10 In the Aeneid itself, he stages a boxing match between an eager young Wghter and an older man, who reluctantly knocks the younger one senseless. The anxiety of inXuence writ large.11 Moreover, those who look for ‘further voices’ have long 8 Here, compare a prediction of American supremacy, which (to my prejudiced ear) carries echoes both of Anchises’ speech and of the wider argument that culture is part of empire: ‘We shall be giving the word for everything—industry, trade, law, journalism, art, politics and religion from Cape Horn clear over to Surith’s Sound, and beyond it too, if anything worth taking hold of turns up at the North Pole . . . We shall run the world’s business whether the world likes it or not. The world can’t help it—and neither can we, I guess’ (Conrad, Nostromo, p. 77 in 1925 reprint). Said (1993) discusses this passage in his introduction (p. xx). 9 Knauer (1964) is, of course, the locus classicus. See also Barchiesi (1984). 10 Cf. Vita Donati 25 (Virgil took 11 years to write the Aeneid), 39 (the request to burn the unWnished Aeneid), 46 (stealing Hercules’ club). 11 Dares and Entellus, Aen. 5.362–484. Recent discussions of the episode and its intertexts include: Nelis (2001) 13–21; Feldherr (2002).

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been exposing the poet’s doubts and uncertainties about the Augustan project, or at least about its propaganda. Not only is this poet overawed by his predecessors, but he is also troubled by the political capital which might be made out of his work. With such a picture in mind, it can be hard to think of its opposite. And yet there is a much more conWdent, even arrogant, side to the poet. Virgil, after all, eventually accepts that he is the one (out of all his prevaricating and apologetic contemporaries)12 who will embrace—in his own, carefully negotiated way—the Herculean task of writing The Roman Epic, and who will wrestle with the ghost of Homer. The Aeneid, a poem which itself places so much value on narrative integrity—the strong, unbroken line from past to future—is markedly cavalier in its approach to the narrative integrity of the other works it absorbs. The division of the Aeneid into Iliadic and Odyssean halves is well known, but also rather diYcult to pin down in its details. Despite the obvious correspondence between the wanderings of Odysseus and those of Aeneas in the Wrst half, and between the battles of the Iliad and the war in Latium in the second half of the Aeneid, there are many exceptions to the rule: the funeral games for Anchises have more in common with Iliad 23; Aeneid 4 is more like Argonautica 3 than any particular book of the Odyssey, and so on.13 Indeed, the boldness of the reversal of the usual sequence of the two Homeric epics should not be overlooked. To set an Odyssey before an Iliad is radically to upset the Homeric order (in more than one sense). Again, the characters of the Aeneid frequently carry reminiscences of not one, but many earlier Wgures from literature. Once again, the earlier texts are used, reused, and fragmented. Homer’s Achilles feeds into Aeneas, Turnus, and Mezentius; Dido is like Homer’s Calypso, Circe, Nausicaa, and Arete, but also bears a strong resemblance to Apollonius’ Medea and Hypsipyle, Catullus’ Ariadne and even to Cleopatra. The intricacy and intelligence of Virgil’s understanding of his models—and our

12 And even, in a way, his own former self: witness the opening of Eclogue 6, where Apollo directs the poet away from kings and battles. But this should not be read too simply as avoiding a Roman epic: cf. Clausen (1994) 174–5. 13 Cairns (1989) 177–214 has even made an argument for seeing the whole thing as an Odyssey.

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admiration for the details—can often distract us from seeing the conWdence, verging on arrogance, with which he handles those sources, now reshaped in the image the poet requires. Like an emperor who has conquered an ancient, rich, and beautiful land, Virgil is truly appreciative of the greatness and glory of Homer, but not scared to cut up, portion out, and reuse his work as he sees Wt. By containing the whole of the Iliad and the Odyssey in the Aeneid,14 the poet absorbs the works which have for so long been the unassailable emblems of the greatest literature. The crown which once belonged to Homer can be allowed simultaneously to stay with Homer (imitation being the sincerest form of Xattery) and to be transferred to Virgil’s head. And the authority which belonged to Homer can be reused by Virgil to shore up his own poem. Or, to put it more bluntly still, Virgil can piggy-back on the canonical status of Homer in creating his own, newly canonical text. Here I turn to a much-cited passage, the prediction of Aeneas’ future as leader of the Trojan race. First as described by Homer’s Poseidon, then as reshaped by Virgil’s Apollo: æØ
 ¥ K IºÆŁÆØ, ZæÆ c ¼æ ªc ŒÆd ¼Æ ZºÆØ ˜Ææ
ı; n ˚æ
 æd ø  ºÆ Æ
ø, Q Ł K%ª ªıÆØŒH  Łø. X
 ªaæ —æØı ªc XŁæ ˚æ ø. F
b
c `N Æ   æØ I%Ø ŒÆd Æ
ø ÆE
 ,  Œ ØŁ ªøÆØ. It is fated for him to be spared, so that the race of Dardanus will not perish unseen, without issue. Zeus loved Dardanus most of all the children born to him of mortal women. Now he has come to hate the family of Priam, so it will be Aeneas’ might that will rule over the Trojans, and his children’s children, and those born after them (Il. 20.302–8).

14 The question of size is, of course, important here. In just 12 books, Virgil contains not just the 48 books of the Iliad and Odyssey, but also the Epic Cycle (e.g. the Iliupersis is replayed in Aeneid 2, the Nostoi in the diVerent return journeys described at varying lengths in the course of the poem, while the Aethiopis is to be found both in the appearance of Memnon and Penthesilea in the temple sculptures at Aen. 1.488–93 and in a new form with Camilla in book 11).

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Tough children of Dardanus, the same earth which Wrst brought you forth from your parents’ stock will receive you in her fertile breast when you return. Seek out your ancient mother. Here will the house of Aeneas rule every shore and his children’s children, and those born from them (Aen. 3.94–8).

The Homeric prediction of Aeneas’ survival and continuing local importance in the Troad is Romanized by Virgil to mark Aeneas and his descendants out for world dominion and speciWcally Roman imperium. The closest correspondence is clearly between Iliad 20.307–8 and Aeneid 3.97–8, the latter being a more or less direct translation of the former, with the important change of ‘every shore’ for ‘Trojans’.15 Aeneas is no longer the kind of second-rank hero he is in the Iliad—a hero who will, by virtue of not being as good as Hector, as well as being loved by certain gods, survive to lead his warravaged people in the future. This new, improved Aeneas is a true proto-Roman, who sets his people’s feet on the Wrst rung of the ladder to global empire. It is worth noting as well that Virgil does not just limit himself to a near translation of the two most crucial Homeric lines. He also hints at the wider context of Poseidon’s speech in the Iliad. First, his oracle names the Trojans as Dardanidae, pointing to a Trojan ancestor with Italian connections, while also subtly recalling the Homeric Poseidon’s comments on Zeus’ special love for Dardanus. More importantly, this prophecy is now taken from Poseidon and given to Apollo’s oracle instead. In the Iliad, Poseidon is saving Aeneas from Achilles after Apollo has prompted 15 It seems that Virgil may not be the Wrst to oVer a diVerent reading of Homer here. Commenting on the divergence of the Homeric prediction from other traditions of the wanderings of Aeneas, Strabo notes that some read `N Æ ª Ø I%Ø (‘the race of Aeneas will rule over all’) at Il. 20.307, referring to the rise of the Romans (13.1.53). Given the importance of the Trojan myth for Rome, it is hardly surprising that such a variant might have arisen before Virgil came to write, but his own manipulation of Homer need not therefore be ignored. Thanks to Stephen Heyworth for this point.

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the Trojan to go out and face the greatest Greek hero. Apollo has no concern to protect Aeneas in the Iliad; it is up to Poseidon to save him. In the Aeneid, Apollo provides Aeneas with a direct assurance of his survival and the continuing power of his descendants. Virgil, therefore, not only appropriates Homeric authority and historicity, but ‘corrects’ that authority and adds his own spin. Virgil says what Homer, had he only known the glorious truth, should have said, and he puts the words in the mouth of an important Augustan god. In the right hands, Homer can be used to promote the Roman/Virgilian myth of ‘manifest destiny’.16 And as if to emphasize how new and unexpected this version of a familiar text is, we Wnd that the old-timer Anchises, stuck Wrmly in a more Trojan-centric view of the world, misinterprets the oracle. Rather than turn to the west, he urges everyone to go south to Crete, where they set about building a new Troy, called Pergamea. To Anchises, to be divinely directed to live in Crete seems to be a Wne thing: spes discite uestras (‘learn what you can hope for’, Aen. 3.103). This is not only a place of great antiquity, boasting connections with Jupiter, Cybele, and the Trojan ancestor Teucer, but also a fertile land with a hundred cities. Quite a coup, we might think, and perhaps already a step up from the vaguer Homeric prediction that Aeneas’ family will survive to rule the Trojans (and stay in Troy). Later, though, and after the Trojans have been aZicted by a plague, the Penates appear in a dream to tell Aeneas that they’ve got it wrong and that their real goal is Italy. Italy, unlike Crete, can oVer them not only antiquity and a Trojan connection, via Dardanus (Aen. 3.163–8), but also imperium: nos te Dardania incensa tuaque arma secuti, nos tumidum sub te permensi classibus aequor, idem uenturos tollemus in astra nepotes imperiumque urbi dabimus. tu moenia magnis magna para longumque fugae ne linque laborem. 16 Cf. Barchiesi (2001b) 134: ‘It could not be said more clearly that Virgil wants to continue Homer. But . . . this also implies rewriting Homer. The imitator produces a ‘‘new Homer’’ suited to his needs, not a reproduction based solely on traditional readings of the Homeric text.’ Barchiesi goes on to note the complications introduced in this passage by the reminiscences of Callimachus’ Hymns to Delos and Apollo: Callimachus, after all, warns against imitating Homer.

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We followed you and your weapons when Troy (Dardania) was burned, we traversed the swollen sea in your Xeet, likewise we will raise your future descendants to the stars and give empire to their city. You must prepare great walls for great men, and not abandon the long struggle of your exile (Aen. 3.156–60).

These Trojans can hope for far more than Anchises imagines. In their correction of Anchises’ misinterpretation of Apollo’s oracle, the Penates are, of course, oVering a re-voicing of that oracle. Their version argues that it is not a question of personal interpretation— Apollo does not mean Aeneas can pick just anywhere with Trojan connections as their new home—but of an exact, speciWc meaning, pointing in only one direction. Once again, if more obliquely, the point is made: one cannot but read the original Homeric prophecy as transformed into a predictor of empire. The Trojans are not to be allowed simply to survive and establish a new Troy anywhere they can Wnd the land: they are to become Romans. And the Romans yet to be born are destined to have control over every shore (as Apollo says, Aen. 3.97), and their city will be the seat of their empire (as the Penates add, Aen. 3.159). Just as Virgil can change the detailed ‘message’ of his Homeric model, so he frequently changes the tone. For all its many and varied glories, the Aeneid is not a work which one is tempted to categorize as amusing, let alone whimsical.17 Contrast the Odyssey, which has plenty of moments of pathos and high drama, but which is also marked out for its gently comical episodes and the wit, as well as resilience, of its hero. It is as if there is no longer room in the great Roman scheme of things (or in the great Roman epic) for the elaborate and delicate plays of manners once found and enjoyed in Homer. Aeneas may launch into a Homer-style exchange of genealogies with Evander when he arrives at Pallanteum (Aen. 8.126–74), but he is notably silent when the old king oVers him a large force 17 The only real joke in the Aeneid (and I use the term loosely) comes when Iulus points out that the hungry Trojans, recently landed in Italy, are eating their own tables (that is, they munch the wheat pancakes on which they spread out their meagre rations): Aen. 7.116–17. Even this moment of hilarity is swiftly made serious again as Aeneas hails the dire oracle that the Trojans would eat their tables now harmlessly fulWlled. The mood remains happy, but solemn and religious.

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to help against the Latins, including his only beloved son, Pallas (8.470–519: the oVer; 520–3: the mute/absent response). The project which lies ahead is too awesome and too burdensome for our hero to be worried about the niceties of good manners and the rhetorical balance of a speech met with another speech in reply. Again, despite the reminiscences of Odysseus’ encounters with, say, Calypso and Circe in the Dido episode, there is notably little evidence of the light-handed Homeric treatment, and here the dominant inXuence on tone is that of Tragedy.18 Another area in which we Wnd a radical contrast in tone between structurally very similar scenes in the Odyssey and the Aeneid is in the interaction between the heroes and the gods. Odysseus has his patron goddess, Athena, as Aeneas has his mother, Venus, to protect him. But the relationships could hardly be more diVerent. Although Venus does, from time to time, express her anxiety about her son (and the future that depends on him), she only rarely displays any warmth towards him in person.19 Athena and Odysseus, by contrast, have a very close relationship based on mutual respect and even aVection. When Odysseus Wnally arrives back in Ithaca, he meets Athena, disguised as a young shepherd. His crafty nature prompts him to make up a story about his adventures as a Cretan wanted for murder. Athena is delighted by this, removes her own disguise, and half-scolds, half-praises him for his cleverness. She emphasizes how alike the two of them are, and congratulates herself on being able to fool him into thinking she was someone else (Od. 13.287–302). Her esteem and aVection for him are clear; most of all, she is amused by him. While the goddess does not always reveal her identity to Odysseus, she is undoubtedly on his side.20 Back in Odyssey 7, as the 18 On Dido and Tragedy, see Quinn (1963). 19 She embraces him at 8.615, when bringing him the armour made by Vulcan. Even there, however, we might be tempted to contrast the brief and business-like speech she makes (roughly, ‘My husband has Wnished making your armour; now don’t hesitate to go into battle’, 8.612–14) with the emotionally charged reunion of Anchises with his son in the Underworld. The connection between these episodes is emphasized by the fact that they precede the two great visions of the Roman future in the poem; note also the setting in both—a quiet valley (6.679; 8.609). 20 Indeed, at the end of Odyssey 6, the poet explains that she does not reveal herself to Odysseus out of deference to Poseidon, who is set on persecuting him until he reaches his homeland again (6.328–31).

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hero draws near Alcinous’ palace, she disguises herself as a young girl carrying water, and guides him through the town, shrouding him in a mist to ensure he will not be bothered by any Phaeacians before he reaches the king. She gives him a brief history of the royal family, recommends that he seek queen Arete’s support, and leaves him without any further fuss. Odysseus is still a little anxious, but there is also a sense that Wnally he is nearing the end of his travels. Athena’s cheerful, benevolent presence underlines this mood of tentative optimism. These scenes, which obviously mirror each other within the Odyssey, are replayed with a diVerence in a famous episode near the start of the Aeneid.21 When Aeneas arrives in Libya, like Odysseus, he meets his patron goddess in disguise. And like Athena in Scheria, she tells him the history of the royal household he is about to enter, and shrouds him in a protective mist while he goes into the city. There, however, the similarity ends. Venus is disguised not as a little girl or a shepherd boy, but as an attractive young woman in hunting gear. Moreover, Aeneas seems to have worked out that she is a goddess: nulla tuarum audita mihi neque uisa sororum, o quam te memorem, uirgo? namque haud tibi uultus mortalis, nec uox hominem sonat; o, dea certe (an Phoebi soror? an nympharum sanguinis una?) sis felix . . . I have neither heard nor seen any of your sisters—what should I call you, maiden? Yours is not a mortal face, nor does your voice sound human; O, goddess for sure (are you Phoebus’ sister or one of the nymphs’ blood?), be good to us . . . (Aen. 1.326–30).

Or perhaps we should not take his words too literally. Rather, faced with a pretty young woman who may be able to help him out, Aeneas tries his hand at a little Odyssean gallantry. His words recall a diVerent encounter of Odysseus, this time with the young, eligible,

21 To complicate matters further, there is also a reminiscence of the encounter of Aphrodite and Anchises in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, discussed by Harrison (forthcoming).

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and non-divine Nausicaa (Od. 6.149–85).22 The situation here, however, is very diVerent, and the reminiscence is out of place. Aeneas responds with his own attempt at Odysseus-like gallantry and Xirtation (Odyssey 6) to a situation which in fact demanded the polite, direct questioning of a disguised goddess (Odyssey 7).23 Once again, Virgil hints that his Aeneid is not the place for a comedy of manners, and it is not for his proto-Roman hero to indulge in the kind of idle banter at which the Homeric hero excels. In Odysseus’ encounter with Athena in Scheria, it does not matter that the goddess has not revealed herself; in his meeting with her in Ithaca, the recognition of the goddess by the mortal is not only happy (and made happier still by his accompanying recognition of his own land), but also followed by a prolonged discussion of the tactics Odysseus should adopt in reclaiming his rightful position as king, which establishes the pair as a team, a friendly alliance. In Libya, by contrast, Aeneas is allowed to recognize his mother, but is given no further opportunity to talk with her. Even a short moment of the kind of comfortable sociability enjoyed between Odysseus and the disguised deity is denied him: he is enveloped in mist after Venus has gone—contrast Odyssey 7, where the goddess walks with the hero while he is shrouded in magic mist.24 Moreover, the words the disguised Venus does speak to Aeneas are a no-nonsense way of setting him back on course rather than 22 In particular, cf. Od. 6.149–52, where the hero compares the girl to Artemis. The fact that Aeneas compares Venus to the virginal Diana is, of course, ironic, but also anticipates the entrance of the Nausicaa-like Dido later in the book, where she is compared to Diana (Aen. 1.498–504). This simile echoes Homer’s comparison of Nausicaa playing with her friends to Artemis and her nymphs (Od. 6.102–9), along with Apollonius’ comparison of Medea, in Nausicaa mode, to Artemis (Argon. 3.876– 86). Cf. Clausen (1987) 18–21. The clustering of references serves to illustrate again how odd it is that Aeneas uses on his own mother the sort of line that should be addressed to the Nausicaa Wgure of the epic. Reckford (1995–6) also discusses the sexual undertones in this scene. 23 Aeneas uses the Odyssean speech in a more appropriate context at Aen. 1.605–6 (cf. Od. 6.154–5), when thanking Dido for her kind oVers of help. Once again, however, the lighter tone of the Odyssey is darkened in the Aeneid. The relationship does not stop at harmless Xirtation (as with Nausicaa and Odysseus), but becomes tragically tangled. 24 And contrast Od. 13.189–93, where Athena shrouds the land in mist so that she might have time to discuss plans with Odysseus before he realizes where he is and wants to rush straight home.

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aVectionate conspiracy: his complaints about how hard his life has been so far are met with a sharp retort, quisquis es, haud, credo, inuisus caelestibus auras j uitalis carpis (‘whoever you are, you do not, I think, enjoy the air of life while being hated by the gods’, 1.387–8), followed by a double injunction to just keep going (perge modo: 1.389 and 401).25 It is important for Aeneas to know that the gods (or enough gods) are on his side, but it is not important that he should feel his individual qualities are actively loved and appreciated by them. It should be reward enough for a Roman hero that he is part of the great machine of empire, which stretches not just over every sea but also into the heavens.26 Virgil takes three Odyssean scenes (the two with Athena and one with Nausicaa) to make his one encounter between Aeneas and his mother, and transforms the mood of the Homeric passages utterly. Encounters between gods and men (even between a divine mother and her son) become serious episodes.27 The only one who has any fun here is Venus (if, that is, Aeneas is right in thinking she is deliberately teasing him, rather than simply being business-like). The world of the Aeneid, and the task of building empires, is cold and comfortless. Virgil reshapes the Homeric situation, Wlled with 25 Indeed, the last line of Venus’ speech, though in context simply telling Aeneas to keep going until he reaches Carthage, could easily be read as a life-rule for her son: perge modo et, qua te ducit uia, derige gressum (‘just keep going and direct your step where the road leads you’, 1.401). Being a great Roman hero means you have a path laid out for you, which you should follow with as little fuss as possible. 26 Personal misfortunes are mere details to the true Roman, whose Wrst concern must always be his country’s welfare. Cf. Sulpicius’ rather tough consolation to Cicero on the death of his daughter (Cic. Fam. 4.5). Thanks to Oliver Lyne for this point. 27 The relationship between Athena and Odysseus is, of course, not the only one which is refashioned in Aeneas’ and Venus’ relationship. In some ways, that of Thetis and Achilles is more dominant. For example, the Wrst time we see Venus in the poem, she is interceding, Thetis-like, on her son’s behalf: Aen. 1.227–53 (cf. Il. 1.495–510; but note, too, that Athena has a similar scene at Od. 5.5–20); again, both goddesses play an important role in bringing their sons divinely made armour. Even so, similar observations can be made about the comparative lack of closeness between goddess and mortal in the Aeneid. Thetis intervenes with Zeus not only on Achilles’ behalf, but at Achilles’ request, and she spends quite a lot of time with her son as he sits sulking near the sea. Of course, the kind of jovial friendship that Odysseus enjoys with Athena is not possible for the doomed Achilles and his distraught mother, but there is a greater sense in the Iliad of the comfort that the mother brings her son than in the Aeneid.

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delicate humour and warmth, into a discourse on the distance between gods and men, and the need to keep one’s goal forever in sight. Paradoxically, the greater the task—Odysseus just needs to get home, Aeneas to found the world’s greatest nation—and the more central a role the hero plays in the divine plan and world destiny, the less intimacy he is allowed with the gods who support him. Homer’s more ‘trivial’ project of bringing one hero home has time and space for laughter and light-hearted deceptions; Virgil’s project is altogether more serious.

VIRGIL AND THE HELLENISTIC POETS Over the past few decades, critics have placed increasing emphasis on the importance of Hellenistic inXuence, in particular that of Callimachus and Apollonius, on Virgil’s epic.28 For the Hellenistic scholar-poet Callimachus, an attempt to imitate the Homeric epics too overtly is doomed to failure.29 The poetic qualities he admires— delicacy of touch, erudition, and economy of style—are more easily accommodated to the slighter genres than to a grand project chronicling the fall of one great city in the east and the rise of another, greater city in the west. The writing of epic becomes problematic territory which must be trodden very carefully if at all. Much Hellenistic poetry accordingly prefers to explore the lower genres, like elegy, epigram, bucolic, and iambic. The self-professed humility of these poets, however, is hardly to be taken at face value. What Callimachus and his ilk do with words is ambitious and innovative, and in itself elevates those ‘lower’ genres, to the status of ‘real’ poetry, the great poetry of the age. Again, the well-known mantra that ‘a great book is a great evil’ cannot be taken too literally.30 Callimachus’ own works could be fairly long—witness the Aetia—while Apollonius, of course, wrote 28 Select references: Clausen (1987); Hollis (1992); Cameron (1995); O’Hara (1996a); Nelis (2001). 29 Here see the usual suspects: Callimachus, Aetia fr. 1 and Hymn to Apollo 105–13. 30 And may not even be a statement of poetic principle: the context of this (prose) fragment is unclear.

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a poem that was not only quite long (getting on for 6,000 lines, which is roughly equivalent to the Wrst 11 books of the Odyssey)31 but also an epic. The diVerence, very broadly speaking, between this sort of long poem and a despised imitation of Homer, can be found in its scholarly attention to aetiological detail and in the move away from the macho deeds of the hero to focus on more quotidian aspects of the heroic age. With this in mind, the Aeneid emerges as a deeply ‘Hellenistic’ poem. Not only does Virgil follow an Apollonian pattern in creating an epic which engages constantly with Homer32 whilst embracing the antiquarian and philological obsessions of the learned elite, but he also takes the comfortable Callimachean paradox of attributing aesthetic weight to low genres and stretches it to its limits, by reincorporating lower genres (elevated by Hellenistic roots) into the traditional highest genre, epic. That is to say, he follows the allusive and generic logic of the Hellenistic age but takes it further still.33 The Aeneid, though an epic, includes many elements familiar from other genres loved by the Hellenistic poets. For example, Virgil’s occasional digressions on the history of a particular place and how it got its name recall the poetic local histories of Euphorion and Rhianus as well as the prose works of Callimachus himself.34 His interest in etymologies and learned preferences for a particular word form is also distinctively Hellenistic in Xavour.35 To point to a few more speciWc correspondences, Callimachus’ Hymns pop up at a 31 As with Virgil, the length of Apollonius’ epic is pointedly shorter than that of either of Homer’s, yet not inconsiderable. Most critics no longer argue that Apollonius composed his epic in reaction to Callimachus’ strictures about not imitating Homer; rather, his work is seen as another way of making an Alexandrian mark on the poetic landscape. Cf. DeForest (1994) and Cameron (1995). Nelis (2001) 382–402 assesses the Apollonian ‘experiment’ from a Virgilian perspective. 32 Indeed, Nelis argues that Virgil views Homer through Apollonius and friends: ‘It was . . . a Homer who had been studied by poetic imitators as well as learned scholars, Hellenistic readers often Wlling both roles at once, who was mediated to Virgil’ (Nelis (2001) 3). 33 Cf. Clausen (1987) 14: ‘the Aeneid represents not an abandonment but an extension of Callimachean poetics by Virgil, greatly daring, into an area of poetry precluded by Callimachus’. I would qualify this argument by inserting ‘apparently’ before ‘precluded’. 34 e.g. the list of famous places in Sicily at Aen. 3.692–708 or Evander’s discussion of the name changes in his part of Italy at Aen. 8.328–32. 35 Cf. O’Hara (1996a); Hollis (1992) 273–5.

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couple of points in the Aeneid,36 and there are various echoes of the Aetia,37 while an epigram of his lies behind the simile of Amata spinning like a top at Aeneid 7.378–83.38 Theocritus’ praise of Hiero can be detected in Anchises’ of Augustus,39 while the miniature ‘pastoral’ lament for Umbro also has its Theocritean echoes.40 Even the healing herbs picked from Crete by Venus to cure Aeneas’ stubborn wound have their echoes of Nicander’s Theriaca.41 In short, Virgil’s appropriation of earlier literature enables him to incorporate elements of very diVerent Hellenistic texts into his own epic. The distinction between small and large and (to some extent) between high and low genres is eroded: this epic has the capacity and the Xexibility to subsume all kinds of poetry, however much the original poets might have squirmed at the thought of their delicate work being trapped in the amber of Virgil’s imperial text. Once again, I want to emphasize the boldness of Virgil’s approach. For all that it is possible to show how the production of an epic poem can be reconciled with Hellenistic poetics, it is also important to remember that until Virgil wrote the Aeneid, both he and his contemporaries had made much of a very diVerent formulation of the Callimachean aesthetic, which argued quite emphatically that writing epics was not for the in-crowd. Indeed, the Wrst and, arguably, the most inXuential version of Callimachus’ poetic mission-statement to be found in Latin was written by Virgil himself at the start of Eclogue 6: 36 Callimachus’ Hymn to Delos and Hymn to Apollo inXuence the episode of the oracle of Delian Apollo at Aen. 3.73–98: cf. Heyworth (1993) and Barchiesi (1994b). The encounter of Turnus and Allecto at Aen. 7.407–66 recalls that of Erysichthon and Demeter in Callimachus’ Hymn to Demeter: cf. Hollis (1992) 270–3. 37 e.g. Aen. 6.460 reworks Catullus 66.39, translated from the Coma Berenices in Callimachus’ Aetia; Servius ad Aen. 7.778 says that Callimachus also treated the myth of Virbius in the Aetia; at Aen. 11.581–2, Camilla is sought after by mothers as a bride for their sons, much like Callimachus’ Cydippe (Aet. fr. 67.9–10 Pf.). On this last, see Tissol (1992). 38 Cf. Callimachus, Epigr. 1.9–10. Bleisch (1996) makes a convincing argument for seeing more than a passing reminiscence here. The context of the epigram (on choosing a spouse) has a clear connection with this part of the Aeneid, while the message of the original (‘stick to your own kind’), though favoured by Amata, is inverted in Latinus’ choice to promise his daughter to Aeneas, the foreign husband. 39 Theoc. 16.76–7 and Aen. 6.798–800. Cf. Hollis (1992) 280–1. 40 Aen. 7.759–60 and Theoc. Id. 1.71–2. Cf. Hollis (1992) 276 and Putnam (1992). 41 Nic. Ther. 500–5, 674–5 and 685–8; Aen. 12.409–19. Cf. Hollis (1992) 283–5.

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Rebecca Armstrong cum canerem reges et proelia, Cynthius aurem uellit et admonuit: ‘pastorem, Tityre, pinguis pascere oportet ouis, deductum dicere carmen’.

When I was singing of kings and battles, Cynthian Apollo plucked at my ear and warned me: ‘Tityrus, a shepherd should raise fat sheep, but sing a Wne-spun song’ (Ecl. 6.3–5).

The reference to Callimachus’ own encounter with Apollo (Aetia fr. 1) is clear, as, apparently, is Virgil’s determination to stick to his project of writing polished and diYcult bucolic verse. Even here, though, Virgil is not afraid to adapt his model to a diVerent purpose: the pure Callimachean argument from aesthetics is adopted and adapted for the practical purpose of saying ‘no’ to a patron’s request for an epic in praise of his achievements.42 Later on, in the Georgics, Virgil apparently promises to write an epic with Caesar in the middle (in medio mihi Caesar erit, 3.16).43 Although in retrospect it is easy to read this as a prediction of the Aeneid, at the time it could just as easily have been read as yet another elegant duck away from the yoke of writing The Augustan Epic.44 The composition of the Aeneid may not violate the letter of Callimachean law, but it does go against the spirit of the reluctance of contemporary Roman poets to test that law and to take on a genre which inevitably, it seemed, required them not only to violate their aesthetic principles, but also to engage too closely with current Augustan politics. So Virgil goes against the stream of contemporary Callimacheanism in writing the Aeneid, and thus brings it about that he should walk a similar tightrope to the one walked by Apollonius before him. The compromise between writing epic and writing ‘Hellenistic’ 42 Oliver Lyne also points out to me a certain arrogance in Virgil’s translation of the Callimachean º as deductum: this changes the original image of poetic excellence as a kind of weaving to a diVerent, if similar, image of spinning. And this is taken not from Callimachus, but from the Roman Callimachean Catullus, whose Parcae spin so delicately in poem 64 (dextera tum leuiter deducens Wla supinis j formabat digitis—‘then the right hand, delicately drawing the threads down, shaped them with upturned Wngers’, 64.312–13). Cf. Lyne (1995) 100–1. 43 For more on the ‘preview’ of the Aeneid given in Georgics 3, see Robinson, below p. 187. 44 Compare Propertius 2.10, a similar promise to write an epic about Augustus ‘soon’, but one which is not fulWlled. Clausen (1987) 14 makes a similar point.

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poetry has to be reforged. And this, perhaps, is one of the reasons why the interaction between the Aeneid and the Argonautica is so interesting.45 The character of Dido is, as I mentioned above, built on a good many other Wgures from both Homer and Apollonius and elsewhere. The passionate, even dangerous, side of Dido obviously owes a great deal to Medea (Eurpides’ as well as Apollonius’), but it is interesting that Virgil includes in her elements of other, calmer kinds of women. Once again, we see Virgil’s literary annexation in action. In the Aeneid, Dido is by far the most prominent woman,46 and the one who contains the most echoes of other Wgures. She becomes The Epic Woman, subsuming the characteristics of very diVerent females from earlier works: she has the innocence of Nausicaa, the attractions of Calypso, the danger of Medea, the pathos of Ariadne, and the practical wisdom of Hypsipyle. I shall take a moment here to expand a little on the links to be seen between Virgil’s Dido and Apollonius’ Hypsipyle, to emphasize the point that there is more to Dido than just the passionate and love-scarred woman. Just as Lemnos is the Wrst lengthy stopover made by the Argonauts once they Wnally get going on their journey, so, in terms of the text of the Aeneid (though not its chronology), Carthage is the Wrst stop for Aeneas and friends.47 The queen of Lemnos, Hypsipyle, has, like Dido, had a violent past, though this was one in which she was less guiltless than the Carthaginian queen.48 The women of Lemnos have killed all 45 Nelis (2001) has contributed an impressive amount to the study of Apollonius and Virgil, but, as he is ready to recognize, even such a long book as his cannot hope to unravel every detail of each correspondence. It goes without saying, therefore, that my own observations are but a drop in the ocean. 46 And it is worth noting that other important women, such as Amata and Camilla, bear certain strong similarities to Dido. She sets the pattern for females in this poem (and also Wnds a male counterpart in Turnus), and remains a near-constant presence even after her death. 47 The ways in which the two bands arrive are obviously diVerent: Jason’s calmly weighing anchor, Aeneas’ shipwrecked and desperate (and more like Odysseus arriving in Phaeacia). Cf. Nelis (2001) 112–17 on the connections between Carthage and Lemnos. 48 Nevertheless, it is worth comparing the faint, underlying sense of threat oVered by the man-killing Lemnian women to the feared savagery of the Carthaginians which Jupiter takes pains to neutralize (Aen. 1.297–304). On the similarities between Dido and Hypsipyle, see Nelis (2001) 180–2.

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the men on their island, with the noble exception of Hypsipyle herself, who rescued her father Thoas and sent him oV over the sea in a chest. This family loyalty, though given less emphasis by Apollonius, has its similarities with the loyalty of Dido to her dead husband Sychaeus. Like Dido, Hypsipyle is the leader of her people, and even goes to the lengths of donning her father’s armour and leading her army of women to defend their city when they mistake the Argonauts for marauding Thracians (Argon. 1.630–9). The description of Dido as dux femina facti (‘female leader of the expedition’, Aen. 1.364) sets her in a similar context: a woman who has been driven by circumstance to play the male part and to lead her people in war and peace.49 Structural and thematic similarities between the two episodes continue. After Hypsipyle has recommended welcoming the Argonauts, but keeping them at arm’s length lest they discover the secret of the mass murder of Lemnos’ male population, her wise old nurse Polyxo gives a speech in support, but also recommends that they allow the young men to be close to them to provide defence and children (Argon. 1.675–96). Dido’s speech to her sister Anna at the start of Aeneid 4 expresses a similar desire to keep the stranger at a distance, though for the very diVerent reason that she thinks she may fall in love with him. Anna’s reply is quite close to that of Polyxo: think about the children you might have, and think about the beneWts of having some more men around to defend the city against hostile neighbours (Aen. 4.31–53).50 Hypsipyle makes an oVer of joint sovereignty to Jason (Argon. 1.793–833); Dido makes a similar oVer to Ilioneus (Aen. 1.572–4),51 and clearly hopes that Aeneas will stay and rule with her. Jason’s polite refusal of the oVer, while thanking Hypsipyle for her kindness (Argon. 1.836–41) is partially 49 In this respect, it is worth emphasizing how diVerent Dido is from many of her other models: Ariadne and Nausicaa hardly play the male part, and even the likes of Circe and Medea, for all their strange powers over men, are not de facto generals and politicians. 50 Cf. Nelis (2001) 138–9. Although Virgil has replaced a nurse with a sister (and here, compare the sisters Medea and Chalciope in Argonautica 3), it is worth remarking that in many ways, Anna herself plays a role akin to that of the nurse (whether in epic or tragedy). 51 Cf. Nelis (2001) 114.

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echoed by Aeneas when he Wnally tells Dido he has to leave to pursue his destiny (Aen. 340–7).52 When the Lemnian women Wnd out that the Argonauts are about to leave, they come Xocking to say their fond farewells, like bees from a rock (1.879–82). When Dido Wnds out that Aeneas is leaving, she rushes like a Maenad (4.300–4) and harangues him. And yet, there is a reminiscence of the Apollonian bee simile at an earlier stage in the Carthage episode: back when the Trojans Wrst arrive, they see the city being built, its people bustling like bees to do their work (Aen. 1.430–6).53 Virgil echoes a moment which describes the parting of lovers in a passage before his lovers have even met. The result is a bitter-sweet mixture of the hope that this might be a love aVair which dissolves as painlessly as those of the Argonauts in Lemnos, and the knowledge (at least on a second reading) that it will not. Hypsipyle fully understands that Jason wants to go; she simply asks that he should remember her, and wants to know what to do with a baby, should it turn out that she has become pregnant by him. There is an echo of Hypsipyle’s request not to be forgotten (Argon. 1.896–7) in Aeneas’ assertion that he will not feel ashamed to remember Dido (nec me meminisse pigebit Elissae j dum memor ipse mei, dum spiritus hos regit artus—‘I will not feel ashamed to remember Elissa as long as I am mindful of myself, as long as my breath rules these limbs’, 4.335–6), yet it cannot help but ring hollow in the light of Dido’s speech: she has not asked just to be remembered, but to be treated as

52 Cf. Nelis (2001) 163. It is worth noting that Jason comes out of this episode rather better than Aeneas does. Jason makes it clear to Hypsipyle from the start that he does not intend to stay long. Aeneas’ vague quae me cumque uocant terrae (‘whatever lands call me’, 1.610) is subsequently shown not to have registered with Dido. The fact that both heroes have to be pushed away from their lovers’ beds with a gruV reminder of their goals and duties (by Heracles at Argon. 1.861–74 and Mercury at Aen. 4.265–76) underlines another contrast via correspondence. The result of each hero’s departure is dramatically diVerent. 53 The bee simile is based on Verg. G. 4.162–9, where the ordered society of the bees represents a civilized (and Roman) city—the kind of place Aeneas’ descendants are fated to found, but which he is also so desperate to see in his own lifetime. By contrast, though, the simile also recalls that at Il. 2.87–90, where Greek troops issue from their tents like bees. The possible threat of the Carthaginians has, perhaps, not yet been fully dissipated. The same might be said for Apollonius’ Lemnian bees— these are, after all, women who have killed men for spurning them before.

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a wife and lover deserve.54 Again, Hypsipyle’s sanguine request for a forwarding address for any children is reworked in tragic vein to form Dido’s heart-rending wish that she at least had a paruulus Aeneas to comfort her (‘little Aeneas’, 4.327–30). Aeneas seems (or wants) to believe that Dido will be like Hypsipyle—the woman who doesn’t make a fuss. How wrong could he be! In the end, though, from the point of view of the plot, Dido is forced willy-nilly into an analogous position. She is by no means a woman who sensibly accepts that her hero has to move on, yet move on he does, and the eVect is almost the same as if she had never uttered a protest nor killed herself.55 Here we might contrast the other major Apollonian model for Dido, Medea. Medea is certainly not a Wgure who would be airbrushed from the story of Jason’s exploits. As she is not slow to remind him, he would have achieved very little worth remembering without her help. In the Argonautica, Hypsipyle works as a foil for Medea, as a model of an easy relationship which can be set aside in pursuit of heroic glory. Medea, by contrast, is a more complicated and diYcult woman for Jason to deal with, not least because she is central to his success. Dido, as both a Hypsipyle and a Medea, is both the disposable and the passionate woman. By collapsing these two Apollonian Wgures together (and adding several more from other sources too), Virgil contains all the stories, all the possible outcomes in one woman. Dido, we might say, is a Wne representative of Virgil’s allusive project: she is at once a coherent and individual character, and a literary construction through whom we can clearly glimpse pictures of other Wgures from the literary past. Virgil shows that Apollonius is not the only one who can create fascinating epic women; indeed, Virgil is able to make them even more complicated than Apollonius ever dreamed. Dido subsumes a gallery of other women to create the Virgilian epic woman, a creature whose complexities are manifold and fascinating. She is a woman who, on the 54 As so often, there is another Homeric passage lying behind the request to be remembered: as Odysseus leaves Phaeacia, Nausicaa asks him to remember her, and he gallantly promises never to let a day go by without thinking of her, since she saved his life (Od. 8.461–8). Again, the contrast with the situation of Dido and Aeneas is marked. Thanks to Simon Hornblower for reminding me about this. 55 Even the long-lasting and destructive enmity between Carthage and Rome (threatened by Dido at Aen. 4.622–9) is, by the time of the Aeneid and Augustus, long Wnished. The last ripple that Dido’s passion sent out into history has died away. Even this curse cannot outlive Rome and Aeneas’ descendants.

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level of the plot, ultimately has to stand aside and play second Wddle to the greater Roman project,56 yet in her very construction she is also part of that project, part of Virgil’s collection and appropriation of literary history. In a broader, thematic sense, also, the poet’s approach to the Argonautica at once underlines the earlier work’s importance, and makes it merely a cog in a very Roman machine. The Argonautica, as a poem of an epic voyage, becomes, along with the Odyssey, a precursor to the Great Journey of Aeneas to Rome. Others have taken a trip around the Mediterranean, and even made a journey from east to west (alongside Odysseus and Jason, we can place many other wanderers and revenants—Teucer, Dardanus, Idomeneus, Antenor, Diomedes, even Dido), yet all of these can be used as a backdrop, as details to Xesh out and complement the voyage of Aeneas. His position both as the latest one to make such a journey and as the one whose journey has the greatest results establishes him ¨ ber-voyager, encapsulating the essence of what it is to as a kind of U be a much-travelled man: the suVering; the endurance of storms, monsters, and love aVairs; the wrong turns, and, eventually, the weary but triumphant arrival at the goal. In this sense, Aeneas does not merely repeat but completes the image. All roads lead to Rome, indeed. And similarly, all narratives of wanderings and foundation lead to this, the Virgilian narrative.57

V I RG IL A N D C AT UL LU S For the greater part of this chapter, I have been discussing Virgil’s treatment of some of his Greek predecessors, his expansion of the 56 Much as Dido’s city Carthage, which at one point seemed about to eclipse Rome and cut her down before she became truly great, was ultimately defeated and consciously conWned to history’s sidelines by the victorious Romans. 57 As Matthew Leigh points out to me, a further example of this practice of making the Mediterranean into a Virgilian landscape can be found in the epic’s penchant for (re)naming places after episodes in Aeneas’ story. In particular, note that Caieta, which is prominently named after Aeneas’ nurse at the start of book 7, was earlier part of the Argonauts’ story, known then as Aeetes’ harbour (cf. Ap. Rhod. Argon. 4.661; Lycoph. Alex. 1274).

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great Roman epic to absorb the great and the good of Greek literature. However, his encyclopaedic work does not stop with the Alexandrians, but encompasses early Roman literature too. This can, as well, be understood in terms of Virgilian literary imperialism: an empire, after all, not only conquers and reshapes other lands, but also redeWnes its homeland, its starting-point. The great works of Roman literature are, then, just as open to the project of assimilation as the Greek, if with variations in the details. In the Aeneid, alongside Homer and Apollonius we Wnd Naevius and Ennius; Greek and Roman tragedy both Wnd a place in this epic,58 while Lucretius’ inXuence is all-pervasive, whether in terms of language, or in the form of more speciWc dialogue with his philosophy;59 alongside the hints of Hellenistic treatises on the origins of various cities, we Wnd echoes of the Roman ethnographical tradition;60 indeed, even Roman historiography is woven in.61 There is not space here to embark on a wider discussion of Virgil’s treatment of his Roman predecessors, but I would like to Wnish with a few observations on the redeWnition of Catullus in the Aeneid, in an attempt to illustrate not only the breadth of Virgilian allusion, but also the very diVerent ways he can handle other authors. With Homer (and Apollonius, for that matter), the emphasis is on swallowing whole, containing the quart of the Iliad and Odyssey in the half-pint pot of the Aeneid. With the smaller-scale poetry of Catullus it is diVerent. The most obvious allusions to Catullus (those most obvious to me, at any rate) come at points of high emotion.62 So, for example, the most sustained use of Catullan 58 For an overview and further bibliography, see Hardie (1997). 59 See Hardie (1986) ch. 5; Adler (2003). 60 Cf. Thomas (1982) 93–107 and Ando (2002). 61 Once again, Virgil has his cake and eats it. He eschews the annalistic form adopted by Ennius, where myth was used for Xash-back and illustration of a historical narrative, and makes myth the main subject of his epic, whilst keeping history everpresent both through the direct use of Xash-forward, and the indirect paths of allegory and symbolism. Aeneas is at once a mythical and historical Wgure, at once an integral part of the epic plot and a useful symbol of the Roman past to throw light on the Roman present. In this respect, the Aeneid shares a concern of Roman historiography, to oVer selective views of the past as exempla, promoting the repetition of the good parts of the past and the avoidance of the bad. Cf. Feldherr (2002). 62 Here, of course, I am omitting any discussion of the broader stylistic inXuences of Catullus and the Neoterics. Cf. Boyle (1993) 87–8 for a brief outline.

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intertexts comes in the Dido episode, as the language of curae, perWdia, and foedera is transplanted from Ariadne in poem 64 to the Carthaginian queen.63 Again, in shorter but no less intense bursts, Catullus reappears as Aeneas is reunited with his father’s ghost in the Underworld,64 in Anchises’ lament for the younger Marcellus,65 when Euryalus dies,66 and when Pallas’ lifeless body is carried away from the battleWeld.67 As far as the Aeneid is concerned, it seems that Catullus is a poet of intense, painful emotion. Where here, in Virgil’s literary treasure-house, is the Catullus who threatens to do unmentionable things to Furius and Aurelius, who calls Lesbia a goddess68 and a whore? Virgil’s version of Catullus shows us a poet whose bottomless emotion is communicated with electric immediacy. The power of the Catullan word is so great that it can be used to transform even a hideous monster into an object of sympathy. The Cyclops (that Wgure of belated Homeric adventure, already blinded 63 For curae, cf. Aen. 4.1–2 and Catull. 64.250; for perWdia, cf. Aen. 4.305, 421 and Catull. 64.132–3; for foedera, cf. Aen. 4.339, 520 and Catull. 64.335, along with 76.3, 87.3. For a full list of the links between Ariadne and Dido in book 4, see Pease (1935); for discussion, see Armstrong (2002), 330–3. 64 Cf. Aen. 6.692–3 and Catull. 101.1–2. As so often, Virgil makes use of a partial reversal: here it is the living Aeneas to whom the words are addressed, though it is still the living man who makes the long journey to see the dead. For a longer discussion of Virgil’s use of Catullus 101 in Aeneid 6, see ch. 7 of Stephen Harrison’s forthcoming book, Forms of Appropriation. He also remarks on the consistency of tone in these reminiscences: ‘in each context the recalling of Catullus 101 adds to the gloomy atmosphere of Aeneid 6 as an enriching allusion to a speciWcally funereal genre’. 65 Cf. Catullus 101 again. In particular, Aen. 6.882–3 and Catull. 101.5–6, along with Aen. 6.883–6 and the image of making oVerings to the dead in 101 (the Catullan tristi munere—‘sad tribute’, 8, becomes the Virgilian inani munere—‘empty tribute’, 885–6). 66 Cf. Aen. 9.433–7 with Catull. 11.21–4 where a Xower is cut by the plough. The additional reminiscence in the image of the poppy of the death of Gorgythion at Il. 8.306–8 is also important. (For a detailed discussion, see Lyne (1989) 149–59.) Perhaps through the connection of the two images—one drawn from an epic death, the other from an erotic death—Virgil is showing that elements of the Catullan aesthetic can be found in Homer too. 67 Cf. Aen. 11.68–71 with Catull. 62.39–44. 68 As Stephen Heyworth reminds me, Virgil does give us a beloved woman ‘as’ goddess at Aen. 1.498–504, where Dido is compared to Diana. While the more obvious allusions are to Od. 6.102–9 and Argon. 3.876–86, there is possibly a faint echo via the Eurotas of Catull. 64.89, where Ariadne’s state of blissful innocence before Theseus’ arrival is described using a simile of myrtles gracing the banks of that river. (Neither Homer nor Apollonius mentions the Eurotas in their similes.)

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by Ulysses) is a monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum (‘a terrible, ugly, huge monster, whose light/eye had been taken’, 3.658). The Wrst part of the line sets out his hideous credentials—he is huge and terrifying—but the loss of his eye, described in the second half, strangely, but poignantly, recalls the death of Catullus’ brother, the loss of a metaphorical light (Catull. 68.93 ei misero fratri iucundum lumen ademptum—‘alas for your poor brother, the delightful light taken from him’). Indeed, I think that Virgil’s presentation of Catullus as poet of real and raw emotion is so strong that it can even override the tone of the original work in a famously fraught incidence of intertextuality. As Aeneas encounters Dido’s ghost in the Underworld, he is reminded of the love he has lost and is Wlled with guilt at the thought that he was the cause of her death. Claiming a reluctance which neither he nor the poet directly expressed back in book 4, he says, inuitus, regina, tuo de litore cessi (‘unwillingly, queen, did I leave your shore’, 6.460). This is a virtual quotation of a Catullan line with a very diVerent Xavour. In his translation of Callimachus’ Lock of Berenice, Catullus has the lock of hair exclaim, inuita, o regina, tuo de uertice cessi (‘unwillingly, O queen, did I leave your head’, 66.39). Now, this need not contradict an analysis of the line which reveals it as a complex game on many levels69 but I suggest that, at least on one level, this is a quotation that is supposed to function as an expression of raw emotion, because that is what Catullus does in the Aeneid.70 Virgil, if you like, tests the strength of his own portrait of Catullus, even challenges us to see his source as any less serious than he is himself. His representation of other authors in his epic can be ambitiously reductive and one-sided as well as expansive. 69 Skulsky (1985) argues that the ‘sour note’, if it is there, is struck by Aeneas (who does not know what he is saying) rather than the poet himself. Cf. Lyne (1994) 193, ‘the text leaves Aeneas unwittingly speaking rather smugly, as he cites an intertext simultaneously radiating Dido’s disaster and his own stardom’. There is, I think, room left in my interpretation for more detailed and subtle analyses like these. To say that Catullus represents emotion is not to say that an allusion to Catullus cannot also have a very complex and intellectual side to it as well. 70 Tatum (1984) makes the important observation that even the Xippancy of Catullus 66 is tempered, not to say overshadowed, by Catullus 65, where the poet reveals that he translated the Coma Berenices while in mourning for the death of his brother. We come back once again to Catullus the poet of serious emotion.

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C ON C LU S I ON Virgil’s project in the Aeneid is even grander than it need have been. Not content with mapping the rise of Rome and the creation of a Roman hero within the plot itself, Virgil extends the imperialist mindset to his literary interactions as well. He absorbs and reshapes earlier literature to Wt this new and daring creation, a growing literary empire which both mirrors and contrasts with the political empire of Augustus. One need not equate Virgilian appropriation with insensitivity—far from it—but we should not underestimate or understate the far-ranging ambition revealed by this very well-read Roman. This great, deWnitive work is to be a treasury of literary history, one which will ‘hold sway over all shores’ every bit as much as the house of Aeneas.

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6 The Epic and the Monuments Interactions between Virgil’s Aeneid and the Augustan Building Programme Stephen Harrison

This chapter looks at references in Virgil’s Aeneid to the buildings in Rome constructed or substantially repaired by Augustus, which he famously lists himself in the Res Gestae (19–21). It deals both with the few brief direct mentions of these projects and the larger number of arguable allusions to them, through parallel buildings and iconography in the Wctional descriptions of the mythological epic plot. This highlights one element of what Peter Wiseman has called ‘an aspect of Virgilian allusiveness that we moderns often forget—the signiWcance of the visible monuments and topography of the city of Rome’.1 Although such indirect allusions in the Aeneid to well-known monuments of art and architecture are not restricted to Augustan It is a great pleasure to oVer this chapter to my former tutor, whose teaching was grandly inspiring, and whose writing on Virgil and other Latin poets has been a major stimulus to my own work. The chapter was much improved by typically astute and generous comments from my other former classical tutor, Oliver Lyne: his sudden death in the middle of the editorial process is a grievous loss to all his students and to Latin studies. 1 Wiseman (1984) 123; this article, on the presentation of Cybele in the Aeneid and its connection with Augustus’ revival of the goddess’s cult at Rome and the building of her temple on the Palatine (Res Gestae 19), provides a good model for this kind of allusiveness in the poem (and enables me to dispense with the Augustan temple of Cybele here).

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material,2 these form by far the majority, and should to some degree be seen as complimentary allusions to Augustus’ contemporary transformation of the Roman urban landscape, amply evident for the poem’s original readers.3 Given the traditional political function of urban embellishment at Rome as the self-promotion of the builder, it is diYcult to avoid the conclusion that such extensive engagement in the poem with the Augustan building programme shows political support for the princeps in general terms. But the fact that most such allusions are indirect and in the form of Wctional analogies often allows for a more diverse and ambiguous treatment; as we shall see, Virgil’s epic consistently broadens out merely complimentary allusions to Augustan buildings into humane meditations which, while maintaining an encomiastic element, do not ignore the tragic elements of human life and achievement. Thus allusions to buildings, so often compared to works of literature in antiquity, are in eVect another aspect of the Aeneid’s rich intertextuality, and their subtle and nuanced nature adds an identiWable and contemporary layer to the poem’s dense literary and ideological texture.

DIUUS IULIUS The anniversary funeral games celebrated by Aeneas for his dead father Anchises in Aeneid 5 are generally thought to recall the Ludi Victoriae Caesaris celebrated by the future Augustus not long after the death of his adoptive father Julius Caesar in July 44 bc, at which the comet thought to betoken Caesar’s divine status appeared,4 and the general parallel between the apparent apotheosis of Anchises and that of Caesar has been noted since Servius (on Aeneid 5.45: sic omnia inducit quasi diuinae honores soluantur Anchisae, quos constat Iulio Caesari tribuisse Augustum). But the events of 44, or of 42 when Caesar became Divus Iulius, are not the only historical moments at 2 e.g. an allusion to the cult-statue of Athena Parthenos in Athens at Aeneid 2.225–7: cf. Harrison (1987). 3 Especially good here is Favro (1996). 4 Hardie (1998) 68.

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issue in Virgil’s account. At Aeneid 5.45–60, Aeneas addresses his men at the beginning of the funeral games: ‘Dardanidae magni, genus alto a sanguine diuum, annuus exactis completur mensibus orbis, ex quo reliquias diuinique ossa parentis condidimus terra maestasque sacrauimus aras; iamque dies, nisi fallor, adest, quem semper acerbum, semper honoratum (sic di uoluistis) habebo. hunc ego Gaetulis agerem si Syrtibus exsul, Argolicoue mari deprensus et urbe Mycenae, annua uota tamen sollemnisque ordine pompas exsequerer strueremque suis altaria donis. nunc ultro ad cineres ipsius et ossa parentis haud equidem sine mente, reor, sine numine diuum adsumus et portus delati intramus amicos. ergo agite et laetum cuncti celebremus honorem: poscamus uentos, atque haec me sacra quotannis urbe uelit posita templis sibi ferre dicatis.’ ‘Great descendants of Dardanus, race sprung from the high blood of the gods, the annual cycle is now full with the passing of the months from the time when we laid in the earth the remains and bones of my godlike father and consecrated altars of mourning; and now, unless I am mistaken, the day is here which I shall always keep as one of bitter loss, always as one of honour (this was your will, gods). If I were to spend this day in exile in the African Syrtes, or caught in the sea of Greece or the city of Mycenae, I should still carry out the annual prayers and the ritual processions in due order, and pile altars with their proper gifts. Now of our own accord (but not without the intention or will of the gods, I think) we are here at the site of the ashes and bones of my father himself, and are carried along to enter friendly harbours. Therefore come now, let us all celebrate together the joyful ceremony of honour: let us ask for winds, and may my father will that these rites be paid to him every year once our city is established and temples dedicated.’

Modern treatments of these lines see them as establishing an aetiology in Aeneas’ honours for Anchises of the Parentalia, the Roman festival of ancestors celebrated in February,5 following Ovid’s 5 e.g. in the fullest commentary on book 5, R. D. Williams (1960) 53; the same view is still held by M. F. Williams (2003) 19 (where Paternalia must be a misprint for Parentalia).

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interpretation of Virgil’s episode in the Fasti,6 but the speciWc details here point strongly to the cult of Divus Iulius and to the establishment of its temple as part of the Augustan building programme.7 The temple of Divus Iulius, vowed in 42 and built in the 30s, was dedicated by the future Augustus on 18 August 29 bc, following the triple triumph of 13–15 August.8 This dedication, and its prehistory in the events after Caesar’s death, corresponds closely to the details of the Virgilian text here, as follows: 47 diuini . . . parentis: both Aeneas and Augustus have a father who becomes a god after his death. This is the Wrst hint of Anchises’ potential divinity (there is nothing in the obituary at 3.710–15), followed by several more in book 5.9 48 maestasque sacrauerimus aras: an improvised altar was set up at the site of Caesar’s pyre immediately after the cremation of his corpse on 17 March 44, the Wrst stage on the road to full divine cult.10 The future Augustus in 29 was thus analogous to Aeneas in book 5, adding the Wnal conWrmation of full apotheosis in setting up an act of commemoration (the dedication of a temple), as a later sequel to an initial act of cultic consecration made at the time of his father’s death. 49–50 iamque dies, nisi fallor, adest, quem semper acerbum, j semper honoratum (sic di uoluistis) habebo. The reference to a particular anniversary of the father’s death naturally refers to the Ides of March; this is supported by the fact that the dramatic time at this point in the Aeneid is spring, assuming that Aeneas had left Carthage at the beginning of the sailing season.11 Though it was not a date mentioned in the extant fragments of Augustan calendars, the Ides of

6 Fasti 2.543–6 (on the Parentalia) hunc morem Aeneas, pietatis idoneus auctor, j attulit in terras, iuste Latine, tuas. j ille patris Genio sollemnia dona ferebat: j hinc populi ritus edidicere pios. 7 Cf. Res Gestae 19 aedem Divi Iuli . . . feci. The link between Virgil’s lines and this building is laconically implied by Camps (1970) 100–1, but seems to have been ignored by subsequent scholarship. 8 For the temple in general see Gros (1996). 9 For the divine status of Anchises in Aeneid 5 see Harrison (1985) 104–5. 10 See the evidence gathered at Weinstock (1971) 364–7. 11 R. D. Williams (1960) p. xxix places the games for Anchises in February to match the Parentalia.

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March was declared a dies nefastus in 42 (Dio 47.19.1), and Ovid’s famous treatment at Fasti 3.697–710 makes clear that the date and its association with Caesar’s death was a familiar feature of the Roman year. Acerbum reXects this dark association; the positive honoratum would conXate the day with happier anniversaries with necessary links to the Ides of March such as the consecration of the god Divus Iulius (probably 1 January 42) and the Wnal dedication of his temple (18 August 29). 53–4 annua uota tamen sollemnisque ordine pompas j exsequerer strueremque suis altaria donis. Here pompas could conceivably refer to the private visits by families to the tombs of their dead, the main ceremonial of the Parentalia (cf. Ovid, Fasti 2.533–42), but the word refers more readily to a public processional celebration such as might have taken place on the festival of the dedication of Divus Iulius (18 August 29). Georgics 3.22–3 iam nunc sollemnis ducere pompas j ad delubra iuvat, referring to the inauguration of the poet’s metaphorical temple, along with the Ara Pacis processional frieze, makes it clear that such processions were a feature of the dedication of Augustan religious buildings; this and altaria, given that the temple of Divus Iulius seems unusually to have had an altar in a niche in the centre of its front,12 suggest that the dedication festival of the temple of Divus Iulius is the annual celebration alluded to here. 59–60 atque haec me sacra quotannis j urbe uelit posita templis sibi ferre dicatis. The dedication of a temple13 to an individual Wts much better the shrine of Divus Iulius than the scattered oVerings at individual family tombs characteristic of the Parentalia, and urbe . . . posita suggests not just Aeneas’ initial urban foundation in Italy but the Augustan building programme in Rome. Taken together, these details suggest that the passage focuses not on the aetiology of the Parentalia, but rather on the parallel between the Wctional funeral celebrations and apotheosis of Anchises and their historical analogue in the posthumous treatment of Julius 12 Gros (1996) 118 and Wg. 81 (p. 428); there are clear signs that the anomalous altar was removed at a point in Augustus’ reign after the Aeneid (14 or 9 bc). 13 The plural templis suggests a collection of temples such as those in Rome and implies that Anchises will take his place in cult alongside the other gods, again more suitable for Divus Iulius than the Parentalia.

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Caesar in the years 44–29. Especially prominent (as it would be in the mind of the poem’s Wrst readers) is the dedication of the temple of Divus Iulius on 18 August 29, a key building in the Augustan programme, whose dedication was specially reserved for a prime propaganda position just after the great triple triumph. The emphasis on Wlial pietas in honouring Anchises of course Wts the character of Aeneas, but it also Wts the self-projection of Augustus as the avenger and commemorator of his adoptive father, much emphasized in the Res Gestae.14

IUPPITER FERETRIUS The temple of Jupiter Feretrius on the Capitol, recorded amongst Augustus’ building projects at Res Gestae 19 (aedes in Capitolio Iovis Feretri . . . feci), was a small building with a larger political signiWcance.15 Restored not long before Actium, probably as part of the young Caesar’s resuscitation of the traditional Roman mechanisms of declaring war,16 this temple had been at the centre of a propaganda struggle in 27 bc, when M. Licinius Crassus, grandson of the triumvir, after his victory against the Thracian Bastarnae, claimed the right to dedicate spolia opima, ‘supreme spoils’, the armour of an enemy chieftain, traditionally oVered in the shrine of Jupiter Feretrius by Roman commanders who slew their counterpart enemy commanders in single combat. This ancient honour may have been granted in theory to Julius Caesar, but in practice had not been awarded since the third century bc, and this claim from the heir of the triumvir Crassus was a clear challenge to the military prestige of the future Augustus, who managed to defeat it on the technicality that he and not Crassus was formally the supreme commander.17 14 Res Gestae 2 qui parentem meum trucidauerunt, eos in exilium expuli . . . et . . . uici bis acie; I see Caesar as less problematic for Augustus than White (1988). 15 See the standard article, Coarelli (1996). 16 Some of the equipment of the fetiales, formally responsible for declaring war, was to be found in the temple—see Harrison (1989) 409. 17 The contemporary sensitivity is clear from Livy 4.20. See in detail Harrison (1989), Rich (1996).

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At Aeneid 6.854–9, in the Show of Heroes in the Underworld, Anchises introduces the last winner of the honour, M. Claudius Marcellus (cos. 222 bc): sic pater Anchises, atque haec mirantibus addit: ‘aspice, ut insignis spoliis Marcellus opimis ingreditur uictorque uiros supereminet omnis. hic rem Romanam magno turbante tumultu sistet eques, sternet Poenos Gallumque rebellem, tertiaque arma patri suspendet capta Quirino.’ Thus spoke father Anchises, and added this for his marvelling listeners: ‘See how Marcellus strides, conspicuous with the supreme spoils, and victoriously towers over all the heroes. He will hold fast on horseback the state of Rome when a mighty tumult rocks it, he will lay low the Carthaginians and the rebellious Gaul, and will hang up the third set of captured arms for father Quirinus.’

As I have argued elsewhere, the presentation of Marcellus here as the last of the three dedicators of spolia opima supports Augustus’ position in 27: here as in other Augustan poets the canon of three awards is presented as Wxed, closed, and a matter of historical and antiquarian record rather than as a live political issue.18 The mention of Romulus rather than Jupiter Feretrius as the dedicatee seems to refer to the presence of a statue of Romulus (the Wrst dedicator of spolia opima) in the temple of Jupiter Feretrius (Livy 4.20.11). The issue of the spolia opima, and by implication of the temple of Jupiter Feretrius, also comes up in the Wctional plot of the Aeneid. At Aeneid 10.449–51 the youth Pallas replies bravely to the challenge and threats of Turnus: ‘aut spoliis ego iam raptis laudabor opimis aut leto insigni: sorti pater aequus utrique est. tolle minas.’ ‘I shall gain praise either for taking the supreme spoils, or for a noble death; my father is equal to either outcome. Cease your threats.’ 18 Harrison (1989).

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The use of the technical term spolia opima is anachronistic and strictly inaccurate (Pallas is not the commander of his army), but is surely chosen for contemporary resonance. The propaganda crisis of 27 is clearly recalled, but the reader may also be meant to remember the mention of the spolia opima in Aeneid 6. In the Show of Heroes the great Marcellus of the Punic Wars is immediately succeeded by his distant descendant Marcellus, the son-in-law and intended heir of Augustus. The Pallas and Marcellus of the Aeneid are a similar pair of characters, both young men of heroic potential who perish before they can achieve real glory, and each (along with the similar character Lausus at 10.825) is famously addressed posthumously with the sympathetic apostrophe miserande puer (Marcellus at 6.882, Pallas at 11.42).19 The suggestion may be that both Pallas and Marcellus have the potential to achieve the highest award of Roman military glory or the courage to aim for it, but that in both cases death tragically prevents the fulWlment of that potential; for Marcellus, this is implied by his juxtaposition with his famous ancestor, the last winner of that very award, and by the hyperbolic description of his military prowess, probably shown only in one campaign as a junior oYcer in Spain in 25–24 bc20 (6.878–881): ‘heu pietas, heu prisca Wdes inuictaque bello dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset obuius armato, seu cum pedes iret in hostem seu spumantis equi foderet calcaribus armos.’ ‘Alas for his piety, alas for his old-fashioned loyalty and and his right hand unconquered in war. No warrior would have charged to meet him in battle unscathed, whether he advanced on foot towards the enemy or dug into his foaming horse’s Xanks with spurs.’

Thus these allusions to the spolia opima and its actual and potential winners refer indirectly to Augustus’ building programme and the temple of Jupiter Feretrius, and arguably support the Augustan position that the award was a historical honour not to be achieved by contemporaries. 19 For these parallels see e.g. Horsfall (2003) 75. 20 Cf. Dio 53.26.1, Crinag. x Gow–Page GP.

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MAUSOLEUM AUGUSTI In the just-mentioned lament for the young Marcellus in the mouth of Anchises in the Show of Heroes, reference is made to his funeral and burial in 23 bc, recent events for the Wrst readers of the Aeneid 21 (Aeneid 6.872–4): ‘quantos ille uirum magnam Mauortis ad urbem campus aget gemitus! Vel quae, Tiberine, uidebis funera, cum tumulum praeterlabere recentem.’ ‘What loud groans that plain full of men will raise at the mighty city of Mars! And what a funeral you will see, Tiber, as you glide past the fresh tomb-mound.’

Virgilian commentaries usually omit to note that tumulum . . . recentem is a very clear reference to the great Mausoleum of Augustus,22 probably begun soon after Actium,23 in which Marcellus’ was the Wrst interment (Dio 53.30.5). The address to the Tiber creates an emotional tone, but also points to the exceptional position of the Mausoleum in the bend of the river on the Campus Martius (see the contemporary description at Strabo 5.3.8). Here we Wnd a restrained and tragic view of the Mausoleum as the resting-place of a youth prematurely deceased. This contrasts with the likely propaganda function of the building as a victory monument and dynastic claim: its design arguably demonstrated appropriation from the defeated Antony of the trappings of Hellenistic kingship,24 while its vast size showed it was not for Augustus alone.25 21 Though I am, like many scholars, sceptical about Servius’ romantic story here (on 6.861) that these lines were read by the poet to Marcellus’ mother Octavia with great emotional aVect; see further Horsfall (1995) 16. 22 Nothing in Norden (1927) or (more surprisingly) Austin (1977); the point is Wrst noted by D. West (1993) 295. An honourable exception amongst modern commentators is Maclennan (2003) 182. This section summarizes Harrison (2005). 23 Cf. Zanker (1988) 72. For the standard modern account of the Mausoleum see now von Hesberg (1996). 24 Note that the name ‘Mausoleum’ with its clear connotations of Hellenistic monarchy is found already in Strabo (5.3.8). 25 Cf. Zanker (1988) 76: ‘when the Mausoleum was completed, after the defeat of Antony, it no doubt gave the impression of a triumphal monument, one erected by the victor himself ’.

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This more celebratory aspect of the Mausoleum may perhaps be detectable in the proem to Georgics 3 (12–16): primus Idumaeas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas, et uiridi in campo templum de marmore ponam propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi Xexibus errat Mincius et tenera praetexit harundine ripas. in medio mihi Caesar erit templumque tenebit. I shall be the Wrst to bring back Syrian palms for you, Mantua, and I shall establish a temple of marble in your green plain, next to the water, where the mighty Mincius meanders with its slow bends and fringes its banks with soft reeds. Caesar will be in the middle for me, and occupy his temple.

In this famous passage Virgil promises to build a metaphorical poetic temple at Mantua and by the river Mincius to celebrate the greatness of Augustus. It has been suggested that the metaphorical templum recalls a real building in Rome, perhaps the aedes Herculis Musarum or the temple of Palatine Apollo. But it is the location, materials, and design of the Mausoleum Augusti which seem to be especially echoed in Virgil’s description of the templum here; the Mausoleum as a consecrated tomb could be described as a templum.26 Like Virgil’s temple, the Mausoleum had a position on a plain in the bend of a river, on the Campus Martius (cf. 13 uiridi in campo), was faced with marble (cf. 13 de marmore), and had Caesar in the middle, being topped by a bronze statue of the great man which stood in the centre of the circular monument (cf. 16 in medio mihi Caesar erit and the description at Strabo 5.3.8). Even the chariot-racing imagined by Virgil, clearly evoking the great Greek athletic festivals with Pindaric colour,27 Wts the Campus Martius, as Strabo notes in his description (ibid.): ‘And the size of the plain [the Campus Martius] is extraordinary, providing at the same time tracks for chariots and other horsemanship, without obstruction . . . especially worth seeing is the so-called ‘‘Mausoleum’’, a great mound on a high base of white

26 Tombs as templa: Nonius p. 743.12 Lindsay templum et sepulchrum dici potest ueterum auctoritate (citing Sychaeus’ burial-shrine at Aeneid 4.457 de marmore templum, where the language closely echoes Georgics 3.13); cf. too the templum of Dido’s tomb at Silius, Punica 1.84. 27 Cf. Wilkinson (1970).

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marble by the river, covered to its top with evergreen trees; on its summit is a bronze statue of Augustus Caesar.’ This Wctional and symbolic temple clearly honours the victorious Caesar on the (then imminent) occasion of his triumphal return to Rome in 29 bc, and Virgil’s poetical tribute to the victorious Caesar in 29, a metaphorical monument, thus appropriately echoes the form of one of Caesar’s major tributes to himself. The heady atmosphere of this likely allusion to the Mausoleum in the Georgics contrasts strikingly with the monument’s appearance in the Aeneid: closely associated with the premature death of Marcellus, its tragic role as a receptacle of doomed youth is emphasized rather than its role as a marker of victory. Here we can see poetic meditation on the tragedy of wasted life taking precedence over easy triumphalism, a pattern we will Wnd elsewhere in the Aeneid’s modiWcation of Augustan victory monuments (see next section).

APOLLO PALATINUS The temple complex of Palatine Apollo, dedicated on 9 October 28 bc,28 makes a notable appearance in the Aeneid in its own right, in the climactic prophetic image on the Shield of Aeneas (Aeneid 8.720–3): ipse sedens niueo candentis limine Phoebi dona recognoscit populorum aptatque superbis postibus; incedunt uictae longo ordine gentes, quam uariae linguis, habitu tam uestis et armis. He himself, seated on the snow-white threshold of Phoebus, acknowledges the gifts of the peoples and Wts them to the proud doorposts; the defeated tribes march in a long column, as varied in tongues as in their mode of dress and arms.

Here niveo . . . limine points speciWcally to the facing of the temple in white marble from Luna (cf. Servius here and Propertius 2.31.9–10). As commentators point out, Virgil’s lines here conXate the dedica28 For the standard account with full references to other literature see Gros (1993).

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tion of the temple in October 28 with the triple triumph of Augustus in August 29, an unsurprising element of poetic licence given that the second and central triumph of the three celebrated the battle of Actium with which the temple was closely associated.29 This brief if glorious view of the chief Augustan propaganda monument is supplemented by its appearance in two Wctional artefacts elsewhere in the poem. At the beginning of Aeneid 6 Aeneas lands on the Italian mainland for the Wrst time and visits another important Italian shrine of Apollo, that at Cumae (6.9–13): at pius Aeneas arces quibus altus Apollo praesidet horrendaeque procul secreta Sibyllae, antrum immane, petit, magnam cui mentem animumque Delius inspirat uates aperitque futura. iam subeunt Triuiae lucos atque aurea tecta. But pious Aeneas made for the heights on which lofty Apollo sits and the secret places of the Sibyl close by, the monstrous cave; into her the prophet of Delos breathes a mighty consciousness and spirit, and thus reveals what is to come. Now they approach the groves of Diana and the golden buildings.

As Michael Putnam has brieXy noted,30 this temple of Apollo recalls that of Apollo Palatinus in Rome in some decorative features; one might go further and claim that it has been designed speciWcally to evoke the contemporary building. Its lofty domination of its hill (arces quibus altus31 Apollo j praesidet) matches the site of Palatine Apollo at the crest of the Palatine, looking south-west over the Circus Maximus, while the apparent joint cult with Diana (Triuiae lucos) which ‘seems to be a Virgilian innovation’32 recalls the appearance of Diana in the triad of cult-statues in the Palatine temple (Propertius 2.31.15). 29 Cf. e.g. Zanker (1988) 82–9. Along with many scholars, I Wnd the attempt of Gurval (1995) to play down the connection of the Palatine temple with Actium unconvincing, especially given Propertius 4.6. 30 Putnam (1998) 17. 31 As Austin (1977) 35 notes, altus is here ‘not conventional, but stressing the rocky height of Apollo’s guardian shrine’, as true of the Palatine temple (not mentioned by Austin in this context) as of that at Cumae. 32 Austin (1977) 37.

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The key plot-event at the Cumaean temple is of course Aeneas’ encounter with its priestess the Sibyl and her prophetic capacities. Aeneas promises Apollo in a prayer that he will build a temple to Apollo with an associated festival, provide a Wxed home for the Sibyl’s prophecies (6.69–76), and set up a board of select supervisors to look after them: ‘tum Phoebo et Triuiae solido de marmore templum instituam festosque dies de nomine Phoebi. te quoque magna manent regnis penetralia nostris: hic ego namque tuas sortis arcanaque fata dicta meae genti ponam, lectosque sacrabo, alma, uiros. foliis tantum ne carmina manda, ne turbata uolent rapidis ludibria uentis; ipsa canas oro.’ ‘Then I will set up a temple for Apollo and Diana from solid marble, and festival days named after Apollo. For you too [Sibyl] great sanctuaries, are in store in our kingdom: for here I will place your oracles and the secret destinies revealed to my people, and consecrate chosen men to you, gentle one. Only do not entrust your prophecies to leaves, lest they Xy around in confusion as playthings for the rapacious winds; pronounce them yourself, I pray.’

This collection of honours refers to institutions established over several centuries. The festival for Apollo alluded to is normally taken to be the seven-day Ludi Apollinares celebrated in July and set up in 212 bc (Livy 25.12.9),33 and the lecti uiri to oversee the prophecies are plainly the quindecimuiri sacris faciundis, the custodians of the Sibylline Oracles, set up with smaller numbers in the early Republic (Livy 5.13.6, 6.37.12) and increased to 15 by Sulla. But commentators since Servius (on 6.69) have plausibly suggested allusions to Palatine Apollo: that temple provided a home for the Sibylline Oracles, moved there by Augustus before the death of Virgil 33 Austin (1977) 64 suggests also an anticipation of the Ludi Saeculares of 17 bc, but these were perhaps not Wrmly predictable before Virgil’s death; another possible allusion here is to the ludi quinquennales Wrst celebrated in 28 to mark Augustus’ Actian victory, in which Apollo and the Palatine temple must have played a major part (Dio 51.19.2); for an attractive suggestion of this festival as the setting for Propertius 4.6 see Cairns (1984) 149–54.

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(Suetonius, Aug. 31.1),34 and is an obvious candidate (for a Roman readership) for a marble temple incorporating the cult of Apollo and Diana (see above). The doors of the Cumaean temple, supposedly designed by Daedalus, show the story of Theseus and the royal house of Crete, with the death of Androgeos, Pasiphae and the bull, the Minotaur and the Labyrinth (6.20–33). These designs have been much discussed,35 but it seems likely that they have proleptic force: in particular, Theseus and the Labyrinth seem to anticipate Aeneas’ descent to the Underworld (traditionally compared to a labyrinth: Pliny, HN. 36.91), following in Theseus’ heroic footsteps (cf. 6.122). But here again Palatine Apollo is highly relevant: Putnam has pointed to the possible evocation of similarly mythological images on the doors of the Palatine temple, describing acts of hubristic deWance of Apollo repulsed by his divine power, Niobe’s boast of superiority over Leto in child-bearing, and the Gallic Brennus’ attack on Delphi (Propertius 2.31.13–14), clearly relevant for Apollo’s supposed active intervention at Actium (Aeneid 8.703–5, Propertius 4.6). However, Putnam suggests with some plausibility that the Virgilian choice to vary these scenes on the doors of his parallel temple36 makes general points about the complexities, anxieties, and suVerings of heroic myth and of the artist’s function in presenting it, a tension shared by Virgil with Daedalus, rather than about the power of the Augustan god to punish his enemies. Here we seem to have an instance of Augustan propagandistic iconography being reXected in a poetic text through a prism of thought on larger, more humane and less triumphalist lines, and in a way which locks into the narrative mechanics of the poem. The great contemporary Apolline temple is thus foreshadowed and honoured through its analogue in the epic plot, just as Aeneas (at times) foreshadows and honours Augustus,37 but its political message is broadened into tragic and literary meditation. 34 This is clear from Tibullus 2.5; see Murgatroyd (1994) 163–4. 35 For a recent good discussion with references to previous literature see Putnam (1998) 75–96. 36 Putnam (1998) 17 also makes the excellent point that Daedalus and Augustus vow their designs after an episode of crisis (one might also add that both designs mark an advent/return to Italy). 37 Cf. Binder (1971), with the important caveats of GriYn (1985) 183–97.

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A similar approach is seen in the Aeneid’s treatment of the iconography of the famous porticoes of the Palatine Apollo complex.38 Here stood statues of the Danaids (Propertius 2.31.3–4), nefarious Egyptian/Greek slayers of their cousin-husbands; their political symbolism has been much discussed, but they seem to be likely analogues for Cleopatra, another Egyptian/Greek princess who had supposedly disposed of her brother-husband Ptolemy XIV in 44,39 and very likely celebrate the defeat of that similar wicked female at Actium.40 At Aeneid 10.495–505 Turnus, having killed Aeneas’ youthful ally Pallas, strips his victim’s corpse of a baldric or sword-belt with an elaborate design, on which the narrative lingers in some detail: et laeuo pressit pede talia fatus exanimem rapiens immania pondera baltei impressumque nefas: una sub nocte iugali caesa manus iuuenum foede thalamique cruenti, quae Clonus Eurytides multo caelauerat auro: quo nunc Turnus ouat spolio gaudetque petitus. nescia mens hominum fati sortisque futurae et seruare modum rebus sublata secundis! Turno tempus erit magno cum optauerit emptum intactum Pallanta, et cum spolia ista diemque oderit. And so saying he pressed the corpse with his left foot, stripping oV the monstrous weight of Pallas’ baldric and the abomination stamped upon it: the foul slaughter of a band of young men under the cover of one weddingnight, and bloodstained marriage-chambers, which Clonus the son of Eurytus had embossed with much gold. In this booty Turnus now triumphed, and rejoiced to gain it. How ignorant of destiny and of their future lot are the minds of men, and how unable to observe due measure when uplifted by good fortune! There will be a time for Turnus when he will wish he had bought Pallas’ safety at a great price, and when he will hate these spoils and the day he got them. 38 Here I can be brief, referring to Harrison (1998), some elements from which are reprised here. 39 Josephus, AJ 15.89, Ap. 2.58. 40 Here as in Harrison (1998) I follow the convincing political interpretation of Kellum (1985).

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Virgilian commentators since Servius have agreed that the event depicted on the sword-belt belongs to the myth of the Danaids, but have long debated its symbolic function here within the poem.41 Po¨schl suggests that the passage looks forward to the unachieved marriage of the killer Turnus and his intended bride Lavinia, Conte that it looks backward to the terminated marriage-prospects of the young victim Pallas, Schlunk that Turnus with the despoiling of the belt is taking on a crime similar to that of the Danaids in killing Pallas. It seems diYcult to emerge with a simple triumphalist interpretation such as is likely to operate for the Danaids in the contemporary iconography of the Palatine complex, which must have surely conveyed a clear political message of victory over evil. As in the description of the Cumaean temple, honoriWc allusion to an important Augustan monument is tempered with a broader and more human approach. In the sword-belt of Pallas, the Aeneid focuses with all its tragic force on the lamentable and irreversible catastrophe of premature death, and this embodies the diVerence between the demands of public politics at a time of propagandistic triumph, and a more thoughtful and measured literary meditation.

I U P P I TE R C A P I TO L I NU S The temple of Iuppiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitoline was the most important cult-site of ancient Rome, traditionally founded by the Tarquin kings.42 The renovation of the whole Capitoline area is prominently listed by Augustus at Res Gestae 20 as one of the projects where he ‘modestly’ declined to inscribe his own name,43 but the repair of this crucial site with the city’s supreme temple must have been a key act of the Augustan building programme. Scholars are

41 To the discussions mentioned here, listed in Harrison (1998), now add Putnam (1998) 185–207 and Fowler (2000) 212–14. 42 For the standard account of the Capitoline temple see De Angeli (1996). 43 Res Gestae 20.1 Capitolium et Pompeium theatrum utrumque opus impensa grandi refeci sine ulla inscriptione nominis mei.

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unsure when this renovation was carried out,44 but it may be alluded to in the famous guided tour of the site of the future Rome given by Evander to Aeneas in Aeneid 8 (347–8): hinc ad Tarpeiam sedem et Capitolia ducit aurea nunc, olim silvestribus horrida dumis. From here he led him to the Tarpeian abode and to the Capitol, now golden, then unkempt with bushy tussocks.

The words aurea nunc might well refer to the recent Augustan restoration, and the Capitol may have been one of the 82 temple repair projects of 28 bc mentioned at Res Gestae 20.4. The wasteland where the Capitol will stand provides a symbolic parallel to its later need for repair under Augustus, and as in the whole tour of the future site of Rome, a key idea is to celebrate not only the building of Rome but also its rebuilding under Augustus, who famously boasted (Suetonius, Aug. 28.3) that he found Rome made of mud-brick and left it made of marble. The Aeneid mentions the Capitol on several other occasions as part of (future) Roman history: once as the traditional site for a triumph (6.836), once as the location for the famous story of Manlius’ saving of it in 390 bc (8.653), and once in the sympathetic apostrophe on the deaths of the lovers Nisus and Euryalus (9.446–9): Fortunati ambo! si quid mea carmina possunt, nulla dies umquam memori uos eximet aeuo, dum domus Aeneae Capitoli immobile saxum accolet imperiumque pater Romanus habebit. Fortunate pair! If my poetry has any power, no day will be able to remove you from the memory of time, for as long as the house of Aeneas lives by the unmoveable rock of the Capitol and the father-god of Rome holds his dominion. 44 It may have been at the same time as his restoration of the Theatre of Pompey, mentioned in the same sentence of the Res Gestae (see last note) and dated to 32 bc by L. Richardson (1992) 384 and Gros (1999), or during the building of the temple of Iuppiter Tonans on the Capitol in the period 26–22 bc (cf. Richardson (1992) 226). De Angeli (1996) 150 suggests a date as late as 9 bc, but earlier seems much more likely.

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Though the force of the passage relies on the traditional role of the Capitol as the talismanic guarantee of Rome’s greatness as caput rerum (Livy 1.55.6),45 the promise that Virgil’s Augustan poem will last as long as the Romans inhabit the Capitol would take an extra force from a recent Augustan renovation of that crucial area. Once again, the contemporary building project is accommodated to the broad and humane values of the Aeneid: the Capitol, though proclaimed here as the central ideological monument of the site of Rome, is employed in a sympathetic obituary of a pair of lovers whose actions, though in some sense heroic, have constituted a military failure which is at best futile and at worst dangerous to the Trojan war eVort.46 A key public monument and its recent restoration is here appropriated for celebration of the private human values of personal love and loyalty and the honouring of a pair of tragic and unnecessary deaths, a tragic contrast with the relentless forward progress of the Roman people. These direct allusions to the Capitol are matched by an indirect allusion. At Aeneid 7.170–8 the temple-palace of Evander in Pallanteum (on the site of the future Rome) is described in some detail: Tectum augustum, ingens, centum sublime columnis urbe fuit summa, Laurentis regia Pici, horrendum siluis et religione parentum. hic sceptra accipere et primos attollere fascis regibus omen erat; hoc illis curia templum, hae sacris sedes epulis; hic ariete caeso perpetuis soliti patres considere mensis. quin etiam ueterum eYgies ex ordine auorum antiqua e cedro . . . There was an august building, huge, rising on a hundred columns at the top of the city, the palace of Laurentian Picus, made numinous by woods and the devotion of our ancestors. Here the omen prescribed that the kings should receive their sceptres and Wrst raise their fasces; this sanctuary was their assembly-house, this was the seat for their sacred feasts; here when a ram was 45 For full references see Nisbet and Rudd (2004) 368. 46 For a good account of the various views of the Nisus and Euryalus episode see Hardie (1994) 23–34.

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slain our fathers were accustomed to sit at long tables. Furthermore, there were statues in order of ancestors, from ancient cedar-wood . . .

Servius’ commentary, no doubt transmitting earlier annotation, suggests that this great building echoes Augustus’ own house on the Palatine (on 7.170: domum, quam in Palatio diximus ab Augusto factam, per transitum laudat), and the fact that the building is a great temple (7.192 templo diuum) which also has political signiWcance might indeed echo the Palatine complex of Virgil’s own time with the temple of Apollo next to the house of Augustus.47 But, as Camps pointed out,48 a number of speciWc details here suggest that the temple of Iuppiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitol and its surrounding area is the primary contemporary building-complex alluded to: its use for the taking up of ruling insignia (so for the consuls at Ovid, Fasti 1.81–2), its use as a meeting-place for the Senate (frequently, along with other major temples including Palatine Apollo), its use for the sacriWces and sacred feasts of Jupiter (Gellius 12.8.2), and especially the collection of celebrity statues outside it, including the early kings (Appian, B Civ. 1.16), matching the gallery of such images in Virgil’s temple described in detail after this passage (7.178–91). To this one might add its vast size (ingens; centum is clearly a poetic number,49 and the Capitoline temple was hexastyle), which for the contemporary Roman reader suits an allusion to the Capitoline temple, the largest in Augustan Rome (extant platform 53.50 m  62.25 m), rather than to the smaller Palatine shrine (extant platform 24 m  45 m). The eVect of this allusion to the Capitoline temple reinforces its traditional role as the guarantee of Roman world rule: Aeneid 8 sets out a mythical, primitive pre-Rome in which key Roman institutions are nevertheless already in embryonic existence (note that the Arcadian Greek Evander has a senatus, 8.105), thus looking forward to and reinforcing Roman national ideology in general terms. But the depiction of a site which is to be improved beyond all measure must evoke for Roman readers the speciWcally contemporary glories of the Augustan building programme, complimented 47 See the references collected at Horsfall (1999) 150. 48 Camps (1959) 54. 49 Horsfall (1999) 147.

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here through the allusion to the repair of one of the city’s foremost monuments.

F ORUM AU G U S T U M? Debate has long raged amongst scholars as to how or whether the socalled ‘Show of Heroes’ in Aeneid 6 (756–892) relates to the most important propaganda project of Augustus’ principate, the Forum Augustum and its accompanying temple of Mars Ultor.50 Part of the diYculty is chronological: the temple of Mars Ultor was vowed as early as 42 bc but only dedicated in 2 bc, probably on 12 May, and the accompanying colonnades must have been erected between those two dates. Modern scholarship varies between positing the mid-20s bc as the time when work on these commenced,51 and stating that the Forum was not begun until after 19 bc,52 but the evidence is thoroughly unclear and in essence consists of a report that the Forum was opened for business well before the dedication of the temple (Suetonius, Aug. 29.1). I hold that at least the plan and possibly some detailed contents of the Forum could have been available to Virgil at the time of the Aeneid, and that if there is allusion, we are (as in the other instances adduced in this chapter) dealing with allusion by poet to building rather than vice versa.53 The plan of the Forum Augustum has been clearly established by scholars:54 it ran on a north-east/south-west axis, and the temple of

50 On the Forum see Zanker (1968), Kockel (1995), Spannagel (1999), and Rich (2002), with full references. In the scholarly dispute three positions have been held: that there is no connection between the Show and the Forum, e.g. Degrassi (1945) and Horsfall (1995) 145; that the Show imitates the Forum, e.g. Frank (1938), Rowell (1940), and Galinsky (1996) 210–12; and that the Forum imitates the Show, e.g. Rowell (1941). 51 L. Richardson (1992) 160. 52 Kockel (1995) 289. 53 See n. 50 above. 54 See n. 50 above, especially the key work of Zanker (for his plan see also Zanker (1988) 194. The main evidence for reconstruction comes from the description at Ovid, Fasti 5.551–70.

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Mars Ultor stood at its north-east end, Xanked by two semicircular exedrae, and by long colonnades of over 100 m running south-west on each side. The exedrae contained statues of Aeneas and Romulus and the kings of Alba Longa, while the colonnades contained niches with busts of great Romans, accompanied by encomiastic inscriptions (elogia). The particular personal interest of the princeps in this project is well attested. Suetonius reports (Aug. 31) that Augustus himself saw a clear purpose in these representations of great Roman commanders: After the immortal gods he honoured the memory of leaders who had found the empire of the Roman people small and left it great. For this reason he restored the public works each had undertaken, leaving the inscriptions in place, and dedicated statues of all of them with their triumphal ornaments in the twin colonnades of his Forum, also proclaiming too in an edict that he had done this so that he himself, while he lived, and the rulers of later ages would be required by the Roman people to take the lives of these men as their model.55

The general idea of an exemplary collection of great leaders from Roman history to inspire others has an obvious and frequently observed parallel with the Show of Heroes as presented by Virgil’s Anchises in the Aeneid. Anchises himself, seeking to inspire his son, clearly takes the attitude ascribed to Augustus by Suetonius, using the examples of (future) great men to spur Aeneas on to even greater deeds, especially military deeds as he faces the war in Italy (6.806–7): ‘et dubitamus adhuc uirtutem extendere factis, aut metus Ausonia prohibet consistere terra?’ ‘And do we still hesitate to enlarge our manly virtue through deeds, and does fear prevent our settling in the land of Italy?’

But any link between the two collections must rest on detailed parallels of content as well as overall ideological framework. Both collections clearly focus on military and political leaders: Augustus’ dressing of the Roman heroes in triumphal garb clearly matches his instruction that the temple of Mars Ultor should be used to deposit 55 Translation from Edwards (2000) 160.

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triumphal insignia (Suetonius, Aug. 29) in presenting the Forum Augustum as a celebration of Roman success in war. The speciWc links between the two can be seen most easily through summary catalogues of Wgures treated, bearing in mind that for the Forum Augustum we have only a few elogia from many: Figures treated in the Show of Heroes: 1 Silvius and the kings of Alba (756–77) 2 Romulus (777–87) 3 Caesar et omnis Iuli j progenies (789–90) 4 Augustus (791–807) 5 Numa and other kings (807–17) 6 Brutus (818–23) 7 Republican military heroes (824–46), with Caesar and Pompey in the middle (826–35) 8 The two Marcelli (854–87, 860–87 on the younger). Figures commemorated in the elogia of the Forum Augustum:56 Aeneas and four kings of Alba Longa (cf. 1 above) Iulii Caesares [cousin and father of Julius Caesar] (cf. 3 above) Marcellus the younger (cf. 8 above) Republican heroes (including Marius and Sulla; sharing Cossus, Cato, Fabius Cunctator, and the two Scipiones Africani with Virgil’s list, cf. 7 above). These scant parallels allow no Wrm conclusions in themselves, though clearly many more of the Virgilian Wgures must have been included in the sequence of the Forum (it seems very improbable that the latter did not include at least the Scipiones). But two such prominent lists in Augustan art of the military history of Rome, both stretching from Aeneas and Romulus through the Alban kings and the gens Iulia, and both starring the all-conquering Wgure of Augustus,57 are unlikely to be unconnected. Two particular points not so far stressed in the debate suggest that the plan of the Forum Augustum underlies that of the Show of Heroes.

56 Items numbered according to Alfo¨ldy and ChioY (2000); see also Degrassi (1937) for the earlier position. 57 On Augustus’ central role in the Forum Augustum see Gruen (1996) at 192–3.

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First, the fact (already noted above: see under ‘Iuppiter Feretrius’) that the encomiastically hyperbolic praise of the military prowess of the recently deceased young Marcellus (in fact barely experienced in war) is so prominent in the Virgilian pageant at Aeneid 6.878–81: ‘heu pietas, heu prisca Wdes inuictaque bello dextera! non illi se quisquam impune tulisset obuius armato, seu cum pedes iret in hostem seu spumantis equi foderet calcaribus armos.’ ‘Alas for his piety, alas for his old-fashioned loyalty and and his right hand unconquered in war. No warrior would have charged to meet him in battle unscathed, whether he advanced on foot towards the enemy or dug into his foaming horse’s Xanks with spurs.’

Given that the young Marcellus was included in the Wgures of the Forum, his improbable characterization here as a great military man may pick up his inclusion (perhaps soon after his death in 23 bc) in the most prominent public representation of Roman war heroes. Second, another likely allusion to the Forum Augustum in the Aeneid has been rarely applied to the debate.58 In the climax to his great prophecy of Aeneid 1 Jupiter predicts the end of war (primarily civil war) in the time of Augustus (1.291–6): ‘aspera tum positis mitescent saecula bellis; cana Fides, et Vesta, Remo cum fratre Quirinus, iura dabunt; dirae ferro et compagibus artis claudentur Belli portae; Furor impius intus, saeua sedens super arma, et centum uinctus aenis post tergum nodis, fremet horridus ore cruento.’ ‘Then the ages of savagery will soften as wars are laid aside: white-haired Loyalty and Vesta, and Quirinus with his brother Remus will assign laws; the accursed gates of war will be closed with iron and with tight bars; inside, impious Madness, sitting on a pile of cruel arms, bound behind his back with a hundred brazen knots, will roar terribly with bloody mouth.’

D. Servius noted that previous commentators had suggested that the famous image of Madness bound recalls a painting by Apelles which 58 Despite the full note at Austin (1971) 113–14.

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was placed by Augustus in the Forum (on 1.294): ‘in the Forum of Augustus on the left as you enter was a picture of War and Madness seated on arms and bound, of the appearance related by the poet’. This seems to be identical with the picture of War reported as part of Augustus’ decoration of the Forum by Pliny the Elder (HN. 35.27 ‘the divine Augustus placed two pictures in his Forum in its most frequented part, showing the painted Wgure of War and that of Triumph’, 35.93–4 ‘the image of War with his hands tied behind his back, with Alexander triumphing in his chariot, both of which paintings were dedicated by Augustus with restrained simplicity in the most frequented parts of his Forum’). Here then we Wnd a likely allusion to a painting, perhaps taken by Augustus from Alexandria, given its accompanying Alexander in a chariot, and perhaps put in the Forum Augustum in the 20s bc.59 If the Forum Augustum does as I have argued exercise inXuence on the Show of Heroes, it remains to consider how this most propagandistic of Augustan monuments is treated in Virgil’s epic poem. On the one hand, the Show of Heroes shares with the Forum a clear encomiastic purpose.60 Anchises’ intention to inspire Aeneas (and all future Romans) to great military deeds, and its parallel with the reported intentions of Augustus for his forum, has already been noted, and the presentation of Augustus himself (791–807), sandwiched out of chronological sequence between Romulus and Numa and thus presented as combining their characteristic virtues of founding/conquest and religious leadership, is plainly complimentary, famously echoing praise of Alexander the Great.61 On the other hand, scholars have rightly noted62 that the selective account of Roman military history in the Show of Heroes does not shy away from diYcult moments such as Brutus’ execution of his sons, though this might be seen (along with some acts of Aeneas) as a tragic event

59 It is of course possible that Pliny and Servius are describing a painting which was added to the Forum in the post-Augustan period, but an Augustan origin seems much more likely. 60 See D. West (1993). 61 See Norden (1899). 62 See e.g. Feeney (1986); O’Hara (1990) 163–72.

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in which the collective good overcomes individual rights and feelings, or the sadly premature death of Marcellus, though as we have seen the encomium of Marcellus is sympathetically exaggerated, presumably a gesture towards the princeps who had made him his son-in-law and likely heir.63 Once again, the Wctional framework allows a broader perspective on Roman history than the propagandistic monument; here, as consistently elsewhere in the examples examined in this paper, the Wltering of politically charged monuments through indirect literary allusion, analogous to the Wltering and modiWcation of other literary texts, allows (as in the Aeneid generally) more complex, nuanced, and humane views on the tragic aspects of heroic achievement to have a place alongside undoubted compliments to the striking reconstruction of Rome under Augustus. 63 We may compare the presumably contemporary lament for Marcellus in Propertius 3.18.

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7 Augustan Responses to the Aeneid Matthew Robinson

Let us begin with GriYn: ‘[Augustus’] mastery of propaganda was one of his greatest sources of strength’.1 He was certainly a man who knew the value of good publicity, and like others before him—though on a grander scale—he promoted himself and his message through a variety of media, such as coins, statues, architecture, and even the calendar.2 Poetry could also have a role to play in such a campaign,3 and in the right hands it might not only bring glory to the present moment, but also oVer the hope of something greater: immortality.4 For this reason, important Romans desired (and frequently received) epics glorifying their great deeds,5 and I am very grateful to the editors for the opportunity to express my gratitude to Jasper for his teaching and wisdom over the years. I would also like to express my gratitude to the late Oliver Lyne: this chapter, like so much that preceded it, beneWted immensely from his comments and suggestions; his warmth, humour, and words of sense are sorely missed. 1 GriYn (1986) 58. 2 For a general treatment, cf. Zanker (1988), and the brief but useful comments of GriYn (1984) 201–3, and Barchiesi (1997) 69–73, who gives further bibliography. 3 For Augustus’ use of pre-existing poetry, cf. Suetonius’ picture of the emperor hunting through previous literature (not just poetry) for instructive precepts and exempla (Suet. Aug. 89.2); and of course, the very name ‘Augustus’ gains resonance from its Ennian intertext (cf. Suet. Aug. 7.2; Enn. Ann. 155 Sk.). Opinion is divided on the extent of Augustan inXuence on contemporary poetry: for the view that it was not as signiWcant as commonly thought, cf. White (1993) 110–55. 4 Cf. e.g. Cicero’s Pro Archia, passim. 5 We know for instance of epics on events such as Marius’ Cimbrian war; the Mithridatic war of Lucullus; the Gallic wars of Caesar. For references and further examples, see the useful summary in Lyne (1995) 31.

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there is no reason to think that Augustus was an exception. He wanted an epic about himself—but only, as Suetonius tells us, from a poet of suYcient quality.6 Just as he was aware that a bad poem might do more harm than good, he was no doubt sensitive enough to realize that a direct imperial command for an encomium might compromise its credibility.7 Better then to leave all such negotiations and suggestions, as many others did, to a friend—such as Maecenas, with his literary interests and contacts.8 It is against this background that we should judge the many recusationes or ‘refusals to write epics’ that we see in Augustan poetry.9 Now while there is a certain literariness to many of them, I believe that on the whole they do reXect and attempt to deXect expectations or suggestions that perhaps the poets might consider an historical epic based around the achievements of the divine Augustus.10 To begin with, it seems, no one, or rather, no poet of suYcient quality, was particularly willing to oblige.11 However, when Octavian, travelling back from Actium,12 heard the beginning of Georgics 3, with 6 Suet. Aug. 89.3: ‘he took oVence if any work was written about him, unless it was serious, and written by the most eminent writers, and he used to instruct the praetors not to allow his name to be cheapened in literary contests’. 7 For another example of sensitivity to his role as emperor, see his remarks to Horace after the poet’s failure to address an epistle to him: ‘are you afraid that you will have a bad reputation in the future, if you are seen to be friendly with me?’ (Suet. Vita Hor.). For further thoughts on Augustus’ sensitivity in these areas, see GriYn (1984) 201–3. 8 Cf. GriYn (1984) 195. The Wgure of a ‘middle-man’ who would make approaches to writers on behalf of a friend is not unusual: cf. White (1993) 74. On the mediating role of Maecenas, cf. Brink (1982) 523–72. Somewhat later we Wnd Augustus asking for encomia of his stepsons directly (Suet. Vita. Hor.): it is thought that this reXects the more direct approach of Augustus after about 20 bc. Cf. Brink (1982) 523–72 and (1995) 276–8, responding to White (1991), who disagrees. 9 Cf. e.g. Verg. Ecl. 6.1–8; Prop. 2.1.17–45, 2.10.19–26, 3.3.1–52, 3.9.35–60. For more examples and discussion, cf. Lyne (1995) 31–9. 10 Not all would agree. For some dissenting views, see G. Williams (1968) 102, Hubbard (1974) 99, and the important discussion of White (1993) 134–55. 11 It is likely that lesser poets may have written encomiastic verse in the hope of some reward: cf. A. Hardie (1983), ch. 3, and compare Macrobius’ tale about the poet who repeatedly tried to present Augustus with a poem in his honour (Sat. 2.4.31). Recent studies are sceptical about Varius’ supposed Panegyric to Augustus: cf. Cova (1989) 82–5; Courtney (1993) 275. 12 If we are to believe Donatus’ Life of Virgil (Vita Donati 27 Hardie).

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its Ennian and Pindaric motifs,13 its mention of the conquered cities of Asia (line 30), its promise that his battles will be celebrated (45–6), and its silent Cynthian Apollo (36),14 he may well have thought that his longed-for epic was Wnally on its way. So too Virgil’s contemporaries. The proem to Georgics 3 seems to promise the kind of epic that Augustus would have wanted; and soon after the Georgics are published, word spreads that Virgil has started work on an epic poem. Now it is possible that the Georgics passage was originally conceived as another recusatio;15 and it is certainly true that the Wnished Aeneid will be very diVerent from the poem outlined there; however, we can see how easy it would be for Virgil’s contemporaries to interpret this incipient work not just as a poetic undertaking, but also as a political one, of the kind which for the most part they tried to avoid: that is, as a response to pressure from above,16 a pressure which for the most part they tried to resist. As we shall see, the Augustan poets respond to both the poetics and the politics of the Aeneid. Given the restrictions of space, I limit myself to discussing Horace, Propertius, and Ovid, and then only a few of their poems.17 I do not touch upon their response to Virgil in terms of language, metre, or style.18 I do not attempt to assign precise dates to any particular poem, and throughout what follows, I assume that Horace and Propertius are familiar with at least some of the content of the Aeneid

13 For Ennius, cf. G. 3.8–9 and Ennius’ epitaph (Enn. Epigr. 18V); for Pindar, cf. Wilkinson (1969) 165–72, (1970); Lundstro¨m (1976); Balot (1998). The latter argues against Thomas (1983, 1985, 1988), who believes that the Pindaric motifs of this passage are in fact Callimachean. 14 Virgil uses the epithet Cynthius of Apollo only here and at Ecl. 6.3, where of course he prevents Virgil from writing epic. 15 Cf. e.g. Instone (1996) 24. If not a full recusatio, the phrase modo vita supersit ‘if only I live long enough’ (G. 3.10) could at least echo the delaying tactics of Ecl. 8.6–12. The irony is that in this case Virgil did write an epic, and he did not in fact live long enough to Wnish it. 16 Even if the direct approach was made by Maecenas, the knowledge that Augustus wanted an epic would itself be indirect pressure. 17 For Tibullus’ response to Virgil, cf. Murgatroyd (1994); Maltby (2002a, with summaries of previous scholarship; 2002b). 18 For such links between Horace and Virgil, cf. e.g. Duckworth (1956). For Ovid and Virgil, cf. Kenney (2002).

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while it is being written,19 and all of the poem before their Wnal books are published.20

C O NS C I U S AU DAC I S FAC T I : H OR ACE A ND VI RGI L Whatever the precise nature of Horace’s friendship with Virgil, the extent of which some have questioned,21 it is surely quite something to be mentioned in the third poem of Odes 1, directly after Maecenas and Octavian. For such a great honour, however, the poem itself is something of a mystery. The Wrst two stanzas are addressed to a ship which is to take Virgil to Greece (1–8); Horace then muses on the courage of the Wrst sailor in the face of the terrible dangers of the sea (9–20), a courage which borders on impiety (21–4); this leads him on to the audacia of mankind in general (25–40) and his Wnal conclusion: ‘in our stupidity we seek the sky itself and by our sin we do not allow Jove to put aside his angry thunderbolts’.22 Commentators have long been troubled by the poem, remarking that ‘its progress is perplexing’,23 or that ‘the trite and unseasonable moralizing seems out of place in a poem of friendship’.24 Various attempts have been made to make sense of the poem. None is entirely successful, but I believe the most promising are those which take Virgil’s voyage to be a metaphorical journey across the seas of epic.25 On this reading, Odes 1.3 gives us our Wrst glimpse of Horace’s response to the Aeneid. 19 Either from recitals or requests for feedback: cf. Ball (1975) 48–50; Starr (1987). 20 For recent thoughts on the dating of Propertius’ earlier works, see Lyne (1998a). For the dating of Horace’s Odes, cf. Nisbet and Hubbard (1970) pp. xxxv–xxxvii, but cf. Hutchinson (2002). 21 Cf. Thomas (2001) 55–73; Pucci (1992). 22 Hor. Carm. 1.3.38–40 caelum ipsum petimus stultitia neque j per nostrum patimur scelus j iracunda Iovem ponere fulmina. 23 Commager (1962) 118–20. 24 Nisbet and Hubbard (1970) 45. 25 Cf. Anderson (1966) 91; Lockyer (1967); Kidd (1977); Basto (1982); Pucci (1991, 1992); Sharrock (1994) 112–17; Lyne (1995) 79–81; Thomas (2001) 65. For other interpretations see summaries in Elder (1952), Basto (1982), and Campbell (1987). I hope to add a few more arguments in support of the metaphorical reading in what follows.

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The starting-point for such a reading is the metaphor of the ‘ship of poetry’, which has a long history: it goes back at least to Pindar,26 and is found frequently in the Augustan poets.27 The idea of the open sea as representing epic is most explicit in Propertius,28 though it perhaps has its origins in Callimachus.29 Support for this metaphorical reading is provided by Virgil himself, who uses this very image in a number of passages in the Georgics. At 2.40–6, Virgil initially asks Maecenas to ‘spread the sails to the open sea’ (pelago . . . da vela), but then reins in his ambition: ‘I do not want to embrace everything in my verses, no not if I had a hundred tongues and a hundred mouths, and a voice of iron’, a clear allusion to and ampliWcation of a famous passage of Homer: ‘[I could not name the multitude of soldiers at Troy] not if I had ten tongues and ten mouths, and an unfailing voice, and a heart of bronze inside me’,30 giving a strong epic resonance to the passage. For the moment, it seems, Virgil rejects the open sea, and the superhuman endeavours that it signiWes, and is content merely to skirt the shore. But Horace now imagines Virgil about to embark on the kind of voyage across the open sea that he rejects in Georgics 2,31 and alludes to the ‘epic’ attributes that Virgil linked to such a voyage, but adds a nautical Xavour. According to Horace, the Wrst man to attempt such a voyage and entrust his ship to the open sea (commisit pelago ratem) may not have had ten tongues or a hundred mouths, but (more usefully) he has ‘oak and threefold bronze around his breast’.32 The aes . . . circa pectus reminds us of Homer’s ºŒ . . . qæ (‘bronze heart’), but the combination of wood

26 Cf. Pind. Ol. 6.103–4; Nem. 3.26–7, 5.2–3; Pyth. 2.62–3, 11.39–40. 27 Cf. e.g. Prop. 3.3.22–4 with Fedeli (1985) ad loc.; Ov. Fast. 1.4 with Bo¨mer (1957–8) ad loc., 2.3, 2.863–4, 3.790; Rem. am. 811–12. Cf. its signiWcant recurrence in Horace’s Wnal Ode, 4.15. 28 Cf. Prop. 3.3.23–4, 3.9.3–4, 3.9.35–6. 29 Cf. the sea and the Euphrates at Callim. Hymn 2.105–12. Whatever Callimachus himself intended to signify by large expanses of water, it seems that to the Romans they suggested epic. 30 Cf. Hom. Il. 2.488–93. 31 Virgil is oV to Greece, perhaps to fetch the Muses as promised in the proem to Georgics 3 (10–11) . . . 32 Carm. 1.3.9–10 illi robur et aes triplex j circa pectus erat.

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and bronze also reminds us of a ship, and perhaps also an epic shield.33 Horace sees such courage as verging on impiety,34 and such thoughts lead him on to his Wnal section—the boldness or audacia of mankind. However, Horace’s twofold repetition of audax at 25–835 has a particular relevance to Virgil, as audacia is a quality which Virgil explicitly associates with his poetic endeavours in the Georgics, at the beginning and the end of the work.36 So when Horace muses in the Wnal stanza ‘In our stupidity we seek the sky itself ’, he alludes not only to the foolhardy boldness of the Giants in attacking heaven, or of Daedalus in his attempts to transcend nature, but also to the poetic audacia that encourages an artist to ‘seek the sky’, an action frequently symbolic of poetic ambition.37 Horace lists himself among the guilty, looking back perhaps to his use of the same image at the close of Odes 1.1.38 However, there is one further thread to be drawn out here. Commentators often draw attention to the commercial imagery of the second stanza (cf. e.g. ‘O ship, you who owe (debes) Virgil deposited (creditum) with you’).39 This reminds us of the moralizing tradition that regards the only motive for sailing as a desire to 33 Cf. Basto (1982) 31; Putnam (1971). 34 Cf. Carm. 1.3.21–4. This is somewhat humorous if such courage concerns the composition of a poem all about pius Aeneas. 35 audax omnia perpeti j gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas, j audax Iapeti genus j ignem fraude mala gentibus intulit ‘bold to endure everything, the human race rushes through forbidden sin; bold, the oVspring of Iapetus brought Wre to the peoples by wicked deceit’. 36 Cf. G. 1.40 (the Wrst ‘ship of poetry’ image in the poem) da facilem cursum, atque audacibus adnue coeptis ‘grant a smooth journey, and nod assent to the bold work I have begun’ (of the Georgics); 4.565–6 carmina qui lusi pastorum audaxque iuuenta, j Tityre, te patulae cecini sub tegmine fagi ‘[I am he] who played with the songs of shepherds, and in the boldness of youth sang of you, Tityrus, beneath the spreading cover of a beech tree’ (of the Eclogues). Cf. also 2.175–6 sanctos ausus recludere fontes j Ascraeumque cano Romana per oppida carmen ‘daring to open up the sacred fountains, I sing an Ascraean song through Roman towns’ (again of the Georgics). On audacia, see also Leigh, p. 224 and n. 25 below. 37 Cf. the same image at Carm. 1.1.36 sublimi feriam sidera vertice ‘I will strike the stars with my exalted head’. Cf. Nisbet and Hubbard (1970) on 1.1.35–6 and Sharrock (1994) 115–17. 38 See previous note. 39 Cf. Elder (1952) 147; Buttrey (1972) 47–8; Basto (1982) 30–1.

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make money.40 We should perhaps then recall that Horace frequently associates the writing of epic or encomiastic poetry with Wnancial reward: for example, when Trebatius advises Horace in Sat. 2.1 on possible subject matter, he says ‘if you are carried away by so great a passion for writing, dare to tell the deeds of unconquered Caesar— you will receive a great reward for your labours’.41 There is a sly suggestion, but to my mind a humorous one, that Virgil is in it for the money.42 Though much more could be said on the links between Horace and Virgil in many poems of Odes 1–3,43 let us turn now to one of the few poems we know for certain to have been composed at the direct request of Augustus, the Carmen Saeculare.44 The purpose of the Ludi Saeculares, at which the Carmen was performed, was primarily to celebrate the beginning of a new saeculum, and perhaps the very existence of this event can be seen as Augustus’ response to the fourth Eclogue.45 With great pomp and splendour Augustus enforces a reading of the text that (on an emotional level at least)46 identiWes the mysterious puer as none other than himself, co-opting the poem and its prophecies to the service of his regime. 40 Cf. Hes. Op. 684–94; Eur. IT 407–21; Prop. 3.7, esp. 1–8; Nisbet and Hubbard (1970) 43–4. 41 Sat. 2.1.10–12 aut si tantus amor scribendi te rapit, aude j Caesaris invicti res dicere, multa laborum j praemia laturus. Cf. also Epist. 2.1.245–7 at neque dedecorant tua de se iudicia atque j munera quae multa dantis cum laude tulerunt j dilecti tibi Vergilius Variusque poetae ‘The poets Virgil and Varius, dear to you, discredit neither your judgement of them, nor the gifts which they have received, to the great renown of the giver.’ 42 In this I would agree with those who think that Horace had a ‘private joke’ with Virgil about Virgil being very concerned with money, particularly with reference to the studium lucri of 4.12.25: cf. Bowra (1928); Porter (1972); Minadeo (1975–6); Belmont (1980), esp. pp. 13–14. For a recent opposing view, cf. GriYn (2002) 315 n. 15. 43 Cf. for example Duckworth (1956). 44 That is, if we can believe Suetonius’ vita: and there seems to be no reason not to. This would be in keeping with the more direct approach some believe Augustus to have adopted after about 20 bc: see n. 8. 45 Cf. esp. Ecl. 4.5 magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo—‘the great line of the centuries begins anew’ (Loeb). 46 If one thinks too carefully about it, one remembers that Augustus was born 23 years earlier than the setting of the poem and so hardly qualiWes as a ‘boy’ (puer). But the emotional link is strong: Eclogue 4 promises the arrival of a new saeculum tied to a particular Wgure, and the Ludi Saeculares inaugurate just such a new saeculum, tied to Augustus.

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Similar forces are at work in Horace.47 The Carmen Saeculare is in a sense a carmen circulare, with strong emphasis on cycles of rebirth and renewal.48 On a metapoetic level too, this is poetry of response and renewal: the language of the Carmen is richly textured with hymnic and prophetic notes drawn primarily from Catullus and Virgil, which serve to underline how the glorious future predicted in those earlier poems has now become a vivid present.49 Furthermore, just as Augustus played down the chthonic aspects of the ceremony,50 so too has Horace taken great pains to free his text from any negative content. For example, Apollo is invited to hear the prayers of the chorus ‘in a gentle and benign fashion’ (33 mitis placidusque) and with his arrows put aside (33 condito . . . telo), the direct opposite of his image in the Wrst book of Iliad;51 and there are no evils to be wished away from Rome, as there are in previous Augustan hymns.52 The interesting point for our purposes is that Horace extends this sanitization to aspects of Virgil’s text, which provides interesting evidence for the way in which he and some of his contemporaries may have read the poem.53 As the Wrst word of the central stanza, Roma, rings out, Horace thinks back to its origins in Troy, and recalls Aeneas’ journey in the following lines (41–4): cui per ardentem sine fraude Troiam castus Aeneas patriae superstes liberum munivit iter, daturus plura relictis . . . 47 On Horace’s allusions to Eclogue 4, and his realization of Virgil’s prophecies, see Putnam (2000) 118–23. 48 Cf. Carm. saec. 10–11 (of Apollo as the sun) aliusque et idem j nasceris ‘you are born as another but still the same’, 17–24, 50; and cf. Putnam (2000) 60 and 90–1. For the ‘renewal’ of Pindar and Greek traditions, see Barchiesi (2002). 49 Cf. Putnam (2000) 113–29. 50 Cf. Putnam (2000) 52–3. 51 Cf. Hom. Il. 1.43–6 ‘So he spoke in prayer, and Phoebus Apollo heard him. Down he came from the peaks of Olympus, angry at heart, bearing on his shoulders his bow and covered quiver. The arrows rattled on the shoulders of the angry god . . .’. Cf. Putnam (2000) 70–1 and 100–3. 52 Cf. Putnam (2000) 98, 126–9. 53 The argument here follows Putnam (2000) for the most part, and also Thomas (2001) 69–73, though it concentrates on the Carmen as evidence for an ‘Augustan’ use for the Aeneid.

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[The Trojans . . . ] for whom chaste Aeneas, a survivor of his fatherland, paved a path of freedom through burning Troy without harm/deceit, destined to give more than was left behind . . .

Now castus is an odd adjective to use of Aeneas—he is of course famously pius, but not famously castus. The adjective is doing a lot of work here, linking Aeneas with pueri casti at the start of the poem,54 and also forming one part of a nexus of links and allusions that associate Aeneas with Diana via Catullus’ hymn;55 but we can also see in it a denial of any impropriety that Aeneid 4 may impute;56 ardentem sine fraude Troiam is similarly busy: it not only alludes to Aeneas’ escape from Troy, and to the end of Laomedon’s perjury,57 but it also may refute suggestions of Aeneas’ treachery, which some had spotted (at least by the time of Servius) on the doors of Juno’s temple in Aen. 1.488.58 Horace follows this with a strong evocation of the Aeneid at lines 49–52: quaeque uos bobus ueneratur albis clarus Anchisae Venerisque sanguis, impetret, bellante prior, iacentem lenis in hostem. And what things the famous blood of Anchises and Venus asks of you, with the sacriWce of white cattle, let him obtain them, superior to the warmonger, merciful to the defeated enemy.

The phrase ‘the famous blood of Anchises and Venus’ makes explicit the Aeneid’s link between Aeneas and Augustus—but in this poem of renewal and rebirth, it also looks to the future.59 Furthermore, whatever problems Aeneas may have had adhering to 54 Cf. Putnam (2000) 74–5, who also sees in castus a reference to Aeneas’ religious purity, a virtue which preserved him and will preserve the Roman race. 55 The adjective castus immediately recalls this traditional aspect of Diana, and there are strong echoes of Catullus 34: cf. e.g. sospite cursu (40) and liberum iter (43) picking up cursu, iter, and sospites at Catull. 34.17–24. On Augustus’ links with Diana, see below. 56 Cf. Thomas (2001) 71. 57 Cf. Putnam (2000) 75–6. 58 Cf. Serv. Aen. 1.242 and 1.488 and Casali (1999); Putnam (2000) 163 n. 51; Thomas (2001) 71–3. 59 The idea being that this bloodline will continue, to celebrate the next Ludi Saeculares. This is perhaps one reason why Horace does not actually name Augustus in the poem.

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Anchises’ injunction to debellare superbos and parcere subiectis at the end of Virgil’s poem,60 this is a lesson learnt by Augustus (and his line),61 who is bellante prior and iacentem j lenis in hostem, merciful to his enemies just as Diana is ‘merciful’ (lenis) to women in labour.62 Aeneas and Augustus are both linked to Diana,63 and both have a positive role to play in the continuation of the Roman gens, a striking conceit that perhaps adds a touch of tenderness to these characters that is missing in the Aeneid. Both the Carmen Saeculare and the Aeneid are in a sense national poems of rebirth and renewal, and Horace clearly feels there is a place for some themes from the Aeneid in his oYcial national hymn. However, it is also clear that Horace Wnds more than just a patriotic voice in Virgil’s poem: the fact that he has to sanitize the Aeneid before he can include it in his positive and untroubled hymn shows that he is aware of and responding to troubling elements within the poem that require such sanitization.64 Horace may well have been happy to hymn peace and celebrate the dawning of a new age, but how did he feel when asked to sing in praise of the military exploits of Tiberius and Drusus?65 Direct imperial pressure was growing, and Horace was faced with the problem of how to deal with it. He was also faced with a poetic problem: how to respond to the publication of the Aeneid, and to champion the value of his lyric poetry in the face of an epic that seems to have been almost immediately celebrated as a classic. With these questions in mind, let us turn to Odes 4. In Odes 1–3, Horace claims to be the follower of Lesbian lyric poetry,66 especially that of Alcaeus.67 However, in Odes 4, Horace 60 Cf. Verg. Aen. 6.851–3. 61 Cf. Putnam (2000) 80; Thomas (2001) 70–1. 62 Cf. Carm. saec. 13–14. 63 For a similar play with gender, cf. the description of Apollo as alme Sol ‘nourishing Sun’ (line 9), with Putnam (2000) 60. 64 More examples can be found: cf. Putnam (2000) 81–4. Cf. Barchiesi (2002) for a slightly diVerent interpretation of some of these. 65 Cf. Suet. Vita Hor. with Lyne (1995) 194–5. 66 Cf. 1.1.34 Lesboum . . . barbiton; 1.26.11 Lesbio . . . plectro; 3.30.13 Aeolium carmen; cf. 2.13.24–8. 67 Cf. 1.32.4–5 barbite . . . Lesbio primum modulate ciui (‘lyre Wrst tuned by the Lesbian citizen’); and cf. Epist. 1.19.32–3, 2.2.99.

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repositions his allegiance in the lyric canon: in the words of GriYn, ‘Pindar, rather than Alcaeus, is in the ascendant’.68 Although Pindar’s presence can be felt in the Wrst three books of the Odes,69 he is named for the Wrst time in book 4, appearing with something of a fanfare in Odes 4.2. Pindaric themes and ideas are very much to the fore throughout the book,70 most obviously in 4.4 and 4.14, the encomiastic odes to Tiberius, Drusus, and Augustus. I believe that this is part of Horace’s response to the Aeneid. Eager to present his lyric poetry as a valid alternative to epic as a vehicle for encomia, he creates a new ‘Pindaric’ persona;71 and in order to support this new status for his poetry, for the Wrst time in the Odes he presents the idea that lyric poetry can confer immortality.72 Horace makes his case in the central three poems of book 4, measuring the power of his lyric against that of epic in general, and the Aeneid in particular.73 The Wrst poem of this triptych is 4.7, a poem full of shocks and surprises. It begins like a ‘spring poem’, celebrating the end of winter. But the joys of spring quickly fade; summer crushes the spring, only to perish itself with the arrival of autumn, and before we know where we are, bruma iners (‘lifeless winter’) has returned. This leads Horace on to thoughts of human mortality, much as it does in Odes 1.4. However, the manner in which he illustrates these thoughts is surprising to say the least: nos ubi decidimus, j quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus diues et Ancus, j puluis et umbra sumus (‘we, when we are fallen whither pious Aeneas, whither rich Tullus and Ancus are fallen, we 68 GriYn (2002) 317. 69 Cf. Highbarger (1935); Fraenkel (1957) 276–97; Miller (1998). 70 Cf. Highbarger (1935) 224–5; Harrison (1995). For a slightly diVerent view, cf. David (1991) 133–44; Putnam (1986) 48–62. 71 Barchiesi (1996) has shown that the poetry of Simonides and the Hellenistic reception of the lyric poets has an important and hitherto underrated part to play in book 4, one which complicates the idea of the book as merely Pindaric. However, the primary lyric voice, and the one to which Horace draws most attention, is that of Pindar. To put it another way, Horace presents his new persona as ‘Pindaric’, even if it in fact incorporates other lyric poetry too. 72 Cf. Fraenkel (1957) 423: ‘The idea that lyric poetry can immortalize men’s achievements is completely absent from the Wrst three books of the Odes. This is a remarkable fact . . .’. 73 For a detailed treatment of these three poems, and some similar conclusions, see Barchiesi (1996) 11–44.

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are shadow and dust’, Carm. 4.7.14–16). Aeneas is an odd choice as a Wgure to illustrate man’s mortality.74 Odder still to refer to him as pius Aeneas, for this is a clear allusion to the Aeneid—but did we not read there that although Aeneas descended to the Underworld, he did indeed return to the light? And that he will not in fact perish, but be taken to heaven?75 As if to underline his iconoclastic approach to the Aeneid, Horace tells Torquatus explicitly that the great Aeneiadic virtue of piety will not bring him back from the dead (23–4 non te j restituet pietas); furthermore, in telling us that Diana was not able to bring back Hippolytus from the dead (25–6), he directly contradicts another (striking) Virgilian resurrection.76 So what is going on? Is there really to be no escape from death for anybody? The answer is given in the following poem, Odes 4.8, which gains importance not only from its position in the centre of the work, but also from its metre, used only here and in Odes 1.1 and 3.30, the Wrst and last poems of his Wrst collection of Odes. This is in a sense a keynote poem for Odes 477—or much of it, at least78—and as beWts Horace’s new stance, it is awash with Pindaric echoes and motifs.79 Horace, in the fashion of a Pindaric priamel, rejects the glory given by athletic prizes, and by statues and paintings, in favour of poetry.80 ‘You delight in songs’, he says to Censorinus, ‘and we can give you those, and tell you the worth of the gift (pretium dicere muneri)’ 74 Fraenkel (1957) 421, remarks only that this shows ‘how strong the inXuence of Virgil’s poem was at that time’. 75 Cf. Verg. Aen. 1.259–60 sublimemque feres ad sidera caeli j magnanimum Aenean (‘you will bear great-souled Aeneas on high, to the stars of heaven’); 12.794–5 indigetem Aenean scis ipsa et scire fateris j deberi caelo fatisque ad sidera tolli (‘You yourself know, and admit that you know, that Aeneas as a native hero is owed to heaven and lifted by the fates to the stars’). 76 Cf. Aen. 7.765–9. On this cf. Putnam (1986) 152 n. 10; Barchiesi (1996) 42–3. 77 Cf. Fraenkel (1957) 422–3. 78 Although concerns with death, poetry, closure, and immortality run throughout the work, Horace’s ‘Pindaric’ guise does not appear in every poem. There are still glimpses of other Horaces (cf. e.g. 4.10 and 4.11) and see below. 79 Cf. Highbarger (1935) 245–6; Harrison (1990) 34–6. For the important inXuence of Simonides and Theocritus here, see Barchiesi (1996). 80 The priamel is Pindaric; so too the list of prizes; so too the rejection of sculpture in favour of poetry. For further details see Harrison (1990) 35; Highbarger (1935) 245.

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(11–12).81 The rest of the poem proceeds to do exactly that, to tell the worth of a gift of poetry, not just to Censorinus, but to anyone else reading the poem. The gift of poetry turns out to be extremely valuable: reading the text as we have it in the manuscripts,82 Horace tells us (13–22) that neither records of deeds, nor the deeds themselves, bring as much glory as poetry. Now this is a very bold thing to say, and it is not surprising that scholars have sought either to delete these troublesome lines or explain this striking thought away. However, that this is precisely what Horace means is clear from 4.9, where he makes it explicit (25–30): there were many brave men before Agamemnon, but they are forgotten because they did not have a poet to celebrate them—that is to say, their deeds alone did not make them famous. Without publicity, virtue and cowardice are indistinguishable.83 Returning to 4.8, we Wnd that Horace continues on this striking theme: he now claims that the Muse is not only responsible for immortality through glory, but also for the very deiWcations that Horace himself has in the past ascribed to virtue.84 We can now read 4.7 in this light: Virgil’s poetry deiWed Aeneas, and brought Hippolytus back from the dead, but in a gesture of ‘authorial self-assertion’,85 Horace’s poetry puts them back in the Underworld. However, to prove that his poetry can work the other way too, in 4.8 he snatches Aeacus from the Underworld (where traditionally he is one of the judges of the dead), and places him on the Isles of the Blessed,86 where he can be found in no other extant source.87 81 Though the sense ‘the cost of this gift’ should not be ignored: cf. Barchiesi (1996) 23–4. 82 Some editors excise much of lines 15–19, owing to possible historical problems; the unpoetic presence of eius in 18; the perceived diYculty of thought; and the fact that this is the only Ode where the number of verses is not divisible by four. For a recent discussion of the textual issues, see Harrison (1990). 83 Another Pindaric motif: cf. Nem. 7.12–13 ‘for great deeds of valour remain in deep darkness when they lack hymns’; cf. also Isthm. 7.16–19 and Bowra (1964) 33–4. Cf. also Theoc. Id. 16.40–6. 84 Cf. e.g. Odes 3.3, and Lyne (1995) 210–11. 85 The phrase is Putnam’s: cf. Putnam (1986) 152 n. 10; Barchiesi (1996) 42–3. 86 Compare similar ‘self-assertion’ in Pind. Ol. 2.78–80, where various heroes are placed (somewhat unusually) in the Isles of the Blessed, including Achilles, who is of course located by Homer in the Underworld: cf. Farnell (1932). 87 For details and discussion, see Putnam (1986) 152–4. Comparison with the list of mortals who become gods (such as in Odes 3.3) shows that Aeacus is very much the

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Odes 4.8 then focuses on the power of poetry and the poet to immortalize: in 4.9, the Wnal poem in this triptych, what was suggested by the Pindaric content of 4.8 is made explicit, namely the validity of lyric poetry as a vehicle for immortality, and in particular Horace’s poetry.88 The epic poetry of Homer may have Wrst place (5– 6), but the poetry of the lyric poets still survives (6–12), proof that Horace’s words will not perish either (1–4). He too can bestow immortality (30–4), and in his whitewashed presentation of the unfortunate Lollius, he oVers proof that this immortality depends more on the poet’s glorious words than the subject’s inglorious deeds.89 The Wnal poem of Odes 4 nicely illustrates the tensions in the fourth book between Horace’s old lyric persona, his new lyric persona, his respect for the Aeneid and also his desire to compete with it. Although the poem is shot through with echoes of the Aeneid, its premiss is that epic is no longer required. He closes his Wnal Odes with wine and song, as we might expect from the poet of Odes 1–3; but surprisingly, the song appears to be on the subject of the Aeneid: ‘of Troy and Anchises and the oVspring of nurturing Venus we will sing’ (4.15.31–2). The ‘oVspring of nurturing Venus’ is always taken to be either Aeneas or Augustus or the Roman people, and commentators point to the pleasing inversion of the mater saeua Cupidinum that opened the poem, and the change in outlook that this represents. However, few note that the most natural identity of progeniem Veneris is Cupid himself. Horace discreetly suggests that amidst all the new patriotic poetry, the lyric voice that sang of love will still resound.90

odd one out. For some diVerent interpretations of this, see Highbarger (1935) 245; Harrison (1990) 41; Lyne (1995) 212; Barchiesi (1996) 40–4. 88 Cf. Fraenkel (1957) 424–5. We note that Horace dedicates three lines to the love poetry of Sappho (4.9.10–12)—on this see below, n. 90. 89 Cf. Putnam (1986) 157–73. Lollius famously suVered defeat in Gaul in 16 bc: while possibly not a signiWcant defeat, one is still surprised by the praise lavished upon him. See Putnam (1986) 168 n. 19, and Barchiesi (1996) 30–3, who reaches similar conclusions. 90 A hint already given at Odes 4.9.5–12, where in a discussion of the immortality of poetry, Sappho receives more space than any other poet.

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LABOR IMPROBUS : PRO PERTIUS AND VIRGIL With Cupid once again in our thoughts, let us turn our gaze to Propertius.91 In his Wrst book Propertius warns the aptly named Ponticus that his mythological epic poetry and its graue carmen (1.9.9) will do him no good should he fall in love. Sure enough, he falls in love, and is encouraged to write the appropriate style of verse. It appears that we have here one more example of the opposition between epic and elegy, and further support for that old elegiac proverb ‘weighty art never won fair lady’. At the beginning of the second book, however, this opposition between epic and elegy gains a political dimension. The possible subject matter for epic is extended to include not just Greek myths (17–21), or great Wgures from the history books of Greece and Rome (22–4), but also contemporary historical events involving Caesar himself (25–36). Propertius, in familiar elegiac fashion, excuses himself from writing epic on the ground that he is not up to the task (17– 18, 39–46)—but when he describes the civil war battles that he claims he would be writing about (if only he had the ability),92 he makes it abundantly clear just how he feels about the recent achievements of the divine Augustus, and the prospect of celebrating them in poetry.93 When Propertius tells us he is not suited to such a task, we may well wonder what kind of person, to Propertius’ mind, would be. 91 Given the severe problems of the Propertian text, and the short space available for discussion, I try to avoid the most corrupt passages as much as possible in what follows. 92 Cf. 2.1.27–9 ‘For as often as [I sang] of Mutina, or Philippi, grave of Romans (ciuilia busta), or of the battles of the Xeet and the defeats around Sicily, and the devastated hearths of Etruria’s ancient race (euersosque focos antiquae gentis Etruscae) . . .’. Cf. Camps (1967) ad loc. for reasons why Propertius’ presentation of these battles may have been troubling for Augustus (though Camps dismisses such ideas), and also Stahl (1985) 164–5. 93 Maecenas may well have been relieved to hear at lines 39–46 that Propertius was not up to the job. I assume in this discussion that Propertius is either responding to a suggestion from Maecenas, or perhaps pre-emptively refusing a request he does not want to receive.

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The exact phrasing of Propertius’ refusal is worth examining closely: 2.1.41–2 nec mea conueniunt duro praecordia uersu j Caesaris in Phrygios condere nomen auos, ‘nor are my talents suited in harsh verse to establish the name of Caesar back to his Trojan ancestors’. The fact that he characterizes the epic that he will not write in this way is signiWcant: it suggests that either this is what Propertius believes Augustus wants to see in his epic, or that Propertius is thinking of the poem promised in the Georgics, with its statues of ‘Trojan ancestors’ in the guise of ‘the oVspring of Assaracus’ and ‘father Tros’.94 With this in mind, let us turn to poem 2.34, which (possibly by an accident of transmission)95 ends the book that 2.1 begins, and which contains the most famous early response to the Aeneid. 2.34 follows a similar theme to the Ponticus poems of book 1.96 A serious writer, Lynceus, is urged to write elegiac poetry in the manner of Philetan and Callimachean poetry: after all, serious poetry will not help him with women (25–32). He should forget epic or largescale compositions, since no right-minded girl is interested in Homer or Antimachus (33–47). Natural philosophy is also a turn-oV (51–4). Propertius invites Lynceus to gaze in awe upon him, as he sits like a king amidst various puellae (55–8). He continues: mi libet hesternis posito languere corollis j quem tetigit iactu certus ad ossa deus.97 It is therefore something of a surprise when the syntax continues with a sentence that we are completely unprepared for (61–6): Actia Vergilio custodis litora Phoebi Caesaris et fortis dicere posse rates, qui nunc Aeneae Troiani suscitat arma iactaque Lauinis moenia litoribus. Cedite Romani scriptores cedite Grai! nescio quid maius nascitur Iliade. [and it is the pleasure of] Virgil to be able to tell of the Actian shores of guardian Apollo, and the brave ships of Caesar; who is now stirring to life 94 Cf. Verg. G. 3.34–6. 95 Cf. the theory of Lachmann that book 2 as we have it now was once two separate books: for recent discussion, see Gu¨nther (1997) 6–14. 96 Prop. 1.7 and 1.9. 97 Prop. 2.34.59–60 ‘my pleasure is to loll amid the garlands of yesterday, for the god of unerring aim has pierced me to the bone’ (Loeb).

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the arms of Trojan Aeneas and the walls founded on Lavinian shores. Make way, Roman writers, make way, Greeks! Something bigger than the Iliad is being born.

Virgil bursts in rather unexpectedly on Propertius as he wallows in the languor of the morning after. No such slothfulness for Virgil who (even as Propertius speaks) is waking up the arms of Aeneas. The passage has clear echoes of Aeneid 1,98 but also of Aeneid 7.99 While Virgil is certainly allocated a great deal of space in the catalogue of poets that the poem has become, and while Propertius seems fairly positive about the Eclogues (67–76) and the Georgics (77–80), it is hard in the context of the poem, and in the context of Propertius’ work as a whole, to see his description of the Aeneid as positive. Given Propertius’ preference for the smaller things in life,100 the arrival of ‘something bigger than the Iliad’ is not necessarily a commendation, and in this context, the cry of cedite . . . cedite may be a cry of warning to ‘get out of the way!’101 The disquiet may be reXected in what follows: straight after all these echoes of the Aeneid, we have another one: the phrase tu canis (‘you sing . . .’), which introduces both Propertius’ description of the Eclogues (67) and the Georgics (77), is a clear allusion to the present indicative in the Aeneid’s Wrst words arma virumque cano (‘I sing of arms and the man . . .’). In this context, tu canis has a special force, suggesting either a hint of disbelief (‘Something bigger than the Iliad? But you wrote the Eclogues and the Georgics . . .’), or perhaps almost an imperative (‘sing of the Eclogues and Georgics, not of arms and a man’). In describing the Eclogues, Propertius suggests that while the work presents a rather naı¨ve view of love,102 it still meets one of his criteria for successful poetry, the approval of women (76 laudatur facilis inter 98 Cf. Aen. 1.1–7. Boucher (1965) 294–5 sounds a note of caution about this allusion. 99 Compare Propertius’ nescio quid maius nascitur Iliade with Verg. Aen. 7.44–5 maior rerum mihi nascitur ordo j maius opus moueo (‘A greater sequence of events comes into being for me. I begin a greater work’). 100 Cf. e.g. 2.1.40, 72, 2.13.31–4, 2.34.43, 3.3.5. 101 For similar thoughts, cf. Sullivan (1976) 24–5; Stahl (1985), 172–83. For a very diVerent interpretation, see Newman (1997) 220–8; Vessey (1969–70) 63–70. 102 Cf. Stahl (1985) 181–2.

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Hamadryadas ‘it is praised among the easy nymphs’), even if these women are ‘easy’.103 As for the Georgics, he comments thus (79–82): tale facis carmen docta testudine quale Cynthius impositis temperat articulis. non tamen haec ulli uenient ingrata legenti, siue in amore rudis siue peritus erit. You compose such a song as Cynthian Apollo tunes on his learned lyre, when he places on his Wngers. These poems, however, will not come unwelcome to anyone reading them, whether they are skilled or novice in love.

This is the only time Propertius uses the epithet Cynthius of Apollo, and it is a clear allusion to Ecl. 6.3–5,104 one of the few other occurrences of the epithet in Latin. There, of course, Cynthian Apollo restrains Virgil from singing epic. Here, Propertius, reminding us of this passage,105 tells us that the Georgics is just the kind of song this anti-epic, Callimachean Apollo would sing. What then would Cynthian Apollo, with his love of the Wne-spun song, make of ‘something bigger than the Iliad ’? There is perhaps a mischievous hint as to an answer in the following couplet:106 ‘these poems, however, will not come unwelcome to anyone reading them . . .’. For a moment we could be fooled into thinking that haec refers to the Eclogues and the Georgics, leaving us to conclude that Virgil’s other poem may not be so well received.107 103 Unlike a dura puella such as Cynthia: cf. e.g. Prop. 2.1.78. 104 cum canerem reges et proelia, Cynthius aurem j uellit et admonuit ‘pastorem, Tityre, pinguis j pascere oportet ouis, deductum dicere carmen’ (‘When I was singing of kings and battles, Cynthius plucked my ear and told me ‘‘Tityrus, you should feed your sheep fat, but sing a Wne-spun song’’ ’). 105 Propertius has the Eclogues very much in mind while discussing the Georgics, and vice versa, helping to link the two poems together in opposition to the Aeneid. 106 It is the following couplet if one keeps the lines as they appear in the manuscripts. Goold, following Ribbeck, places 77–80 after 66, so that the couplet follows on from 76. 107 Of course, as the poem continues, we see that haec refers to love poetry, initially that of Propertius and then of the other poets that he mentions: cf. Vessey (1969–70) 67; Newman (1997) 225; Stahl (1985) 182 with n. 27; Camps (1967) 232. This technique of suggesting one meaning and then giving the ‘real’ one is very much in the Propertian manner: cf. e.g. 2.16.39–42, 4.6.65–8. The following couplet (on the swan and goose) is too complex to deal with here: for discussion, cf. Stahl (1985) 183–4; Newman (1997) 226–7; Vessey (1969–70) 67.

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On this reading, in 2.34 we see Propertius responding both to the incipient Aeneid, and possibly the fanfare that was already surrounding it, with little enthusiasm. Restrictions of space forbid us to examine book 3, but similar responses can be found there: cf. e.g. 3.1.7 ah ualeat, Phoebum quicumque moratur in armis! (‘Begone the man who detains Apollo in war!’)108 Let us turn instead to book 4, which like Horace’s Wnal book, is written after the death of Virgil, and in a time of increased imperial pressure.109 How will Propertius respond to the poetic challenge of the Wnished Aeneid and the changed times in which he Wnds himself ? We Wnd our answers with the Wrst lines of book 4 (1–4): Hoc quodcumque uides, hospes, qua maxima Roma est ante Phrygem Aenean collis et herba fuit. atque ubi Nauali stant sacra Palatia Phoebo Euandri profugae concubuere boues. All this that you see here, stranger, where now stands most mighty Rome, was hill and grass before Phrygian Aeneas. And where stands the Palatine, sacred to Naval Apollo, the migrant cattle of Evander lay together . . .

Propertius immediately invites comparison with Aeneid 8. Tibullus 2.5 is also recalled, but mention of hospes and Evander put Virgil’s text in the foreground.110 But mischief is already afoot. Phrygem is not an uncomplicatedly positive epithet to use of Aeneas, bringing with it suggestions of eVeminacy.111 We are not surprised to see cattle on the site of ancient Rome: Virgil has them mooing in the Forum,112 and Tibullus perhaps a little archly has them grazing on the Palatine.113 However, Propertius not only places them on the Palatine, which (he reminds us) now hosts a temple in honour of Phoebus

108 Cf. esp. 3.1 and 3.4, with the discussion of Nethercut (1970), who covers several poems in book 3, and Stahl (1985) 189–212. See also Frost (1991), on 3.3. 109 On this see Brink (1982) 546–72, though he believes that this has little eVect on Propertius (p. 558). 110 For hospes cf. Aen. 8.122–3 and 188–9. 111 Cf. Pease (1935) on Aen. 4.103 (p. 168): ‘Heinze . . . observes that Phrygius is [in the Aeneid] commonly used (though not solely . . . ) by the enemies of the Trojans as a term of contempt’. He gives references and some discussion. 112 Verg. Aen. 8.360–1. 113 Cf. Tibullus 2.5.25, 55–6.

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Navalis,114 but rather than mooing they are now mounting each other.115 Early Rome may provide Propertius with a veneer of respectability, but underneath he seems much the same. He has read his Aeneid 8, and he has noticed how Virgil attempts to unite the rugged virtues of ancient Rome with its contemporary wealth and splendour, to show that the simple and honest heart of the past still beats in the breast of today’s Roman. Propertius initially seems to go along with this strategy (5–36), echoing the hardy morality of Virgil rather than the pastoral scenes of Tibullus 2.5, but this is how he concludes the passage (37–8): nil patrium nisi nomen habet Romanus alumnus j sanguinis altricem non putet esse lupam (‘the son of Rome has nothing from his ancestors but his name. He would not think that a she-wolf is the nurse of his blood’). It turns out that the modern Roman has nothing in common with his ancestors, apart from the name. In one line, the connection that Virgil has carefully created between old and new is severed.116 The poem continues, with Virgil never far from Propertius’ gaze,117 and soon reaches its initial conclusion (57–70): moenia namque pio coner disponere uersu: ei mihi, quod nostro est paruus in ore sonus!         ut nostris tumefacta superbiat Umbria libris, Umbria Romani patria Callimachi! scandentis quisquis cernit de uallibus arces, ingenio muros aestimet ille meo! Roma, faue, tibi surgit opus; date candida, ciues, omina; et inceptis dextera cantet auis! sacra deosque canam et cognomina prisca locorum: has meus ad metas sudet oportet equus.

57 58 63 65

114 It also hosts, of course, the residence of Augustus. 115 Cf. OLD s.v. and Fedeli (1965) ad loc. Given this rather shocking meaning, he along with other editors would rather read procubuere. 116 Propertius allows himself (and editors uncomfortable with what the text appears to be saying) the defence that he is actually talking positively about present-day Rome (‘they have inherited no material wealth from their ancestors, i.e. built themselves up from nothing’); and some such as Camps (1965) and Fedeli (1965) ad loc. would see in Romanus alumnus an allusion to Romulus, and read pudet in the following line. But the primary meaning of the text is clear. 117 Cf. Fedeli (1965) ad loc. for the echoes of Aeneid 6 and 8.

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For now let me attempt to set out walls in pious verse. Alas, that the sound from my mouth is (only) small . . . in order that Umbria may be swollen with pride in my books, Umbria the fatherland of Roman Callimachus. Whoever sees citadels rising from the valleys, let him rate the walls by my genius. Rome, give your favour, the work rises for you. Grant fair omens, citizens; and let a bird sing auspiciously for my undertaking. I will sing of rites and gods and the ancient names of places. It is the duty of my horse to sweat towards this goal/turning post.

Once again, this is all very much aimed at Virgil. Propertius tells us that he is attempting to ‘set out walls in pious verse’ (moenia namque pio coner disponere uersu): his building project is more ambitious than a mere temple by the Mincius,118 for these are the walls of Rome themselves, the altae moenia Romae (Aen. 1.7) that form the climax to the introductory section of the Aeneid. Propertius’ poetry is, of course, appropriately pius. Mantua beneWted from Virgil’s victory in the Georgics proem,119 but now it is Umbria that will swell with pride. Once he has built the walls, no doubt his city will grow (65–7): scandentis quisquis cernit de uallibus arces, j ingenio muros aestimet ille meo! j Roma, faue, tibi surgit opus. These arces are a little vague. Commentaries invite us to recall the hilltop towns of Umbria,120 and this is how Horos will interpret the phrase later in the poem (125– 6),121 but at this point surely the most natural reading is to take the arces to be the famous seven citadels of Rome,122 and the muros of the following line to be the same as the moenia mentioned only a few lines previously.123 Indeed, we are encouraged to do so by the echo of

118 Virgil’s building project in the proem to Georgics 3: cf. 3.13 et uiridi in campo templum de marmore ponam (‘and in the green plain I will set up a temple of marble’). 119 G. 3.12. 120 Cf. Camps (1965) and Richardson (1977) ad loc. 121 Following the suggestion of Newman (1997) 269 n. 64, we might think that this is a joke: Horos misinterprets Propertius’ bold claim as something much less impressive—not Rome, but a small town in Umbria. This would be in keeping with the tone of Horos’ message. 122 Cf. e.g. Aen. 6.783: septemque una sibi muro circumdabit arces (‘[Rome] will surround its seven citadels with one wall’). 123 MacLeod (1976) 143 and Newman (1997) 269 also see this couplet as containing a reference to Rome.

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scandentis . . . arces in the phrase Roma . . . tibi surgit opus.124 So when Propertius tells us to ‘esteem the walls by my genius’, the emphasis perhaps falls on meo—we must esteem the altae moenia Romae, and the poetic construction of Rome, by the genius of Propertius, not Virgil. Finally, in lines 69–70 of the text given above, Propertius’ challenge to Virgil becomes even more direct:125 no arma uirumque cano for Propertius, but sacra deosque canam. This is a point-for-point rebuttal, which gains an added piquancy, and almost a divine sanction, from the fact that this phrase has been taken from the mouth of Virgil’s Jupiter.126 This will be his response to Virgil. He will sing Roman themes indeed, but his will be an elegiac Rome. He will sing the Aetia that Virgil feints towards in Aen. 1.8 Musa, mihi causas memora (‘Muse, sing me the causes . . .’). He will truly be Roman Callimachus. Of course, things are never quite that simple in this Wnal book. Even while he makes them, there are reasons to believe Propertius’ Callimachean claims are not quite what they seem.127 But the real surprise is yet to come. Propertius’ poetic horses, which have sweated their way (oportet perhaps suggests under some compulsion) to the turning post (the primary meaning of metas), are now of course coming back in the other direction. The mysterious Wgure of Horos appears, warning him that Apollo does not approve of his new poetic venture.128 He is advised to stick to love elegy (135–8). The poem ends without resolution. We may well wonder in what direction this book of poetry is heading.129 And so begins Propertius’ boldest experiment with the possibilities of elegy. Reading the fourth book for the Wrst time, each poem comes as something of a surprise, the style and subject matter constantly 124 MacLeod (1976) 144 also notes parallels between what Propertius says of Rome in lines 41 and 44, and what he says of his own poetry in 57 and 67–8. 125 Following Sullivan (1976) 138 n. 27, Goold (1990), and S. J. Heyworth (via email) I read sacra deosque rather than the better attested sacra diesque. The latter creates a link back to Hesiod, but in the context of the many competitive allusions to Virgil, I Wnd the former more persuasive. 126 Cf. Verg. Aen. 12.192 sacra deosque dabo (‘I will give them rites and gods’). 127 On this, see MacLeod (1976). 128 For a good discussion of this part of the poem, see MacLeod (1976). 129 For a useful survey of literature up to 1985 that tries to answer this question, see Stahl (1985) 265–9. See also Wyke (1987); Newman (1997) 265–77.

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changing like Vertumnus in 4.2. Who would have expected Actium (4.6) after Acanthis (4.5)? Or Cynthia (4.7) after Actium, and a dead Cynthia at that, who after all Propertius’ fretting about her behaviour at his funeral,130 has actually pre-deceased him? It is another shock after 4.7 to Wnd Cynthia very much alive in 4.8, a shock too great for more literal-minded scholars to bear.131 The one constant amidst all this change is Propertius’ desire to explore the boundaries of elegy, by elegizing, feminizing,132 and subverting the themes of other genres. Noble didactic becomes a sordid lecture on amatory extortion by the disreputable Acanthis; Patroclus’ ghost becomes the ghost of Cynthia, who takes on the likeness also of Anchises, Hector, and Dido;133 Propertius becomes an immodest Penelope taking advantage of Cynthia’s absence in a smutty parody of the Odyssey;134 the Scipionic epitaph is reworked as a memorial to a Scipio whose glory is to have been a virtuous Roman matrona; the Roman story of Tarpeia becomes a rather Hellenistic tale of love; and Hercules, after dealing with Cacus in record time, Wnds himself in the elegiac position of an exclusus amator,135 and where Propertius’ tale overlaps with Virgil’s account, we see him take particular delight in retelling the most bombastic narrative of the Aeneid in exquisitely Alexandrian fashion, and in general robbing this Wgure of all the dignity and allegorical importance he was given by Virgil.136 130 Cf. e.g. 1.17.19–24, 2.13.17–42, 3.16.21–30. 131 Cf. especially the delightful comments of Postgate (1901) p. lv: the idea that 4.7 should precede 4.8 is ‘a ghastly imagination . . . only possible to ages which have learnt to Wnger the secret springs of the horrible and produced the paintings of a Wiertz and the Wction of a Poe’. 132 Cf. e.g. Wyke (1987) and Janan (2001). 133 For allusions to Dido and to the Aeneid in general, see Allison (1980). The appearance of Cynthia’s ghost to the sleeping Propertius looking as she did in death recalls not only Patroclus appearing to Achilles, but also the similar appearance of Hector to Aeneas at Aen. 2.270–97; her account of the Underworld and her place in it recalls Anchises’ ghost at Aen. 5.731–42 and more generally the descriptions of the Underworld given by the Sibyl and Anchises in book 6. 134 Cf. Evans (1971); Hubbard (1974) 155. For allusions to the Aeneid in 4.8, cf. Allison (1980). 135 Cf. Anderson (1964). 136 Cf. Warden (1982), still one of the best discussions of this poem, and one particularly relevant as regards Propertius’ response to Virgil. For example, on p. 229: ‘As elsewhere in the fourth book Propertius has taken a Virgilian theme and played variations on it. His aim is not to imitate but to challenge; to show what his sophisticated elegiac mode can do with the material of epic . . .’.

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To conclude: from the moment of its inception, Propertius seems to have viewed the Aeneid as a poem written to satisfy imperial desires for laudatory epic, a task which to Propertius was at best distasteful, at worst, oVensive. His presentation of the poem strongly highlights its Augustan aspects, and it is the most Augustan parts of the poem that receive much of his attention.137 He does not seem to have noticed the kind of ambiguities that Horace responds to, and as such, his response seems to be based on a reading of the Aeneid as a very Augustan poem. So much for politics. On a poetic level, in an attempt to assert his own poetic identity in the face of a poem that no doubt most were loudly praising, Propertius produced his most experimental and audacious work, presented as a direct response to the Aeneid, Roman elegy against Roman epic, a Roman Callimachus eager to escape from the shadow of, if not the Roman Homer, then at least the Roman Apollonius. It was a work that would have a profound inXuence on Ovid, to whom we now turn.

MAIUS OPUS MOVEO : OV I D A N D V I RG I L When Ovid tells us in the Tristia that he only saw Virgil (Vergilium uidi tantum),138 he does so in the context of a discussion of poets he associated with in his youth—but the phrase usefully encapsulates a crucial diVerence between Ovid and the other Augustan poets. Propertius and Horace were closer in time to Virgil, experiencing similar imperial pressures, witnessing the birth and growth of the Aeneid, responding to it both while it was being composed and when it was published. Ovid is, however, to a large extent responding to a Wnished corpus of works:139 Virgil is for Ovid a text—he has only read him. Furthermore, the responses of Propertius and Horace to the Wnished Aeneid were their Wnal works. Ovid’s response is prolonged over his entire poetic career, and his most direct engagement with 137 For example, when alluding to the Aeneid in his fourth book, it is Aeneid 8 that Propertius has in his sights much of the time. 138 Ov. Tr. 4.10.51. 139 Cf. Tarrant (2002) 23.

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Virgil will not appear for more than twenty years after the Aeneid’s oYcial publication. During this time, of course, many others are responding to the Aeneid: not just poets, but commentators, admirers, detractors, and of course, emperors.140 This means that when Ovid comes to write the Metamorphoses, his response to the Aeneid is based not just on the text, or his own reading of the text, but also on the wealth of other readings that have grown up around the poem. It must also be remembered that Ovid’s response to Virgil has to be seen in the context of his response to other authors too. While Ovid is perhaps nimium amator ingenii sui,141 he is certainly an ardent admirer of the ingenium of others.142 There is no anxiety of inXuence in Ovid’s works, rather a wallowing in it—be it poetry, prose, sculpture, architecture, or painting.143 He has a great sensitivity to how literature works, and to what makes a particular artist tick, and what would make them wince. When in the Fasti Ovid’s Ariadne looks back at her lament in poem 64 of Rome’s most aggressive sophisticate and asks herself quid Xebam rustica? we are treated to three of the most deliciously cruel words in Latin.144 The question of Ovid’s response to Virgil has been the subject of a number of recent treatments,145 and bibliography on the subject is considerable,146 so I will be brief.147 140 Augustus’ reading of the Aeneid, according to Ovid, was one which appropriated it to the service of the regime, to the extent that he describes it as ‘Augustus’ Aeneid’ by the time he writes the Tristia (Tr. 2.533): on this passage, see Thomas (2001) 74–8 and Barchiesi (1997) 27–8. For more on the appropriation of the Aeneid by Augustus, cf. Thomas (2001) 34–40 and 73–4. 141 Quint. Inst. 10.1.88 (‘Too much in love with his own talent’). 142 Cf. Tarrant (2002), esp. pp. 17–20 for the breadth of Ovid’s literary interests. 143 For Ovid’s response to art, cf. Solodow (1988) 224–6, who cites Buccino (1913), Bartolome´ (1935), and Laslo (1935). 144 Ov. Fast. 3.463 (‘Why did I weep like a bumpkin?’), looking back to Catullus 64. 145 Cf. recent discussions in Solodow (1988), ch. 4, esp. 136–56; Hardie (1993); Barnes (1995) 257–67; Casali (1995); Tarrant (1997a) 60–3; Tissol (1997) 177–91 ¼ (approx.) Tissol (1993); Hinds (1998) 99–122; Thomas (2001) 74–83; Tarrant (2002) 23–7; Huskey (2002); Nappa (2002), although discussing the Georgics, makes some interesting points that could also be applied to the Aeneid. 146 See the useful summary in Myers (1999), esp. pp. 195–6. For bibliography since then, see the more recent discussions in n. 145. 147 In order to reduce the size of the footnotes, I will refer in what follows only to the most recent discussions, which all contain good bibliographies of previous works.

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There are many reasons why Virgil should appear so often in the pages of Ovid. First, as Ovid tells us, the Aeneid quickly became one of the Latin world’s most famous poems,148 and thus was a natural target for Ovid’s allusive play. Furthermore, Ovid took a mischievous delight in undercutting anything that took itself seriously, be it poetry or imperial ideology. As such, any serious poem (especially one in Latin) was at risk: for example, poor Catullus’ Xights of tortured fancy inspired by the candida diua that steps on to Allius’ threshold in 68b are cheerfully debased in Ovid’s very matter-of-fact Amores 1.5;149 and the angst of the odi et amo of poem 85 Wnds a rather facile resolution in Amores 3.11.33–4. Virgil’s much longer poems provide much more material for this kind of allusion, perhaps the most famous example being Ovid’s theft of the line hoc opus, hic labor est:150 what once described in vatic tones the awful task of returning alive from the Underworld now refers to the tricky problem of getting a woman into bed without paying for the privilege.151 For a poet as interested in generic games as Ovid, the Aeneid also serves as a handy marker for epic: the Wrst words of Ovid’s Amores are arma graui numero, an epic phrase by itself but also a strong echo of the Wrst words of the Aeneid, arma uirumque cano.152 When Ovid wishes to add epic colouring to a passage, it is the language and similes of the Aeneid that come to mind:153 as, for example, when he describes the epic rush of the Fabii in the Fasti, or the daring midnight manoeuvres of Faunus as he attempts an assault on Omphale.154 148 Cf. Ars am. 3.337–8. 149 Cf. Lyne (1980) 262–4; Hinds (1987) 7–11. 150 Tarrant (2002) 24 sees this as a speciWc response ‘to Virgil’s canonical status’, and pleasingly describes such ‘shameless appropriation’ as ‘self-assertive manoeuvres’, which illustrate Ovid’s control of his models. 151 Compare Aen. 6.128–9 sed reuocare gradum superasque euadere ad auras, j hoc opus, hic labor est (‘but to retrace your steps and emerge into the upper air, this is the task, this the labour’) with Ars am. 1.453 hoc opus, hic labor est, primo sine munere iungi (‘this is the task, this the labour, to get it together without giving her anything Wrst’). 152 On this see McKeown (1989) ad loc. 153 At least, it is easy for us to recognize similes from Virgil (and Homer), as we still have these texts. Many echoes of authors such as Ennius may be lost to us. 154 Fast. 2.195–242 and 331–52; on these passages, cf. my forthcoming commentary on Fasti 2.

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Ovid’s use of Virgil stretches right through his career, from the Wrst word of the Amores to the Tristia.155 However, Ovid’s response to Virgil is perhaps most clear when Ovid is writing his own epic, and particularly when his material overlaps that of the Aeneid. So let us turn now to the Metamorphoses. Ovid’s narrative encounter with the events of the Aeneid begins at Met. 13.623.156 As with his version of the Iliad (beginning at 12.64),157 we Wnd that the great and signiWcant stories are compressed (e.g. Dido receives just four lines at 14.78–81), while trivial details are expanded with stories of transformation (e.g. dinner with Anius on Delos leads to a lengthy account of the metamorphoses of his children (13.638–674)).158 Ovid also enjoys ‘correcting’ Virgil, certainly anticipating the kind of criticism that we will Wnd in Servius, perhaps echoing contemporary scholarly responses to the work: for example, Ovid’s Aeneas leaves the Sibyl and sails to the ‘shores which do not yet have his nurse’s name’ (14.157). Virgil’s Aeneas, however, leaves the Sibyl and ‘takes himself to the port of Caieta’ (Aen. 6.900), although it is only at the beginning of the following book, at Aen. 7.1–4, that the shore receives its name, on the death of Aeneas’ nurse. This is just the kind of thing Servius feels he needs to explain: ‘ ‘‘to the port of Caieta’’—this is prolepsis by the poet: for it was not yet called Caieta’.159 Ovid’s account of Aeneas’ journey to the Underworld highlights many of the above features. Ovid contracts Virgil’s lengthy narrative of the descent, and expands and perhaps ‘corrects’ Virgil’s brief account of the journey back. In the Aeneid the return journey receives barely six words of narrative (6.898–9), and it seems remarkably easy given the words of the Sibyl at 6.128–9: ‘But to retrace your steps and

155 On Virgil in the Tristia, cf. Bews (1984); Huskey (2002). 156 For recent discussions, see n. 145. 157 This reminds us that many aspects of Ovid’s response to Virgil are to be seen in the context of his response to other authors. 158 On a number of occasions, Ovid expands on metamorphoses that he Wnds in the text of the Aeneid itself: cf. e.g. Aen. 11.271–4 (Diomedes’ companions turned into birds) with Met. 14.464–511; Aen. 9.77–122 (the Trojan ships turn into seanymphs) with Met. 14.530–65. 159 Serv. ad Aen. 6.900. On this, see Hinds (1998) 108–11. For some other corrections, cf. Solodow (1988) 154.

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emerge into the upper air, this is the task, this the labour’.160 So when we read in the Metamorphoses how Aeneas ‘making his weary way on the return journey, eased the labour by chatting with his Cumaean guide’ (Met. 14.120–1 inde ferens lassos auerso tramite passus j cum duce Cumaea mollit sermone laborem), we see that Ovid has acknowledged the famous labor of the task: but even so, it serves only to introduce another conversation between Aeneas and the Sibyl, whose tone is in marked contrast to their previous exchanges in the Aeneid (cf. Aen. 6.45–97). Of course, the main feature of this passage is the way in which Ovid compresses one of the most signiWcant episodes of the Aeneid. ‘He saw the wealth of fearsome Orcus’ (Met. 14.116–17) is all that remains of intense narrative of the descent into the Underworld, with its emotional encounters with Palinurus, Dido, and Deiphobus. But worse is to come: ‘and he saw his ancestors and the aged spirit of great-hearted Anchises’ (14.117–18). Crucially, Ovid omits any mention of Aeneas’ descendants, and this brings us on to Ovid’s treatment of the Aeneid on a more general level. He has stripped the Aeneid of its most important feature—its teleology. The painful revelation of fate, that sense of destiny, the glorious prophecies that link the heroic age to the age of Augustus, all this has gone.161 The great trip to the Underworld provides only a display of ancestors and a few details about the forthcoming wars. Helenus’ prophecy is passed over in a couple of lines (13.722–3), and when it Wnally does appear, and when we at last receive a prophecy concerning the greatness of Rome (15.431–49), it will be in the disreputable context of Pythagoras’ speech, the main purpose of which is to advocate a vegetarian diet; and predictions of Rome’s eternal greatness sit uneasily amidst a catalogue of cities which were powerful once, but no more.162 With the heart of the Aeneid torn out, we are left with little more than a series of events and characters that Ovid can employ to serve 160 For text see n. 151. 161 On this aspect cf. esp. Tissol (1997) 179, who argues that Ovid replaces Virgil’s themes with his own: ‘Ovid oVers an answer to the Aeneid, subsuming its plot and characters to illustrate the universal prevalence of Xux’. 162 Cf. Barchiesi (1989) 73–96. The article appears in translation in Barchiesi (2001b), ch. 3: where see pp. 62–78.

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the purpose of his own narrative. The Aeneid becomes a frame for stories about metamorphoses, subsumed within Ovid’s own epic: all that was ‘Virgilian’ has been removed, and what remains becomes decidedly ‘Ovidian’. It turns out that the Aeneid was only ever about metamorphoses, if only it had been told properly.163 In all of this, Ovid’s close and sensitive reading of Virgil’s text is very clear. Indeed, one could argue that his poems form a kind of commentary on the Aeneid, whether it be on points of detail such as allusions or etymology,164 on larger issues such as character or plot, or on possible tensions or ‘oppositional’ readings within the Aeneid.165 But it is perhaps the existence of the Metamorphoses as a whole that is Ovid’s most direct and unique response to the Aeneid.166 As Rebecca Armstrong has demonstrated in a previous chapter, the Aeneid aimed to subsume within itself many of the great genres of literature, an all-inclusive epic containing both the Iliad and the Odyssey among others, positioning itself as the one and only epic.167 It is in this regard that the Metamorphoses responds most competitively to the Aeneid, and this is clear from the very start of the poem. These exceptionally dense lines have been well discussed, so I will mention only a few salient points.168 Where Virgil begins his epic with references back to the Iliad and the Odyssey, Ovid allows us to read the Wrst words of his epic in nova fert animus (‘my mind is carried into new things’) as a suggestion that, in contrast, his epic will be treading new ground.169 In what follows Ovid presents us with highly condensed allusions to the Eclogues, the Georgics, Lucretius, Ennius and the historical tradition, 163 Cf. Hinds (1998) 104–7. 164 Cf. O’Hara (1996b). 165 Cf. Casali (1995); Knox (1995) 21–2 (on Heroides 7); Thomas (2001) pp. xi–xx and 78–83. 166 Though the process whereby Ovid is inspired by the work of another poet is not in itself unique: cf. e.g. the Heroides inspired by Prop. 4.3; on this see most recently Knox (2002) 126. 167 Cf. also Hardie (1993) 1–3. The idea of the ‘epic which contains all genres’ is, however, an idea commonly associated with Homer (cf. Quint. Inst. 10.1.46), probably dating to at least the Hellenistic period: cf. F. Williams (1978) 85–9. 168 On this astonishingly dense proem, cf. Kenney (1976), Heyworth (1994), and the very detailed Wheeler (1999) 8–33. 169 We will of course have to reconstrue the meaning (cf. Wheeler (1999) 8–13). On the theme of ‘novelty’, cf. Wheeler (1999) 13–14.

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all to be subsumed in his master epic: so it is no wonder that not just Apollo or the Muse but the entire pantheon is summoned to the cause.170 The gods are invoked to ‘bring down a continual song’ (perpetuum deducite . . . carmen); once they have ‘brought it down’, what may have seemed like an un-Callimachean carmen perpetuum will of course become an everlasting carmen deductum.171 Here Ovid trumps Virgil and Callimachus:172 the result will be not only the new ‘ultimate epic’ but also a monumental Aetia, encompassing everything from the creation of the world up to Ovid’s time and lasting not just ‘for many a year’,173 but for ever. With a Wnal Xourish, deducite ad mea tempora not only indicates that the epic will reach right to the present day, but also (again surpassing the Aeneid) advertises a sequel, tempora being the Wrst word of the Metamorphoses’ sister piece—if you like my Metamorphoses, you’ll love my Fasti.174 By the time we have Wnished the Wrst book, we have seen Ovid feinting in the direction of just about every genre there can be, from the learned heights of scientiWc and mythic cosmology to elegy175— and possibly even mime.176 By the time we reach the end of the poem, we will see Ovid attempt to out-gun Virgil on every level— more genres, more books, more history, and a poem which includes not only the Iliad and the Odyssey but also the Aeneid as well. So when Ovid refers in the Tristia to his epic as maius opus (‘his bigger work’), we can read this as a comparison not just with Ovid’s previous œuvre, but Virgil’s too (Tr. 2.1.63). What is more, Ovid will go one step 170 Cf. Wheeler (1999) 13–30. 171 Cf. Wheeler (1999) 25–30. 172 Ovid has noticed Virgil’s glance towards the aitia at Aen. 1.8 Musa, mihi causas memora (‘Muse, recount to me the causes’). On the aetiology of the Metamorphoses, cf. Myers (1994). 173 As Callimachus prays for his Aetia at Aet. fr. 9.13–14 Massimilla ‘Come now and wipe your anointed hands upon my elegies that they may live for many a year’. 174 For this play on tempora, cf. Barchiesi (1991) 6; Hardie (1993) 13; Wheeler (1999) 24–5. 175 On this see Solodow (1988) 17–25; Harrison (2002) 87–9; Keith (2002). 176 The scene in which the suspicious Juno interrogates the adulterous Jupiter about the cow in which he has ‘hidden’ Io (Met. 1.601–21) may evoke motifs from adultery mime, or perhaps Hellenistic comedy. In either case, the inclusion of comic material is something that Ovid has in common with Homer, that Virgil does not. Once again, his is the more complete epic.

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further than Virgil and actually burn his masterpiece—though, as he adds with typical pragmatism, a few copies had already been made (Tr. 1.7.23–4).177

QUAE IAM FINIS ERIT? So we have seen some of the ways in which Horace, Propertius, and Ovid respond to the Aeneid as both a poetic and a political text. However, it is important to remember that their response to the Aeneid does not take place in a vacuum, but rather in the context of their responses to other pressures, both internal and external. While I believe that the Aeneid was an important motivation for all these poets to assert their poetic identities more strongly, this motivation may well have been ‘working with’ other factors pushing in the same direction.178 For example, even without the presence of the Aeneid, Horace and Propertius may have been looking for new things to do with lyric and elegy; they may also have been looking for ways to deal with the more direct pressure being exerted by Augustus.179 Which brings us to the man who gave his name to this period, and to all these poets, the emperor himself. What was Augustus’ response to the Aeneid? Was this the poem he wanted? Was it the poem he expected? Was its national and mythic scope a pleasant surprise, or a slight disappointment?180 Did he notice any troubling aspects in the text (like Horace and Ovid), or was it for him the celebratory work it seems to have been for Propertius? We hear of a number of Augustus’ responses to the poem,181 but the one from which we might hope to learn most is his authorization of the Aeneid’s posthumous publication, possibly against Virgil’s 177 For Virgil’s desire to burn the incomplete Aeneid, cf. Vit. Donat. 39; Gell. 17.10.7; Plin. HN. 7.114. For Ovid actually burning his incomplete Metamorphoses, cf. Tr. 1.7.15–26. 178 To borrow a phrase from the late Oliver Lyne. 179 Cf. n. 8. 180 The implication of GriYn (2002) 317, who comments that Augustus never did receive the historical epic he desired. 181 Cf. e.g. Vit. Donat. 31 Hardie; Serv. ad Aen. 6.861; Suet. Aug. 40.5.

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will.182 But even this simple act is open to a number of interpretations. We could say that it was motivated simply by a love of literature; we might argue that it suggests that Augustus saw in the Aeneid a Wtting tribute to his glory; or we could perhaps see this as the Wrst step in the appropriation of the Aeneid by the regime,183 part of an Ovidian manoeuvre by Augustus (or was it an Augustan manoeuvre by Ovid?) that will see Aeneas feature in the Augustan narrative of monuments such as the Ara Pacis—a ‘retelling’ of the Aeneid according to the imperial agenda, that suggests that the Aeneid in fact reXects the imperial agenda. But whatever we decide about Augustus’ motives, we must all be grateful for this particular Augustan response. 182 If we believe the tradition at Vit. Donat. 39–41 Hardie; cf. Plin. HN. 7.114. 183 Cf. n. 140.

8 Statius and the Sublimity of Capaneus Matthew Leigh

. . . this Capaneus of a poet ingag’d his two Immortal Predecessours, and his success was answerable to his Enterprise. John Dryden, Dedication to the Aeneid.

This chapter considers the implications of a poet’s identiWcation with his hero. The poet is Statius and the hero Capaneus, whose aristeia and death take up much of the tenth book of the Thebaid. At the heart of this analysis is the striking overlap between the terms with which Statius narrates this episode and the language of contemporary literary criticism, as exempliWed among others by the poet himself, by Martial, by Pliny, and, in particular, by Longinus.1 In opening up this issue, I wish to challenge certain conventional views of the poet’s response to the established hierarchies of literary merit and to question what exactly modern criticism might have at stake in constantly reminding us that Virgil is indeed best. This chapter is oVered to Jasper with thanks for his teaching and his example. 1 Reference to Longinus rather than ‘Longinus’ or Anonymous should not be mistaken for conviction that On the Sublime is the work of the 3rd-cent. ad scholar Cassius Longinus. Both Roberts (1912) 1–23 and Russell (1964) pp. xxii–xxx argue convincingly that the manuscript headings ‘Dionysius Longinus’ and ‘Dionysius or Longinus’ represent a Byzantine scholar’s best guess at the likely authorship of a work of the 1st cent. ad, whose author was at that point already unknown. Contrast Mazzucchi (1992) pp. xxvii–xxxiv, who attempts to demonstrate that Dionysius Longinus is the name of an otherwise unknown critic of the Augustan period; Heath (1999), who argues that Cassius Longinus is indeed the author. My analysis of the Thebaid in terms of the sublime overlaps signiWcantly with the excellent Delarue (2000), esp. 18–35, 83–5, 195–7.

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Roman writers characteristically contemplate the relationship of their compositions to those of their predecessors in metaphors of competition: if the process of imitatio can be described in terms of reverential devotion to a model, that of aemulatio is associated with a considerably more agonistic approach.2 This much is familiar; so too is the modern critical practice which assumes a conscious process of imitation and emulation in a given Latin text and sets out to describe the relationship of the text to its model in just these terms. In Statian studies, this practice is perhaps best exempliWed by Kytzler’s Wne article on imitatio and aemulatio in the Thebaid;3 it is also central to the somewhat comical attempts of David Vessey and Gordon Williams to demonstrate that Statius graciously declines the temptation in any way to rival the serene majesty of the Aeneid.4 The approach which I wish to adopt in this chapter is rather diVerent. I propose to trace not the process of imitation and emulation in the Thebaid but its rhetoric. The Wrst task therefore is to open up certain fault-lines in Statius’ language of deference; the second to relate these 2 For aemulari in the sense of rivalry with one’s model, see Quint. Inst. 1.2.21–6, 10.5.5; Plin. Ep. 7.30.5, cf. Lucr. 3.3–6. For a less competitive sense to aemulari, see Hor. Carm. 4.2.1; Plin. Ep. 1.5.12–13, 4.8.4; Quint. Inst. 10.2.17; Gell. NA 2.18.7 and 13.27[26].2. For the capacity of aemulari to express ØEŁÆØ, ºF, and ŁE, see Fraenkel (1957) 436 n. 2. Kroll (1924) 139–78 is fundamental for the topic as a whole. See also Guillemin (1924); Russell (1979). 3 Kytzler (1969). 4 Vessey (1973) 1 is especially revealing: ‘As soon as it appeared, the Aeneid stood supreme, its pre-eminence apparently beyond challenge or dispute . . . The Wrst century of the Christian era produced four substantial epic poems: Lucan’s Bellum Civile, Valerius’ Argonautica, Statius’ Thebaid and Silius’ Punica. Lucan attempted, rashly and unsuccessfully, to break free from the Virgilian tradition and to create a new style of epic. His aim, at least implicitly, was to contest the primacy of the Aeneid. . . . The other three poets, writing some twenty years later, recognised the futility of Lucan’s aim; all accepted Virgil as their master and the Aeneid as the perfect exemplar of their genre, to be imitated and worshipped, but never equalled. Their realism, which was proved in the event, should not, however, blind us to the merits of those who willingly accepted a position in the second rank.’ Cf. Vessey (1982) 558–9, 572–3 and (1996) 24; G. Williams (1978) 150 and (1986); A. Hardie (1983) 62. For a catalogue of pejorative judgements on Statius, see Ahl (1986) 2804–10.

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to episodes in which the characters of the Thebaid actively perform those things which Statius does—or claims not to do—in metaphor. If the psyche which the poet presents to us in the Thebaid is examined in these terms, it may be possible to see quite why Dryden saw in him not a contented member of poetry’s little regiments but rather a Capaneus laying siege to the poetic heaven of his divine master.5 The advertisement for an epic with which Virgil opens the third Georgic depicts the coming Aeneid as a games, an agon held in honour of Augustus, and the poet himself as victor;6 the advance judgement oVered by Propertius proclaims the poem something positively greater than the Iliad.7 If the judgement on the Aeneid of Quintilian stops just short of putting it on a par with Homer, it makes clear that all other writers will feel bound to obey the command with which Propertius opens.8 The judgement of Quintilian also attests to two further phenomena typical of the Wrst-century ad reception of Virgil: Wrst, Ennius is now conclusively displaced as Rome’s second Homer;9 second, Virgil enjoys in Roman culture the same sacral trappings as Brink traces for Homer in his study of the Hellenistic worship of the poet.10 Where Homer received cult at Homerea in 5 For other sceptical or nuanced responses to Statian deference, see Henderson (1991) esp. 38–9; P. Hardie (1993) 110–11; Malamud (1995) esp. 23–5; Hinds (1998) 83–98. 6 Verg. G. 3. 17–22 with Mynors ad loc. 7 Prop. 2.34.65–6 cedite, Romani scriptores, cedite, Grai! j nescio quid maius nascitur Iliade. 8 Quint. Inst. 10.1.85–6 idem nobis per Romanos quoque auctores ordo ducendus est. itaque ut apud illos Homerus, sic apud nos Vergilius auspicatissimum dederit exordium, omnium eius generis poetarum Graecorum nostrorumque haud dubie proximus. utar enim uerbis isdem quae ex Afro Domitio iuuenis excepi, qui mihi interroganti quem Homero crederet maxime accedere ‘secundus’ inquit ‘est Vergilius, propior tamen primo quam tertio.’ et hercule ut illi naturae caelesti atque immortali cesserimus, ita curae et diligentiae uel ideo in hoc plus est, quod ei fuit magis laborandum, et quantum eminentibus uincimur, fortasse aequalitate pensamus. ceteri omnes longe sequentur. For cedere as deference to a literary exemplar, see also Cic. Tusc. 1.5 nam Galbam Africanum Laelium doctos fuisse traditum est, studiosum autem eum, qui is aetate anteibat, Catonem, post uero Lepidum Carbonem Gracchos, inde ita magnos nostram ad aetatem, ut non multum aut nihil omnino Graecis cederetur; Columella, Rust. 1 praef. 30, nam neque [ille] ipse Cicero territus cesserat tonantibus Demostheni Platonique . . . 9 Lucil. fr. 1189 Marx and Hor. Epist. 2.1.50 dub Ennius alter Homerus; Jer. Ep. 121.10.5 proclaims Virgil alter Homerus apud nos. 10 Brink (1972).

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Argos, Chios, Ios, Alexandria, and Smyrna, Silius bought the tomb of Virgil near Puteoli and worshipped there annually, and Statius himself describes a visit to the temple of Maro (Maronei . . . templi).11 Where Quintilian pays tribute to ‘that celestial and immortal nature’ (illi naturae caelesti atque immortali),12 Seneca assumes that the proper ambition of Lucilius’ topothesia of Mt Etna will not risk the irreverence of challenging Virgil,13 and Columella attributes his audacity (audendum) in composing a Wfth Georgic to the inspirational divine force (numen) of one deserving the utmost reverence (uatis maxime uenerandi).14 Rome of the Wrst century therefore constructed the Aeneid as something on a par with the Iliad and its poet as one worthy of the religious reverence which the Greeks felt for the divine Homer.15 The same rhetoric is also present in two passages of the Thebaid. First, 10.445–8: uos quoque sacrati, quamuis mea carmina surgant inferiore lyra, memores superabitis annos. forsitan et comites non aspernabitur umbras Euryalus Phrygiique admittet gloria Nisi. You too are consecrated, though my songs rise for a less lofty lyre, and will go down the unforgetful years. Perhaps too Euryalus will not spurn his comrade shades, and the glory of Phrygian Nisus will not refuse you.

Second, 12.816–17: uiue, precor; nec tu diuinam Aeneida tempta, sed longe sequere et uestigia semper adora. Live, I pray, and do not rival the divine Aeneid, but follow from far oV and ever adore its footsteps.

The address to Hopleus and Dymas as uos quoque sacrati in the Wrst passage grants them a sacral status which makes sense only in terms 11 Mart. 11.48 and 11.49, cf. Stat. Silv. 4.4.53–5. 12 Quint. Inst. 10.1.86, cf. 10.1.81 on Plato’s eloquendi facultate diuina quadam et Homerica and 10.2.18 on Cicero as caelestis huius in dicendo uiri. 13 Sen. Ep. 79.7. 14 Columella, Rust. 10 praef. 3–4, cf. 1 praef. 30. See also 10.433–6 on Virgil as siderei uatis. 15 Quint. Inst. 10.1.46 looks to the Greek tradition: igitur, ut Aratus ab Ioue incipiendum putat, ita nos rite coepturi ab Homero uidemur.

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of their status as epigoni of Virgil’s Nisus and Euryalus; the second passage dubs the Aeneid divine. The constant reference to the divinity of Virgil by those who wrote in his form is the most vivid evidence of the burden borne by the epicists of the Wrst century ad. If Virgil saved Rome from the inferiority complex of never having an epic poet to put alongside Homer, he bequeathed to his successors the terrible psychological aZiction of never being able to come up to his mark. This is the picture which emerges from a Wrst survey of the evidence. Yet on closer examination it is possible to detect the stirrings of dissent even amidst the expressions of complaisant acquiescence. The most obvious example of resistance to the cult of Virgil is Lucan. Statius himself records the boast of Lucan that he had composed the Pharsalia ‘before the age at which Virgil wrote his Culex’.16 There is an unruly self-conWdence here even if it reveals itself only through reversal of a discourse framed to give expression to the dominance of the poet he seeks to depose. For Vessey it is easy to acknowledge the rebellion of Lucan because, in the same breath, he can assure us that it was undertaken ‘rashly and unsuccessfully’. The poet who is the great embodiment of the western tradition sits aloft in his ‘serene pre-eminence’, untroubled by the murmurs down below. The modern critic who buys so enthusiastically into the rhetoric of Virgil as a Jupiter amongst poets is disarmingly unconcerned to disguise the political underpinnings of his aesthetic judgement: could he ever Wnd so much to admire in Virgil had he not Wrst identiWed him as the poet of monarchical order, the West, and even the Christian era? Contrast Lucan’s own most explicit challenge to the Aeneid at Pharsalia 9.980–6: o sacer et magnus uatum labor! omnia fato eripis et populis donas mortalibus aeuum. inuidia sacrae, Caesar, ne tangere famae; nam, siquid Latiis fas est promittere Musis, quantum Zmyrnaei durabunt uatis honores, uenturi me teque legent; Pharsalia nostra uiuet, et a nullo tenebris damnabimur aeuo. 16 Stat. Silv. 2.7.73–4.

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O great and holy work of the poets! You snatch everything from death and give immortality to mortal peoples. Do not be touched, Caesar, by envy of holy fame! For, if it is right for the Latin Muses to promise anything, as long as the honours of the poet of Smyrna shall endure, coming men will read me and you; our Pharsalia will live and we will be condemned to darkness by no age.

Caesar picks his way through the ruins of Troy, prays to the gods of his ancestors and of his Aeneas (di cinerum . . . j Aeneaeque mei), oVers pious incense (pia tura) and proclaims himself the most glorious descendant of the race of Iulus (gentis Iuleae . . . clarissimus . . . j . . . nepos).17 At this point where we are most starkly confronted with Virgil’s complicity in the Augustan appropriation of the Trojan myth, Lucan announces the signiWcance of his own achievement.18 His references to the priestly uates, to holy fame, and to the Latin Muses engage directly with the rhetoric of the cult of the Aeneid; the reference to the bard of Smyrna perhaps alludes to Virgil’s achievement of the same holy rites the Hellenistic period oVered to Homer;19 the claim to the status of the Roman counterpart of the Greek Homer silently deposes Virgil from the throne which he has hitherto occupied.20 Lucan’s self-promotion is still unable to express itself save through the negation of the language developed for the deiWcation of his rival, but this is a scene of consummate daring. Its eVectiveness is hugely enhanced by the awareness it displays of the political impulse behind judgements of aesthetic worth. Statius, Silvae 2.7.79–80 concedes to Lucan the victory he claimed: ‘the Aeneid itself will worship you as you sing to the Latins’ (ipsa te Latinis j Aeneis uenerabitur canentem). Silvae 2.7 is a tribute designed to please Lucan’s widow Polla Argentaria and the claim it makes for 17 Luc. 9.990–6. 18 My remarks here owe much to Zwierlein (1986) esp. 470–2, and particularly to Quint (1993) 3–8. 19 For the cult of Homer at Smyrna, see Brink (1972) 549 citing Cic. Arch. 19 and Strab. Geog. 646 C. For Homer ‘the bard of Smyrna’ paired with Virgil ‘the bard of Mantua’, cf. Sil. Pun. 8.592–4 and Stat. Silv. 4.2.8–10. 20 See also Anth. Lat. 225 S-B Mantua, da ueniam, fama sacrata perenni: j sit fas Thessaliam post Simoenta legi. The manuscript title for this epigram Caesaris de libris Lucani is fascinating but the same verses are also quoted in the Paris. 8209 manuscript of Probus’ commentary on Virgil and are there attributed to ‘Alcimii’.

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the Pharsalia is one which it may be all too easy to dismiss as the empty expression of the encomiast.21 This, I suggest, would be too facile a response. If Statius in the Thebaid studiously avoids making the same claim for himself, it is through the very studiousness of his evasion that we can perceive quite how much his ongoing preoccupation with the sacred supremacy attributed to the Aeneid rankles with him. Consider, for instance, the manner of Statius’ whole envoi to the epic at 12.810–19, of which verses 816–17 were quoted above: durabisne procul dominoque legere superstes, o mihi bissenos multum uigilata per annos Thebai? iam certe praesens tibi Fama benignum strauit iter coepitque nouam monstrare futuris. iam te magnanimus dignatur noscere Caesar, Itala iam studio discit memoratque iuuentus. uiue, precor; nec tu diuinam Aeneida tempta, sed longe sequere et uestigia semper adora. mox, tibi si quis adhuc praetendit nubila liuor, occidet, et meriti post me referentur honores. Will you endure through time to come, O my Thebaid, for twelve years object of my wakeful toil, and will you survive your master and be read? Of a truth already present Fame has paved a friendly road for you, and begun to hold you up, young as you are, to future ages. Already great-hearted Caesar deigns to know you, and the youth of Italy eagerly learns and recounts your verse. O live, I pray! and do not rival the divine Aeneid, but follow afar and ever venerate its footsteps. Soon, if any envy as yet overclouds you, it will pass away, and, after I am gone, your well-won honours will be duly paid.

As Horace in the sphragis to the Epistles addresses his poetic book as a young slave eager to escape the constraints of his master’s house and expose himself to the corrupting inXuence of the city, so here Statius is dominus to the Thebaid as he sends it forth into the world.22 This 21 Note how Mart. 7.23 refers to the eVorts of Lucan’s widow to promote his memory but still insists on relegating the poet to second place: Phoebe, ueni, sed quantus eras cum bella tonanti j ipse dares Latiae plectra secunda lyrae. j quid tanta pro luce precer? tu, Polla, maritum j saepe colas et se sentiat ille coli. Friedlaender’s interpretation of plectra secunda as ‘als dem na¨chsten nach Virgil’ must be correct. 22 Hor. Epist. 1.20.

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artiWcial distinction between author and text is intriguing here because it becomes incumbent on Statius to instruct the poem he himself has composed not to rival the divine Aeneid.23 Moreover, by telling his text to worship the footsteps of Virgil’s poem and to follow them from afar (longe sequere), he appeals to it to act in such a manner as to leave unchallenged the hierarchy of literary merit laid down by Quintilian at 10.1.86 (ceteri omnes longe sequentur).24 Implicit in all this therefore is the confession that some part of the Thebaid, that is of Statius himself, is tempted to do just that which it is urged not to do. Compare Silvae 4.7.25–8 where the tribute to Vibius Maximus again attributes to Statius’ text just that ambition against which it must be warned in the envoi: quippe te Wdo monitore nostra Thebais multa cruciata lima temptat audaci Wde Mantuanae gaudia famae. Since with you for trusty counsellor, my Thebaid, tortured by endless polishing, attempts with audacious strings the joys of Mantuan renown.

Is the servile punishment of cruciWxion imposed on the Thebaid in order to ready it to try for the joys of Mantuan renown? Or does it try for those joys in spite of such punishment? Either way the characteristic of the Thebaid which emerges from this passage is the literary critical category developed by Latin as an equivalent to the Greek º, the audaci Wde of the poem corresponding to the audacia of its composer.25 From these two passages therefore, we see a text uneasily 23 Cf. Stat. Silv. 2.7.35 which reverses the hierarchy: Baetim, Mantua, prouocare noli. For a poet praised for deciding not to rival one he could easily outdo, see the praises of Cerrinius at Mart. 8. 18, esp. 5–8: sic Maro nec Calabri temptavit carmina Flacci, j Pindaricos nosset cum superare modos, j et Vario cessit Romani laude cothurni, j cum posset tragico fortius ore loqui. Scho¨Vel (2002) ad loc. identiWes tempto/tento as the intensive form of tendo and argues that it therefore Wts naturally Wrst with any reference to stringed instruments, then to carmen in general. He cites Buc. Eins. 1.23; Hor. Ars P. 405, Epist. 2.1.257–8; Luc. 6.578; Ov. Pont. 2.5.25; Porph. at Hor. Sat. 1.10.46; Prop. 2.3.19; Tac. Ann. 14.15.4. These passages are clearly important but none parallels the further sense introduced by Martial. Note that Lactantius at Stat. Theb. 12.816 glosses tempta as prouoces. 24 See also Plin. Ep. 7.30.4–5 for the writer happy to imitate and follow his model. 25 For º, see [Longinus], Subl. 2.2 and 38.5 and [Aelius Aristides] Rhetorica 1. 142 (ed. Schmid); for audacia, see Brink at Hor. Ars P. 10 and TLL i. 2. 1243. 8–19 and i. 2. 1248. 3–21.

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and inadequately distinguished from the mentality of its composer, a text marked out by its audacity, a text which has to be restrained from making challenge to the divinity of the Aeneid. Is it really so strange that Dryden should have seen in Statius a ‘Capaneus of a poet’?

S U B L I M E P O E T, S U B L I M E H E RO Capaneus is a giant, a Titan.26 As early as book 3, he is likened to a Centaur or a Cyclops,27 and expresses contempt for augury, claiming that it was fear which Wrst created the gods;28 the book 4 description of his armour stresses the giant protruding from the top of his helmet;29 when he kills the sacred snake in book 5, it is with the positive hope that he may have slain a darling of the gods;30 in the boxing match of book 6, he is as big as the giant Tityos as he attempts to kill the divinely trained Alcidamas.31 Yet it is in book 10 that his titanic ambition is most clearly perceived and this is essential to the problems to be addressed in this argument. For Capaneus regards his assault as a challenge to the truth of stories about the gods and, at 10.847, he resolves to test the value of the sacriWce of Menoeceus and the truthfulness of Apollo’s utterances;32 at 10.874–5 he rejects the mythical story of Amphion’s

26 Statius develops a theme familiar from the Greek tradition: Aesch. Sept. 424–5 has the messenger dub Capaneus a giant; Eur. Phoen. 1130–3 describes the giant on the shield of Capaneus. For Capaneus as giant, see also Franchet d’Espe`rey (1999) 197–203, 333–4. 27 Stat. Theb. 3.604–5; Klinnert (1970) 15–17. 28 Stat. Theb. 3.661 primus in orbe deos fecit timor; Klinnert (1970) 19. Snijder ad loc. compares Lucr. 5.1161–3 and suggests an Epicurean tone to the hero’s claim. For Epicurus as giant, see below, nn. 64–5. 29 Stat. Theb. 4.175–6; Klinnert (1970) 27; Harrison (1992). 30 Stat. Theb. 5.567–8; Klinnert (1970) 31. 31 Stat. Theb. 6.753–5; Klinnert (1970) 33. 32 Stat. Theb. 10.847 ‘experiar, quid sacra iuuent, an falsus Apollo’. For this resolution cf. Lycaon at Ov. Met. 1.222–3 ‘experiar, deus hic, discrimine aperto, j an sit mortalis; nec erit dubitabile uerum’.

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building of Thebes;33 and Wnally at 10.899–906 he challenges Bacchus, Hercules, and Jupiter to defend their city. He is also consistently described through similes and metaphors which relate him to the myth of gigantomachy, for instance at 10.849–52 and 915–17, where he is likened Wrst to Otus and Ephialtes storming heaven,34 then to Iapetus the Titan.35 His assault on Thebes is not just an expression of his heroic etiquette, it is also a vehicle for his militant rationalism. The crucial precursor for the titanic hero in Roman epic is the Virgilian Mezentius.36 Where Capaneus is the contemptor superum, Mezentius is the contemptor divum;37 where Capaneus sees his boxing match against Alcidamas as the opportunity for a perverted blood-sacriWce, Mezentius contemplates dressing his son in the armour of Aeneas and making him a ghastly distortion of the tropaeum;38 where Capaneus uses Thebes as the springboard for a notional assault on heaven, the distraught Mezentius enters

33 Stat. Theb. 10.874–5 ‘hi faciles carmenque inbelle secuti, j hi, mentita diu Thebarum fabula, muri?’ 34 For Otus and Ephialtes as Wgures of ‘impious presumption’, see [Longinus], Subl. 8.2 with Russell ad loc. See also Lactantius at Stat. Theb. 10.850 who characterizes them by their audacia. 35 See also Stat. Theb. 11.7–8 gratantur superi, Phlegrae ceu fessus anhelet j proelia et Encelado fumantem impresserit Aetnen. 36 For Capaneus and Mezentius, see Eissfeldt (1904) 414; Klinnert (1970) 18, 43–5; Thome (1979) 97, 350–1. For Mezentius as Titan, see Thome (1979) 83–100, 155–6; La Penna (1980) esp. 13–15 on links to Polyphemus and the Orion simile at Aen. 10.763–8; GotoV (1984) esp. 199–200; P. Hardie (1986) 97, 155–6. For what distinguishes the two characters, see Klinnert (1970) 18, 43–4, 77; Franchet d’Espe`rey (1999) 370–1; Delarue (2000) 83–4. 37 Verg. Aen. 7.648 contemptor diuum, 8.7 contemptorque deum, cf. Stat. Theb. 3.602, 9.550 superum contemptor. Note also Aesch. Sept. 441 on Capaneus as Łf I ø—if the Statian Capaneus is like Mezentius, this is in part because Mezentius himself owes much to the Capaneus of the Greek tradition. See also ten Kate (1955) 112. 38 For Mezentius and the tropaeum, see Verg. Aen. 10.774–6, cf. 11.1–16, where Aeneas performs the rite in the proper manner. For blood sacriWce in the boxing match, see Stat. Theb. 6.734–6 ‘date tot iuuenum de milibus unum j . . . j . . . quem fas demittere leto’ where the language is reminiscent of Neptune’s demand ‘unum pro multis dabitur caput’ at Verg. Aen. 5.815. For a similar concept, see Valerius Flaccus 4.148–53. Both passages respond to Verg. Aen. 5.461–84 and the substitution sacriWce which averts bloodshed at the close of the contest between Dares and Entellus.

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his Wnal battle with the promise not to spare any of the gods;39 where Capaneus proclaims the ‘provident omens of his right hand and the terrifying rages when his blade is drawn’ (prouida dextrae j omina et horrendi stricto mucrone furores),40 Mezentius calls on the gods which are his right hand and the spear which he brandishes (dextra mihi deus et telum, quod missile libro, j nunc adsint).41 No one will suggest that Mezentius and Capaneus are Wgures of pious and dutiful virtue. Yet neither exists simply to furnish his poem with anything as crude as a villain, and, even amidst each character’s most impious excesses, there are traces of a deeper nobility of spirit. Consider, for instance, the strict heroic etiquette to which Mezentius adheres in the thick of the Wght, deigning neither to attack an enemy in Xight nor to win by trickery (atque idem fugientem haud est dignatus Oroden j sternere nec iacta caecum dare cuspide uulnus; j obuius aduersoque occurrit seque uiro uir j contulit, haud furto melior sed fortibus armis).42 Capaneus likewise refuses to participate in the night attack with which book 10 opens and deigns neither to Wght by trickery nor to take advantage of divine aid (haud dignatus in hostem j ire dolo superosque sequi).43 When, by contrast, Capaneus leads the daylight assault on Thebes, he does so glad that the light will provide his valour (uirtus) with a witness.44 Here too, therefore, Capaneus is the spiritual heir of Mezentius but now in a potentially more positive sense. This will bear deeper analysis. 39 Verg. Aen. 10.880 ‘nec diuum parcimus ulli’. Harrison (1991) ad loc. and Thome (1979) 155–6 and n. 42 render parcimus as ‘show regard for’ and point with La Cerda and Conington-Nettleship to Polyphemus at Hom. Od. 9.277–8 P
 i Kªg ˜Øe Ł Iºı Ø
  j h F hŁ æø. The parallel is signiWcant but primarily for the exacerbation which the sentiment undergoes in the Virgilian version. Where Polyphemus is in a position of power and must only think of the dangers of divine retribution, Mezentius is wholly doomed and, in his rage both against the hero who killed his son and the gods who allowed it, threatens all alike. 40 Stat. Theb. 10.485–6. See also 9.548–50 ‘ades o mihi, dextera, tantum j tu praesens bellis et ineuitabile numen, j te uoco, te solam superum contemptor adoro’. 41 Verg. Aen. 10.773–4. For this mode of blasphemy, Harrison (1991) ad loc. cites Parthenopaeus at Aesch. Sept. 529–30 and Idas at Ap. Rhod. Argon. 1.466–8. 42 Verg. Aen. 10.732–5. 43 Stat. Theb. 10.258–9. 44 Stat. Theb. 10.482–6. This passage is well discussed in Franchet d’Espe`rey (1999) 373.

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The refusal of trickery in warfare is a standard aspect of the Achillean ethos and, in turn, of Roman self-fashioning, and is of no particular interest here.45 Likewise hostility to night attack.46 When, however, Capaneus refuses to proWt from the help of the gods, the mentality which he demonstrates is one more particular to his type. A signiWcant parallel has already been seen in the tendency, which both he and Mezentius exhibit, to acknowledge no god other than their own right hand. Without doubt, there is something here of the Aeschylean Capaneus, who proudly proclaims that he will sack Thebes whether the gods like it or not (ŁF  ªaæ Łº KŒæØ ºØ j ŒÆd c Łº Ø, Sept. 427–8).47 Yet an even closer model might be the Sophoclean Ajax, who dooms himself by his determination to win glory without the aid of the gods,48 and indeed Sullivan identiWes precisely this aspect of the tragic Ajax as the model for Mezentius’ refusal of the divine.49 The same scholar, however, argues that the noble resistance of Mezentius in book 10 of the Aeneid owes much to the rather diVerent Homeric Ajax, and observes in particular that the similes likening the Etruscan king to a cliV battered by the sea, a boar at bay, and a lion assailing a goat or a deer correspond to the Iliad 17 comparisons of Ajax to lion, boar, and wooded headland.50 And it is the same book which draws from Ajax a famously noble complaint which has much in common with Capaneus’ refusal to join a night attack and demand for daylight as the proper place in which to display his valour: struggling to rescue the corpse of Patroclus and enveloped in an impenetrable mist, Ajax breaks down and calls on Zeus to send light even if he is to slay him in it.51 45 See the material collected in Leigh (2004) 24–56. 46 Polyb. 36.9.9–11; Livy 42.47.4–9; Plut. Alex. 31.11–12, cf. Curt. 4.13.8–9 and Arr. Anab. 3.10.1–2. 47 For the same notion, see Hyg. Fab. 68.2 ibi Capaneus quod contra Iouis uoluntatem Thebas se capturum diceret, cum murum ascenderet fulmine est percussus. 48 Soph. Aj. 762–77. 49 Sullivan (1969) esp. 221–2. 50 Sullivan (1969) 220–1 cites Verg. Aen. 10.693–6, 707–16, 723–9, cf. Hom. Il. 17.132–7, 281–5, 746–53. 51 Hom. Il. 17.645–7, cf. [Longinus], Subl. 9.10 Ø ‰ IºŁH e Ł `YÆ , P ªaæ B hÆØ (q ªaæ e ÆYÆ F læø ÆØæ), Iºº KØ
c K IæŒfiø ŒØ c I
æ Æ N P
b ªÆE r
ØÆŁŁÆØ,
Øa ÆF IªÆÆŒH ‹Ø æe c  IæªE, H ‹Ø ØÆ ÆNEÆØ, ‰ ø B IæB æ ø KØ ¼%Ø, Œi ÆPfiH ˘f IØÆØ.

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To the A scholion, the hero’s protest against the mist demonstrates his greatness of mind (ªÆºæø ). Longinus in turn states that sublimity is the echo of greatness of mind (oł ªÆºæ I Æ), and cites as examples of this mode Wrst the noble silence of Ajax when confronted with Odysseus in the world below, then the same hero’s protest against the mist and his consequent inability to turn his valour to any noble end.52 It is therefore signiWcant in this context to note that the Statian Capaneus is Wrst introduced inter alia with the observation that he has surpassed by his deeds the great nobility of his ancestors,53 and that he will later be described precisely as great-minded (magnanimus).54 In other words, he does not just reproduce given words and deeds of the Homeric and Sophoclean Ajax; he is also explicitly described by reference to the same quality which the later critical tradition takes those words and deeds to embody. In one signiWcant sense, therefore, Capaneus may be said to be a sublime hero. When Longinus states that sublimity is the product of a great mind, then illustrates this by reference to the words and deeds of the Homeric Ajax, the Wrst great mind must be that of Homer, for it is he who is able to imagine and relate the scene. Yet the Wnal proof of Homer’s greatness of mind is his ability to create heroes who themselves utter great words and perform great deeds, while it is the ignoble, indeed comic, character of much of the Odyssey which 52 [Longinus], Subl. 9.2, cf. 9.10. 53 Stat. Theb. 3.600–2. 54 Stat. Theb. 9.547, 11.1. For magnitudo animi and the sublime, see also Delarue (2000) 19–20 and his discussion of Sen. Tranq. 1.14 rursus ubi se animus cogitationum magnitudine leuauit, ambitiosus in uerba est altiusque ut spirare ita eloqui gestit et ad dignitatem rerum exit oratio; oblitus tum legis pressiorisque iudicii sublimius feror et ore iam non meo. For an alternative interpretation, see Dewar at 9.547 who translates magnanimus as Homeric ªŁı , compares Catull. 66.26 and Verg. Aen. 1.260 with Austin ad loc., and notes the attribution of the same epithet to a number of characters and not just Capaneus. See e.g. Stat. Theb. 6.827, cf. Achil. 1.733 for Tydeus; Theb. 5.653 for Lycurgus, 8.357 and 10.662 for Menoeceus, 10.399 for Aepytus, 12.795 for Theseus, 12.814 for Domitian. Williams at Stat. Theb. 10.399– 400 observes that magnanimus can mean either ªŁı or ªÆºæø in Latin but sees the former sense predominating in the Thebaid. Dominik (1994) 30–1 does not take the issue forward. More sympathetic, though following a diVerent line of reasoning from my own, is Klinnert (1970) 45–6, cf. Franchet d’Espe`rey (1999) 200–1 and n. 80, 372 and n. 147.

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proves that it is the product of the poet’s decline.55 In this sense, therefore, given situations may be said to be pregnant with the potential for sublimity should they Wnd a poet or orator able to bring them to realization. And since both the Greek oł and the Latin sublimitas have at root conceptions of loftiness or elevation, it is perhaps no accident that one type of situation most obviously pregnant with sublimity is that in which a character either is lofty or aspires to raise himself aloft by one means or another.56 Two obvious examples of this from Longinus are the attribution of sublimity to the Homeric description of the giants’ assault on heaven,57 and the illustration of Platonic sublimity by reference to Republic 586a, where the philosopher equates those devoid of wisdom or virtue with the beasts of the Welds constantly gazing downwards, and implicitly associates moral greatness with the readiness to turn one’s eyes upwards to heaven.58 The Platonic contrast between man and beast becomes famous in antiquity.59 One particularly signiWcant version is to be found at Ovid, Metamorphoses 1.82–6. Here the poet describes how the divine creator made the beasts to stare at the ground (pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera terram), but gave man a face made to look aloft and bade him turn his eyes to heaven and lift his gaze to the stars (os homini sublime dedit caelumque uidere j iussit et erectos ad sidera tollere uultus).60 The implication is that the os sublime, the face made to look aloft, is designed by the gods in order to facilitate in man the sublime deed which distinguishes him from the beasts. Elsewhere, 55 [Longinus], Subl. 9.11–15 discusses the Odyssey as the product of Homer’s decline. But note 9.14 for what grandeur remains in the form of storms and giants: ºªø
b ÆF PŒ KغºÆØ H K fiB  ˇ
ı fi Æ Øø ŒÆd H æd e ˚ŒºøÆ ŒÆ Øø ¼ººø, Iººa ªBæÆ
تFÆØ, ªBæÆ
 ‹ø ˇ æı. 56 Roberts (1912) 209–10 and Mazzucchi (1992) pp. xviii–xix are helpful in this context. Roberts points to [Longinus], Subl. 1.3 on the pointlessness of demonstrating ‰ IŒæ ŒÆd K% Ø ºªø Kd a oł while Mazzucchi refers to the language and imagery of elevation at e.g. [Longinus], Subl. 35.2–4 and 36. For the enduring connection between the Latin adjective sublimis and ideas of height, see Brink at Hor. Ars P. 165. 57 [Longinus], Subl. 8.2. 58 [Longinus], Subl. 13.1, cf. 35.2. 59 Pl. Tim. 90a, 91e; Xen. Mem. 1.4.11; Epict. 1.6.19; Cic. Leg. 1.26, Nat. D. 2.140; Sall. Cat. 1.1; Vitr. De Arch. 2.1.2; Sen. Dial. 8.5.4, Ep. 92.30, 94.56. 60 Cf. Sen. Dial. 8.5.4 sublime caput.

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however, the eyes raised to heaven as an expression of sublime ambition are not so much a part of the divine plan as a direct challenge to the power of the gods. This is clearly the case at Lucretius 1.62–79, the famous account of the triumph of Epicurus. Here religion lowers over mankind from above (humana ante oculos foede cum uita iaceret j in terris oppressa graui sub religione j quae caput a caeli regionibus ostendebat j horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans) and it is the heroic achievement of Epicurus to have dared to look up and challenge the authority of the divine (primum Graius homo mortalis tollere contra j est oculos ausus primusque obsistere contra). Undeterred by threats from above, he bursts through the portals and then wanders in his mind beyond the Xaming walls of the universe (Xammantia moenia mundi), bringing back as booty a true account of all physical relations. Religion which started aloft Wnishes cast down at our feet.61 The reading tollere . . . j . . . oculos is that found in the manuscript tradition; Nonius quotes the alternative tendere and this has been favoured by some; inasmuch, however, as Epicurus cannot direct his eyes against religion save by lifting them aloft, both tollere and tendere eVectively express the same idea.62 Conte, who makes this passage the key to his famous account of the sublime reader in Lucretius, adopts the former reading in an early version of his study, but opts for the second in its republished form.63 Epicurus casts his eyes aloft; his only weapon is his mind; but he swiftly becomes a triumphant general, sacking the enemy and bringing home the truth. This is the dominant metaphor of the passage. Yet Lucretius himself retrospectively introduces a further Wguration and one which has special signiWcance for one whose only foe is religion. For in book 5 he acknowledges the potential anxiety, that Epicurus may seem like 61 For the mind wandering beyond the walls of the universe and the sublime, see [Longinus], Subl. 35.2–3, esp. 35.3
Øæ fi B Łøæ Æ ŒÆd
ØÆ Æ B IŁæø  KغfiB P
 › Æ Œ IæŒE, Iººa ŒÆd f F æØ ººŒØ ‹æı KŒÆ ıØ ƃ K ØÆØ. Russell ad loc. notes the parallel with Lucretius and also cites Arist. [Mund.] 1 and Sen. Dial. 8.5.6. See also Conte (1991) 29–30. 62 tollere MSS, tendere Non. p. 662 L. The manuscript text is retained by Munro, Bailey, Ernout-Robin; the Nonian reading is preferred by Lachmann (1882) 21–2; Kenney (1974) 22 n. 4 (on p. 137). 63 Conte (1966) 356; (1991) 9–11.

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a giant, and that those who use their reason to disturb the walls of the universe may suVer punishment for their monstrous crime (proptereaque putes ritu par esse Gigantum j pendere eos poenas immani pro scelere omnis j qui ratione sua disturbent moenia mundi).64 The philosopher-hero is therefore the leader of a new race of giants; but this time it is the giants who win.65 Attention has already been drawn to the many occasions in the Thebaid on which Capaneus is Wgured as a giant or a Titan, and it is in his reproduction of their great aspirations that a further aspect of his sublimity may be seen.66 For Capaneus starts loftier than all his peers and he will end his career, much like the giant on his helmet, pursuing ever greater and more impossible heights.67 As he launches his great assault on Thebes, he tosses a spear aloft (iaculum excusso rotat in sublime lacerto);68 earthly matters lose all interest for him (iam sordent terrena uiro);69 he hymns his own lofty valour (ardua uirtus);70 and rises in triumph onto the captive walls (alterno captiua in moenia gressu j surgit ouans),71 until Wnally he can look down on the city from above (utque petita diu celsus fastigia supra j eminuit trepidamque adsurgens desuper urbem j uidit) and stand amidst the stars (mediis . . . in astris) and in the middle height of heaven (in media uertigine mundi).72 Statius Wgures his hero as a giant, and the gods themselves fear him as a giant.73 Jupiter alone stands Wrm and unconcerned,74 and can even aVord himself some amusement at 64 Lucr. 5.117–19. On this point, see Salemme (1980) 9–21, esp. 18. 65 Cf. [Arist.] Mund. 1.1: since it is impossible physically to enter heaven as the foolish giants once planned, ŒÆŁæ ƒ I  Kı `ºfiø
ÆØ, the soul, through philosophy and taking the intellect as its guide, has done so instead. 66 My analysis here has much in common with Delarue (2000) 31, 83–5. 67 For the height of Capaneus, see Stat. Theb. 4.165 pedes et toto despectans uertice bellum, cf. 6.731 immanis cerni immanisque timeri, 10.872 ingenti . . . umbra, 11.14–15 immensaque membra iacentis j spectant. For hugeness as a property of epic verse, see Petron. Sat. 115.2 Eumolpum sedentem membranaeque ingenti uersus ingerentem, 118.6 belli ciuilis ingens opus quisquis attigerit, 124.2 cum haec Eumolpos ingenti uolubilitate uerborum eVudisset. 68 Stat. Theb. 10.745. 69 Stat. Theb. 10.837. 70 Stat. Theb. 10.845. 71 Stat. Theb. 10.848–9. 72 Stat. Theb. 10.870–2, 898, 918–19. 73 Stat. Theb. 10.849–52, 915–20 74 Stat. Theb. 10.897 non tamen haec turbant pacem Iouis.

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his challenger’s ravings;75 the thunderbolt soon sees oV any further resistance.76 So much for the hero. What of his poet? Here, the crucial lines are the extraordinary invocation to the Muses with which Statius introduces the Wnal stages of the aristeia at Thebaid 10.827–36: hactenus arma, tubae, ferrumque et uulnera: sed nunc comminus astrigeros Capaneus tollendus in axis. non mihi iam solito uatum de more canendum; maior ab Aoniis poscenda amentia lucis: mecum omnes audete deae! siue ille profunda missus nocte furor, Capaneaque signa secutae arma Iouem contra Stygiae rapuere sorores. seu uirtus egressa modum, seu gloria praeceps, seu magnae data fata neci, seu laeta malorum principia et blandae superum mortalibus irae. So far of arms and trumpets, of swords and wounds I tell; but now Capaneus must be raised high to do battle with the star-bearing vault. No more may I sing in the accustomed way of poets; a mightier madness must be summoned from the Aonian groves. Dare with me, goddesses all: whether that madness of his was sent from the deepest night and the Stygian sisters dogged the banner of Capaneus and forced him to the assault against Jove, or whether it was valour that brooked no bounds, or headlong love of glory, or utter destruction’s appointed doom, or success that goes before disaster and heaven luring mortals to ruin in its wrath.

A particularly striking aspect of the work of Longinus is his emphasis on those episodes in which the poet participates in, identiWes himself with, the deeds of his heroes: Homer enters into forms of heroic greatness along with his characters (N a æøØŒa ªŁ ıÆ Ø KŁ Ø), blows on the struggles like Zeus of the winds (hæØ ıE E IªHØ), and rages as his hero rages (Æ ÆØ);77 Euripides takes great pains to render madness and

75 Stat. Theb. 10.907–10, esp. ipse furentem risit. 76 Stat. Theb. 10.927–30. For the sublime orator’s words identiWed with the thunderbolt, see [Longinus], Subl. 1.4, 12.4, cf. Cic. Orat. 234, Att. 15.1a.2; Columella, Rust. 1 praef. 30; Plut. Per. 8. 77 [Longinus], Subl. 9.10–11. For what is unusual about this conception, see Bu¨hler (1964) 42–4.

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desire (
 Æıd Ł, Æ Æ  ŒÆd æøÆ , KŒæƪfiø
BÆØ), and the soul of the writer rides the chariot of the sun along with Phaethon and takes wing along with his steed ( łıc F ªæ ıØÆ Ø F –æÆ ŒÆd ıªŒØ
ııÆ E ¥Ø ıæøÆØ).78 Sublimity, therefore, is the product of the poet’s oneness with the grand, the extraordinary deeds of his character. And Statius, whose account of the aristeia of Capaneus is poised to propel the hero into the sublime, would seem in this passage to be alluding to a very similar critical principle. As the poet contemplates the deeds of Capaneus, he havers as to which category best describes the actions of his hero: furor, gloria, or uirtus? The instability of these categories is indeed typical of the Thebaid, but here it acquires a new signiWcance.79 For if madness is the abiding condition of the characters of the Thebaid, Capaneus remains the Wgure of furor, insania, and amentia par excellence.80 And if madness is the necessary condition of the inspired poet, the poet seeking to sing of this hero must ask of the Muses a greater madness still (maior ab Aoniis poscenda amentia lucis).81 Nor will he just sing. Rather, just as the spirit of Menoeceus has lately made its way to heaven and demanded a place for itself in the topmost stars,82 so now Statius will positively assist Capaneus in his irreverent siege and will lift him up to Wght hand-to-hand in the starry

78 [Longinus], Subl. 15.3–4. 79 For the instability of categories, see e.g. Stat. Theb. 8.406–7 at postquam rabies et uitae prodiga uirtus j emisere animos, cf. 11.1 furias uirtutis iniquae. The death of Menoeceus is a complicated cocktail of qualities: for gloria, see Creon at Stat. Theb. 10.711–12 and the gloria tantum j uentosumque decus which he foresees in his son’s sacriWcial death; for the role of personiWed Virtus, see Stat. Theb. 10.632–782; for the role of furor in the episode and other indications of madness, see Stat. Theb. 10.607, 609, 657–9, cf. 10.677 (letique inuasit amorem) and 10.804 (unde hic mortis amor? quae sacra insania menti?) where the mental state of Menoeceus conforms to that of the not spectacularly rational centurion, Scaeva, at Luc. 6.246. 80 See Stat. Theb. 3.668–9, 10.32, 486, 751–5, 907, 919, 11.1–2 with Venini ad loc.; Eur. Phoen. 1172; Soph. Ant. 135. 81 Cf. Stat. Theb. 12.808 on the need for new furor if he is to continue his story. For passionate possession as essential for sublime literature, see Pl. Ion 534B; [Longinus], Subl. 8. 4, 9. 11, 13. 2 with Russell ad loc., 15. 3; Cic. Arch. 18; Petron. Sat. 118. 6 furentis animi vaticinatio, cf. 115. 5 phrenetico; Hershkowitz (1998) 61–7. 82 Stat. Theb. 10.781–2 nam spiritus olim j ante Iouem et summis apicem sibi poscit in astris.

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sphere (sed nunc j comminus astrigeros Capaneus tollendus in axis). That the language employed here is more commonly that reserved for ecstatic praise renders the assertion the more arch, the more troubling.83 To tell of Capaneus, a new, a greater madness will be required. The phrasing implies that the poet of the Thebaid was mad throughout but that his symptoms must necessarily grow the more acute in order to respond to this particular Wgure.84 Understood this way, Statius bids merely to outdo himself. Yet the striking opening hactenus arma seems to suggest that what has come before is eVectively on the level with the arma uirumque of Virgil; and the bid no longer to sing in the conventional manner of the poets (non mihi iam solito uatum de more canendum) will therefore lead Statius into realms which even the Aeneid could not reach.85 And what is the quality which Statius will employ in order to achieve his end if not the very audacia which he assigns to his text at Silvae 4.7.27? If Statius is to achieve his aim and lift Capaneus up to heaven, then he will require from the Muses not just a greater degree of madness but with it their co-operation in his audacious venture (maior ab Aoniis poscenda amentia lucis: j mecum omnes audete deae!). The quality which Statius asks the Muses to share with him is that which Jupiter himself will later attribute to the endeavour of Capaneus (11.122–4 ‘uidimus armiferos, quo fas erat usque, furores, j caelicolae, licitasque acies, etsi impia bella j unus init aususque mea procumbere dextra’).86 Poet and hero are complicit in the same venture: the hero challenges the gods, the poet the divine predecessor and the master of his form. But can the poet succeed where his hero is doomed to fail?

83 For lifting up to the heavens, cf. Sall. Cat. 48.1; Cic. Att. 2.25.1; Verg. Ecl. 5.51, 9.27–9; Hor. Sat. 2.7.28–9; Sil. Pun. 2.337. Note that Lactantius ad loc. glosses tollendus as carminibus altius eVerendus. 84 For the poet mad from the start but now necessarily madder still, see Stat. Theb. 1.3 Pierius menti calor incidit and the analysis of Schetter (1960) 19. 85 For arma as shorthand for the Aeneid, see Mckeown at Ov. Am. 1.1.1, 1.15.25. See also Delarue (2000) 84: ‘comment ne pas penser a` Virgile?’. 86 Note also Theb. 12.800 for Euadne, widow of Capaneus, dubbed audax as she leaps on his pyre.

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The critical terminology favoured by the contemporaries of Statius oVers a number of ways of thinking about the invocation to the Muses at Thebaid 10.827–36 and the ensuing narrative of mad venture and catastrophic fall. One approach might be that suggested by Martial 3.38, an exchange between the poet and the ambitious Sextus set on a career at Rome. Poor Sextus imagines that he can plead cases with more eloquence than Cicero (causas . . . agam Cicerone disertior ipso) or compose poems which the hearer will swear to be the work of Virgil (si nihil hinc ueniet, pangentur carmina nobis: j audieris, dices esse Maronis opus). You are mad (insanis), comes the disheartening reply: all those fellows over there in cold cloaks once were Ovids and Virgils. One small tale of mad ambition and necessary disappointment, but it is not alone. Consider Pliny, Epistle 7.30.4–5. The writer follows on from a complaint addressed to his father regarding all the urban and rural aVairs which keep him from literary study. There is, however, some small time for such work and a recent speech did indeed owe much to Demosthenes’ oration Against Meidias. Yet Pliny consulted his model not out of any wish to rival it, for that would be wicked and almost mad, but rather with a view to following his model and imitating it as far as the gulf between their respective talents and the diVering characters of the cases might allow (quam sane, cum componerem illos, habui in manibus, non ut aemularer (improbum enim ac paene furiosum), sed tamen imitarer et sequerer, quantum aut diuersitas ingeniorum maximi et minimi, aut causae dissimilitudo pateretur).87 This then is one form of literary madness and its emphasis on the insanity of challenging the established master is indeed suggestive: as Statius stands in relation to Capaneus, so Jupiter stands in relation to Virgil. Another approach might be founded on Pliny, Epistle 9.26.5. Here Pliny writes to Lupercus and describes a contemporary orator of what sounds very much like the Atticist school: he is upright (recto) and sane (sano) but lacking in 87 Cf. Plin. Ep. 9.26.7 non ita insanio disavowing any ability to equal the sublime verse of Homer.

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grandeur and ornament (sed parum grandi et ornato).88 An orator, Pliny opines, should be ready to aim for precipitous heights even if he risks a terrible drop (nam plerumque altis et excelsis adiacent abrupta); those content to crawl will never win praise even if they never fall, but those who run and fall may still win some; the tightrope walker is applauded at the very moment when a fall seems imminent (cum iam iamque casuri uidentur); the helmsman who only sails on a mill-pond enters port without praise or glory (inlaudatus inglorius), for his art is only truly tested when a mighty storm blows.89 The strong preference expressed here for grand and daring authors who occasionally err over the perfect but restrained overlaps signiWcantly with On the Sublime 33 and this has been noted by scholarship.90 Yet, as Pliny goes on to show, not all would agree: what I call sublime, you call tumid; what I call daring, you call wicked; what I call full-bodied, you call excessive (cur haec? quia uisus es mihi in scriptis meis adnotasse quaedam ut tumida quae ego sublimia, ut improba quae ego audentia, ut nimia quae ego plena arbitrabar).91 And just as Pliny has oVered that certain orator the backhanded compliment of dubbing him sane and upright, so an Atticist would surely dismiss the grand eVects which he admires as positively insane.92 The language of sanity and insanity, sublimity and tumidity in Flavian literary criticism oVers some contexts for thinking about what is at issue in the Capaneus episode. For it is evident that a narrative of this sort falls clearly into the category which Pliny praises and Lupercus deprecates: if it comes oV, it will indeed be daring and 88 Plin. Ep. 9.26.1. 89 Plin. Ep. 9.26.2–4. 90 Quadlbauer (1958) 108–9, cf. Russell (1964) p. xli. For similar remarks, see also [Longinus], Subl. 36. 91 Plin. Ep. 9.26.5. Note also 9.26.8–9 for the celebration of audacia in Demosthenes and Cicero. For a similar exchange, see Plin. Ep. 7.12.4 reporting on certain alterations to a speech which Pliny has introduced in order to meet the sober criteria of Minucius: nam, cum suspicarer futurum, ut tibi tumidius uideretur, quoniam est sonantius et elatius, non alienum existimaui, ne te torqueres, addere statim pressius quiddam et exilius vel potius humilius et peius, uestro tamen iudicio rectius. For the failing of tumidity, see also [Longinus], Subl. 3.3; Gell. NA 6.14.4–5. 92 For the fastidious sanity of the Atticist, see Cic. Brut. 51, 202, 276, 278, 279, 284; Opt. Gen. 8, Orat. 90; Quint. Inst. 10.1.44, 12.10.15; Tac. Dial. 23.

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sublime; if it fails, it will simply be tumid and bombastic.93 Capaneus has a deWnite proclivity to tumidity throughout the poem, though this primarily reXects his status as the man of anger.94 Yet when Jupiter, undisturbed by his threat, asks what hopes men can have after the battles of tumid Phlegra (quaenam spes hominum tumidae post proelia Phlegrae?, 10.909), it is as if he is another put-upon listener, his ears battered by the rantings of the reciting epicist.95 The narrative of Statius eVectively appropriates the very terms in which the success or failure of his venture will be assessed. A very contemporary conclusion, perhaps, and one founded on that dreariest of contemporary approaches to verse, the metapoetic reading. True indeed but only partly so. For there is an intriguing prehistory to the practice adopted in this chapter and one which has a signiWcant contribution to make to the establishment of the very text which prompts it. I refer to Casper Barth’s 1664 edition of the works of Statius, a leitmotiv of which is precisely the accusation that the poet is as mad as his character.96 Barth is particularly infuriated by the capacity of the ladder of Capaneus to take him out into the upper reaches of the sky and condemns this in turn as madness (uecordia), raving (delirat), and insanity (insanire).97 When the gods feel shame to fear Capaneus, Barth opines that it is rather Statius who should feel ashamed for purveying such irrational nonsense (tam omni ratione carentes),98 and when the poet describes the mad (insanas) 93 An obvious example of the poet who aspires to the sublime but achieves only tumidity is the Petronian Eumolpus. Note esp. Petron. Sat. 123 v. 209 dum Caesar tumidas iratus deprimit arces. Hor. Epist. 2.1.252–3 has listed arces j montibus impositas among the features of high epic verse which his humble composition cannot attain, and it is easy to see how the gaze upwards to such lofty citadels might be thought sublime. Petron. Sat. 116.1 indeed refers to the impositum arce sublimi oppidum of Croton and Sil. Pun. 15.227–8 sed gelidas a fronte sedet sublimis ad Arctos j urbs imposta iugo, cf. 15.405–6 sublimi uallatam uertice montis j et scopulis urbem will abandon all geographical veracity in order to equip New Carthage with the necessary topographical characteristics. Eumolpus’ substitution of ‘tumid’ for ‘sublime’ at v. 209 is a pointer to his qualities as a poet. Baldwin ad loc. observes that ‘tumidas . . . applied to fortiWcations, would be inXated language indeed’. 94 Stat. Theb. 3.600, 6.749, 823. For tumidity and anger, see Leigh (1997) 273 n. 102. 95 The indigant auditor at Juv. 1.1–18 comes to mind. 96 Barth (1664). 97 Barth (1664) at Stat. Theb. 10.837–8, 909, 915 (line numbers cited according to modern editions). 98 Barth (1664) at Stat. Theb. 10.917–18.

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battles of the hero, the critic suggested that the entire concept is mad (sane uero insana hic omnia).99 Finally, when Barth comes to the Wnal line of the book and argues for the reading fulmen sperare secundum over the printed fulmen meruisse secundum,100 he observes that nothing could better Wt the wasted ambition of the hero and the aVected acumen of the poet, and asks to which copyist’s brain a phrase of this sort might be credited (illius perditae ambitioni, huius aVectato acumini nil accommodatius inveneris. et quis librariorum cerebro tale quid deberi crediderit ?).101 The poet then is mad and his text shall be reconstructed according to the intriguing principle of lectio dementior melior. This Capaneus of a poet? Perhaps Dryden had been reading his Barth.

C ON C LU S I ON If Capaneus does incarnate the yearning of Statius to cast Virgil down from his poetic Olympus, must we then treat the coda to his narrative as a confession of the impossibility of this mad hope? Surely yes. For there is something about Virgil the acknowledged classic which inhibits the writers of this age, which helps them frame their sense of inferiority even when that inferiority is to another writer altogether.102 Explain it as we will, this is an inescapable reality of the Flavian literary scene.103 And yet for the poet whose every composition is a secret challenge to the established order, there is some consolation to be found even amidst the certainty that he will 99 Barth (1664) at Stat. Theb. 10.919. 100 meruisse ø, sperare PDN. 101 Barth (1664) at Stat. Theb. 10.938. 102 See Plin. Ep. 1.2.2 quoting Verg. Aen. 6.129–30 pauci quos aequus . . . as he expresses his inability to match Demosthenes or Calvus; 7.20.4, where Verg. Aen. 5.320 and the opening of the foot-race expresses Pliny’s youthful certainty of always coming second to Tacitus and wish to te sequi, tibi ‘longo sed proximus intervallo’ et esse et haberi. 103 Even if it is true, it will help us little to repeat that Virgil simply is the best. In one sense the reason why Statius can never outdo his rival is because the contest has been called oV: the conservative character of a canon leaves it with far more need of an authority-Wgure than of a challenger.

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fail or will at least be told that he has failed. For where Longinus deprecates tumidity and has little time for the doctrine of heroic failure proclaimed by those who wish to celebrate their own shortcomings,104 he also recognizes a further category of writers who break a spear in strife with an acknowledged master and avoid discredit even in defeat, Longinus On the Sublime 13.4: ήd P
 i KÆŒÆØ Ø
ŒE ºØŒÆF ØÆ E B غ Æ
ªÆØ ŒÆd N ØØŒa oºÆ ººÆF ıBÆØ ŒÆd æØ , N c æd æø ø c ˜ Æ Æd ŁıfiH æe …æ, ‰ IƪøØc  æe X
 ŁÆıÆ, Yø b غØŒæ ŒÆd ƒd
ØÆ
æÆØ , PŒ IøºH
 ‹ø
ØæØ ‘‘IªÆŁc’’ ªaæ ŒÆa e ˙ 
 ‘‘æØ l
 æEØ:’’ ŒÆd fiH ZØ ŒÆºe y ŒÆd I%ØØŒÆ PŒº Æ Iª  ŒÆd Æ , K fiz ŒÆd e AŁÆØ H æªæø PŒ ¼
%. And it seems to me that there would not have been so Wne a bloom of perfection on Plato’s philosophical doctrines, and that he would not in many cases have found his way to poetical subject matter and modes of expression, unless he had with all his heart and mind struggled with Homer for the primacy, entering the lists like a young champion matched against the man whom all admire, and showing perhaps too much desire for victory and breaking a lance with him as it were, but deriving some proWt from the contest none the less. For, as Hesiod says, ‘This strife is good for mortals.’ And in truth that struggle for the crown of glory is noble and best deserves the victory in which even to be worsted by one’s predecessors brings no discredit.

Capaneus surely falls into this category: the challenge to the supreme god is doomed from the start but the magniWcence of his deeds is able to attract the admiration even of Jupiter himself (11.10–11 toruus adhuc uisu memorandaque facta relinquens j gentibus atque ipsi non inlaudata Tonanti).105 A powerful metaphor surely for Statius’ consciousness of his relationship to Virgil: at various points in the poem, the poet makes obvious and craven obeisance 104 [Longinus], Subl. 3.3. 105 Cf. Plin. Ep. 6.21.1 stating that admiration for the writers of the past does not imply scorn for the present and that neque . . . quasi lassa et eVeta natura nihil iam laudabile parit. See also 9.26.4 contrasting the audacious but potentially excessive poet with his Xawless but unambitious counterpart and likening the latter to a helmsman who sails successfully over calm seas and enters port admirante nullo inlaudatus inglorius.

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to his master, to the god; at others he launches futile but not ignoble assaults on his title.106 Statius may have spent his life competing for poetic crowns in Naples and in Rome, but the hurt remained that there was one contest he could never win and against an opponent too lofty to be concerned. Not even this, though, would stop him from trying. When modern critics clutch at those passages in Statius which defer to the cult of Virgil, they think they have found the true nature of his verse. For Vessey, there is nothing remotely subversive in the Thebaid, only a reassuring retreat from the political and aesthetic aberrations of the Pharsalia. The little regiments are at peace. I don’t believe this. The upholders of order and decency continue to appropriate Virgil. They latch on to reassuring models for the relationship of poets to one another, models in which someone occupies the heights of heaven and is called God and sets the rules for the behaviour of all those who are quite content to cower below and meekly worship their betters. They like Statius because they can point to evidence that he is possessed of all the required qualities of meekness and respect. I like Statius because I think he was really of the Devil’s Party. 106 Cf. Columella, Rust. 1 praef. 29–30, esp. 29 summum enim columen adfectantes satis honeste uel in secundo fastigio conspiciemur.

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9 Achilles, Byrhtnoth, and Cu´ Chulainn Continuity and Analogy from Homer to the Medieval North Michael Clarke

Up to now this book has been concerned with authors who stand in an ordered succession, each conscious of his predecessors and responding to them with allusion, innovation, or subversion. Epic is marked out among the genres of Western literature by this intense sense of connection, and hence we can be conWdent that a book like this is focused on an objective unity. But behind epic walks a less happy word, heroic : and if we use this word to deWne a literary category we Xounder, because it signals an intractable paradox. The traditions commonly referred to as heroic poetry or primary epic comprise works composed over a vast range of times and cultural settings, from ancient Greece to Muslim Afghanistan to the land of the Maori; and, being rooted in oral traditions of unguessable antiquity, they seem on the face of it to be quite unconnected with each other in origin and essence. If the category of heroic poetry carries any meaning in terms of theme and subject matter, this must be grounded in universals of human nature, which somehow produce parallel behaviour and parallel literary responses across gulfs of space and time; but on its own this seems a Ximsy basis on which to build such a construct.1 In what follows I will 1 Outstanding contributions to the discourse on this problem include Lang (1893); H. M. Chadwick (1912); Bowra (1952), esp. 1–47; Hatto (1980–9); Hainsworth (1993). For a recent survey see Foley (2002).

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try to tease apart the paradox by exploring a three-cornered set of parallels and correspondences between Homer and two medieval literatures, both customarily placed at the heart of the canon of primary heroic narrative, which irresistibly recall aspects of the Iliad in particular despite the virtual certainty that their creators had no acquaintance with the Greek narratives. I hope the discussion will serve as a case study among some of the possible types of interaction that run between the Homeric poems and their non-Greek analogues.

THE DISCOVERY OR INVENTION OF THE HEROIC As a concept in literary history, heroic poetry is the child of cultural revivalism. Since the eighteenth century if not earlier, one resurgent nation after another sought to establish prestige for cultures that had lain beyond the pale of Graeco-Roman classicism: and in each such project it was felt necessary to recruit an arch-poet who could be set on a pedestal opposite Homer’s and assigned the equivalent authority. The process is vividly illustrated by the packaging in which Macpherson’s pseudo-translations of the Ossianic ‘lays’ of Gaelicspeaking Scotland were presented to their London-oriented readers from 1760 onward. Not only were editions variegated from the start with little notes directing the reader to parallel passages in classical epic,2 but within a few years of publication they were accompanied by a highbrow essay explicitly developing the equation between Homer and the Fenian poet. Hugh Blair’s Critical Dissertation on the Poems of Ossian3 makes sad but revealing reading, slipping from bold assertion of the equation to apologies for the shortcomings of the Celt: As Homer is the greatest of all poets, the one whose manner, and whose times come the nearest to Ossian’s, we are naturally led to run a parallel in 2 See e.g. Macpherson (1996 (1760–73)) 422. Under the guise of translating, Macpherson took what in Gaelic would have been short allusive ballads and inXated them to an epic scale, unrecognizably distorting them in the process: Thompson (1987). 3 Macpherson (1996 (1760–73)) 343–408; cf. Wood (1996 (1767) ), with Simonsuuri (1979) 108–42.

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some instances between the Greek and the Celtic bard. . . . But if Ossian’s ideas and objects be less diversiWed than those of Homer, they are all, however, of the kind Wttest for poetry . . . In a rude age and country, though the events that happen be few, the undissipated mind broods over them more; they strike the imagination, and Wre the passions in a higher degree; and of consequence become happier materials to a poetic genius, than the same events when scattered through the wide circle of more varied action, and cultivated life.4

The same drive for aspiration and assimilation motivated the early exponents of the Anglo-Saxon Beowulf, presented by its Wrst successful translator as ‘a little common Homer for England and the North’,5 and of the saga cycles of early medieval Ireland, whose foremost warrior Cu´ Chulainn was proudly dubbed ‘the Irish Achilles’.6 High Victorian scholarship then rationalized and stabilized the construct, so that eventually the Chadwicks, in their monumental The Heroic Age and The Growth of Literature, provided respectable foundations through their developmental paradigm. The Homeric depiction of the race of heroes was assigned to a speciWc point of adolescence in society’s movement from childhood to maturity, and the world of Germanic saga was mapped onto the same place in the scheme, in terms both of the ethical and social worlds depicted in the narratives and of the historical realities from which their authors emerged.7 When classical scholarship began to embrace the idea that Archaic Greece could be understood in terms of the anthropologists’ then fashionable analyses of exotic cultures—what E. R. Dodds called ‘Borneo and the primitive past’8—the wheel eVectively turned full circle: Homer himself became merely the most famous member of the international club whose members, all of them blind and illiterate and singing men’s famous deeds to the music of a stringed instrument,

4 Macpherson (1996 (1760–73)) 357. Blair does not refer openly to Thomas Blackwell’s Enquiry into the Life and Writings of Homer (1735), but the inXuence is unmistakable: cf. Jenkyns, pp. 303–4 below. 5 N. F. S. Gruntvig in 1820, cited by Osborn (1996) 345. 6 See e.g. Dillon (1948) 1, still in print. The phrase goes back at least as far as the title of Alfred Nutt’s popular retelling (1900). 7 H. M. Chadwick (1912) 1–240; further developed in H. M. and N. K. Chadwick (1932–40), part. i passim. 8 Dodds (1951) 13.

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are assigned the label of ‘bard’.9 It is here that the shadow of circular reasoning looms darkest. To consider ‘the Iliad as heroic poetry’, as Bryan Hainsworth does in a recent essay,10 is arguably no more than to assert that it belongs in a class of poems that was originally formulated on the basis that they reminded people of the Iliad itself: the circle of resemblance is closed and meaningless. Integral to the construct is the assumed link between heroic theme and oral composition.11 It was against this background that Milman Parry was encouraged to make his bold equation between the compositional techniques of Homer and the oral poets whom he encountered in what was then Yugoslavia: ‘When one hears the Southern Slavs sing their songs, he has the unmistakable impression that he is hearing Homer’.12 Although seventy years of subsequent research have substantially conWrmed the theory of formulaic diction, the underlying typological association remains fraught with diYculties, above all when the scholar allows it to guide his view of the meaning of the poetry rather than merely the nuts and bolts of its compositional techniques. Parry (typically for his generation) seems to have traded on the belief that the essence of heroic poetry is the unproblematic praise and exaltation of its cast of characters: and the word heroic itself becomes an empty space in the centre of his analysis of the communicative force of the repetition of ornamental epithets: The Wxed epithet . . . adds to the combination of substantive and epithet an element of grandeur, but no more than that . . . Its sole eVect is to form, with its substantive, a heroic expression of the idea of that substantive. As he grows aware of this the reader acquires an insensibility to any possible particularized meaning of the epithet, and this insensibility becomes an integral part of his understanding of the Homeric style.13

9 For the newest and most sophisticated results of this tradition see Foley (2002). 10 Hainsworth (1993). Despite the subtlety of this essay, the word ‘heroic’ leads to tautology: ‘Heroic poetry occupies that part of the spectrum of narrative poetry in which heroic qualities predominate’ (p. 45). 11 I do not understand why this link should be thought to be a causal one, and I know of no published critique of the assumption. Cf. Foley (1990), esp. 17–19; Fenik (1986), passim. 12 M. Parry (1971) 378. 13 M. Parry (1971) 127; italics mine.

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The implication here is that the ‘heroic’ quality is simply equivalent to ‘grandeur’: and even the most subtle and nuanced of the analyses of formular semantics that have been produced since Parry’s time have failed to Wll in the gap at the heart of his analysis.14 If the concept of heroic poetry poses such deep heuristic problems, would it be better to abandon it altogether? We might propose instead that in terms of theme, at least, these traditions are united only by the fact that they explore types of personality and behaviour that are unfamiliar in the cultures in which I and most of this book’s readers grew up—just as it is now seen that there is an endless variety of diVerent kinds of oral poetry, united in our eyes only by the fact that they all diVer from the bookish discourse that happens to be most familiar to us.15 This negative conclusion may seem attractive: yet it Xies in the face of the extraordinary fact that there really are intensely vivid parallels between heroic literatures, parallels that cannot easily be explained as direct borrowing (still less as inherited Indo-European archetypes)16 but which seem too intimate to be merely the reXection of similar developments in the social and ideological worlds that produced them. It is uncanny, for example, to turn to Beowulf, with the virtual certainty that its creators were innocent of any acquaintance with classical epic,17 and to hear what 14 In practice, even the most successful attempts to frame a more positive model for understanding the semantics of formulaic language have hinged on connotative and deictic eVects rather than the straightforward communication of meaning: see for example Bakker (1997) passim. 15 Finnegan (1977) is authoritative on this point. 16 The question of the Indo-European inheritance is beyond the scope of the present chapter. It suYces here to say that recent attempts to place Indo-European archetypes at the centre of the analysis of Greek and other heroic literatures (e.g. Watkins (1995), cf. Schmitt (1967)) have failed signally to validate the widespread assumption that the common ancestor of the poetic formulae shared between Homeric Greek and Vedic Sanskrit must have been a tradition of heroic narrative poetry rather than sacred song in praise of gods. See also below, n. 37. 17 For a survey of the literature on this question see Andersson (1996) 138–42. On the general question of classical learning in Anglo-Saxon England, the most illuminating studies are those that reconstruct the collections held in ecclesiastical libraries: there is evidence for (very limited) acquaintance with Virgil, Lucan, and Persius in the period before the Norman Conquest, but the Hellenic presence in Anglo-Saxon learning was overwhelmingly ecclesiastical and theological in character, and mediated almost entirely through Latin Wlters. See Gneuss (1981), Lapidge (1985), Bately (1986), with Lendinara (1991). On the unique and untypical case of Canterbury in

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sound like close echoes of images from the Iliad. A classic example is the song of lamentation for Beowulf when he has died as a glorious dragon-slayer, which becomes the opportunity for a woman to sing of the griefs of her own life: Swylce giomorgyd Geatisc meowle æfter Biowulfe bundenheorde song sorgcearig, sæde geneahhe þæt hio hyre heofungdagas hearde ondrede wælfylla worn werudes egesan hynðo ond hæftnyd. So a Geatish woman, bound-haired, sang a song of lamentation for Beowulf, sorrowful; she said repeatedly that she sorely dreaded her days of misery, multitude of violent deaths, terror of the war-band, humiliation and captivity (Beowulf 3150–5).

There is an exact parallel with the lamentation of women over the dead warriors of the Iliad—most precisely with Briseis’ song over Patroclus, where the women again use the hero’s death as the frame for recounting their own sorrows: —挺 æÆØ, H
 ÆPH Œ
 Œ (Il. 19.302).18 We might speculate that both passages represent survivals of an international tradition in women’s lamentation, and that the parallel strikes us only because surviving evidence for that tradition is so sparse in our male-dominated inheritance. Nonetheless, it remains disquieting that Briseis’ lament Wnds a closer echo here in Beowulf than it does anywhere within the surviving literature of ancient Greece. The same point can be made on a larger scale about the system of honour, status, and prestige that structures the social relations of Iliadic warriors and their behaviour on the battleWeld:19 the modes of male behaviour on the plain of Troy bear only an imperfect relation to what we know of the patterning of real-life Greek society, but they match snugly with those seen in other ‘heroic’ traditions. It is in this area above all that we Wnd precise local correspondences with the world of Beowulf : as when one warrior the seventh century, where the presence of Byzantine monks brought a real presence of Patristic learning in Greek, see Lapidge (1988). 18 Cf. Il. 22.477–514, 24.718–81. 19 The best modern studies are van Wees (1992), Wilson (2002).

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exhorts another to courage by reminding him of the boasts he uttered at the feast before battle: Ic ðæt mæl geman, þær we medu þegun, þonne we geheton ussum hlaforde in bior-sele, ðe us ðas beagas geaf, þæt we him ða guð-getawa gyldan woldon, gif him þyslicu þearf gelumpe, helmas ond heard sweord . . .        Nu is se dæg cumen þæt ure man-dryhten mægenes behofað, godra guð-rinca; wutun gongan to, helpan hild-fruman . . . I recall the time, when we were drinking mead, how we promised to our lord, in the beer-hall, when he gave us treasure, that we were ready to repay him for that war-gear, if the need for such things came to him, helms and hard swords . . . Now is that day come, when our lord of men has need of strength, of good battle-warriors; let us go forward and help the fray-leader (Beowulf 2633–8, 2646–9).20

Compare an Homeric passage where a god mimics the common language of the battleWeld: `N Æ
 NŁf ºÆ tæ `ººø I Æ —º'ø , KBŒ
 ƒ  M+: ıƒœ
b —æØØ ¸ıŒØ YÆ ø : fiH Ø KØ æ ˜Øe ıƒe `ººø_ `N Æ, æø ıºæ, F Ø IغÆd L æø ÆغFØ   Nø —º'
ø `غB KÆ Ø º %Ø; At once Apollo, the people’s saviour, launched Aeneas against Peleus’ son, and placed good strength in him; he disguised his voice as Lycaon’s, the son of Priam. In this guise spoke Zeus’ son Apollo: ‘Aeneas, counsel-bearer of the Trojans, where are those threats of yours, which you swore before the leaders of the Trojans when you were tipsy with wine, that you would stand and Wght against Achilles son of Peleus?’ (Il. 20.79–85; cf. e.g. 8.229–34). 20 Cf. e.g. Maldon 212–24.

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In Homer the social frame is slightly diVerent, lacking the Germanic emphasis on an intense relationship between lord and follower:21 but the logic behind the exhortation is the same, based as it is on the principle that a boast before one’s peers can be ‘called in’ at a moment of challenge in the heat of battle. The parallel seems to represent an exact match on several levels: the sense that the warrior’s status is dependent on his reputation, the principle that the fear of dishonour is the surest incentive to excellence, and the acting out of these ideas in the rhetoric of the feast and of the battleWeld.

EXCELLENCE AND EXCESS IN HOMER AND IN A NG LO - S A XON P OE TRY Parallels like these could be multiplied indeWnitely. But what do they mean? As long as we restrict them to social institutions, as in the two examples that I have cited, it can still be concluded that the parallel is merely sociological: military men who Wght with their hands engage universally in certain types of status-based behaviour, and since poets do not compose in a vacuum they are liable to recall or recreate those realities in the half-imagined, half-real worlds of narrative song. Pursuing that line, it would be possible to conclude that the points of contact between the world of the Iliad and its analogues relate not to the poetry itself but to the world that provided its setting and springboard. If this carries conviction, we might conclude that the correspondences between the two traditions are accidents rather than substance: their basis becomes the mere fact that close-knit groups of violent men behave in similar ways the world over, from Troy to Heorot to the New York of The Godfather, and images based on those repeated realities crop up when such men become the subject matter of stories and songs. Sensible though this conclusion may seem, I believe that it is unnecessarily reductive, and that the heroic traditions of Greece and the medieval North are linked by more complex and indeed intractable threads of connection—threads that will turn 21 On this see O’Brien O’KeeVe (1991), with Cherniss (1972) 30–59; Woolf (1976).

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out to diVer signiWcantly from what was proposed in the old handbooks of heroic poetry. As we have seen, our forebears read each of the heroic literatures as if their view of warrior manhood was framed by praise and exaltation of the hero and his quest for glory through courage and self-sacriWce. It is uncontroversial that Homeric scholarship now oVers routes for replacing such views with a more poised and problematizing analysis of the Iliad: what is more surprising is that precisely the same revision can be successfully applied to the small corpus of Anglo-Saxon heroic poetry centred on Beowulf. In what follows I will Wrst sketch a (relatively uncontroversial) example of such a reading of the Iliad, before moving on to apply it in strictly parallel fashion to the Anglo-Saxon materials. The paths traced by each of the foremost warriors in the Iliad can be seen as a sequence of variations on a single theme: the tendency in the warrior’s personality for excellence to move into excess, for bravery to become self-destructive recklessness and for the quest for glory, Wnally, to become a wilful turning towards death.22 Diomedes, divinely Wlled with his father’s strength and courage, goes too far and Wghts even the gods; Hector, deluded by his rush of success against the Greeks, ignores Polydamas’ advice and tries to Wre the Greek ships; Patroclus forgets Achilles’ warning and tries to storm Troy alone; and, Wnally, the intensity of Achilles’ emotional energy turns his Wnal quest to avenge Patroclus into a surge of beast-like violence that appals the gods and hastens his own death. It is impossible to decide whether, on balance, each of these warriors is meant as a model or as a warning; it is a truer reading of Homer to leave that question open and to see the warrior as caught at a point of tension or ambiguity in the ideology of warlike energy—the ambiguity itself is what the poem seeks to explore. The theme is writ large in each of the narratives we have mentioned, especially that of Achilles; and on the more local scale of simile imagery it is expressed in the equation between warrior and savage beast, where the quality that makes the lion or boar a symbol of strength and bravery is also what makes him reckless and self-destructive.23 The beast’s heroic 22 I have examined this theme at length elsewhere: see esp. Clarke (2002) and (2004), with references there. 23 Clarke (1995); Wilson (2003).

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nature brings his death, Iªæ 
 Ø ŒÆ (12.46),   Ø þº IºŒ (16.753), just as Andromache prophetically warns Hector that his passionate strength will be his death:
ÆØØ, Ł Ø  e e  (6.407). This slippage between excellence and selfdestructiveness is again represented in miniature iconic form in the ambiguous semantics of the key words in this semantic Weld.  is closely cognate with the verb Æ ÆØ, and the active semantic association is realized, for example, when Helenus warns the Trojans that Diomedes’ rage is unstoppable: Iºº ‹
 º  Æ ÆØ, P
  ƒ
ÆÆØ  NÆæ Ø. He is raging too much, and no one can draw equal to him in force (Il. 6.100–1).

The connection between warrior prowess and excess is still clearer in the words Iª øæ and Iªæ : the second element of the compound is transparently ‘manliness’, and the nuanced meaning of the combination shifts from great manliness to excessive manliness, from the warrior’s abundance of life to the tendency for that abundance to reach destructive extremes.24 Diomedes encapsulates the problem in a few close words when he responds to the news that the Embassy’s pleadings have worsened Achilles’ resentment: n
 Iª øæ Kd ŒÆd ¼ººø . F Æs Ø ºf Aºº Iªæ fiØ KBŒÆ . (Il. 9.699–700).

The best of the Achaeans was always agenor, always full of the abundance of manhood that made him admirable: and his extreme of vicious resentment is an exaggeration, not a denial of that quality. The ultimate working-out of this theme in Achilles’ story is of course more complex, and involves the workings of divinity as well as of human psychology;25 but its human basis is exactly paralleled by the working of the same forces on the life and death of Hector. Andromache’s prediction, that his own menos would destroy him, is worked out when his pursuit of glory beyond prudent limits sets him in a 24 For the semantics see Haubold and Graziosi (2003), and references there. 25 See esp. Schein (1984); Zanker (1994).

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hopeless combat against Achilles, from which he refuses to withdraw because of his terror at the prospect of the loss of his reputation in the eyes of his people (22.105–8): and so when Andromache hears the voices of sudden lamentation she immediately guesses that his excessive manliness has brought about his ruin:26

ø c
Ø ŁæÆf ‚ŒæÆ
E `غºf F I %Æ ºØ 

b
ÆØ, ŒÆd
Ø ŒÆÆÆfi Iªæ  IºªØB l Ø Œ , Kd h  Kd ºŁıE  I
æH, Iººa ºf æŁŒ, e n  P
d YŒø. I fear that bright Achilles has cut oV rash Hector in isolation, that he has pursued him into the plain, that he has halted him in his terrible excess of manhood, which was holding him when he would not remain with the throng of the soldiers, but he surged out in front of them, yielding to no one in his own strength (Il. 22.455–9).

Here is the crux of the heroic condition: excellence stands on a knifeedge between cowardice on one side and self-destructive folly on the other, and it is in the nature of the Homeric warrior that the excellence which ensures he will never shirk a challenge is by the same token what pushes him towards the wilful seeking of his own death.27 If we accept this sketch as a description of a central strand in the Iliad’s evocation of the ethics and problematics of the warrior’s life, let us see what emerges if we bring the same perspective to bear on the heroic poetry of Anglo-Saxon England. I take as a case study the substantial fragment known as The Battle of Maldon, which stands alongside Beowulf as one of the very few documents of non-ecclesiastical narrative poetry surviving from before the Norman Conquest. The centre of this poem is the confrontation on the East Anglian coast between an English force led by Byrhtnoth, nobleman of Essex, and a band of Vikings who are occupying a small island separated from the mainland by the tidal waters of an estuary.28

26 Haubold and Graziosi (2003) 70–1. 27 On the ambiguities of this theme in post-Homeric attitudes to heroism see Loraux (1995) 63–74; Clarke (2002). 28 For the reconstructed details of the topography see E. V. Gordon (1937) 1–15; Scragg (1991), introduction, passim.

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As the tide goes out, a causeway appears on which a few English warriors take their stand in combat: it is to be assumed that by keeping the Vikings hemmed on the island Byrhtnoth will eventually be able to wear them down to defeat or withdrawal. Then something strange happens. The Vikings persuade Byrhtnoth to let them cross over to the mainland and Wght a pitched battle: Ongunnon lytegian þa laþe gystas, bædon þæt hi upgang agan moston, ofer þone ford faran, feþan lædan. Then the hated strangers proceeded to use guile, asked that they might have passage, fare over the ford, lead the troop (Maldon 86–8).

The poem does not explain why Byrhtnoth agrees to their request; but the answer is clear if we supply its logic from a corresponding decision made by Beowulf before he faces Grendel. Planning to lie in wait in the hall of Heorot to seek combat with the monster who attacks it every night, the hero anounces that he is unwilling to carry a sword, because he has heard that his adversary Wghts with his bare hands: No ic me on here-wæsmun hnagran talige, guþ-geweorca þonne Grendel hine; forþan ic hine sweorde swebban nelle, aldre beneotan, þeah ic eal mæge . . . . . . . . . . ond siþðan witig God on swa hwæþere hond, halig Dryhten, mærðo deme, swa him gemet þince. I count myself no less in war-stature of battle-works than Grendel [counts] himself; therefore I am loth to use my sword to put him to sleep, deprive him of life, although I am able . . . and then let wise God, holy Lord, grant glory on one hand or the other, as seems meet to him (Beowulf 677–80, 685–7).

Beowulf refuses the artiWcial advantage that his weapon would give, and commits the outcome of the combat to divine will: Byrhtnoth likewise declares that in the evenly matched battle on open ground the victory will be decided by God (Maldon 93–5).29 The parallel shows 29 See BloomWeld (1969); cf. F. Robinson (1993) 105–21.

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that Byrhtnoth makes his decision in order to ensure a fair Wght without artiWcial advantage; but Beowulf shows later in his own story that this principle is not an inXexible or absolute one, that it must be tempered with prudence. Facing a dragon in his old age, Beowulf recalls how he faced Grendel unprotected, but explains that he cannot do the same now because the Wre-breathing monster is too dangerous (Beowulf 2518–37). There is, then, a sense of calculus in this ethic; but there is a vital diVerence between Beowulf ’s Wght with Grendel and Byrhtnoth’s with the Vikings. Beowulf triumphs, but Byrhtnoth proves weaker than the ‘slaughter-wolves’, loses his battle and is cut down along with his loyal followers. The crux lies in the way the poet names the force that drives Byrhtnoth to accept the Vikings’ oVer: Ða se eorl ongan for his ofermode alyfan landes to fela laþere ðeode. Then the earl proceeded in his over-mod to grant too much land to the hated host (Maldon 89–90).

The word mod (whose sense is trivialized in the modern descendant mood, and better paralleled by its German cousin Mut) stands for strength, force, manly courage: much the same constellation of ideas as is represented by Greek menos. Ofermod, then, is an extreme or excess of that quality; but is the term necessarily pejorative? Much ink has been spilt over this question.30 It has been argued that the word’s other attestations (which are scanty) may justify taking it as equivalent to the sin of pride;31 but that cannot be the whole truth, 30 The most useful articles known to me are Gneuss (1976), Cavill (1995). Modern ¨ bermut appears to be a false parallel, formed independently from the same German U elements. 31 Apart from Maldon there are three signiWcant attestations. In the tenth-century poem Genesis B Lucifer is described as ‘the angel of ofermod ’ (l. 272); in the prose Instructions for Christians a man subject to the sin of pride is hateful to God because of his ofermod (l.130); and in an isolated glossary example the word translates Latin coturnus, literally the buskin of tragedy, which would have referred to an overblown or vaunting style in a panegyric or similar. Gneuss (1976) argues that the sense must be pejorative, as in Genesis B; Cavill (1995) shows (convincingly, in my view) that the active meaning of the word in the Maldon context would not have been determined by the equivalence to superbia suggested by the two theological passages. The glossary example seems to me instructive, since it seems to refer to an exuberant excess of

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most obviously because other compounds in ofer- refer to an abundance rather than necessarily an excess of the quality named by the second element. The overall frame of the poem, and the declarations of love and loyalty by Byrhtnoth’s followers after his death, suggest overwhelmingly that his death is to be regarded as glorious. The essence of the poem, just as with the Iliadic link between valour and self-destruction, is in the poised ambiguity of the warrior’s excellence: he lives out his ideals, but tied up in those ideals is the tendency of mod or menos to lead to futile death.32 And, just as the problem was expressed in miniature in Homeric semantics, so the paradox of destructively increased mod recurs later in the discourse of Maldon. After Byrhtnoth’s death, some of his loyal followers declare that they will stand and Wght to the death, acting out the principle that a follower must not leave the battleWeld hlafordleas (251), ‘lordless’. The call to stand Wrm is expressed as a turning towards the quality that led to Byrhtnoth’s own death: Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlaþ. Courage must be the harder, hearts the keener, mod must be the larger, as our strength grows less (Maldon 312–13).

For the followers as for the lord, the expansion of mod is progressively more and more self-destructive. This semantic conWguration is closely paralleled within Beowulf, suggesting that the theme we have sketched was one of the central energy rather than to anything deWned in moral terms. Similarly, I suggest that the application of the term to Satan in Genesis B emerges from the consistent portrayal of the rebel angel as if he were the disloyal warrior thane of a Germanic overlord: the force behind his rebellion is described as if he were a reckless young warrior driven to rebellion precisely by ‘excess of valour’. 32 It is interesting to note the latest summary account of the problem of ofermod: ‘The vaunting courage and belligerence which [Byrhtnoth] has already displayed, and of which this present behaviour is an extension, cannot be faulted either within the conventions of heroic story or in the context of a dire period of English history, when cowardice in the face of the enemy was the norm’ (Marsden (2004) 258; italics mine). How can we take these conventions for granted, given that only Maldon and Beowulf oVer us substantial sources for plotting what they are in the Wrst place? Is the word ‘heroic’ again being overworked to meaninglessness here?

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concerns of Old English thought on warrior ethics. When king Hrothgar congratulates Beowulf in his hour of triumph over Grendel, his speech develops into a warning to the young warrior about the future perils that face the heroic personality. Beowulf is to learn from the example of one of Hrothgar’s relatives, who became a tyrannical king: Ne geweox he him to willan ac to wæl-fealle ond to deað-cwalum Deniga leodum. Breat bolgen-mod beod-geneatas . . . He [Heremod] did not develop according to their desire for the nation of the Danes, but to slaughter and to death-killing; with swollen-mod he smashed his table-companions . . . (Beowulf 1711–13).

The expansion of mod is the psychological source of his overweening behaviour. Hrothgar explains the psychology further: Oð þæt him on innan oferhygda dæl weaxeð ond wridað, þonne se weard swefeð, sawele hyrde . . . Until inside him a portion of over-hygd grows and Xourishes; then the guardian sleeps, the soul’s keeper . . . (Beowulf 1740–2; cf. 1760).

Hygd is a virtual synonym of mod: passion, force, the violent valour of the warrior. When Beowulf is warned against swollen mod and excessive hygd (see also 1760), he is reminded that it is precisely in the context of martial excellence, at the moment when the warrior is living out his ideal to the full, that he risks moving towards an extreme of this quality that will be destructive to his followers and ultimately to himself. Like Maldon, Beowulf is framed by a passage expressing unequivocal admiration for the poem’s hero; but it is remarkable that there is a hint, if no more, that his death in his Wnal combat with the dragon involves an excessiveness akin to what we saw in Byrhtnoth. Although he agrees to take his sword, as we have seen above, Beowulf insists on facing the dragon without help from his companions; and the verb used here seems to echo the vocabulary of Hrothgar’s warning:

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Michael Clarke Oferhogode ða hringa fengel, þæt he þone widXogan weorode gesohte sidan herge . . .

Then the lord of rings despised that he should go after the far-Xier with his war-band, with a great army . . . (Beowulf 2345–7).

Oferhogode, for which my translation ‘despised’ here is tentative, is the past tense of oferhycgan, the verb corresponding to the noun oferhygd: is there a suggestion here that if Beowulf had been more prudent or less proud he would have let his companions share the Wght, and might even have survived instead of losing his life in the killing of the dragon? To try to give a deWnite answer to that question would be like trying to decide whether ‘on balance’ Homer approves or condemns Achilles. The centre of the poetry is not a neat value judgement but the evocation and exploration of the ambiguity between virtue and self-destructive excess that lies at the centre of the ethics of the warrior. Even when due allowance is made for the very real diVerences between them, the Homeric and Anglo-Saxon poems seem astonishingly similar in their preoccupation with the psychological and ethical anatomy of the warrior. It is uncanny that Homer’s evocation of Achilles’ state of mind as he moves deeper into vindictiveness and death depends, just like Hrothgar’s word bolgen-mod, on the conception that the mental substance in his breast is expanding and swelling with the inXux of menos and cholos.33 It is not an exaggeration to say that the two bodies of poetry seem to have more in common with each other than either of them has with the other literary documents surviving from the culture which produced it; yet I repeat that there is no evidence whatever to suggest that the Anglo-Saxon poets knew classical epic.34 If the comparison sketched above holds good, then the only sober conclusion must be that the similarity between the two traditions results from the parallel evolution of poetic traditions in completely diVerent and unconnected worlds.

33 See Il. 9.646, 678–9, with Gill (1996) 190–204; Clarke (1999) 90–100. 34 See above, n. 16.

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But the range of available possibilities may be wider than this stark conclusion would suggest. Although little is known or directly knowable about the development or compositional methods of the poets of Beowulf and Maldon, we do know that poets in their tradition were quite capable of working with materials imported from alien cultural worlds and transmitted by written means. Alongside the ‘pure’ heroic narratives, and very close to them in style and diction, stand the poems whose story-lines were taken from foreign sources, including the Old Testament as well as international narratives like saints’ lives. Particularly instructive here are the great Old Testament poems— Genesis, Exodus, Daniel, and Judith. In them the union between imported story and native poetic tradition is smooth and seamless: Moses and Judith take on the character and vocabulary of Old English kingship and heroics without any sign of tension or contradiction, Satan is portrayed as the disloyal retainer of a Germanic overlord, and battle-scenes in the world of the Patriarchs take on the full colouring of the world that we know from Beowulf and Maldon.35 If we did not happen to have the biblical source-texts in front of us for comparison, it would not be obvious that the poetry had been systematically built on texts imported from the other side of the world only a few generations before the time of composition.36 This should sound a note of caution: if poems like Beowulf and Maldon were inXuenced by external models, including even classical epics, then it would have been characteristic of the poets to hide that inXuence subtly and eVectively under the forms and conventions of their own school of composition. For this reason, the theory of parallel development must be balanced against the possibility (for it is no more) that some of the apparent echoes of Homeric epic that we hear in the heroic poems may result, in some deep or distant way, from the absorption of themes and ideas into the North from the culturally prestigious heartlands of the Graeco-Roman world. This is 35 See above, n. 31. 36 See Remley (1996) on the poetic qualities of the Old Testament poems. Beyond the scope of this chapter are the special problems posed by Genesis, where the most deeply nuanced assimilations of Germanic ideology and language to the biblical material are in the originally separate poem Genesis B, which was adapted by its English author-redactor from a Continental Saxon original of probably Carolingian date: see Doane (1978) and (1991).

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necessarily speculation: but it is worth listening to the warning that interaction between disparate cultural horizons may take forms that are invisible or counter-intuitive to us modern readers, conditioned as we are to assign ancient and medieval literatures to sealed and separate categories.

INNOVATION AND I MITATION IN THE U L S TE R C YC L E When we face the strictly hypothetical possibility of some kind of indirect rapprochement between Anglo-Saxon and Homeric traditions, there is food for thought in the parallel case of the narrative literature that was developing on the other side of the Irish Sea during the centuries when Beowulf and Maldon were composed. I refer here to the prose tales of the so-called Ulster Cycle, which reach their full form around the eleventh century but whose earlier history and origins are still Wercely disputed.37 The composers of the texts evidently worked in or in contact with the life of the monasteries; they show evidence of Latin book-learning; but otherwise any view on their relationship with earlier or alien source-materials must come from guessing the literary aYnities of the narratives themselves.38 The longest and most ambitious of the narratives, Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, presents the problem in a particularly stark form: many of the themes and events in the narrative are strongly reminiscent of classical mythology and epic, but it is tantalizingly

37 In the absence of full exegetical materials on the Ulster Cycle texts, the best starting-point is Gantz (1981). For the Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge, the authoritative editions and translations are those by C. O’Rahilly (1967) and (1976); useful introductory essays in Mallory (1992). I should point out here that recent scholarship has done much to debunk the belief (preserved in countless handbooks) that the myth and ideology of early Irish saga preserve pristine Indo-European archetypes. For a Xavour of the debate in its full-blown form, see for example McCone (1990), chs. 1–2 and passim. 38 The literature on this question is complex and highly controversial. For an introductory discussion with reference to Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge in particular see ´ hUiginn (1992); further references in next note. O

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diYcult to say whether this is due to direct inXuence or parallel development.39 In what follows I will concentrate on one famous and striking example from this text (hereafter referred to as TBC1). Thematically the parallel with Homer is similar to what we saw in the Anglo-Saxon material, revolving as it does around the extreme and more-than-human levels of behaviour reached by warriors in battle, but it is on the detailed level of descriptive imagery that the resemblance is clearest. The foremost of the Ulster warriors, Cu´ Chulainn, undergoes an extraordinary transformation before engaging in single combat:40 Then he put on his head his crested war-helmet of battle and strife and conXict. From it was uttered the shout of a hundred warriors with a longdrawn-out cry from every corner and angle of it. From it there used to cry alike goblins and sprites, spirits of the glen and demons of the air before him and above him and around him whenever he went, prophesying the shedding of the blood of warriors and champions. He cast around him his protective cloak made of raiment from Tı´r Tairngire, brought to him from his teacher of wizardry. Then there came upon Cu´ Chulainn a great distortion (riastartha) so that he became horrible, many-shaped, strange and unrecognisable. All the Xesh of his body quivered like a tree in a current 39 The now largely outmoded view of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge as ‘a window on the Iron Age’ depends on the theory of the parallel development of ‘heroic age’ society and literature in diVerent cultures, implicitly or explicitly following the Chadwick model (see esp. Jackson (1964); Murphy (1961) 25–9; discussion, Koch (1994); and for a recent essay in the same tradition see Enright (2002)). The opposing argument, that the text is an imitation of classical epic, has taken varying and often problematic forms. Handbooks continue to cite the examples cited by Thurneysen ((1921), esp. 96–7) in support of his theory that the work emulates the Aeneid: this despite the fact that Thurneysen’s overall approach would nowadays command little conWdence, modelled as it is on the harsher versions of Analyst criticism of Homer. Of Thurneysen’s examples some, such as the parenthesis equating the war-goddess Morrı´gan with the Fury Allecto (TBC1 955), are peripheral and reXect atomistic ecclesiastical learning; others, such as the claim that the inset narrative of the boyhood deeds of Cu´ Chulainn is intended to match Aeneas’ narrative in Aeneid 2–4 (cf. also Carney (1955), 305–21), seem to ignore the fact that the dynamics of focalization through long speeches is well developed throughout the Ulster Cycle along patterns quite diVerent from those of classical epic. For revised analyses of the question of classical inXuence, emphasizing the intertextual importance of Dares Phrygius and other Late ´ hUiginn (1992) esp. 40–1, and (1993); Tristram (1995); and cf. Antique texts, see O Dilts Swartz (1986). 40 Jasper GriYn is, so far as I know, the only Hellenist to have brought this passage to the attention of audiences reared on a diet of Greek epic: GriYn (1980) 38–9.

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or like a bulrush in a stream, every limb and every joint, every end and every member of him from head to foot. He performed a wild feat of contortion with his body inside his skin. His feet and his shins and his knees came to the back; his heels and his calves and his hams came to the front. The sinews of his calves came onto the front of his shins, and each huge round knot of them was as big as a warrior’s Wst. The sinews of his head were stretched to the nape of his neck and every huge, immeasurable, vast, incalculable round ball of them was as big as the head of a month-old child. Then his face became a red hollow (?). He sucked one of his eyes into his head so deep that a wild crane could hardly have reached it to pluck it out from the back of his skull onto his cheek. The other eye sprang out onto his cheek. His mouth was twisted back fearsomely. He drew back his cheek from his jawbone until his inward parts were visible. His lungs and his liver Xuttered in his mouth and his throat. His upper palate clashed against the lower in a mighty pincer-like movement (?) and every stream of Wery Xakes which came into his mouth from his throat was as wide as a ram’s skin. The loud beating of his heart against his ribs was heard like the baying of a bloodhound . . . or like a lion attacking bears. The torches of the war-goddess, virulent rain-clouds and sparks of blazing Wre, were seen in the air over his head with the seething of Werce rage that rose in him. His hair curled about his head like branches of red hawthorn used to re-fence a gap in a hedge. If a noble apple-tree weighed down with fruit had been shaken about his hair, scarcely one apple would have reached the ground through it, but an apple would have stayed impaled on each separate hair because of the Werce bristling of the hair above his head. The warrior’s moon (lu´an la´ith) rose from his forehead, as long and as thick as a hero’s Wst and it was as long as his nose, and he was Wlled with rage as he wielded the shields and urged on the charioteer and cast slingstones at the host. As high, as thick, as strong, as powerful and as long as the mast of a great ship was the straight stream of dark blood which rose up from the very top of his head and dissolved into a dark magical mist like the smoke of a royal hostel when a king comes to be waited on in the evening of a winter’s day (TBC1 2237–78, trans. C. O’Rahilly (slightly adapted)).41

Instantly this recalls the transformation of Achilles when he reveals himself to the Trojans in Iliad 18. In each case a hero who is poised

41 This passage belongs to the latest strata of Recension I of TBC; it corresponds closely to a very similar transformation found in the tale Brislech Mo´r Maige Muirthemne, also known as Aided Con Culainn (The Great Defeat of the Plain of Muirthemne/The Death of Cu´ Chulainn). The tale is relatively inaccessible: for text see van Hamel (1933) 102–4 with partial translation; Stokes (1877).

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between divine and human status, displaying himself to his enemies before his solitary onslaught, is brieXy and suddenly transformed in a way that goes above and beyond the limitations of human nature. Cu´ Chulainn is transformed after being healed and helped by the divine Lug Mac Ethlenn, who is a god responsible for fathering the hero in one of three mythical births;42 Achilles, similarly poised by his uniquely close association to Zeus, is transformed with the personal help and presence of Athena. So stated, the comparison is broad and thematic; but the echoes extend to the most detailed level and run between an extended sequence of motifs. I quote the Iliad passage in full for comparison: ÆPaæ غºf tæ ˜ØU  º : I
 Ł  þØ NŁ ØØ º ÆNª
Æ ŁıÆÆ, Id
 ƒ ŒƺfiB  
EÆ Łø æ, KŒ
 ÆPF
ÆE ºªÆ ÆÆøÆ. ‰
 ‹ ŒÆe Ng K% ¼ ÆNŁæ ¥ŒÆØ ºŁ KŒ  ı, c
œØ IØøÆØ, ¥  ÆæØØ ıªæfiH Œæ ÆØ @æœ ¼ KŒ æı: –Æ
 Mº fiø ŒÆÆ
Ø ıæ  ºªŁıØ K æØØ, ł
 ÆPªc ª ªÆØ I'ıÆ æØŒØØ N
ŁÆØ, ÆY Œ ø f ıd ¼æø IºŒBæ ¥ŒøÆØ: S I غºB ŒƺB ºÆ ÆNŁæ ¥ŒÆ: B
 Kd æ Ng Ie   , P
 K ÆØf  ª: æe ªaæ ıŒØc T  K . ŁÆ a Xß , IæŁ
b —ƺºa Ł  Łª%Æ : IIæ æØ K ¼ tæ Œı
Ø. But Achilles rose up, dear to Zeus; and Athena cast the tasselled aegis around his sinewy shoulders, and around his head the bright goddess set a golden cloud, and from it she burnt a Xame shining all around. As when smoke reaches the high air, rising from a city, far away on an island, round which enemies are Wghting, who are making division in bitter war from their own city; and at the hour of sunset pyres burn in succession, and the gleam appears, shooting high above, so that those who dwell round about can see

42 See TBC1 2088 V., with the tale Compert Con Chulainn, ‘The Conception of Cu´ Chulainn’ (trans. in Gantz (1981) 130–3).

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it, so that perhaps they will come with their ships to help in the war: so from Achilles’ head the gleam reached the high air. Going from the wall he stood on the mound, nor did he mingle with the Achaeans; for he was mindful of his mother’s close command. Standing there he cried out, and Pallas Athena spoke from behind him; and amongst the Trojans he roused terrible panic (Il. 18.203–18).

In each case the isolated and threatening warrior utters a magically terrifying cry; a magical garment symbolizing hostility is wrapped or shaken around him; a gleam of divine light shines out from his forehead; and, most striking of all, the stuV rising from his forehead becomes the vehicle for an extended simile which describes Xames and smoke rising from a Wre in a vividly contrasted visual context. Sure enough, there are obvious diVerences as well, most notably the presence in the Irish material of a level of baroque fantasy that is approached by no surviving specimen of Homeric imagery: but the sequence of apparently exact correspondences in the choice of imagery demands an explanation. At Wrst blush, there are two alternatives: either the resemblances are a coincidence of parallel development,43 or the author of this passage had been reading the Iliad.44 If the Wrst of these seems against the odds, the second is hopelessly unlikely: there is no possibility that any Irishmen were acquainted with Homer at the time that this work was composed. There may have been some knowledge of Virgil and some late Roman epic, notably Lucan and Statius; but it seems that this was largely or entirely a matter of atomized grammatical and scholiastic facts rather than literary engagement;45 and in any case there is no description of a warrior in any of those poets which is suYciently close to our Iliad passage to be claimed as a credible intertext. 43 Thus GriYn (1980) 38–9. 44 For a detailed discussion of this possibility, suggesting moderations similar to those proposed below, see Sayers (1996), cf. more generally Carney (1955) 276–323. 45 See above, n.39. Controversy continues as to whether the Irish literati were in a position to read Virgil in the period before the inXux of continental narrative literature associated with the arrival of the continental monastic orders and the Anglo-Normans. In a much-cited article HoVmann (1988) argues on the basis of the Old Irish glosses to Priscian that the Irish grammarians knew Virgil directly as early as the eighth century; but it is a long way from there to any suggestion that the Aeneid might have served as a literary model for the authors of the narratives discussed in this article. See further below, n. 51.

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However, one narrative document of classical heroic lore was indeed known and prized in the culture that created the image of Cu´ Chulainn printed above: a late Latin text of negligible literary quality which very seldom comes into the ken of today’s Hellenic scholars. This is the De Excidio Troiae of Dares Phrygius, a narrative pseudo-history of the Trojan War, presented as the reminiscences of an eyewitness and consequently written in a plain, unadorned summary style like an incompetent pastiche of Caesar’s Gallic Wars. Dares’ text was enormously inXuential in England and the Continent from the late twelfth century onward, when it formed the basic channel for the transmission of the Troy legend; but it had made its way at least two centuries earlier to Ireland, where it was put into Irish in a succession of versions under the name of Togail Troı´.46 To speak of ‘translation’ would be potentially misleading here, because the Irish text’s derivation from the Latin is hidden under layers of embellishment, deepening, and literary richness very close in theme and style to TBC1. In eVect the authors of Togail Troı´ have spun out a rich heroic narrative by applying the literary artistry of their Irish heroic tradition to the bare and spartan skeleton of Dares’ Latin original.47 The earliest surviving recension in the series is judged on linguistic grounds to have developed roughly in tandem with the Wrst surviving full version of TBC1, and on internal grounds it is agreed that TBC1 is also the result of the expansion and embellishment48 of earlier and simpler exemplars, whether written or oral, which are now long lost. In this way both texts bear witness to a single 46 The detailed linguistic analysis by Mac Eoin (1960) is authoritative. It remains mysterious that the Irish version of Dares Phrygius pre-dates its popularity in England and the Continent: the appeal of Dares elsewhere seems to have been bound up with the fact that it tells the story from a Trojan point of view, and most of the peoples of the medieval North claimed Trojan descent (see Graus (1989)), whereas the Irish claimed descent rather from Scythia via Greece and Spain. Evidence is emerging that the Irish recensions of Dares share a common origin with those in Welsh (Poppe (2003)), so the original exemplar may have reached Irish culture from Celtic-speaking British communities, where the claim to Trojan stock was a commonplace. 47 See Mac Gearailt (1996) and (2000/1). In the present discussion I deal only with the Wrst recension of Togail Troı´; for discussion of the second (Book of Leinster) recension see Mac Gearailt (1996) 460 V. 48 Perhaps also distortion and redirection: see e.g. Kelly (1992) and Tristram (1994) for possible reconstructions, and cf. Edel (2001) 216–26 and (2002).

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programme of developing an authoritative narrative cycle out of the outlines of the mythical or quasi-historical past of Ireland and of Europe as a whole. The abundant matches in phrasing, structure, and style between the two texts leave no doubt that they are products of the same creative milieu. It would be futile as well as wrong-headed to try to propose one as the original and the other as an imitation; rather, comparison suggests that the creators of both narratives were using the same repertoire of imagery and even phrasing to expand their originals and create an authoritative narrative of the heroic past.49 The elements of this ‘expansionist aesthetic’ can be picked out in some detail by comparing the two texts and, in the case of Togail Troı´, by setting the Irish version line by line alongside the Latin original of Dares. A recurring technique is vivid and startling juxtaposition, especially in similes and comparisons: take a typical example from a description of a stranger in the words of a charioteer in TBC1: A single, royal, wide-eyed warrior is driven in the chariot. He has a thick, forked beard reaching down past the soft lower part of his navel. It would protect Wfty warriors on a day of storm and rain if they were under the deep shelter of the hero’s beard. He carries a curved variegated shield with white shoulder piece and three beautiful concentric circles. A litter-bed for four bands of ten men would Wt upon the hide which stretches across the broad circumference of the warrior’s shield (TBC1 2711–17).

In the bizarre contrasts there is a clear and striking parallel with the aesthetic of the Homeric simile, which tends to vividly juxtapose the 49 I diVer here from the analysis of Tristram (see esp. (1995) 70–2; and cf. ´ hUiginn (1992) 40–1), who maintains that classical narratives like Dares served O as literary models for the creation of the extended narrative discourses of Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge. There are no substantive linguistic or textual grounds for assigning priority to one of these two Irish texts over the other; and a comparison between Togail Troı´ I and its Latin original shows that the narrative skills of the former are overwhelmingly due to the original contributions made by the authors of the Irish version. It seems incredible that any people with a storytelling tradition of their own would have found anything to imitate in the literary qualities of such a mediocre work as Dares Phrygius: the Latin text provides the skeleton of names and events and nothing more. With Tristram contrast Mac Gearailt (1996), and more broadly (2000/1), who takes it that the author of Togail Troı´ I is ‘moulding the lifeless narrative of Dares into a story of the kind he knew in contemporary Irish’ ((1996) 455, and more generally 489–93; cf. further Myrick (1993) 145–9).

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distant world of peace-time life with the battleWeld on which the narrative takes place. Because both Irish and Greek narratives (like the worlds that created them) are intimately concerned with single combat on the battleWeld, this aesthetic is particularly liable to produce seemingly Homeric images in this context. Consider two similes added to Dares’ narrative by the Irish translator: Hector rested not from then in that way till [the Weld] was full of bodies and of heads from one end to another of the battle. So it is that not more numerous are sheaves of oats in autumn after a great reaping-party, or icicles under the feet of king’s herds in a ford between two territories, than are the hands and feet and bodies and waists cleft by the edge of his sword or point of his spear and cut by the little swords and spears that were Wtted out of his own hauberk and the hauberks of his horses (Togail Troı´ 1 1159–66).

The comparison of dead men with reaped corn instantly suggests the Iliad;50 only the climatic details reassure us that the image is a Northern creation. It is quite possible that the simile technique developed independently in the two traditions. On balance, however, it is more likely that the Irish similes have indeed been inXuenced by classical sources, but that the inXuence has come by an indirect and roundabout route. The Irish writers may well have been inXuenced by collections in Xorilegia or commonplace books of handy images, originally culled from disparate classical sources, which could be imitated or emulated at will.51 The pattern, then, is of a combination of two complementary processes: typological analogy in the application of similar aesthetic techniques to similar subject matter, and indirect inXuence through the fragmentary transmission of individual snippets of classical lore into the Irish repertoire. Counter-intuitive though this twofold analysis may seem, it is often the most eYcient explanation for the 50 See e.g. Il. 19.221–4. 51 Scholarship has underestimated the importance of Xorilegia as a conduit for the transmission of classical images and tags into early medieval literary traditions. A related question is the possible inXuence of late Latin rhetorical handbooks on the development of the Wgured style of the Ulster Cycle: see Dilts Swartz (1986). Brent Miles (Univ. of Toronto) kindly informs me that his forthcoming study of classical inXuences on Togail Troı´ will propose Macrobius and Lactantius’ scholia to Statius among the conduits by which excerpted passages from Greek as well as Latin epic may have come to the knowledge of the Irish author-compilers.

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contributions made by the author of Togail Troı´ I to convert Dares into a narrative of real artistry. To take a typical example,52 Dares’ sentence Teuthras cum exercitu superuenit, quem Achilles fugato exercitu uulnerauit (ch.16) Teuthras came up with his army, and Achilles set the army to Xight and wounded him

becomes the following in the Irish text: The hosts and multitudes of the land awaited them round Teuthras, round their king. Teuthras challenged them to single combat. When Achilles heard this, he threw his travelling-clothes from him and put on his battle-dress of battle and combat. He put on, indeed, his hauberk of twice-forged iron and crested, shapen helmet on his head. Then he came through the host of Mysians like a Wercely wounding lion worried on account of its cubs, or like a furious bull to which an evil blow is given. He gave a cast of a great broad-blue lance at Teuthras, in such a way that its head went through him from one side to the other (Togail Troı´ I 724–31; revised from Stokes’s translation).

It is possible that a classical source lies somewhere in the distance behind the beast similes here: I am irresistibly struck, for example, by the strange echo between the lion simile here and the famous image of a lioness tracking her cubs in Homer’s description of Achilles’ grief for Patroclus (Il. 18.316–30).53 If so, however, the source is undoubtedly removed by several stages from the Greek original, and the original context of grief and distress has been replaced by the conventional one of battle: it may even be a coincidence that the simile has re-attached itself to the hero to whom it was originally applied by Homer. Likewise it is possible that the bizarre comparison of Cu´ Chulainn’s heartbeat to ‘a lion attacking bears’ (TBC1 2264–5, quoted above) is ultimately derived from the conventional beast similes of classical epic; but the context here is utterly diVerent, and the logic of the image is unparalleled by any possible exemplar that I can Wnd in Latin sources.

52 See further Mac Gearailt (1996) 459. 53 Noted by Myrick (1993) 92.

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The picture that begins to emerge is of the development of a home-grown narrative canon whose overall structures are strengthened or given authority by rapprochement with late classical mythography, while its aesthetic and cultural concerns naturally and coincidentally parallel those of the now lost and forgotten Homeric originals. Much of what drives the battle-descriptions in Togail Troı´, as well as the accounts of challenge and combat with Cu´ Chulainn in TBC1, is a concern with the extreme states of mind and body into which the hero is cast in the heat of battle—a concern closely akin in spirit, if not in detail, to the theme of heroic excess that we identiWed in the Iliad as well as in the Old English material of the same period. From this background emerge exuberant descriptions of the changes undergone by the foremost heroes in the heat of battle, where the extremity of spirit becomes a physical transformation.54 Alongside Cu´ Chulainn’s transformation, printed above, stands a briefer but parallel account of Troilus in Togail Troı´:55 Fury and anger entered [Troilus]; and out of his forehead there rose the warrior’s moon until it was as long as his nose; and his two eyes came out of his head till they were longer than a hand’s measure to the outside of his head. His hair was like the branches of a hawthorn. He attacked the hosts in that wise, like a lion active, full of rending fury, who runs to attack a herd of boars (Togail Troı´ I 1471–88, adapted from Stokes’s translation).

As we noted above, there are no grounds to assign primacy either to this transformation or to that of Cu´ Chulainn: all we can say is that both bear witness to the same formal template for describing the miraculous transWguration of the hero in battle, and one is extended into more elaborate form than the other, evidently for literary reasons related to its place at a crucial point of the story-line of the

54 It is impossible to tell whether the transformation of Cu´ Chulainn is speciWc to that hero or represents a Xoating motif which could be freely applied to diVerent warriors in diVerent narratives. For the latter possibility see e.g. Bruford (1994) 27–8. It remains possible, however, that the transformation of Troilus in Togail Troı´ I is deliberately intended to recall the transformation traditionally associated with Cu´ Chulainn: note that in the thirteenth-century Irish poem Clann ollaman uaisle Emna Cu´ Chulainn is speciWcally paralleled with Troilus (13–14) among a series of equations ´ hUiginn (1992) 37–8. between characters in the two cycles. Cf. Byrne (1963) 81 n. 4; O 55 See further Myrick (1993) 151–3.

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Ta´in.56 By setting the two alongside each other we can pick out the shared patterns of the template: the warrior’s fury, the miraculous luan la´ith or ‘hero’s moon’ that gleams over his head, the weird transformation of his eyes, the comparison of his wild hair to a tree, and the deployment of simile imagery in which beasts Wght each other. When we focus on the template in this way, it begins to seem more and more remote from the Iliadic image of Achilles. The apparent correspondences with Homer are fortuitous, due to the combination of heterogeneous but mutually strengthening routes of convergence. First is the independent interest of the two traditions in the extreme behaviour of semi-divine warriors in battle; second is the shared aesthetic of the simile, with contrastive juxtaposition in the choice of imagery; and third is the overall project of developing a narrative cycle which would stand as an integrated whole, the ‘Matter of Ireland’ in the context of universal pseudo-history. It is part and parcel of this distinctive literary project that its elements are culled indiscriminately from native and foreign sources, contributing to a unique synthesis with its own logic. If it is true that some of the imagery of Cu´ Chulainn has found its way into the Irish discourse from Mediterranean sources, it is equally true that the warriors of Troy have taken on the characteristics, potentially superhuman, of the heroes of an inherited tradition whose antiquity and ultimate origins will have been already unknown when the texts were composed. If this analysis carries conviction, it may give us some insight into the paradoxical resemblances between disparate literatures that are dubbed ‘heroic’. It is undoubtedly a fact of human nature that men behave in uncanny and even self-destructive ways on the battleWeld, and that they are especially liable to do so when their world associates social prestige and lasting glory with success in single combat; and at diVerent times and places literary art has responded to these phenomena in extended narratives of the kind now called ‘heroic’. But the detailed shaping of that response is subject to external inXuence as much as any other art-form: the complicating factor is that the 56 Note that even within TBC1 the long description of Cu´ Chulainn’s transformation is echoed in a passage by the so-called H-interpolator by a briefer version of the image, on a similar scale to the account of Troilus’ transformation printed here.

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carriers of such inXuence seldom correspond to the texts that later hindsight sees as the great classics of mainstream literature. We have seen that a combination of independent cultural development and the inXuence of late Latin bric-a-brac created a medieval Irish literature which uncannily resembles Homer, even though no one responsible for it can have known clearly what the name of Homer stood for. Given the paucity of available evidence, it is impossible to tell whether the background of the Old English heroic poems is in any signiWcant way similar to that; but the Irish material, and the key role therein of Dares’ wretched little book, will at least stand as an example of the kind of muddled and counter-intuitive connections that characterize much of the history of literary interaction. If the most prized and most ‘classical’ works of the epic succession stand over us now like the heights of a single great tradition, we should remember that more signiWcant continuities have often been transmitted over the centuries by the dog-eared handbooks of sub-literary lore.

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10 Quantum Mutatus ab Illo Moments of Change and Recognition in Tasso and Milton Emily Wilson

By the end of the sixteenth century, any European or British writer embarking on a long heroic poem would have been aware of the classical epic tradition, and especially of the Aeneid. Even those who knew no Greek or Latin could now, for the Wrst time, read a range of vernacular translations, which were given a wide circulation by the printing press. In Britain, a spate of English translations of the Aeneid appeared in the late sixteenth century,1 and around the turn of the century, Chapman published his versions of the Iliad and the Odyssey.2 Knowledge of the classical epic tradition was no longer conWned to specialists; even moderately educated readers—even, perhaps, literate women—could be expected to pick up obvious classical allusions. New consciousness of classical literature created a new set of questions about how writers should relate to their ancient predecessors. 1 Gavin Douglas’s Eneados, a Middle Scots version of the whole poem, was published in 1553 (though Wnished in 1513); Surrey’s blank verse translations of books 2 and 4, in 1554; Richard Stanihurst’s quantitative version of books 1–4, in 1582; Thomas Phaer and Thomas Twyne’s plodding but heavily circulated version in fourteeners was Wnished in 1584. See Gransden (1996); Burrow (1997a). 2 His Seaven Bookes of the Iliades appeared in 1598; he Wnished the whole poem, after many revisions, in 1611.

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Should all heroic narrative poetry imitate the Aeneid and the Homeric poems? What allowances should be made for the tastes and expectations of a contemporary readership? Could the presence in classical epic of pagan gods and pagan magic be adapted in a Christian poem? How far could a writer diverge from either the form or the ethos of Homer and Virgil, and still remain within the classical tradition? Should modern writers of narrative poetry even try to imitate the ancients? Some writers in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries would have given a resounding ‘No’ to this last question. The availability of the classical tradition also made it possible to reject classicism altogether. New long narrative vernacular poems like Orlando Innamorato and Orlando Furioso were seen by many as belonging to a new and unclassical, even anti-classical genre, ‘romance’, which owed little or nothing to ancient literature and which catered to the needs of contemporary Europe.3 For these writers and commentators, classical epic was a restrictive genre which required adherence to a narrow set of formal unities, whereas vernacular romance allowed for the inWnite expansion of episodes, and was therefore more suited to a newly expanded and pluralist society. Others—including Tasso in Italy and, a little later, Milton in Britain—deliberately positioned their work within the tradition of Homeric and Virgilian epic. Both poets ostensibly rejected romance outright: in the Discorsi, Tasso insists on his diVerences from Boiardo and Ariosto, while Milton’s narrator at the beginning of Paradise Lost book 9 takes a side-swipe at Spenser, sneering at those who tell the unheroic tales of ‘jousting knights’ (9.33–8). But it would be misleading to present these poets as simply returning to a purely classical tradition. Like all great poets, Milton and Tasso do not conWne themselves rigidly to generic demarcations. They reject the narrow conception of the classical epic tradition itself which is implied by a strict distinction between 3 Classical epic was found too monotonous by many of those whose tastes had been nourished by Orlando Innamorato and Orlando Furioso. Tasso himself acknowledges in the Discorsi that most of his contemporaries prefer reading Ariosto to Homer: ‘I grant what experience demonstrates, that Orlando Furioso delights our contemporaries more than [Trissino’s] Italia liberata or even the Iliad and the Odyssey’ (Cavalchini and Samuel (1973) 76).

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epic and romance;4 they rediscover in epic the Odyssean strand which had been largely co-opted by romance. Supposedly ‘romance’ elements persist in both poets’ work,5 and indeed, Tasso denies that romance is really a separate genre from classical epic.6 Both were willing to incorporate into epic themes, tropes, and styles more often associated with other genres, including tragedy, comedy, mock-heroic, pastoral, and history writing, as well as romance.7 Moreover, both poets draw on biblical as well as classical traditions, mingling pagan and Christian literature. Because of its multiple debts—to biblical, classical, and more recent literature—Renaissance epic raises in a particularly acute form the question of how literary memory operates. How do poets signal their awareness of past literature? Should we imagine the relationship of a poet to his or her predecessors as a kind of heroic struggle for dominance, as Harold Bloom’s ‘anxiety of inXuence’ model suggested? Or should we set the psychodynamics of authorship aside, and view multiple allusions as competing ‘voices’ within the text?8 Do echoes of previous literature necessarily carry 4 Some of the less successful Renaissance epics suVer from their authors’ equation of ‘epic’ with ‘Iliadic’—and of ‘Iliadic’ with ‘militaristic’. Ronsard’s Franciade (1572) is the most obvious example. On this, see Silver (1961), who discusses Ronsard’s attitudes towards Homeric epic and their limitations; see especially 141–2. 5 Many recent critics have discussed how Tasso and Milton combine ‘epic’ with ‘romance’: see especially Parker (1979); Quint (1993); Burrow (1993). 6 In the Discorsi: Cavalchini and Samuel (1973) 71. For him, Ariosto is as much an epic writer as Homer was. Tasso suggests that Orlando Furioso diVers from classical epic not in genre, but in its greater emphasis on ‘love, chivalry, adventure, enchantment’ (Discorsi: Cavalchini and Samuel (1973) 76–7)—none of which is, in itself, an improper subject for epic. With touching trustfulness, he claims that there is not, has not been, and will never be a poetic genre unknown to Aristotle’s ‘subtle genius’. On Tasso’s adherence to Aristotelian principles, see Rhu (1993). The desire to return to a more truly classical and truly epic tradition involved, for Milton and especially Tasso, an interest in the theoretical precepts of Aristotle in the Poetics. On Milton and Aristotle’s Poetics, see Steadman (1976). 7 On Milton’s mixture of genres in Paradise Lost, see especially Rollin (1973) and Lewalski (1985). See also Lyne (1994) on the introduction of other genres into epic in the Aeneid. 8 See e.g. Bloom (1973); Lyne (1987). Even the terminology one uses to ask the question necessarily implies a particular theoretical outlook. ‘Allusion’ and ‘inXuence’ suggest deliberate and conscious recollection of one poet by another. ‘Relationship’ and ‘response’ suggest an emphasis on the interpersonal dynamic between authors. ‘Intertextuality’, on the other hand, and sometimes ‘echoes’ or

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with them a memory of their earlier contexts?9 What happens when a single passage draws on more than one earlier source? Renaissance epic raises problems of generic and literary-historical identity. What makes one poem the same genre as another? How can one recognize continuity within the poetic transformation of particular themes or tropes? In this chapter I will suggest that the interactions between characters in two Renaissance epics may hint at how we should read the interactions between Renaissance epic and the various traditions on which it draws. I will point to the complex ways in which echoes of Virgil, in particular, may be joined with recollections of later literature. But I would also like to warn against reading these poems exclusively in terms of allusion or intertext. Milton and Tasso succeed in making their readers forget or misremember past literature, by transforming classical tropes beyond recognition. I will focus on the transformation in Renaissance epic of two moments in Virgil where Aeneas encounters a radically altered Wgure from his past, who tells him to run away and to pursue his imperial quest elsewhere. In book 2 Aeneas has a dream of Hector, who tells him to leave Troy; in book 3 he encounters a bleeding, speaking tree, who turns out to be the Trojan Polydorus, and who tells him to leave Thrace and found his city in another country. The scenes are verbally linked in the Aeneid; the words heu, fuge are repeated (Aen. 2.289 and 3.44). Tasso alludes to the Polydorus episode in Gerusalemme liberata, when Tancredi misidentiWes an enchanted, bleeding, speaking tree as his dead beloved, Clorinda. In Paradise Lost Milton reworks Aeneas’ dream vision of Hector, when Satan fails either to recognize or be recognized by his family and friends. In the Aeneid these passages suggest that the past may inform the future. Strange encounters with lost and altered companions guide Aeneas away from dead-end places to resume his true journey ‘voices’, are terms adopted by those who do not want to make any assumptions about authorial intentionality, and who may want to shift attention from authors to texts. This theoretical question has lately been much discussed by Latinists; see Hinds (1998); Edmunds (2001). 9 Martindale (1986) oVers helpful reservations against the idea that readers are expected to keep the original context in mind in every instance of apparent allusion.

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towards Italy. The episodes draw attention to change, but not recognition or identity; Aeneas has no diYculty in knowing that the blood-stained character he sees in his dream is Hector, though a Hector he has never seen before, nor in knowing that the voice from the tree really is Polydorus. Only in the Underworld, in Aeneid 6, does Aeneas encounter a companion so changed that he barely knows him. Deiphobus, the second Trojan lover of Helen, has had both face and hands mutilated by the Greek pillagers, Menelaus and Ulysses, incited by Helen herself. Aeneas struggles to recognize his shade: Atque hic Priamiden laniatum corpore toto Deiphobum vidit, lacerum crudeliter ora, ora manusque ambas, populataque tempora raptis auribus et truncas inhonesto vulnere naris. vix adeo adgnovit pavitantem ac dira tegentem supplicia. And here he saw Deiphobus the son of Priam with his whole body ravaged, his face cruelly mutilated—his face and both his hands, and his ears torn from the ravished sides of his head, and his nostrils maimed by a shameful wound. Indeed he barely recognized him, as he was trembling in fear and covering up his terrible marks of torture (Aen. 6. 494–9).

In this passage, physical torment combines with shame to destroy Deiphobus’ original appearance. The body of the military Deiphobus (Deiphobe armipotens as Aeneas calls him at 6.500, ‘Deiphobus strong in arms’) has been totally destroyed by his relationship with Helen and its aftermath. The encounter with Deiphobus conWrms that something of old Troy has been lost forever. In the Renaissance epics, the story-patterns associated with Polydorus and Hector in the Aeneid become scenes of mistaken recognition (Tasso) or non-recognition (Milton), where—as in the Deiphobus episode—it is diYcult, painful, or impossible for one character to know another. Recognition after change had, of course, been a theme in the epic tradition since the Odyssey.10 But Renaissance epic adds new levels of complexity to scenes of 10 For discussions of recognition in the Odyssey, see Murnaghan (1981) and Richardson (1984).

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problematic, painful, and failed recognition. These poems make their readers ask what it means to recognize another person, and what the criteria are by which we Wnd sameness or identity despite time and change. What exactly is it that goes wrong, when Tancredi in Gerusalemme liberata misidentiWes the tree as Clorinda, or when Satan in Paradise Lost repeatedly fails to recognize or be recognized by his friends? In Aeneid 6, recognition is momentarily diYcult only for Aeneas: the reader is told clearly, twice, that this Wgure is Deiphobus (Aen. 6.495, 500). In Milton and Tasso, the reader of epic is led to share the characters’ bewildered failure to know one another. I suggest that the representation in these poems of recognition as something painful, perhaps impossible, perhaps even undesirable, reXects Milton and Tasso’s relationship with the classical epic tradition.11 These poets both recognize and deny the kinship between their own work and that of their ancient predecessors. These scenes suggest that the epic tradition itself may be both deeply familiar, and transformed beyond recognition.

DEFINITIONS OF RECOGNITION Recognition12 is the perception of an identity which has been in doubt. It is the sudden re-learning of something once known, or of something which ought always to have been known, after a period of 11 The possibility that there might be a connection between epic recognition and the epic tradition is raised in a parenthesis in a footnote by Cesare (1992) 91 n. 9. He notes that the passage evokes ‘Aeneas’ dream-vision of Hector at Troy (and perhaps a kind of recognition among epics? but that is beyond my scope here)’. Cf. also Hinds (1998) 8–9 and passim. 12 The analysis I oVer here of ‘recognition’ is less lexical than conceptual. I am not primarily interested in charting a history of the conceptual variations between, say, anagnosco and recognosco. I take the usage of ‘recognition’ in English, IƪتŒø or Iƪøæ ø in Greek, recognosco in Latin, and the words descended from recognosco in Romance languages (including conoscere, riconoscere, riconoscimento, and riconoscenza in Italian) as part of my evidence. But I do not intend to limit what counts as a scene concerned with ‘recognition’ to passages where one of these words is used. I am here interested in philology only insofar as it contributes to a conceptual analysis. On the principle of starting from the lexicon but moving beyond it, see Rosen and Sluiter (2003) 4.

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forgetfulness or failure to know. For this reason, recognition is always preceded by non-recognition, and moments of non-recognition remind us that recognition itself always happens with diYculty. In Gerusalemme liberata and Paradise Lost, failed attempts at recognition draw attention to problems of personal identity. If we know other people by means of external signs or appearance, what happens when the outer appearance changes? Can the person remain the same? What if the inner person also changes, morally or spiritually—as Clorinda does by conversion to Christianity, and Satan by his Fall? I will suggest that in both these poems, recognition is impeded by the characters’ resistance to change. Tancredi cannot fully accept that Clorinda is enjoying eternal bliss after death. He can recognize her only as the one he has known in the Xesh, the one he has wounded. Satan cannot accept that he himself has changed, by falling from Heaven. Stanley Cavell has argued convincingly that psychological states which may seem purely cognitive—such as knowledge and doubt— often, perhaps always, have an emotional dimension.13 This is, I would argue, especially true of recognition. Aristotle presents recognition, anagnorisis, simply as an intellectual change, ‘from knowledge to ignorance’ (Poet. 1452a29–31). But unlike knowledge, recognition does not depend on good reasons for true belief. Literary recognitions always rely on inconclusive and circumstantial pieces of evidence, such as scars, footprints, and locks of hair (as Terence Cave emphasizes).14 Cavell suggests that recognition may be closely associated with its emotional and performative counterpart: acknow-

13 Cavell (1969), (1987). 14 Terence Cave’s (1988) central insight is that recognition scenes, which one might expect would be moments of epistemological certainty and full revelation, are in fact both shocking (‘a scandal’ is the term he uses), and deeply ambiguous. Cave includes at the start of his study the real-life story of Martin Guerre, the soldier whose wife supposedly recognized him after a long absence in war, but who was then accused of being an impostor. The story shows, for Cave, how recognition is always debatable, reversible, and potentially ‘scandalous’. Cave’s point applies well to the passages I discuss, although he makes no mention of Milton, and discusses Tasso only as a literary theorist, not as a poet (in his section on Renaissance commentaries on Aristotle’s Poetics, 78–83). He mentions the non-recognition scene between Tancredi and the false voice of Clorinda in Gerusalemme liberata, but only in a footnote on Freud (172 n. 86).

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ledgement.15 I will suggest that both Tasso and Milton treat recognition as a synecdochal image for acknowledgement, speciWcally acknowledgement of responsibility.16 Freud vividly dramatizes17 the potential for slippage between recognition and acknowledgement in an anecdote about himself which he includes as a footnote to his essay on the uncanny, Das Unheimliche.18 He tells us that once, alone in a sleeping compartment on a train, he was startled as the lavatory door of his room swung open and he saw ‘an elderly gentleman in a dressing gown and travelling cap’, who had suddenly entered his chamber. He found the intruder’s appearance ‘thoroughly unpleasant’. It took him a moment to realize, ‘to [his] astonishment’, that the ‘elderly gentleman’ was—of course—himself, visible in the bathroom mirror. Freud implies that his failure to recognize himself was motivated by a reluctance to acknowledge his own death.19 15 On the relationship of knowledge to acknowledgement, see Cavell (1969) and (1987). Cavell’s reading of King Lear in particular ((1987) 39–124) raises the possibility that Lear’s failure to recognize Cordelia in the last act of the play echoes his failure to acknowledge her in the Wrst. 16 Mario di Cesare (1992) associates recognition in epic with ‘re-connection’, and implies that epic recognition may actually be identical with acknowledgement. He writes as if Penelope’s recognition of Odysseus, and her acknowledgement of him as her husband, were the same thing. The slippage between recognition and acknowledgement in epic texts can be discussed more precisely if the distinction between the two concepts is retained. 17 I use the word ‘dramatize’ because I am interested in Freud here less as an analyst than as a storyteller or dramatist. 18 See Freud (2003 (1919)) 162; iii. n. 1. Terence Cave relates literary recognition to Freud’s discussion of the uncanny, noting that ‘Freud’s dazzling analysis of the etymology and semantics of the words heimlich and unheimlich is curiously suggestive of the ambivalences of anagnorisis’ ((1988) 172). Cave’s discussion of Freud also touches on The Interpretation of Dreams, the commentary on Walter Jensen’s Gradiva (Der Wahn und die Tra¨ume), and Beyond the Pleasure Principle. 19 Freud suggests that his response to his own reXection might have been ‘a vestige of the archaic reaction to the ‘‘double’’ as something uncanny’. At Wrst, he treats the idea of the double as a fantasy of immortality, an insurance against the possibility of death. But after childhood, or after the development of civilization beyond the ‘primitive’, ‘the meaning of the ‘‘double’’ changes: having once been an assurance of immortality, it becomes an uncanny harbinger of death’ (Freud (2003 (1919)) 142). In context, the story also functions as an image of Freud’s whole analysis of the sense of the uncanny, which he claims is caused by the familiar. The sense of the uncanny involves the insistent pressure of ‘home-truths’—or, more often, ‘home falsehoods’, such as the childish belief that the dead come back to life—which have been imperfectly repressed.

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I will be particularly concerned with literary examples of false recognition and non-recognition.20 I suggest that both these errors of recognition are caused by a slippage between recognition and acknowledgement. Tancredi’s false recognition, his misidentiWcation of the voice he hears as that of Clorinda, is prompted by a desire to acknowledge his responsibility for her death. In Paradise Lost, Satan’s failure to recognize his children, Sin and Death, or his old friend Beelzebub, is prompted by a reluctance to acknowledge his responsibility for his own Fall.

G E RUS AL E M ME L I B E R ATA In Gerusalemme liberata, Tancredi repeatedly fails to recognize Clorinda, the warrior princess on the enemy side with whom he has fallen in love. He is the Christian knight who represents the concupiscent part of the soul according to the ‘Allegory of the Poem’. Paradoxically, however, he is misled not by desire but by false opinion: he is seduced by the cognitive distortions of the wizard Ismene. Tancredi suVers and errs from false belief—from repeated failures of recognition. From the very beginning of the Tancredi and Clorinda story, the reader is led to intuit that Tancredi may have diYculty in recognizing his beloved. Their Wrst interaction within the narrative of the poem is in book 3, when she comes out riding with the pagans and attacks him. As they tilt their lances together, her helm falls oV, and her long hair is revealed. The narrator’s voice intervenes at this point to address Tancredi:

20 Aristotle does not include the possibility of non-recognition as a possible type of recognition scene. But Tasso’s Italian contemporary, the Aristotle commentator Castelvetro, Wlls in the gap, discussing the possibility that a familiar person may be so altered—by a change in form, or miraculous transformation, or great suVering— as to be unrecognizable: see Castelvetro (1576) 250–3, discussed by Steadman (1976) 72, who remarks that the encounters in Paradise Lost between Satan and Sin in book 2, and between Satan and and the angelic guard in book 4, Wt Castelvetro’s model.

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Her eyes blazed and her glance sparkled like lightning, sweet in her anger; now what would they be in laughter? Tancred, of what are you thinking? what are you heeding? do you not recognize the beloved face? This is in truth that beautiful countenance for which you are all on Wre: your heart can tell you, on which its image is graven. This is she whom you saw that day refreshing her brow in the solitary pool (GL 3.22).21

Tancredi ought already to know Clorinda: he has already met and fallen in love with her, before the narrative of the poem began. In fact, Tancredi has not, at this stage, forgotten his beloved, and he does not fail to recognize her, as the next stanza reassures us: ‘Ei ch’al cimiero ed al dipinto scudo j non bado` prima, or lei veggendo impe`tra’ (‘He who never before paid heed to crest or painted shield now, seeing her, is turned to stone’, 3.23.1–2). But the narrator’s series of questions is striking, and vaguely troubling. The anxiety expressed is not the more obvious possibility that Tancredi might no longer love Clorinda, but that he might fail to recognize her. The narrator’s questions introduce the reader to the fact that Tancredi is somehow not very good at recognizing the woman he loves. Tancredi’s diYculties are associated here with his role as a Petrarchan lover. Part of the reason he cannot recognize Clorinda’s ‘altero viso’ (literally, ‘proud face’) is that his love is essentially distanced, dependent on his own abjection and his beloved’s pride. In fact, Tancredi does not seem to remember or recognize Clorinda’s face at all; it is only when her hair is revealed that he knows her. Tasso subtly mocks a chivalric tradition in which love is based on a fetishistic obsession with the individual features of a distanced and cold beloved. But Tancredi is not simply a Wgure of fun; he is also a Wgure of the poet.22 Tasso uses Tancredi’s inability to know Clorinda to explore 21 Trans. Nash (1987). 22 On Tancredi as poet, see especially Ferguson (1983).

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the danger that every poet, not only Petrarchan love poets, may become divorced from reality. Tancredi’s diYculties in recognizing Clorinda are also the result of her own complexity as a character. She is a woman who dresses and behaves like a man, and she discovers in book 12 that her mother, although she brought her up as a Muslim, was in fact an Ethiopian Christian; although she is white, her parents were black.23 It is not surprising that Tancredi fails to recognize Clorinda when she does not know herself. The story of her birth and upbringing creates doubts about which of her many contradictory roles constitutes the ‘real’ Clorinda. On one level, there seems to be a suggestion that true identity is formed by birth: Clorinda is born to be a Christian because her mother was Christian. An obvious reason for the presence of the story in the poem is to allow for the religious and literary redemption of the sympathetic Clorinda, without violating the poem’s rigid categorization of the non-Christians as the villains of the story. But Clorinda was also suckled by a tigress while escaping from Ethiopia. This complicates the picture, since the milk Clorinda has drunk as a baby—the primary image for nurture—is associated metaphorically less with the pagans than with the Christians.24 Perhaps, then, Clorinda’s two religions are parallel: Islam is not merely false nurture superimposed on native Christian truth. Moreover, if nurture may provide a good intimation of a person’s proper self and proper religious identity, Clorinda might even seem right to insist that she will remain in the faith in which she has been raised. Tasso thus invites us to consider what it means to recognize someone’s true identity. Is it constituted by physical appearance, or by past history, or by religion, or by moral quality? The diYculty for Tancredi is to disentangle the real Clorinda from her multiple diVerent roles. But the recognition of any aspect of Clorinda involves the failure to recognize its converse. He can recognize her as a warrior only by not seeing that she is a woman. He can recognize her as his victim only by not seeing that she dies redeemed. 23 The story is closely modelled on Heliodorus’ Ethiopian Story—an example of Tasso’s willingness to draw on non-epic sources and incorporate them into his poem. 24 As Lawrence Rhu has pointed out (1993), both Rinaldo and GoVredo are compared to tigers.

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When Tancredi meets Clorinda on the battleWeld, she is not wearing her characteristic tigress helm. He fails to recognize her, they Wght, and he gives her a death wound. As she lies dying, she appeals to him to fetch water and baptize her as a Christian. It is only when he moves her helm away that he sees her face. The narrator explicitly signals the moment as a recognition scene, or at least, as a cognition scene, exclaiming, ‘Ahi vista! ahi conoscenza!’, ‘Alas the sight! Alas the knowledge!’ (GL 12.67.8).25 It may be signiWcant that the word used is conoscenza, not riconoscenza. This moment is only one in what is to be a series of recognitions and false recognitions of Clorinda by Tancredi. He hovers between recognizing what is, in the terms of the poem, the truth about Clorinda—that she dies a Christian and is redeemed— and experiencing again the recognition of the fact that he has murdered her. Tancredi retains enough self-control to baptize Clorinda, before he passes out. The narrator assures us that she dies joyfully: ‘e in atto di morir lieto e vivace, j dir parea: ‘‘S’apre il cielo; io vado in pace’’ ’ (‘and through the act of her joyful and living death, she seemed to say: ‘‘Heaven is opening; I depart in peace’’ ’, GL 12.68). Tancredi later receives a vision of Clorinda in her heavenly splendour; she conWrms that, thanks to his baptism, she has risen to eternal bliss (GL 12.91–3). But neither the baptism itself, nor the later vision, entirely succeed in comforting Tancredi. On one level, he has recognized the truth, that he has killed his beloved. But on another level, he repeatedly refuses to recognize the further truth, that he has saved her. Peter the Hermit reproaches him for his love of the ‘rebel’ Clorinda, which is distracting him from his own salvation. The hermit presents Tancredi’s continuing grief as a failure to recognize reality: ‘O Tancredi, Tancredi, o da te stesso j troppo diverso e da i princı`pi tuoi, j chi sı` t’assorda? e qual nuvol sı` spesso j di cecita` fa che vedere non puoi?’ (‘O Tancred, Tancred, O too far wide of yourself and your beginnings, who is making you so deaf ? and what cloud of blindness so thick is causing it that you cannot see?’, 12.86.1–4). Tancredi persists in his material recognition, at the expense of the spiritual one. 25 See Rhu (1993) on the use of the Aristotelian terminology of recognition in this passage.

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He seems partly to trust in his dream vision of the exalted Clorinda. We are told that he ‘wakes consoled’, and now submits to the doctors who will enable him to go on living (12.94). But his Wrst care is to arrange Clorinda’s burial. Throughout the episode, Tancredi shows an obsessive interest in her dead body. In his immediate response to her death, he launches into a macabre fantasy that she may have been eaten by a wild animal, and if so, he hopes to be devoured by the same beast so that his own body may be joined with hers (12.78–9). Tancredi’s devotion to the physical being of Clorinda blinds him to what Peter the Hermit regards as the true reading of her death. It is a sign from heaven, which Tancredi will ignore at his peril; he risks damnation if he continues in his suicidal despair (12.86–8). Tancredi responds to the hermit’s warnings, but he does so with conXicting emotions: he is torn between desire for death, and fear of hell (12.89). He is willing to acknowledge his own guilt, but not willing to recognize that his guilt might be forgivable. In book 13, Tancredi encounters what seems like the voice of Clorinda in a tree. The wizard Ismene has animated the forest with spirits from hell, who terrify the Christians as they come to try to gather wood. The forest is essential for the success of the Christian enterprise. It is the only available source of wood, and without wood GoVredo cannot rebuild his siege engines and take the city. After others have failed, Tancredi succeeds in passing the terrors of the outskirts of the forest. But when he reaches a clearing containing only one tall cypress tree, he discovers an inscription on its trunk, which hints that the tree holds the dead: ‘Perdona a l’alme omai di luce prive: j non de´e guerra co’ morti aver chi vive’ (‘Have pity on souls that are deprived of light; the living ought not to wage war with the dead’, 13.39).26 Despite the warning, Tancredi tries at Wrst to continue with his mission of cutting down the forest; he takes his sword and strikes the trunk of the tree. But blood comes from the bark, and he hears a voice like that of Clorinda, which reproaches him: ‘Alas, too much have you wronged me, Tancred; now let this much suYce’ (13.42).27 Tancredi is overcome, even though he half knows that this is a delusion (13.44); he loses his sword to the winds, and returns back to the camp. 26 Trans. Nash (1987).

27 Trans. Nash (1987).

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Tasso here draws on the Polydorus episode in Aeneid 3, as well as on two more recent Italian imitations of that scene, by Dante and Ariosto.28 At the start of Aeneid 3, after the fall of Troy, Aeneas tries to found a city in Thrace. But as he tears up a tree to deck the altar for sacriWce, blood drips out, and on the third try, the voice of Polydorus speaks to him in warning: ‘quid miserum, Aeneas, laceras? iam parce sepulto, parce pias scelerare manus. non me tibi Troia externum tulit, aut cruor hic de stipite manat. heu, fuge crudelis terras, fuge litus avarum. nam Polydorus ego. hic conWxum ferrea texit telorum seges et iaculis increvit acutis.’ ‘Why, Aeneas, are you hurting a poor unhappy creature? Now that I am buried, spare me, and spare to pollute your own dutiful hands. Troy bore me, I am no stranger to you; this blood does not drip from a tree-trunk. Alas! Escape this cruel country, escape this greedy shore. For I am Polydorus. Here an iron crop of weapons covered over my pierced body, and grew with sharp javelins’ (Aen. 3. 41–6).

The wounded, speaking tree is imitated by Dante in the Inferno (canto 13), where Dante the character encounters a mysterious wood full of voices. His guide, Virgil, tells him to break oV a branch from one of the trees. It drips blood, and protests against such cruel treatment. Virgil explains that this would not have been necessary, had Dante been able to believe what he had seen in Virgil’s own poetry (‘la mia rima’, 13.48). But Dante makes some signiWcant alterations to Virgil’s version of the wounded, speaking tree. The tree man here is a victim of the treachery of others, like Polydorus: he is Pier della Vigna, counsellor to the Emperor Frederick II, who was unjustly ousted from favour with him. But he is also the victim of his own self-betrayal and violence against himself: this is the wood of the suicides. While the Polydorus episode reminds Aeneas of the external dangers of the world away from home, the wood of the suicides reminds Dante of psychological and moral danger to the self. 28 Tasso’s use of Ariosto in this scene is discussed in detail by Ferguson (1983). On the relationship of Tasso’s wood to Dante’s, see Murrin (1980).

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Moreover, whereas Aeneas breaks the branch of the tree in order to use its wood to bless his new city, Dante breaks the tree only because Virgil tells him to do so. The wood itself is of no signiWcance; what matters is what Dante can learn from the encounter. Ariosto’s version of the wounded tree takes this a step further: his tree breaks entirely by accident. In Orlando Furioso canto 6, the knight Ruggiero is spending the night on a magical island. He ties his hippogriV to a myrtle tree, but the animal bucks about, and the tree complains with a human voice. An episode which in Virgil had suggested the dangers inherent in an imperial quest, and in Dante had been a reminder both of moral danger and of the hidden truths in the pagan poetry of Virgil, becomes in Ariosto just one of those things: another weird and amusing incident. There are two central diVerences between Tancredi’s encounter with the bleeding tree and its epic predecessors. One is that, as Margaret Ferguson points out, ‘his encounter with a voice from the past impedes rather than furthers his mission and his understanding of it’.29 ‘Tasso alone makes the ontological mystery into an epistemological and moral danger, calling the voice a ‘‘simulacrum’’ which lies to the hero about its—and his—identity.’30 Tasso’s scene makes central the problem of knowing who is talking from the tree.31 Tasso presents Tancredi as an image of the poet, one who hears spectral voices from the past which have no basis in physical reality. But in Tasso, the wood itself, as material, becomes far more important than it has been in any previous version. In Dante, the

29 Ferguson (1983) 127. 30 Ferguson (1983) 128. 31 This point is neglected by Freud, who mentions the episode in Beyond the Pleasure Principle as an example of the passive repetitive experience of trauma (1955 (1920) 24). Freud misses, too, the fact that Tancredi is not really the primary ‘hero’ of the poem. He is subordinate to GoVredo, and he is in the forest not to satisfy his own curiosity (as Freud’s ‘he makes his way’ implies, (1955 (1920) 24), but in obedience to GoVredo’s instructions. Freud had not read the whole poem; he borrows his account of the story from Goethe’s Wilhem Meister 1.7 (Goethe (1989 (1795) ) 11–13). Cathy Caruth, one of the most prominent trauma theorists, reiterates the idea that what happens in this scene is pure repetition: ‘the unwitting reenactment of an event that one cannot simply leave behind’ (1996) 2. She adds her own central idea: that trauma involves ‘a voice that is paradoxically released through the wound’ (ibid., italics original).

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poet breaks oV the branch only because Virgil tells him to do so; he has no need of the wood. Ariosto’s Ruggiero does not even know that his animal’s antics have broken the tree. Aeneas had tried to gather wood to serve his larger imperial and religious purposes—but to bless a city which is not, after all, destined to be the new homeland for the Trojans. Tasso is the only poet in the series who suggests that the wood itself is necessary for the hero’s quest, and who presents the failure to gather wood from the bleeding tree as a failure in the mission. Gerusalemme liberata associates the problem of how to cut down the enchanted forest with the problem of how to use literary tradition. ‘Wood’ or ‘timber’ is also a traditional metaphor for the raw materials out of which poetry is created.32 Tasso uses the image in his Discorsi, remarking that ‘the material of poetry is like a dark forest, murky and without a ray of light’.33 But Tasso’s magic wood in Gerusalemme liberata is not purely neutral material. It cannot be transformed into siege engines immediately, because it carries too much with it already. The wood is full of dreams, and feeds on the dreams of those who enter it (like the planet Solaris).34 GoVredo and his men must purge the wood of its magic, destroy its dreams (and, hence, their own), in order to use it for their new military purpose. Tasso was aware that his task in writing the poem, like GoVredo’s in taking the city, must begin by creating usable material out of a tangle of dreams.35 Tancredi’s guilt about killing the pagan Clorinda, his desire to do so again, and his horror in the face of that desire, hint at the complex relationship of Tasso’s poetic enterprise to those of his predecessors. One could see here a version of the ‘anxiety of inXuence’:36 perhaps Tasso feels an urge to destroy the Aeneid,

32 On the metapoetical sense of wood, see Hinds (1998) 12–14. 33 Cavalchini and Samuel (1973) 21. 34 In the story by Lem (1970), and Wlm adaptations by Andrej Tarkowski (1972) and Steven Soderbergh/George Clooney (2003). Like Solaris, the enchanted forest in Gerusalemme liberata is a place where dreams—including nightmares—seem to come true. 35 Ferguson (1983) 135–6 makes a similar but diVerent point: she compares Tasso’s revisions of the Liberata into the Conquistata to GoVredo’s destruction of the forest. 36 The term is from Bloom (1973).

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the Inferno, and Orlando Furioso, just as Tancredi kills Clorinda. But Tasso Wnds that Virgil’s poem resurfaces even when he has tried to repress it; he hears Virgil’s voice in the middle of a Christian mission. A simile compares Tancredi’s encounter with the supposed voice of Clorinda with a sick man’s hallucinations (GL 13.44. 1–6): Qual l’infermo talor ch’in sogno scorge drago o cinta di Wamme alta Chimera, se ben sospetta o in parte anco s’accorge che ’l simulacro sia non forma vera, pur desia di fuggir, tanto gli porge spavento la sembianza orrida e fera. As sometimes the sick man who encounters in a dream dragon or tall chimaera girt with Xame, although he suspects or partly knows that the simulacrum is no true shape, yet wants to Xee, such terror the horrid and dreadful appearance implants in him . . . 37

The Wrst words of the simile punningly draw attention to Tasso’s dependence on Dante: Tancredi is like a sick man, ‘l’infermo’, but the whole episode also resembles Dante’s poem, l’Inferno. Tasso’s wood, like that of Inferno 13, is a place of moral danger and temptation, where pity for the dead may be a distraction from the true path. But although the simile suggests that Tancredi only partly believes in the voice, as one may be half aware that dreams are dreams, he declares positively to GoVredo that the tree really was inhabited by a human spirit (13.49). Tancredi’s fears and confusions hint at Tasso’s own anxieties, encountering the ‘wood’ or material of past poetic tradition. Are the dead real, or only voices in our own heads? Rinaldo, GoVredo’s second in command, succeeds in cutting down the forest without any trouble once he returns from the clutches of the witch Armida. He succeeds where Tancredi fails because he has no imagination; Rinaldo is not a poet. Tancredi listens to the voices of his own memory, and is vulnerable to guilt, aggression, and desire, whereas Rinaldo adheres to his purpose, and cuts down the trees even when they speak with the voice of his once beloved Armida (18.25–38). 37 Trans. Nash (1987).

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Perhaps, a Bloomian reading might suggest, Tasso draws attention to the problem of recognition in the relationship between Tancredi and Clorinda in order to deXect attention from the real issue: his own refusal to acknowledge his poetic relationships. But things are really the other way round here: there is, if anything, too much recognition, and also too much acknowledgement. The fear articulated by the Tancredi episode is not that Tasso may be dependent on the voices of the past, but rather, that there may be no other voices: as a poet, he may have to stand alone, responding only to the images and sounds in his head. As always in Tasso, there is an agonizing fear of lapsing into solipsistic madness. It is tempting to associate the supposed voice of Clorinda with the voice of the past.38 But the episode hints at the diYculty or even impossibility of recapturing poetic tradition. If Clorinda is Tancredi’s past, then the voice from the tree is a false version of that past, distorted both by the magic of Ismene the wizard, and by Tancredi’s own desires. Tasso hints at the strangeness and inaccessibility of the past, even when it seems at its most familiar. Colin Burrow suggests an alternative to the Bloomian way of reading poetic tradition, arguing that each poet struggles not to repress or destroy his predecessors, but to rehabilitate their strangeness, to understand the alien world-views of the past.39 Tancredi’s failure to understand that the tree’s voice is not Clorinda is an image of the false belief that the voices of the dead can ever be fully heard again.

PA R A D I S E LOS T In book 2 of the Aeneid, Hector appears to Aeneas in a dream, not in his living splendour, wearing Achilles’ Wrst set of armour which he had stripped in triumph from Patroclus, but bloody and dusty from Achilles’ chariot wheels. Hector has changed, and he warns Aeneas that he too must change. He must be a diVerent kind of hero, one adapted not to defend his city in the middle of a war, but to survive 38 Ferguson (1983) oVers a sophisticated reading along these lines. 39 See Burrow (1993).

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now that the war is over. Aeneas, Hector says, must do what may seem like the unheroic thing: he must run away. ‘heu, fuge nate dea, teque his’ ait ‘eripe Xammis’ (‘Son of a goddess, run away,’ he said, ‘and tear yourself from these Xames’, 2.289). The warning from Hector, greatest of the Trojan warriors, justiWes Aeneas in adopting what might seem like the cowardly way out, although he is slow to follow the advice. Aeneas is shocked at Hector’s altered appearance, and exclaims: ‘quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore, qui redit exuvias indutus Achilli vel Danaum Phrygios iaculatus puppibus ignis! squalentem barbam et concretos sanguine crinis volneraque illa gerens, quae circum plurima muros accepit patrios.’ ‘How changed from that Hector, who returned after putting on the armour of Achilles, or after hurling Phrygian Wres at the ships of the Greeks! With a ragged beard and hair matted with blood, and bearing all those many wounds which he got around his own city walls’ (Aen. 2.274–9).

Hector has changed so radically that it is as if there were two of him: the Hector who was dragged round Troy by Achilles and whose beauty and dignity are gone, and also ‘that Hector’ who thought he had won. The passage suggests that there may be multiple versions of a mythic character. DiVerent tellings of the story will concentrate on diVerent Hectors. Hector’s change marks the new mood in this new poem: the Virgilian Hector is not as he was in the Iliad. The Aeneid plots Aeneas’ attempts to deWne a new, Roman form of heroism, while the poem itself tries to reinvent Homeric epic. How diVerent can Hector be, and still be Hector? How diVerent can a hero be, and still be a hero? How much can Virgil swerve from Homer, and still follow the tradition of Homeric epic? The encounter between Aeneas and Hector uses the motif of an altered character—Hector—to mark the alteration which epic and epic heroism itself must undergo, as Virgil draws on but alters his Homeric models. Aeneas laments the changes which have befallen his friend, but does not doubt even for a moment that this vision was truly a vision

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of Hector. Neither Aeneas nor Hector change beyond recognition. In Paradise Lost, as in the Aeneid, encounters with altered characters within the narrative draw attention to the changes which the tradition itself has undergone. But Milton’s poem suggests an even greater sense that change can be disturbing, painful, and disruptive of all continuity. In Milton, the encounter becomes centrally concerned with the problem of recognition after an enormous change—a change which is both physical and moral. Satan’s Wrst words in the poem are an address in Hell to his companion in sin, Beelzebub: If thou beest he; but O how fall’n, how changed From him, who in the happy realms of light Clothed with transcendent brightness didst outshine Myriads though bright. (PL 1. 84–7).

Charles Martindale suggests that this passage may be seen not as an instance of speciWc allusion, ‘but rather a rhetorical formula of which the most famous example happens to occur in the Aeneid’.40 A similar exclamation occurs in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (6.273–4). Moreover, there is a verse in Isaiah which may be as important as a background to the Miltonic passage: ‘How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!’ (Isaiah 14: 12). Martindale argues that the Miltonic passage has a ‘classical epic timbre’, but disputes the claim of Blessington that Milton is closely alluding to the context of the Virgilian original, and thereby showing how pagan and un-Christian the devils’ behaviour is, ‘when compared to Aeneas’ and Hector’s, heroes who served as models for Christian behaviour during the Renaissance’.41 Martindale points to the paradox in Blessington’s reading, which treats the pagan Aeneas as the model for the Christian hero and ignores biblical inXuences. Martindale is certainly right to note that the biblical passage is also an important model for Satan’s exclamation. Milton contaminates or marries the classical with the biblical traditions. I would argue, however, that he is wrong to suggest that this is ‘rhetorical formula’, 40 Martindale (1986) 15.

41 Blessington (1979) 3.

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not allusion. Milton’s enjambement echoes Virgil’s, suggesting that the reader is being guided to think speciWcally of the passage from the Aeneid, as well as other sources. The presence of a similar exclamation in Ovid as well as in Virgil does not necessarily suggest that we should see this trope as formulaic, since speciWc recollection of the Ovidian passage is also relevant to Satan’s position. In Metamorphoses 6, Niobe watches all her seven sons die, and the narrator exclaims at how diVerent she is in her grief from the proud woman who boasted and rejected the gods. Niobe’s impiety is like that of Satan and Beelzebub, although the fallen angels are not yet willing to accept that they have, like Niobe, lost everything that mattered. Milton adapts a trope which is already, in his models, concerned with change, and alters it so as to suggest the possibility of an even more radical loss of an original self. Virgil and Ovid suggest that there may be two Hectors or two Niobes, one happy and one wretched. Satan’s exclamation suggests that the changed Beelzebub may not even be Beelzebub at all. Milton adds a striking detail not present in either Virgil, Ovid, or Isaiah. Satan begins with an initial conditional sentence, ‘If thou beest he . . .’. Rather than completing the syntax, he breaks oV into an exclamation: he is amazed at ‘how fallen, how changed’ Beelzebub is from his former glory. But the conditional raises an important set of questions which remain unanswered. Is Beelzebub still really himself? Is it possible to fall, and retain one’s identity? The encounter between Satan and Beelzebub suggests the possibility of a far more radical change of identity than that implied either in the Virgilian meeting of Hector and Aeneas, or even in Isaiah’s exclamation about Lucifer. To what extent can the fallen angels, and later, the fallen Adam and Eve, be continuous with their earlier, innocent selves? Is it possible to change one’s spiritual self, to move from Heaven to Hell and to fall from grace, and still remain the same? Satan hopes to deny that he has really changed at all. He uses the word ‘change’ three times in the course of a dozen lines (PL 1.84, 96, 97), but he insists that although Beelzebub may have changed and fallen, he himself remains essentially unchanged. After acknowledging that God the Father’s ‘dire arms’ have, at least for the time being, proved superior, Satan immediately denies that he has changed in any important, inner way.

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Emily Wilson Yet not for those [God’s arms], Nor what the potent victor in his rage Can else inXict, do I repent or change, Though changed in outward lustre, that Wxed mind And high disdain, from sense of injured merit, That with the mightiest raised me to contend. (PL 1.94–9).

Satan paradoxically combines denial and admission—he does not ‘change j Though changed’. But even the sound patterns of the lines undermine his position. Half-rhymes and sonic echoes (‘rage/change’, ‘mind/contend’, even ‘mind/merit/mightiest’) remind us that even apparently small alterations can make all the diVerence in the world. The narrator has already anticipated Satan’s exclamation, remarking of Hell, ‘O how unlike the place from whence they fell!’ The fallen angels struggle to deny that they themselves have been aVected in any essential way, even if their location is diVerent. The attempt to deny the fact of change continues as Satan and Beelzebub Wnd their way out from the ‘Wery waves’ (1.184) to the dry land of Hell. Surveying his new home, Satan asks, ‘Is this the region, this the soil, the clime . . . j That we must change for heaven?’ (1.242, 244), echoing the beginning of his greeting to Beelzebub, ‘If thou beest he . . .’. But almost at once he denies that the external, geographical change makes any diVerence, since he brings with him ‘a mind not be changed by place or time’ (1.253); he asks, ‘What matter where, if I be still the same . . . ?’ (1.256). Satan implies that identity is constituted by mental and spiritual continuity; it is unaVected by changes in geography. The principle may be right, but Satan is, of course, wrong (in the poem’s terms) to deny that his own mind has remained unchanged. Again, his conditional clause begs the central question: if he were indeed still the same, it might indeed not matter where he was. But he is not. Moreover, it is not so clear in Paradise Lost that moral or spiritual identity can be separated so easily from geography. Satan refuses to admit that Hell is a state of mind as well as a place. He refuses to recognize that he has changed, because he refuses to acknowledge that he has fallen. At the beginning of book 9, Milton’s narrator takes an opposite line on the relationship of external factors (place and time) to

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spiritual identity and mental power. He declares the superiority of his own central story, the Fall of Man, to those of previous epics. But he ends with a qualiWcation. His ‘higher argument’ is ‘suYcient of itself ’ to qualify the poem as ‘heroic’, ‘unless an age too late, or cold j Climate, or years damp my intended wing’ (PL 9.44–5). The place of Paradise Lost in the heroic tradition is, the passage suggests paradoxically, assured by its subject matter or ‘argument’, which is more truly heroic than pagan heroism. But that place may be jeopardized by Milton’s own position, as a poet writing in cold, damp England, in his late middle age, and in a time of political disillusionment, after the failure of the English republic. Milton acknowledges, as Satan does not, that his mind, and hence his poem, may be changed by place and time. Like Milton’s poetic narrator, Satan struggles with his own relationship to tradition and his position in changed and degrading circumstances. The parallel and contrast between Milton’s poetic narrator and Satan suggest that Satan may be a bad poet, because he is unable to acknowledge change as well as continuity. Satan, unlike the narrator, refuses to accept that change may aVect his own life and work. The association of Satan with classical heroism has often been noted by critics, and has been interpreted in a number of diVerent ways. Some, like Blessington, conXate classical and Christian ethics, suggesting that Satan has betrayed both.42 More often, the echoes of classical literature in Satan’s speeches are taken as a sign that the classical tradition itself is corrupt.43 Neither of these positions is entirely right. Satan draws on the Bible as well as on Virgil.44 The issue is less Satan’s classicism than his relationship to tradition— which includes both classical and biblical literature. For Milton, the proper relationship of a poet to his sources is part of a broader ethical question: how to relate to the past, and to change.45 In literary terms, Satan’s problems with self-recognition 42 Blessington (1979). 43 See for instance Kates (1974). 44 As Martindale (1986) notes. 45 This issue is brilliantly discussed by Quint (1986, epilogue), in greater detail than I can oVer here. Quint focuses on Satan’s attitude towards his origins, especially his desire to deny that he was created by God, and connects this to the poet’s relationship to his sources.

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and change suggest that a poet must Wrst recognize the discontinuity and diVerence between his own position as a writer, and his sources. Milton can position himself in the same tradition as Virgil, and be recognized as an epic writer in the classical tradition, only if he also recognizes the radical diVerences which divide him from the ancients. Milton uses the motif of a character’s astonishing change to hint at how Renaissance epic itself is a mutation from an earlier classical model. On one level, the fallen Satan’s exclamation might seem to suggest that Milton’s work is a ‘falling-oV’ from the original greatness of classical epic. On another, the passage suggests a new way of valuing the classical canon: the ‘realms of light’ in the Christian heaven are set over the inferno of pagan heroism. Satan has fallen back into classical epic, and the echo of Virgil is a mark of the fact that these fallen angels have not changed nearly enough. Change is the subject of Paradise Lost. The whole poem is concerned with a single momentous change, the Fall, and with all the other changes which preceded, accompanied, and followed it. Milton is particularly interested in change as a moral dilemma: sin can be caused by too great a desire for change, or else by too great a desire to maintain the status quo and deny the fact of change once it has occurred. Eve falls because she wants to change too fast, to become instantly wiser and more powerful. Adam falls because he refuses to change his relationship with Eve, even after she has fallen. The most important diVerence between the Fall of the angels and the Fall of Man is that Adam and Eve, unlike Satan and his followers, manage to accept change, to recognize that they have done wrong and that their world is diVerent as a result. It is because they can recognize simultaneous continuity and change that Adam and Eve’s story ends on a note of muted hope, whereas Satan’s refusal to recognize any alteration in himself or his friends precludes further change. Satan does not realize that he can remain continuous with his past, unfallen self only if he can accept the change which has come upon him—or rather, which he has brought upon himself. He is obsessed with change, but wants to deny that it could happen to him. It is because he refuses to recognize the truth about his own behaviour, and especially, the diVerence between what he was and what he is, that he becomes unrecognizable to others.

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The most self-conscious, even parodic recognition scene in Paradise Lost comes at the end of book 2, as Satan is making his way up to Earth to try to corrupt God’s new creation, Man.46 At the gates of Hell, guarding the exit, Satan meets two horrible creatures: a woman with the tail of a serpent, and an indescribable shape wearing a crown. Satan fails to recognize them and begins to attack, but the woman shape appeals to him: ‘O father, what intends thy hand, she cried, j Against thy only son?’ (2.727–8). It turns out that this is Satan’s own family: the woman is Sin, born from his head when he Wrst conspired against God in Heaven; the crowned shape is Death, child of Sin by Satan. The scene is a comic or mock-tragic version of a tragic recognition scene. Satan here becomes an unsympathetic and perverted version of Oedipus, whose failure to recognize his own incestuous family relations is the corollary of his failure to recognize the truth about himself. When Satan Wrst invades the Garden, he manages to evade recognition by the guardian angel, Uriel. He pretends that his trip is motivated only by the desire to see and wonder at the Father’s last and greatest creation, Man. Uriel, in his innocence, is deceived, For neither man nor angel can discern Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone, By his permissive will through heaven and earth. (PL 3.682–5)

In this instance, the ability to evade recognition is an essential part of Satan’s plan. It is a mark of Satan’s fallenness, and also enables him to do further harm. But after he has made his initial illicit foray into the Garden and has glimpsed the ‘blest pair’ (4.774) in their innocent marital bliss, he is apprehended by an angelic squadron sent by Gabriel. Ithuriel and Zephon Wnd him sitting, ‘squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve’ (4.800), and have no diYculty in seeing that he must be a fallen angel, although they do not know his name. They ask him, ‘Which of those rebel spirits adjudged to hell j Com’st thou, escaped thy prison, 46 On this episode as a recognition scene, see Steadman (1976) and Cesare (1992).

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and transformed?’ (4.823–4). Satan is outraged that they should fail to recognize him: Know ye not then said Satan, Wlled with scorn, Know ye not me? Ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar; Not to know me argues yourselves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superXuous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? (PL 4.827–33)

As often happens, Satan’s language seems to run away with him. His insistent repeated use of the word ‘know’ is a mark of Satan’s misunderstanding of the nature of knowledge, and hence, of recognition. He repeats the word ‘know’, but so often that it threatens to lose its intended meaning and become a mere exclamation of denial: ‘No, no, no!’ ‘Know’ is surrounded and echoed by the reiterated negatives ‘not’ and ‘no’. Zephon reminds Satan that self-knowledge must include an awareness of how the self changes over time (trading on the phonic similarity of ‘know’ and ‘now’): Satan cannot be ‘known’ because he is ‘now’ (4.839) dark as his own sin. The passage suggests that Satan misunderstands what constitutes either knowledge or identity. Even his mode of apprehending truth, by ‘knowledge’, may be too limited. In answer to Satan’s ‘know’, Zephon tells him what to ‘think’ (4.835), perhaps suggesting a less deWnite mode of cognition. Satan is aVected by the encounter in a way which is as much emotional as cognitive: abashed the devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely, saw, and pined His loss. (PL 4.846–9)

Satan’s desire to be known, and scorn for those who do not ‘know’, is answered by a recognition based on feeling and seeing. He is Wrst subdued by Zephon’s superiority, ‘abashed’, and then feels and sees the truth. Emotion and vision precede his new realization that he really has lost something of irreplaceable value.

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C ON C LU S I ON Satan and Tancredi’s failures of recognition are both the result of their fears about themselves. In both cases, misplaced or failed recognition is a mark of misplaced or failed acknowledgement. Both Milton and Tasso suggest that characters may identify one another, or may fail to do so, because of empathy and desire rather than evidence or proof. Tancredi feels that the voice he hears must be that of Clorinda, because her reproaches are what he dreads and expects. Satan has diYculty in recognizing Beelzebub, and fails initially to recognize Sin and Death, because he resists acknowledging his own responsibility for his fall. For Tancredi, an excessive desire to acknowledge his own past guilt and his own aggression leads to the supposed ‘recognition’ of a tree as his beloved. For Satan, a refusal to admit to his own sinfulness leads to repeated failures to recognize or be recognized by friends and family. As has often been suggested, Tancredi and Satan are both Wgures of the poet.47 The problems of recognition associated with these characters represent their creators’ anxieties about the relationship of individual creativity to the poetic tradition. The anxieties expressed are diVerent in the two poems. Tancredi’s misidentiWcation of the magical tree voice as the voice of Clorinda hints at Tasso’s fear of solipsism. Perhaps the hope that a Renaissance poet could interact with the poets of antiquity is pure fantasy; perhaps the voices which seem to speak from a past tradition are only voices in our heads. In Milton, the fear implied by Satan’s resistance to change is less of solipsism than of egotism and excessive intellectualism. A Satanic poetics would deny any diVerence between classical and Renaissance epic. Paradise Lost and Gerusalemme liberata both use failures of recognition between characters to articulate concerns about how Renaissance Christian epic can connect itself to the classical tradition, and yet remain distinct from it. 47 On Tasso, see Ferguson (1983); on Milton, Quint (1986).

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11 The Idea of Epic in the Nineteenth Century Richard Jenkyns

This chapter is concerned with a paradox. It has been said that the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were a barren period for epic poetry; and indeed it was often said at the time. Yet the age was closely engaged with the epic idea. Several signiWcant poets of nineteenth-century England discuss the epic genre in their verse, not allusively or intertextually but directly and explicitly: we shall see Byron, Tennyson, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning doing this. Arnold discussed epic in his prose, and his Sohrab and Rustum is so saturated in Homer that the essays On the Modern Element in Literature and On Translating Homer almost seem to be continuing by other means a debate which the poem initiates. Keats in his own person, Clough in the person of Dipsychus, and Pater’s Wctional poet Flavian all declare a contrast between themselves and Homer. If the nineteenth century is not an age of great epic, it is at least a great age for observing epic’s interactions. The idea that the nineteenth century shunned the epic tone is an assumption, and we might begin by asking how well it is grounded. What of Joseph Cottle’s Alfred, James Bland Burges’s Richard the First, Margaret Holford’s Wallace, Bulwer-Lytton’s King Arthur, Alexander Smith’s Edwin of Deira, and Samuel Ferguson’s Congal?1 This rollcall—which could be grimly extended—may remind us that the typical poetry and the good poetry of a particular period are not

1 Tucker (2002) 29–31.

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necessarily the same, and may not even be much alike.2 Slightly less obscure is Bailey’s Festus, which is at least remembered for being forgotten; in its time it achieved the unlikely double of being both Wve times the length of the Aeneid and widely popular. We might recall Morris and Arnold—Sir Lewis, that is, and Sir Edwin—for The Epic of Hades and The Light of Asia each had its hour of public favour. Turning to a more durable Arnold and Morris, we Wnd Sohrab and Rustum, Balder Dead, Sigurd the Volsung, and The Life and Death of Jason. And as we shall see, there are other major poets of the period engaged in verse which seems epic or at least epic-like; if such works are not to be placed within the genre of epic, it may indeed be worth our while to ask why. In fact, Byron’s ironic complaint, in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, was not that there was an absence of epic in modern England but that there was too much. In antiquity, epic was produced at the rate of a millennium per piece:3 The time has been, when yet the muse was young, When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hail’d the magic name: The work of each immortal bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years.

(A slightly shifty footnote explains that the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story of the Iliad that ‘they may almost be classed as one grand historical poem’.) In the Renaissance productivity increases, with Tasso, Camoens, and Milton each composing one epic in a lifetime (another footnote tries to justify the discounting of Paradise Regained). And now Robert Southey is turning them out in quantity: already he has written Joan of Arc, Thalaba the Destroyer, and Madoc.4 Southey himself, to Byron’s amusement, had declared 2 One might compare the often repeated German claim that England was ‘das Land ohne Musik’. It was a land without great composers; but that is a diVerent matter. 3 English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, lines 189–94. 4 Thalaba is not easily categorized, but if a classical label is required, it might more naturally be called Pindaric than epic. Byron’s footnote applies to it Porson’s phrase: ‘It will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten.’

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that Madoc ‘assumes not the degraded title of epic’.5 The reality, then, is not that the age is uninterested in epic or heroic themes; but there is a feeling that they have become problematic, as they were not in earlier times. The question for us is why people thought this, and whether they were right to do so. Part of the answer may be simply empirical. The eighteenth century wanted great epic; it failed to get great epic; and it was natural to conclude that, for whatever reason, the thing could no longer be done. Less pessimistically, it could be argued that good epic would always be rare: that idea is implicit in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Samuel Johnson began his assessment of Paradise Lost by observing, ‘By the general consent of critics the Wrst praise of genius is due to the writer of an epic poem, as it requires an assemblage of all the powers which are singly suYcient for other compositions.’6 The epic poet, he goes on to explain, must have complete mastery of language, diction, and sound eVect; he must have the narrative and dramatic skills of the historian, the imagination both to conceive Wction and represent reality, a deep understanding of morality, an insight into the complexities of vice and virtue in human character, a wide experience of life; and more besides. On this account it is diYcult to write an epic poem as it is diYcult to design a cathedral or compose a symphony—diYcult because it is a complex and ambitious project requiring knowledge, imagination, powers of design, and experience. But there is nothing in Johnson’s account to suggest that epic poetry was uniquely problematic—still less that poetry as a whole was an obsolescent art. But Thomas Blackwell’s An Enquiry into the Life and Writings of Homer (1735) had already taken a somewhat bleaker view. This essay argued that primitive peoples lived naturally; their passions were strong and simple, and their conversation was not the prattle of modern, polished speech. Because their manners were natural and simple, the description of their ordinary and domestic activities was of itself enchanting and poetic. Moreover, primitive people have the advantage of living in a world that seems marvellous to themselves: the ‘marvellous and wonderful is the nerve of the epic strain: but

5 Madoc, ‘Preface’.

6 Lives of the Poets, ‘Milton’.

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what marvellous things happen in a well-ordered state?’ Accordingly, it is impossible to write about modern life in the hyperbolic manner essential to epic except in parody and the mock-heroic. Therefore, we moderns, if we aspire ‘to poetize in the higher strains’ must go back to the past, ‘unlearn our daily way of life’, and ‘adopt a set of more natural manners, which however are foreign to us, and must be like plants raised up in hot-beds and green-houses’.7 The simile is well chosen, and brings out how the imagined process is almost but not quite self-contradictory: for in one sense the hothouse plant is natural, in another not. There is a kinship with Schiller’s later division of poetry into the naı¨ve and the sentimental, though Schiller was to resist the primitivist bias that gives the early poets the palm. The idea expounded by Blackwell was to become commonplace in the later eighteenth century: thus the argument of the last chapter of William DuV ’s An Essay on Original Genius (1767) is summarized in its comprehensive title: ‘That original Poetic Genius will in general be displayed in its utmost vigour in the early and uncultivated periods of Society, which are peculiarly favourable to it; and that it will seldom appear in a very high degree in cultivated life.’8 There were, in fact, a more pessimistic and a more hopeful version of the theory. On the more pessimistic account, a cultivated society was inimical to poetry generally; on the more hopeful, a cultivated society favoured some kinds of poetry over others, and especially disfavoured epic. Some of these notions had old roots. The idea that poetry must respond to the conditions of its age goes back at least to Horace: in the Wfth century one could write with the ruggedness of Pindar; in the age of Augustus one must be more delicate, careful, and consciously literary. Lucilius wrote rapidly and roughly; had he lived in Horace’s time, he would have changed his methods of his own accord.9 Or we might compare T. S. Eliot’s argument that as a culture develops its poetic expression turns naturally from epic to the more concentrated form of lyric utterance. In the second half of the nineteenth century the most interesting exploration of such ideas is Walter Pater’s, in Marius the Epicurean. 7 Blackwell (1972 (1735)) 24–8; cf. Bate (1971) 49–50. 8 DuV (1964 (1767)); cf. Bate (1971) 50. 9 Hor. Carm. 4.2.1–12, 27–32, Sat. 1.4.9–10, 1.10.67–71.

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This novel is set in the second century ad, and one of the characters in it, the aspirant poet Flavian, considers that Homer had it easy: ‘One might think . . . that there was but the almost mechanical transcript of a time, naturally, intrinsically, poetic, a time in which one could hardly have spoken at all without ideal eVect, or the sailors pulled down their boat without making a picture in ‘‘the great style,’’ against a sky charged with marvels. Must not the mere prose of an age, itself thus ideal, have counted for more than half of Homer’s poetry?’ If the poetry of his own Antonine age, Flavian reXects, should try to revive the spirit of archaic verse, the most it could hope to achieve would be ‘novitas, artiWcial artlessness, naı¨vete´ ’ and ‘it must count, in comparison with that genuine early Greek newness at the beginning, not as the freshness of the open Welds, but only of a bunch of Weld-Xowers in a heated room’.10 Pater is here providing a variant on Blackwell’s metaphor, but it is an inferior variant, for the plant in a hothouse is at least a living plant, whereas the Weld Xowers in the drawing room must quickly shrivel. And Flavian’s view is not quite so despairing. The sophisticated aVectation of simplicity has its own charm, he believes, and modern literature has at least ‘improved, by a shade or two of more scrupulous Wnish, on the old pattern’.11 Pater has at least half an eye, of course, on his own epoch: as Flavian ponders the Odyssey and the ‘great style’, it is hard to resist the feeling that he has been reading Matthew Arnold on translating Homer, and maybe we are not meant to resist it. If you could not write an Iliad in the Victorian age, perhaps you could write Sohrab and Rustum. The Romantics and their successors looked, as the Wctional Flavian did not, upon classical civilization as completed, over and done with; and they debated their own relationship to that distant epoch. One idea was that the ancient world was fundamentally unlike the modern world in aesthetic character: classical art was plastic whereas modern art was picturesque, or classical art was sculptural whereas modern was musical, or classical art was white whereas the modern world was coloured. Another idea was that the ancient and modern worlds were parallel, each going through a comparable process of development, often compared to a natural life cycle. On this account,

10 Marius the Epicurean, ch. 6.

11 Marius the Epicurean, ch. 4.

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Wfth-century Greece represented the childhood, youth, or prime manhood of classical civilization; and it was always assumed that the present age represented civilization in a late stage. From the Wrst of these ideas one might reasonably have deduced that modern conditions were suited as least as well to the production of epic as ancient conditions, and perhaps better; but that was not the conclusion drawn. People saw that the ancient world had been supremely successful in epic. From the Wrst idea they could infer that epic was suited to the classical world’s distinctive aesthetic character; from the second, that it was suited to an early stage in a civilization’s development. In either case the conclusion was that epic was unsuited to the present day. This judgement was more easily reached if one focused on Homer and ignored the Aeneid, but that awkwardness could be smoothed over by downgrading Virgil—‘that harmonious plagiary’, Byron called him12—or, more interestingly, by representing his poem as a sport or freak of nature, a success against the odds. This was the view that Macaulay took in his essay on Milton. He declares the paradox that ‘no poet has ever had to struggle with more unfavourable circumstances than Milton’. This is because ‘as civilization advances, poetry almost necessarily declines’ and therefore ‘the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civilized age’. Poetry requires a certain childlikeness of mind, and ‘In a rude state of society men are children with a greater variety of ideas. It is therefore in such a state of society that we may expect to Wnd the poetical temperament in its highest perfection.’ The essay on Milton made the young Macaulay’s reputation, but at this point his argument was not quite as new and provocative as he implied it to be. For example, a few years earlier, Peacock in a half-serious, half-humorous essay, The Four Ages of Poetry, had argued from the evidence of ancient Greece that as a culture advances, poetry declines from an age of gold—in antiquity, the period from Homer to the Wfth century—to an age of silver and then to one of brass, which tries to recover the age of gold but produces only poor verbosity. Nonetheless, Macaulay does add a twist or two or his own. His detractors have depicted him, in his lifetime and since, as a strong but prosaic mind, deWcient in subtlety 12 Letter to Moore, 11 Apr. 1817.

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and depth; but he appears here as a spirit of some complexity. On the one hand, there is the Whig historian, watching how a childish and fanciful manner of apprehending the world is thrust aside by the onward march of desirable progress. On the other, there is the romantic who declares that to compose and even to enjoy poetry requires ‘a certain unsoundness of mind’, who recalls that Shakespeare—whom he does not name but cites simply as ‘the greatest of poets’—ascribed to the poet a Wne frenzy, and who asserts that ‘Truth, indeed is essential to poetry; but it is the truth of madness’. This is not a belittlement of poetry but a recognition of what a later period would call the Dionysian element in mental life. Macaulay also recalls that Milton himself had wondered if he were not born in an age too late, and that Johnson had mocked him for it; and Macaulay censures that mockery. It is Tory Johnson who expects progress in the arts, and the Whig historian who denies it. So potent is the sense that the present age is unfavourable to poetry that it overbears Macaulay’s otherwise ameliorative picture of historical process. Another explanation for the modern world’s diYculty with epic identiWed the problem as one of style. Matthew Arnold declared that England had the glory of having produced ‘one of the only two poetical works in the grand style which are to be found in the modern languages’; these are The Divine Comedy and Paradise Lost.13 ‘England and Italy here stand alone,’ he continued; ‘Spain, France, and Germany have produced great poets, but neither Calderon, nor Corneille, nor Schiller, nor even Goethe, has produced a body of poetry in the true grand style, in the sense in which the style of the body of Homer’s poetry, or Pindar’s, or Sophocles’s, is grand.’ Even Shakespeare, although ‘undoubtedly the supreme poetical power in our literature’, does not achieve the grand style. There is some diYculty in understanding what Arnold meant by this; we may even wonder if Arnold knew himself what he meant. Many scholars would deny that Dante wrote in a grand style (and deny, for that matter, that his poem should be called an epic).14 When Arnold went on to say that Paradise Lost is in the grand style 13 On Translating Homer (see Super (1960) 144). 14 Curtius (1953) 361–2: ‘If it [The Divine Comedy] is commonly classed as ‘‘epic’’, that can be ascribed only to the inanity which thinks that the Iliad and the Forsyte Saga are to be spoken of in the same breath.’

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‘in some respects to a higher degree’ even than the Iliad and The Divine Comedy, one suspects that he associates the grand style, as the man in the street is likely to do, with a certain amplitude and orotundity. But in that sense Homer indeed, as well as Dante, may not seem grand at all. Arnold himself, after all, brilliantly illustrates the plainness and rapidity of Homeric style. Later, he tried to reWne his position, distinguishing between ‘the grand style simple’, exempliWed supremely in Homer, and the ‘grand style severe’, exempliWed in Milton.15 But it remains unclear what the relation is between grand style and good style. The diYculty is that Arnold wants ‘grand style’ to be partly a descriptive and partly an evaluative term. He concedes that the grand style may have faults—‘it may be harsh, or obscure, or cumbrous, or over-laboured’—but on the other hand it is never aVected, and that is why Shakespeare does not achieve it, because all his tragedies contain passages in ‘the worst of styles, the aVected style’. ‘Never aVected’—already that seems to claim too much: it is hard to imagine that a style is incapable of being aVected which is capable of being ‘over-laboured’. Partly Arnold seems to want the grand style to be a type of style, subject to the kinds of fault likely to arise from a rich, elaborated manner, and partly he wants it to be a virtuous style, which ceases to be grand once it fails in quality. It is probably impossible entirely to extricate Arnold from his tangle, but it may be worth inquiring how he got into the tangle in the Wrst place. He wants us to appreciate that he is not concerned solely with epic: the styles of Pindar and Sophocles are grand, and those of Corneille, Schiller, and Goethe are not. (Or rather, what these later poets miss is the true grand style; the smuggling in of that extra adjective, obscure in its import, suggests some unease in the argument.) In a way he is broadening his Weld, by comparing epic style with drama and lyric, but in another way it narrows the possible scope of epic to associate it with especially lofty, tragic, or sumptuous forms of literary expression. Not all epic need be like that; and even if the best epics share the quality of stylistic hupsos, it is not clear that the right word for this is grandeur: we might do better to say that the Iliad and the Odyssey have found a style that matches their content. 15 On Translating Homer, ‘Last Words’ (Super (1960) 188–91).

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Arnold’s own feeling does indeed seem to be that recent centuries have found it very hard to hit upon a style that is answerable to the demands of the highest poetry. (Arnold himself favoured the word ‘adequate’, but I substitute ‘answerable’ as less dispiriting.) The problem seems to lie in culture and society: there is something in modern conditions which resists the greatest themes and the greatest quality. So what appeared to be a question of technique comes back to the state of civilization after all. In fact, Arnold did imply on another occasion that a kind of heroic poetry was possible in his own time—but tragic drama rather than epic.16 For him, that is, tragedy and epic are importantly distinct and diVerent. His argument is that Homer achieved an unmatched success in representing a period contemporary to his own, or nearly so (an argument harder to make today, when we do not believe that the Homeric epics represent a period close to themselves). Virgil achieved considerable success in recreating a period distant from himself. But for the representation of a distant age, tragedy is better than epic, because epic has to represent the forms of outward life, manners, fashions, what is local and transient, whereas tragedy can restrict itself to representing what is permanent and universal. So, Arnold says, it is no accident that the three great tragic poets of the Wfth century have survived, whereas the epic poets—Panyassis, Choerilus, and Antimachus—have perished. And it is no accident that the dramatic part of the Aeneid, the tragedy of Dido in the fourth book, is the most popular part of that poem. Though Arnold makes an eloquent case, one can imagine a diVerent argument being made. We might borrow Macaulay’s observation that the dramatist needs to eVace himself, and add that the romantic age, by contrast, was the epoch of the egotistical sublime. And sure enough, the most characteristic and innovative of Victorian verse forms was the monologue. With hindsight, indeed, what may strike us about the idea that epic was less suited to modern circumstances than tragedy is how ill it sits with the actual course of Victorian literary history. The Greeks’ deWnition of epos was in terms of metre. If we take iambic blank verse as the English equivalent of the dactylic hexameter, plenty of nineteenth-century poets, including some of the 16 ‘On the Modern Element in Literature’ (Super (1960) 34–6).

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best, were engaged with the epic genre, and even if we deWne epic more restrictively, some major poems of the time are at least epic-like. Blake, Keats, Tennyson, Browning, and Morris might all be counted epicists. By contrast, nowhere does Victorian poetry seem more visibly to have tried and failed than in heroic verse drama. Idylls of the King may not be Tennyson’s most admired work, but no one reads Queen Mary, Harold, or Becket. Today we would be surprised to hear him described as ‘poet and dramatist’, but Irving produced The Cup, with himself and Ellen Terry in the leading roles, and Tennyson’s last play, The Foresters, had its premiere in New York. We do not think of Browning as a playwright either, but StraVord was the Wrst of eight plays that he wrote within a decade; after 1846 he abandoned the genre. Several of Wilde’s prose plays continue to hold the stage, but no one, surely, will ever put on The Duchess of Padua. The ‘Greek revival’ in poetic drama was the most conspicuous failure of all, and indeed a puzzling phenomenon, for whereas people might feel that plays in Shakespearean blank verse were a genuinely indigenous art form, Hellenic tragedy seems obviously academic and artiWcial. It is hard to say much in favour of Arnold’s Merope. Swinburne’s Erechtheus is a frigid bore; Atalanta in Calydon is remembered only for its choruses—that is, for the places where it eVectively ceases to be classical (or dramatic) at all. Robert Bridges’ Ulysses and Prometheus the Firegiver remain unread by millions.17 Hopkins thought that the problem lay with the use of classical models: ‘Believe me,’ he told Bridges, ‘the Greek gods are a totally unworkable material; the merest frigidity, which must chill and kill every living work of art they are brought into.’18 But Keats had managed to bring them into Endymion and Hyperion, and Shelley into Prometheus Unbound.19 And Greek mythology, broadly 17 Why was the classicism of these poet-dramatists so costive? The dark thought occurs that their shared disadvantage was a good classical education at a famous public school, followed by Greats at Oxford: Arnold was at Rugby and Balliol, Swinburne at Eton and Balliol, Bridges at Eton and Corpus Christi College. But Clough (Rugby and Balliol) and Hopkins (Highgate and Balliol) used their classical experience in a freer spirit. 18 Letter of 17 May 1885. 19 Prometheus Unbound, we might note, is only notionally a Hellenic verse drama: it uses the Greek Prometheus Bound merely as the launching point for a conception that takes oV into cloudlike lyric and the egotistical sublime.

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conceived, led Tennyson to The Lotos-Eaters, Oenone, Tithonus, and Tiresias. Of course, it might be answered that these things are Greek only in a superWcial or tangential way; but that is as we should expect. A loose and free relationship to the past is likely to be more successful than revivalism. The nineteenth century ought not to have found the thought surprising that it would be impossible to produce a modern imitation of the Iliad or the Aeneid. The doubt was wider and deeper: that it was impossible to produce a successful epic at all. But what was epic? A deWnition might be made in terms of metre or style or scale or content, or some combination of these things. In Don Juan Byron oVered his own answer, and it is in terms of tradition and convention (canto 1, stanza 200): My poem’s epic, and is meant to be Divided in twelve books: each book containing, With love and war, a heavy gale at sea, A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, New characters; the episodes are three: A panoramic view of hell’s in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of epic’s no misnomer.

Is Don Juan epic? One response would be to remember that the poem is comic and satiric, and to conclude that the very statement that the poem is epic indicates that it is not. ‘Hail Muse, et cetera,’ Byron writes at one point, and that is purely farcical (canto 3, stanza 1). But in some other places his engagement with classical epic is more sharply pointed: several times Byron contrasts the heroic warfare of Homer with the unpoetic ugliness and the mass slaughter of modern warfare, mixing with the comedy a more bitter tone (e.g. canto 7, stanzas 78–80; canto 8, stanza 90). He himself calls his poem an ‘epic satire’; in our own time that would mean hardly more than ‘massive satire’, but Byron’s idiom is more exact. Let us turn to antiquity for a moment and borrow the terms primary and secondary epic. If Homer is primary and Virgil secondary, Lucan might be said to be tertiary: he turns epic towards the satiric and anti-heroic. He also turns epic towards monologue, for the predominant focalizer in his poem is not Caesar or Pompey but the poet himself. Mutatis mutandis one might see a similar process in

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English literature: Byron turns epic tertiary—satiric, anti-heroic, with the sense of an ego and a personal tone running through all. But Byron’s example did nothing to make conventional epic seem more manageable—if anything, the reverse. In one way or another, the poets continued to express discouragement. In Endymion Keats had wished that ‘Old Homer’s Helicon’ might sprinkle its waters over his sorry pages, so that the verse might soar; but as it is, ‘the count j Of mighty poets is made up’ and ‘the sun of poetry is set’ (book 2, lines 717 V.). As the century progressed, the urban and industrial conditions of modern life were added to the enemies of heroic verse. Clough’s Dipsychus grumbles (Dipsychus, part 2, scene 4), To live now I must sluice out myself into canals, And lose all force in ducts. The modern Hotspur Shrills not his trumpet of ‘To Horse, To Horse!’ But consults columns in a Railway Guide; A demigod of Wgures; an Achilles Of computation . . .

The commonness of such ideas is shown by the earnestness of the protest against them which Elizabeth Barrett Browning gives to the heroine of her Aurora Leigh, another aspirant poet (book 5, lines 139–42, 146–58): The critics say that epics have died out, With Agamemnon and the goat-nursed gods— I’ll not believe it. I could never dream, As Payne Knight did . . .         That Homer’s heroes measured twelve feet high. They were but men!—his Helen’s hair turned grey Like any plain Miss Smith’s, who wears a front; And Hector’s infant blubbered at a plume As yours last Friday at a turkey-cock. All men are possible heroes: every age, Heroic in proportions, double-faced, Looks backward and before, expects a morn, And claims an epos. Ay, but every age

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Appears to souls who live in it (ask Carlyle) Most unheroic. Ours, for instance, ours! The thinkers scout it, and the poets abound Who scorn to touch it with a Wnger-tip: . . .

Aurora Leigh’s argument is vehement, but not wholly clear. Homer is unrealistic, she seems to say, because he represents the people in his story as stronger and more beautiful than us, whereas in truth they would not have been. But alluding to a famous scene in the sixth book of the Iliad, she also seems to suggest that Homer is realistic, because he represents Hector’s baby bursting into tears with fright, just like yours. Moreover, the apparent claim—doubtful in itself— that everyone and every age is heroic, at least potentially, is one that she will later modify. Miss Leigh goes on to explain that it is impossible to have a full understanding of one’s own times: one lacks the necessary distance (Aurora Leigh, book 5, lines 165–7): Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it. . . .

This idea is then developed by analogy. The narrator asks us to imagine that Xerxes had succeeded in his megalomaniac plan of carving Mount Athos into the likeness of a man. ‘The peasants, gathering brushwood in his ear’ could hardly guess that they were standing on part of a human form: they would have to travel ten miles oV in order to see the Wgure distinctly. Likewise (Aurora Leigh, book 5, lines 180–2): ’Tis even thus With times we live in,—evermore too great To be apprehended near.

The terms of the argument have begun to shift a little. Aurora Leigh had said before that all ages claim an epos; now she begins to hint at what she will soon make explicit: that the present age is especially heroic. We might also feel that she has inadvertently produced an argument for writing about the past in preference to the present, for

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if the analogy with Athos is pressed, it is blankly impossible for anyone to get a clear vision of his own times. Her answer is that the poet can somehow Wnd a way to escape the prison of his days (Aurora Leigh, book 5, lines 182–97): But poets should Exert a double vision; should have eyes To see near things as comprehensively As if afar they took their point of sight, And distant things as intimately deep, As if they touched them. Let us strive for this. I do distrust the poet who discerns No character or glory in his time, And trundles back his soul Wve hundred years, Past moat and drawbridge, into a castle-court, Oh not to sing of lizards or of toads Alive i’ the ditch there!—’twere excusable; But of some black chief, half knight, half sheep-lifter, Some beauteous dame, half chattel and half queen, As dead as must be, for the greater part, The poems made on their chivalric bones.

In the picture of toads and lizards ‘alive i’ the ditch’ we seem for a moment to catch the accents of the poet’s husband, Robert Browning. He surely had found a way of recreating the past with the vivid sense of detail that Aurora Leigh admits is excusable. And indeed she asks the poet to see distant things intimately as well as near things comprehensively. So perhaps the past still could and should live in modern verse? But Aurora Leigh next proceeds to shut out that possibility: the poet should represent the present age only, which is now declared to be actually superior to earlier times (Aurora Leigh, book 5, lines 199–221): Nay, if there’s room for poets in this world A little overgrown (I think there is), Their sole work is to represent the age, Their age, not Charlemagne’s,—this live throbbing age, That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, aspires, And spends more passion, more heroic heat, Betwixt the mirrors of its drawing-rooms,

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Than Roland with his knights at Roncesvalles. To Xinch from modern varnish, coat, or Xounce, Cry out for togas and the picturesque, Is fatal,—foolish too. King Arthur’s self Was commonplace to Lady Guenever; And Camelot to minstrels seemed as Xat As Regent Street to poets. Never Xinch, But still, unscrupulously epic, catch Upon the burning lava of a song, The full-veined, heaving double-breasted Age: That, when the next shall come, the men of that May touch the impress with reverent hand, and say, ‘Behold,—behold the paps we all have sucked! That bosom seems to beat still, or at least It sets ours beating. This is living art, Which thus presents, and thus records true life.’

‘Unscrupulously epic’ is a nicely pointed phrase—and again, one that might happily be applied to Robert Browning—but the tone in general is not easy to catch. If it had been Byron writing about the modern age spending more heroic heat in the drawing-room than the knights at Roncesvalles, we should know how to take the words. But here, though there is some humour in her expression, Aurora Leigh must be essentially serious. And her response suggests how strong and pervasive was the sense that the modern world was unpoetic, for it is oddly defensive. Instead of denying that her own age is Xat and vulgar, she in eVect agrees: the mitigation is that all ages seem equally dreary at the time. This is a weak response, because it is so manifestly untrue.20 Besides, in saying that all ages are heroic, she risks others drawing the conclusion that none is: if Camelot seemed as Xat to minstrels as Regent Street to poets, then perhaps Regent Street is as romantic as anything anywhere. And that is not an inspiriting conclusion. 20 In the opposite camp we might place Ruskin’s spectacular chapter on ‘The Two Boyhoods’ in volume 5 of Modern Painters (part 9, ch. 9), contrasting the Venice of Titian and Giorgione (‘A city of marble, did I say? nay, rather a golden city, paved with emerald’) with Turner’s youth in cramped, dirty Covent Garden—brilliant, exaggerated, but essentially just.

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Nonetheless, Aurora Leigh insists on the possibility of an epic of modern life, set in ‘this live, throbbing age’ and depicting the passion that seethes in drawing rooms beneath double-breasted clothing. So we might wonder why Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem itself should not be classed as an epic. After all, it is a very long poem in blank verse, and though it contains a good deal of introspection, it is at root a narrative work telling a dramatic story—at moments, a melodramatic story. Its author herself called it a ‘novel-poem’, and this in turn raises the question whether the novel might not have been the most natural outlet for epic aspiration in the nineteenth century. War and Peace seems easily enough described as an epic in prose; and in another way Anna Karenina and The Brothers Karamazov, two works which could be said to handle a single action with depth and grandeur, might be thought to earn the epic label. On a lower level of achievement and from yet another angle Ivanhoe, a tale of love and war, of heroism triumphing over villainy, set in a distant and romantic epoch and with a national or patriotic theme to boot, might lay claim to be an epic for an age of prose. Replying to an admirer who had pressed her to write a historical novel about the House of Saxe-Coburg, Jane Austen declared that she could no more write a historical romance than an epic poem. On the face of it, that represents even the historical novel as very distant from epic: it is like saying, ‘I could no more climb the Matterhorn than I could walk on the moon.’ But to an earlier importunity from the same admirer, who was urging her to take a virtuous and heroic clergyman for her subject, she had replied that she would be unable to do justice to the morals and mind of such a paragon. His conversation must be at times on science and philosophy (Jane Austen explained); it would be abundant in quotations and allusions from English and classical literature; any author would need to have had a large education to do justice to a protagonist so conceived.21 This bears some resemblance to Johnson’s prescription for the epic poet, and even to Goethe’s description of Homer’s leading men as the bravest and the wisest, and suggests that the historical romance could have been hailed as the modern form of epos. If it was not, we may wonder about the reason. 21 Letters to James Stanier Clarke of 1 Apr. 1816 and 11 Dec. 1815.

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One particular reason might be that George Eliot, the most selfconscious of Victorian novelists, usually chose to set herself against tragedy rather than epic. There are indeed some allusions to epic in her novels. Thus in Middlemarch she famously sets her heroine, Dorothea Brooke, against St Teresa of Avila. ‘Theresa’s passionate, ideal nature demanded an epic life,’ she writes in her Prologue. ‘. . . She found her epos in the reform of a religious order.’ In a sense even Teresa is a ‘modern’ person, living in an un-epic age. As a child, the novelist tells us, she walked out with her little brother to seek martyrdom among the Moors, but that was a grand and glamorous adventure that she could never know; it was inspired by ‘many-volumed romances of chivalry’ which, it is implied, showed her a distant world remote from what was possible for herself. But from another point of view, she did Wnd her epos—a new kind of epos Wtted to the circumstances of her time. George Eliot continues, ‘Many Theresas have been born who found for themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes, the oVspring of a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and sank unwept into oblivion.’ Already George Eliot is shifting her terms from epic to tragedy; in the course of the novel Dorothea will be described by an admirer as ‘a sort of Christian Antigone’;22 and it is Sophocles who will return at the very end: ‘A new Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming the conventual life, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety in daring all for the sake of a brother’s burial: the medium in which their ardent deeds took shape is for ever gone.’ As we have seen, Arnold preferred to contrast epic and tragedy, but even if we see them as two modes of one heroic aspiration, there remains in relating them to the modern novel at least a potential ambiguity—one which can be felt in Middlemarch and elsewhere in George Eliot’s work. Does the novelist infuse into his ordinary people an epic or tragic 22 The speaker is Ladislaw, who will end the book as Dorothea’s second husband. His thought is an example of the unreality which so many readers have found in the love between Dorothea and Ladislaw: for though everyone should admire Antigone, who ever wished to be married to her? The Antigone theme is George Eliot’s, and she compels her character to act as its vehicle.

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grandeur? Or is the novel rejecting the epic and high tragic notes? Do the common folk now ‘claim an epos’, or is it their lot to be ineligible for that claim? A novelist might present his relationship to epic as one of inheritance or succession: as Ennius received his staV from Homer, so the modern novelist might be carrying on the epic spirit in a new form. Alternatively, the relationship to classical epic might be one of strong disjunction. It is a recurrent theme of George Eliot’s that the everyday joys and sorrows of ordinary people are fully as important as those of kings and princesses. Nature is a ‘great tragic dramatist’,23 and the emotions of plain, commonplace people are as large as those of the heroes who strut upon the tragic stage. The idea was not new: a form of it is, after all, the central theme of Gray’s Elegy. And in Gray too the idea Xuctuates somewhat. Presumably the ‘Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood’ is indeed guiltless: he has done no great and bad action. The ‘mute inglorious Milton’ is indeed mute: he has written no poem. But the ‘village-Hampden that with dauntless breast j The little tyrant of his Welds withstood’ did act heroically: he is unknown only because of his humble station and obscure life and because, like the brave men who lived before Agamemnon, he has had no poet to praise him. But in principle he could claim an epos as much as John Hampden himself. Joyce’s Ulysses can be seen as playing with this ambiguity. On the one hand, Bloom is an anti-hero, Molly a faithless Penelope, Stephen Dedalus an ersatz Telemachus (since he is not Bloom’s son). On the other hand, the book has a classical regard for the unities of time and place—ironically, a much greater regard than the Odyssey itself. And it does give a kind of epic megethos to the shabby and commonplace lives that it depicts. Besides, it has what one might call the mythic dimension: though Bloom’s Dublin is very precisely located in time as well as space, it becomes also a landscape of the imagination—what Snell called a geistige Landschaft. But most of the more highbrow or self-conscious Victorian novelists were not mythmakers of this kind. Dickens unquestionably had the mythic gift, as did Emily Bronte¨; otherwise, one should perhaps turn to less pretending genres: to Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes’s London is almost as vivid an 23 Adam Bede, ch. 3.

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imaginative cityscape as Dickens’s) and to Robert Louis Stevenson, who in Treasure Island and Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde produced perhaps the two most powerful of all modern myths. The greatest epics have all been at some distance from naturalism, and strong naturalism was the aim, not of all the nineteenthcentury’s Wction, but usually of its largest and most grandly ambitious eVorts.24 The commitment to high realism may have discouraged novelists from seeing themselves as epicists in prose. But we must also take into account what one might call the Dutch picture idea. Hardy called Under the Greenwood Tree ‘a rural painting of the Dutch school’. In Adam Bede George Eliot devotes most of a chapter to explaining what she is doing—a pretty smug and sentimental chapter, to be frank.25 She delights in Dutch paintings, she says. She Wnds a source of delicious sympathy ‘in these faithful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life of pomp or absolute indigence, of tragic suVering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her Xower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner . . . or I turn to that village wedding. . . . ‘‘Foh!’’ says my idealistic friend, ‘‘what vulgar details! . . . What a low phase of life! What clumsy, ugly people!’’ ’ Her novel, she indicates, is a Dutch painting in prose. It is, in other terms, a set of genre scenes. On this account, Adam Bede at least is not epic, tragic, or heroic. Hippolyte Taine observed in the 1860s that heroic painting was rare and poor in England: classical painting and ‘learned paganism’ had never taken root in Britain, and English painters were merely a branch of the Flemish school.26 The genre scenes of the Dutch school, that is to say, are the antithesis of heroic or classical painting. As it happened, a new school of British classical painting was coming to birth even as Taine was writing, but it is telling that these painters—Alma-Tadema (literally a Dutch painter), Poynter, and 24 The non-naturalist works by the great naturalist novelists tend to be shorter pieces: A Christmas Carol, for example, or The Turn of the Screw. 25 Adam Bede, ch. 17. 26 Hyams (1957) 258.

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their like—were drawn for the most part not to grand historical or mythological subjects but to genre scenes set in the ancient world— in eVect, Dutch pictures in classical dress. SigniWcantly, the one painter who did try to represent classical epic chose a diVerent route. The Wgures in Leighton’s Captive Andromache, based on Hector’s fearful vision of his wife’s likely future in the sixth book of the Iliad, are raised on a stone stage or platform. The genre Wgures of ordinary people—the Dutch part of the image, as it were—are below. Leighton enforces the same moral: to make a Dutch picture, whether in paint or prose, is to turn away from epic. For Leighton, as for so many of his contemporaries, Homer was essentially grand. But there was another school of thought: if the Homeric poems had been assembled out of shorter and originally independent lays, then maybe they were nearer to ballads than to modern epic. Such was the idea behind Maginn’s Homeric Ballads and a version of it inspired the translation of the Iliad made by F. W. Newman, together with its preface. Newman would be forgotten today if Arnold had not so devastatingly attacked him, and it may be doubted whether the idea of Homer as ballad-maker ever took much root. Newman described Homer’s style as ‘quaint’ and ‘garrulous’, and Arnold was able to retort that it manifestly is not. In some sense, however, it might still perhaps be possible to see Homer as folk-like. Longfellow’s Hiawatha stands somewhere between the epic and the folk ideas. Its theme met one of the expectations imposed on epic by Virgil’s example—that its subject should be national as well as mythic. Longfellow’s model, for the metre as well as the general conception, was the Kalevala, formed in the nineteenth century from a number of traditional but separate poems. But however the eight-syllable trochaic line sounds in Finnish, in English it does not feel epic; and the poem’s episodic and descriptive character, with rather little narrative, also seems at some distance from epic content. In any case, though Hiawatha was enormously popular—Longfellow was the one poet who could match Tennyson’s readership in Victorian Britain—it was not a work that could serve as a model for others. The metre, much parodied, was not a trick that could be carried oV twice. One strand of nineteenth-century thought placed the possibility of epic outside imaginative literature altogether. Some Victorians felt, as

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Edward FitzGerald put it, that ‘it is not the poetical imagination, but bare Science, that every day more and more unrolls a greater Epic than the Iliad ’.27 Carlyle too surmised that the true history was now the true epic poem, and that a heroic poem in modern times would need to be written with the ‘ink of science’. In his French Revolution he compares ‘Homer’s Epos’ to ‘the epos of Universal History itself ’. But such voices do not seem enough in themselves to explain the pessimism about epic possibility. A stronger cause is to be found in Homer and Virgil, and perhaps especially in Virgil, paradoxical though this may seem in an age when Homer was so worshipped, and Virgil often placed some distance behind him. Some people felt that epic was now unmanageable not in principle—that is, because it was the expression of a primitive or early society—but for a contingent reason: because Homer, or Homer and Virgil between them, had been so admirable that they had exhausted the seam. That was Goethe’s line, more or less. At one period he felt himself liberated by Wolf ’s theory that the Homeric poems were of multiple authorship: if Homer had been not one but many, there was no single gigantic genius under whose shadow all other epic must wither. Accordingly he began an Achilleis, but abandoning it after a few hundred lines, he recanted the WolWan creed and sang his palinode in a poem entitled Homer again Homer. Late in life he remarked that modern writers could create only heroines, not heroes: ‘Nothing can be done with the men. Homer has got all beforehand in Achilles and Odysseus, the bravest and the most prudent.’28 The idea that epic was impossible not because of the state of civilization but because of one or two individuals of genius is not so easily found among British writers, or at least not in a direct and explicit form; but it may have been felt in an indirect and subterranean way. Byron’s equation of the epic genre with the practice of Homer and Virgil suggests their imperious command of the Weld. We might notice too that the Aeneid is the one classical poem that more or less fully Wts Byron’s description of epic; the Iliad and the Odyssey each Wt only about half of it. In other words, he is describing not so much Greek epic as Virgil’s reinterpretation of it. And that 27 FitzGerald (1889) i. 181.

28 Eckermann (1971), 5 July 1827.

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means, ironically, that his deWnition best suits an epic which did emerge from a highly developed society. Furthermore, his deWnition also matches Paradise Lost better than it does either the Iliad or the Odyssey singly. The facts that Virgil chose to be so Homeric and Milton to be so Virgilian imposed boundaries on the idea of epic that would have surprised the Greek poets. Let us consider Johnson’s deWnition: ‘Epic poetry undertakes to teach the most important truths by the most pleasing precepts, and therefore relates some great event in the most aVecting manner . . . The subject of an epic poem is naturally an event of great importance. That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire. His subject is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of heaven and of earth; rebellion against the Supreme King, . . .’29 This idea of epic may seem timeless and universal; it may even seem uncontroversial. In fact, it is not. We might indeed question how well Johnson’s descriptions Wt even classical epic, other than the Aeneid. One might suppose that any deWnition or description of epic which excluded the Odyssey fell at the second fence, but a good many descriptions—stressing vastness of theme, depth of moral seriousness, grandeur of manner, or tragic vision—have eVectively done so. Is the subject of the Odyssey an event of great importance? Of course it is important to Odysseus and Penelope, but by that criterion almost any narrative tells an event of great importance, and the deWnition is saved at the cost of being reduced to triviality. It is true, too, that the action of the Odyssey aVects the whole society that is Ithaca, but Ithaca is small, and it would be disingenuous to claim that the social consequences of Odysseus’ experience are more than secondary in the poem’s economy. We might add that the subject of the Iliad, for that matter, is not the destruction of a city. True, Hector’s death will lead to Troy’s destruction, and that is signiWcant; but it signiWes primarily as it inXuences and illuminates the thoughts and actions of Hector and Achilles, and the emotions of such subsidiary Wgures as Priam, Hecuba, and Andromache. Nonetheless, we can Wnd even professors of Greek, even in the twentieth century, trying to Virgilianize Homer: Gilbert Murray 29 Lives of the Poets, ‘Milton’.

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asked of the Iliad, ‘What after all is its essential story? Is it not the story of the battle of All-Greeks against the barbarian of Asia?’30 It is always good to be asked a question that one can answer. The answer is no. We are likely to accept readily enough that the subject of the Aeneid is ‘the foundation of an empire’. After all, does not Virgil himself tell us that it is? Well, not exactly: he says that Aeneas’ task was ‘to found the Roman race’, which is not quite the same thing. And in reality, Aeneas does not found an empire, except in a very indirect sense. His son will found Alba; and more than three centuries on, someone else will found Rome. The Aeneid describes how a man escaped from his defeated city, survived some adventures at sea, extricated himself from a love aVair, and won a small, short war in central Italy, before marrying the daughter of a local king and settling down with his followers. Virgil’s peculiar achievement is to take some epic adventures of traditional type—modelled as much upon the Odyssey as the Iliad, and with the story-pattern for Dido’s tragedy drawn from Apollonius of Rhodes—and load them with world-historical import. And of course he thus has a permanent eVect upon the epic idea. However, it is Milton, inspired by Virgil but going far beyond him, who narrates events that are directly and intrinsically of the highest import and grandeur: war between God himself and the rebel angels; the perfected experience of unfallen sexual love; the decisions of Eve and Adam which determine the future experience of all humanity and lead to the Redemption—and to the possibility of epic poetry, for that matter. It is thus Virgil’s example, fortiWed by Milton, which imposes on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the idea that epic must be colossal in its ambitions and immense in its success. Now it was not likely that a Victorian poet would produce something to stand beside the Iliad or the Aeneid, for the simple reason that it is never likely that any particular age or person will give birth to one of the supreme poems of the world. If the condition for attempting his enterprise were the highest imaginable success, no composer would attempt

30 Murray (1934) 189.

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a mass or a symphony, and perhaps no novelist pick up his pen.31 The sense of epic’s impossibility seems to be a combination of an idea of immense eVort that does authentically appear to be part of Virgil’s eVect with later interpretation of Virgil and his place in the tradition. For the curious thing—curious to us, at least—is that antiquity did not think that epic was so immensely diYcult.32 Greek poets went on composing epics after Homer, and Latin ones after Virgil without the sense that they were taking oV on a kamikaze Xight. We might have expected the educated of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to notice this more readily. They might have reXected upon Apollonius, even if they did not much read him. On the Latin side, they may not have counted Ovid’s Metamorphoses as epic, and in any case it seems that Ovid’s place in the education of a gentleman declined in the nineteenth century.33 There are one or two murmurs of self-deprecation in Statius, but apart from the fact that he had few readers in the nineteenth century, what he makes at the end of the Thebaid is the accurate observation that it is far inferior to the Aeneid;34 this is some distance from saying that epic is unmanageable of its very nature. He also says that the Thebaid took him a dozen years, whereas he could turn out his occasional poems at the rate of 200 lines a day.35 Again, this suggests that a twelve-book narrative poem on a heroic theme is a large and serious undertaking —which no one would deny. 31 The one Victorian writer who does seem troubled by being unable to be among the greatest is Matthew Arnold: he wanted to be like Sophocles, ‘to see life steadily and see it whole’; he wanted to be like Goethe, who ‘struck his Wnger on the place, And said: Thou ailest here, and here!’; he suppressed his own Empedocles on Etna because its protagonist was merely a passive suVerer; and he found Tennyson’s preeminence in his own time agitating. But this was a matter of personal outlook; and it was not directed distinctively to the problem of epic. 32 Otis (1963) devotes a whole chapter to ‘the obsolescence of epic’, a notion that would have surprised most Roman poets. 33 Oxford’s reformed classical syllabus of 1852 excluded Ovid (and the other elegiac poets): this cut undergraduates oV from the classical tradition of earlier centuries. An Oxford classical tutor retiring in 2004 has lived through a striking change of educational taste. At the end of the 1960s a single book of the Metamorphoses formed one twentieth part of the General Books paper, and this was the poem’s only presence in the syllabus. Thirty years on, the syllabus gave Ovid more prominence than any other Latin author, except perhaps Virgil. 34 Theb. 12.816–17. But see Leigh, Ch. 8, above, for a diVerent appraisal of the Thebaid and of these lines. 35 Theb. 12.811–12; Silv. 1. praef.

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Lucan’s poem does radically transform the tradition, but it is so idiosyncratic and so evidently sets itself against the Aeneid that it probably did little to discourage the idea that Virgil was secondary epic’s one model. The Flavian epics will have gone mostly unnoticed, but in any case they make little attempt to break the Virgilian mould. The Achilleid is perhaps the one exception, and it is disappointing to think that if Statius had completed it, it would probably look rather more conventional than it does in its fragmentary state. Flavian epic might have shown later Europe that Virgil had not scared oV his successors, and that Roman poets did not consider epic—even the conventional kinds of mythological or historical epic—obsolete or impossible. But it might also have encouraged them to draw the moral that Virgilian epic was epic’s necessary form, and that the best that could be achieved after Virgil was pastiche. Some nineteenth-century ideas about epic, therefore, sit uncomfortably with the reality of classical literary history. Nonetheless, there was reason for regarding Homer and Virgil as the only models. One might put the matter like this. Although it is not the purpose of all poetry to convey intellection and a moral idea, the greatest epic poetry thinks. The Iliad and the Odyssey, in their diVerent ways, have deep things to say about the human condition. Virgil thinks profoundly about man and society, in the Georgics as well as the Aeneid;36 indeed, his use of epic verse as the vehicle of thought is one of the ways in which he recovers the scope of the Homeric poems and transforms it for modern purposes. In this respect, Homer and Virgil do stand alone. The Argonautica does little thinking. Ovid was, in more than one sense, thoughtless. Lucan tries to think, but his thoughts are puerile. The Flavian epics do not think. 36 Among the liberating qualities of GriYn’s Homer on Life and Death (1980) was the connection that it made between the Iliad’s poetry and its sense of the human condition; some of the ideas in that book were Wrst oVered to Oxford audiences in lectures provocatively entitled ‘Homer: his mind and art’. In general, Hellenists have been better than Latinists at relating poetry to intellection. ‘Virgil was more a feeler than a thinker. He could organise his feelings into a coherent poem, but he hardly attempted to organise his thoughts into a coherent system.’ This is L. P. Wilkinson ((1969) 132), who actually has some telling things to say about Virgil’s thought. We also need to take account of the lingering on of the idea most memorably expressed in Housman’s declaration that the peculiar function of poetry is not to transmit thought but to transfuse emotion.

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It is easy to slip from the idea that the greatest epic thinks to the idea that it is necessarily weighty, grave, sombre. The Odyssey ought to be the refutation of that. But looking at the nineteenth-century scene, one observes two phenomena. First, there was a tendency to equate epic with high seriousness and earnestness, and perhaps with a tragic theme. Second, the poets of the age do seem to have found diYculty in combining epic with thought. Arnold did a good deal of thinking, in some of his verse as well as his prose, but not in Sohrab and Rustum. As a piece of Homeric narrative, it works rather well, but it does not aim at more than storytelling: it seeks to delight and to move, but not to teach. There are moments of thinking in the Idylls of the King—for example, when the poet explores the tension between the mystical quest for the Grail and the demands of practical governance that lead Arthur to turn away from the quest—but they do not amount to very much. Robert Browning thinks energetically, but his contemporaries do not seem to have seen him as an epicist, though later critics have done so. Blake’s epics contain thought of a kind—mad thought, maybe. And curiously, Don Juan does more thinking than Arnold when he is in epic mode—another reminder that thinking and high seriousness are not the same. If we choose a broad deWnition of the term, our moral might be that the Victorians were more successful in epic verse than they supposed. We have heard Aurora Leigh urging the modern poet to be ‘unscrupulously epic’, and though many people’s understanding of epic was all too tightly scrupulous, there were others who answered her call. Robert Browning’s The Ring and the Book, which combined length and diYcult ambition with the distinctively Victorian mode of dramatic monologue, might indeed be taken as an epic for the modern age. For that matter, Aurora Leigh itself, a poem about the length of the Aeneid told entirely in the Wrst person, could be described as a dramatic monologue expanded to a fully epic scale. We might think too of The Prelude—a Victorian poem by date of publication, though most of it was written much earlier—and Wordsworth’s assertion that its investigation of his own heart and mind was ‘in truth, heroic argument, j And genuine prowess’— words which in turn echo Milton’s claim that Paradise Lost presents

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‘argument j Not less but more heroic’ than those of the Iliad, Odyssey, and Aeneid.37 However, it is also worth taking the more scrupulous understanding of epic in its own terms. Often it may seem that nineteenth-century epic was most likely to succeed when it managed to shake itself free from classical precedent, but we can also Wnd successful examples of Victorian intertextuality—of the classical tradition turned to something new and of its time. For example, there is Clough’s The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich, which is likely to be the only epic poem written about a Balliol classical reading party. Playful Homeric allusions are scattered through it, and it is even written in accentual hexameters. One might compare Goethe’s Odyssey for modern times, his bourgeois epic Hermann und Dorothea. Clough too has escaped from the tyranny of the Iliad and remembered the Odyssey—and his is a bourgeois (or perhaps one should say gentry) epic for Victorian Britain. Proust said that the greatest works of the nineteenth century had the quality of being always incomplete and drew from this selfcontemplating incompleteness a novel beauty.38 Sure enough, one of the ways in which Victorian poets related themselves to classical epic was through a sense of fragmentariness. Feeling the burden of the past, the young Tennyson frames his Morte d’Arthur in a curious poem called simply The Epic, in which he presents it as the eleventh book of a work by the Wctional poet Everard Hall, who has destroyed the rest because epic is an obsolete mode (lines 25–38): ‘You know,’ said Frank, ‘he burned His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books’— And then to me demanding why? ‘Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said ’twas nothing—that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased me well enough.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ said Hall, ‘Why take the style of those heroic times? 37 The Prelude, iii, lines 182–3, 1805 version (184–5, with ‘This’ for ‘And’, 1850 version); Paradise Lost, ix, lines 13–19. 38 La Prisonnie`re.

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Richard Jenkyns For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, Mere chaV and draV, much better burnt.’

However, many years later Tennyson put together his Idylls of the King, subtitled ‘in twelve books’, and the Morte d’Arthur, slightly extended, was incorporated into them—not as the eleventh book, but the twelfth. But even though the poem is more than 10,000 lines long, it is still presented as a series of idylls—that is, sketches. Tennyson’s brother-in-law used to refer to the work as Epylls of the King, on the grounds that it was a gathering of ‘little epics (not idylls) woven into an epical unity’, but the poet himself, not surprisingly, disliked the sound of the word.39 Sohrab and Rustum too is fragmentary; it is subtitled ‘an episode’. The very Wrst word of the poem is ‘and’: And the Wrst grey of morning Wlled the east, And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream . . .

But this opening also introduces us to a contemporary preoccupation—the sense of nature and its immensity. The poem begins with the great river Oxus and will end with its eternal Xow, contrasted with the mortality of Rustum and his son, towards the distant vastness of the Aral Sea. We might compare the ending of Morte d’Arthur, with the King borne in his barge across the waters to what may be death or immortality.40 We might compare Tennyson’s Ulysses, pushing oV to sail beyond the western stars, perhaps to the life after death, perhaps to oblivion.41 We might think of the last stanzas of Swinburne’s The Garden of Proserpine, where human life is both contrasted with the eternal sun and stars and night and compared to a river (lines 81–8): From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving 39 H. Tennyson (1897) ii. 130, referring to Edmund Lushington. 40 Morte d’Arthur, lines 256–64. 41 Ulysses, lines 58–64.

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Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.42

Arnold himself, writing to his friend Clough about Morte d’Arthur and Sohrab and Rustum, said, ‘I think the likeness, where there is likeness . . . proceeds from our both having imitated Homer.’43 That seems implausible, for whereas Sohrab and Rustum is tightly bound to the Iliad—and ironically, is thus curiously Virgilian in Xavour— Tennyson’s poem is related to classical precedent only in the loosest sense. With more than a century and a half of hindsight to help us, we might prefer to say that what the two poets shared was the ability to reinterpret epic themes in the light of an authentically modern sensibility.44 42 Cf. also lines 89–96. 43 Letter of 25 Nov. 1853. 44 This chapter has beneWted from comments on its oral version by James Burbidge, Jasper GriYn, Leofranc Holford-Strevens, Anthony Kenny, Matthew Leigh, and Oswyn Murray.

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12 Epilogue Bruno Currie

The range of epic poetry treated in this book is vast and the constructions placed on ‘interaction’ almost equally broad. The job of this Epilogue will be to explore points of convergence and divergence between the chapters and to attempt an overall narrative. At the same time further perspectives, and further problems, will emerge. The subject of my own chapter was the interaction between poems in the early Greek tradition. To speak of the interaction of the Homeric poems with other early Greek epic poems is already to go beyond what some would accept: allusion to a common ‘mythological tradition’ or the resonance immanent in certain formulas and type-scenes (‘traditional referentiality’).1 Instead, I looked for a sense of interaction which approximates to intertextuality. The question then becomes whether intertextuality is possible in an oral(-derived) poetic tradition which (arguably) had no Wxed texts, was (certainly) performed before audiences, and depended (to an uncertain degree) on a traditional, formulaic style. While it is true that this unique combination of features in the classical epic tradition greatly complicates allusive relationships between poems, it need not,

This Epilogue was originally to have been written by Oliver Lyne, who died suddenly on 17 March 2005. In writing this substitute I pay a heartfelt tribute to his friendship, teaching, and scholarship. 1 ‘Mythological tradition’: cf. Burgess (2001) 134. ‘Traditional referentiality’: see Foley (1991), (1997) 166–72, and (1999); Graziosi and Haubold (2005).

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I argued, rule them out. To return to the point about formularity: it can be argued both that there is enough scope in the early Greek epics for non-formulaic expression to ground allusion and that formulas themselves may (in certain contexts) function as a vehicle of allusion. In fact, the latter problem is not conWned to oral(-derived) epic, for it resurfaces in an altered form in subsequent chapters of this book: the question whether ‘cliche´s’ and ‘rhetorical formulas’ can support allusion is considered by Pelling apropos of Herodotean allusions to Homer, and by Wilson in connection with Miltonic allusions to Virgil.2 Methodologically, my approach was indebted to neoanalysis, and I ended up defending some traditional neoanalytical conclusions against recent criticisms.3 The brunt of my argument was borne by three test cases arguing an allusive interaction between early Greek epic poems: Wrst, between the Odyssey and the Iliad; second, between the Odyssey and an earlier poem on Odysseus’ homecoming; and third, between the Iliad and an earlier poem on Memnon. The case of the Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad poses, for those who accept it,4 interesting questions. Does it point us, for example, to a widespread, even traditional, phenomenon within the early epic tradition? Or rather to the unique standing that the Iliad and Odyssey enjoyed within that tradition?5 The abiding diYculty is to render it plausible that we should assume allusion to a speciWc poem rather than to epic tradition or, more generally still, to mythological tradition (not the preserve of epic poetry or necessarily of poetry at all).6 In my test cases I argued for pointed departures from scenes that are so distinctive and are recalled at such a level of detail that it is reasonable to think of evocations not simply of traditional poetic or mythical material, but of the 2 See Pelling, p. 80; Wilson, p. 292. 3 Another recent critique of neoanalysis is Kelly (2006). Despite his arguments I still Wnd it likely that the scene of ‘Nestor in danger’ at Il. 8.80–129 alludes to a comparable scene in the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) in which Antilochus lost his life and from which Pind. Pyth. 6.28–42 and Verg. Aen. 10.789–820 depend. 4 R. B. Rutherford (2001) makes to my mind a persuasive case. 5 For the latter view, cf. e.g. Taplin (1990) 111 and 112; M. L. West (2003b) 14. 6 Cf. Burgess (2001) 4, emphasizing the role of informal oral narratives and artistic representations in transmitting myth.

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idiosyncratic shape that this material had received in particular earlier poetic treatments. In addition, I tried to identify various narrative features which pointed to such a self-conscious interaction. Some of these are arguably peculiar to oral(-derived) epic; others may be paralleled in later stages of the epic tradition. In the former category are narrative inconsistencies, which I suggested may be a way of keeping a traditional version of a poem that is being alluded to present to the audience’s mind.7 This view of narrative inconsistencies diVers from the one that sees them as a consequence of imperfect assimilation of alternative versions, an involuntary by-product of the process of composition in performance, a diVerence we will come back to. Of the features of the interaction between early Greek epic poems which are paralleled at later stages of the epic tradition, the most notable is the tendency I claimed for the Homeric poems to trope their interaction with earlier poems. This bears comparison with the way, for example, Virgil tropes his relationship to his predecessors, Statius his relationship to Virgil, Tasso and Milton their relationship to Virgil (and the classical tradition generally). Homeric troping of the poet’s interaction with his predecessors may be seen in the metapoetic use of fate or the gods (Zeus in the Iliad and Athena in the Odyssey) to signal the poet’s obedience to, or his departure from, earlier versions.8 Homer also seems to anticipate later epic poets in the ‘signalling’ of the intertext, the metapoetic use of nekyiai, multiple correspondence between source-text and target-text, and opposition in imitation.9 Homeric anticipations of later developments raise the question of the utility of later stages in the tradition to cast perspectives on Homer; in particular, I aired the possibility of using Virgil as an ancient ‘commentary’ on Homer.10 This is itself a recurring theme of this book: Ovid may also be seen as oVering a commentary on 7 Similar suggestions have been made by R. B. Rutherford (1992) and Danek (1998). 8 Cf. Leigh, p. 238 on Stat. Theb. 10.909: ‘it is as if [Jupiter] is another put-upon listener, his ears battered by the rantings of the reciting epicist’. 9 ‘Signalling’: pp. 6, 19, 26–7. Nekyiai: pp. 21–2. Multiple correspondence of source-text and target-text: pp. 14–15, 38–9. ‘Opposition in imitation’: pp. 13, 22, 38 10 See p. 37.

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Virgil.11 Virgil is, of course, a problematic guide to the contemporary reception of Homer. However, an underlying contention of my chapter was that recognition of the important diVerences between oral(-derived) epic and literary epic ought to be reconciled with recognition of their important similarities. The earliest stages of the classical epic tradition are also the subject of Simon Pulleyn’s chapter. In exploring how and why the religious picture of the Homeric poems evolved from older conceptions, Pulleyn is fundamentally interested in interplays between old and new and between Greek and non-Greek in the early epic tradition: interaction here is not so much a question of intertextuality as of innovation and borrowing. Methodologically Pulleyn’s study is distinctive within this volume for focusing on individual words as the site of the interaction: he traces in particular the historical development of the words ˘ , Iæ , and ŒÆæ, and of the religious conceptions they entail. Pulleyn uses the methods of philology to distinguish old elements from new and Greek (or Indo-European) elements from non-Greek ones, but the philological methods serve literary ends: the developments in the uses of the words and their underlying conceptions reveal an evolving poetic vision of the gods as a collective and of their relationship with humans. The most crucial interplay traced by Pulleyn is between Indo-European and Near Eastern (especially Semitic) elements in the Homeric poems. It is tempting to take these categories to correspond broadly to the categories of native and imported material respectively, and in some cases the correspondence would seem to hold. An original Indo-European conception of Zeus as a god of the ‘bright skies’ who lives in heaven seems to have been overlaid in the Iliad with Semitic notions of a storm-god who inhabits a mountain in the north (in Greek contexts, Mount Olympus); here, it proves possible to discover an older Indo-European stratum and a newer Semitic one. But the antithesis ‘Indo-European’ and ‘Semitic’ 11 Cf. Robinson, p. 213. For a diVerent view of intertextuality as two-directional, see D. P. Fowler (2000) 130: the contributors of this volume do not, as he urges, abandon ‘a framework where source-texts precede target-texts’; cf. the ‘weak’ and ‘strong’ theses of Martindale (1993) 7.

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cannot consistently be equated with older and younger elements respectively.12 Partly this is because we cannot be sure how early Near Eastern elements entered the Greek epic tradition.13 Partly too it is because old, and Indo-European, notions may be reactivated by the poet to naturalize borrowings or innovations. An example is the couple Zeus–Dione (etymologically ‘Mr and Mrs Zeus’). This couple is apparently introduced into Il. 5.370–430 (and only here in the Iliad) to correspond to the Semitic (Akkadian) couple Anu–Antu (etymologically ‘Mr and Mrs Anu’), who play a closely comparable role to the Iliadic Zeus and Dione, at Gilgamesh vi.80–2. However, Zeus–Dione may be an ancient cultic pairing in Greece, with IndoEuropean parallels.14 It seems the Iliad poet was able to reach back to ancient, native conceptions to realize his adaptation of a Near Eastern motif. Another example is the conception of gods who eat ambrosia rather than feasting on men’s sacriWces and who drink nectar rather than wine. Pulleyn argues that these are late developments in the tradition, though it is the early stage (gods feasting on men’s sacriWces) that exhibits the Near Eastern parallels, while the stage deemed late (nectar and ambrosia as ‘deathless’ substances) has arguably Indo-European pedigree.15 We must, clearly, reckon with frequent cross-fertilization between the categories of Greek (IndoEuropean) and Near Eastern (Semitic); the interaction between old and new in Homer’s religion will be correspondingly complex. Another imponderable question is whether we are dealing primarily with a literary or a cultural phenomenon. It is increasingly accepted by scholars that, by Homer’s time, Greek culture was saturated with elements from the Near East.16 If contemporary Hellenic culture and religion were inXuenced by Near Eastern culture and religion, and if Homeric poetry reXects its culture, then the interaction between Homeric religion and the religion of Near Eastern texts may simply be a function of the interaction between the cultures. At least one interaction between Homeric religion and

12 13 14 15 16

Pertinent here is Burkert (2004) 47. Cf. e.g. M. L. West (1997a) 60. Pulleyn, pp. 59–60, with Dunkel (1988–91). Pulleyn, pp. 62, 65–6, 70–2. See esp. Burkert (1992); cf. M. L. West (1997a) 10–60.

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the religion of the Near East is explicable along these lines: in the Iliad, seers expert in the Mesopotamian skill of haruspicy (Il. 24.221 Ø . . . ŁıŒØ) feature alongside seers expert in the Greek (and maybe Indo-European) art of bird augury (Il. 1.69 Nøºø). Homer’s text seems here simply to reXect the cultural-religious interaction between the Greek and Mesopotamian worlds.17 However, the interaction elsewhere seems to be a speciWcally poetic one. Greek epic engages in the reception of quite substantial narrative sequences of Near Eastern poetry: to give the most famous instances, Il. 5.355–430 adapts the Babylonian Gilgamesh vi.1–91, and the Succession Myth of Hesiod’s Theogony adapts the Hurro-Hittite Song of Kumarbi (Kingship in Heaven).18 In such cases, the religious interaction considered by Pulleyn coincides with the kind of literary interaction considered in my chapter: Pulleyn reminds us that in early Greek epic we Wnd (what neoanalysts would call) ‘transferred motifs’ from Near Eastern poems as well as Greek ones.19 The cultural channels of such a literary interaction are intriguing, though obscure.20 Another point of contact—and divergence—between Pulleyn’s chapter and my own lies in our use of inconsistencies in the Homeric text as an indicator of innovation. Where I suggested that inconsistencies may be a self-conscious means of advertising innovation, Pulleyn regards the inconsistencies as accidental survivals from an earlier stage in the tradition.21 To see a self-conscious poet at work requires us to be conWdent about laying the changes at the door of a particular poet: ‘Homer’.22 It is notable, though, that some of the anomalous elements occur in secondary narration: the motif of gods feasting on men’s hecatombs rather than (as elsewhere) eating 17 Burkert (1985) 112–13, (1992) 48–9. 18 See e.g. M. L. West (1997a) 277–80, 361–2. It should not be assumed that speciWc extant Near Eastern texts were the precise intertexts for Homer or Hesiod. 19 Kullmann (1992c) 104–8; R. B. Rutherford (1996) 6–8. 20 See M. L. West (1997a) 606–30. West (2005) 64 suggests that a form of the Gilgamesh epic was known in Greek prior to the Homeric epics. Burkert (2004) 48 explains Greek acquaintance with Akkadian literature through Greeks getting a rudimentary literary schooling in the Near East. 21 Pulleyn, p. 66: Il. 9.535 ‘represents the survival of an earlier, perhaps cruder, conception’. 22 On this Pulleyn is understandably cautious: see pp. 56, 58, 60.

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ambrosia comes in a speech of Phoenix (Il. 9.535), and the motif of Ganymede serving as ‘wine-waiter’ of gods whom the narrative shows otherwise drinking nectar comes in a speech of Aeneas (Il. 20.234).23 Homeric speeches may (it has long been held) be a vehicle for traditional conceptions otherwise largely excluded from the primary narrative.24 Such a distribution of the motifs in the narrative would be consistent with the view that they are being self-consciously (that is, allusively) deployed.25 A thoroughgoing and profoundly realized contrast between gods and men is arguably a particular concern of the poet of the Iliad.26 While the overall consistency of this picture within the Iliad might suggest that it was developed by a plurality of poets rather than just one, nevertheless if such a picture were the distinctive vision of ‘Homer’, a high degree of internal consistency with occasional hints of the traditional alternative, judiciously placed outside the primary narrative, might be just what we would expect.27 We have here two diVerent approaches, both of which value narrative inconsistencies as a sign of innovation. One argues that these traditional conceptions slip through the poet’s net; the inconsistencies, unintended by the poet, are useful to the scholar for revealing the older strata with which the poet is working.28 This may be analogous to the way that comparative philology opens up to the modern scholar historical linguistic perspectives of which native speakers are themselves ignorant.29 The other approach argues that the traditional conceptions are 23 Cf. GriYn (1980) 187 n. 22 on Il. 9.535. 24 GriYn (1980) 166, citing schol. Ven. A on Il. 19.108 (¼ Arist. fr. 163 Rose) ‘the whole thing is mythical (ıŁH
 ); Homer neither says these things in his own person nor does he include them in the action, but makes mention of them as traditional material (‰
ØÆ

ø . . . ÆØ) concerning Heracles’ birth.’ 25 Cf. similarly Currie, p. 33 n. 145. 26 See GriYn (2001 [1977]) 372, (1980) 166–7; Kullmann (1992d ). 27 Cf. how the theodicy of the Iliad consistently ignores the ‘justice of Zeus’ (so prominent in Odyssey, Hesiod, and elsewhere) except, famously, in a simile: Il. 16.384–92. See GriYn (1980) 41 n. 101; Janko (1994) 365–6; Kearns (2004) 69 n. 14. 28 Compare the neoanalytical scholar J. T. Kakridis (1949) 10: ‘What if here and there unassimilated points escape [the poet’s] attention? We should be grateful to him for them, as otherwise it would be impossible for us to prove the extent, and above all, the nature of his dependence on his predecessors.’ 29 Cf. Pulleyn, p. 49: ‘Comparative philology here aVords modern scholars an insight denied to the ancient Greeks . . .’.

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admitted by the poet into the narrative, and that their inclusion in the narrative constitutes a strategy of allusion; they are there for the audience’s beneWt. Homer’s text may indeed admit both types of inconsistency. Christopher Pelling’s chapter brings us down to the Wfth century bc , a century whose two most distinctive literary genres, tragedy and history, show important interactions with Homer. In discussing the epic interactions of Herodotus, Pelling draws on J.-P. Vernant’s notion of a ‘tragic moment’ in Wfth-century Athens: a time and place of seminal cultural interaction between the old aristocratic values of the heroic world and the new democratic values of the city-state.30 Pelling extends the notion from tragedy to history, and from Athens to the Greek world at large; Herodotus’ interaction with Homer is revealed as exploiting ‘interesting ‘‘interplays’’ of the worlds of then and now’.31 As Pelling constructs it, the interaction is not a crudely oppositional one, a modern narrative contrasted with an archaic one. Rather, Pelling’s reading of Herodotus’ interaction with Homer sees those oppositions as already implicit in the Homeric poems: ‘whatever we Wnd happening in Herodotus or indeed in tragedy, we may Wnd that Homer was already doing himself ’.32 Homer, that is, was already exercised by the interaction between heroic and contemporary values, and between divine and human causation.33 Not only does Herodotus suggest readings of the Homeric poems that reveal them as unexpectedly ‘modern’, but equally Herodotus suggests readings of modern times that reveal them as (disturbingly) Homeric. For Pelling, as for me, it is a question when and how we have an allusion to the Homeric text.34 Sometimes there may be identical wording: the Spartan ambassador at Herodotus 7.159.1 cites Nestor at Il. 7.125.35 Sometimes situational similarities may suYce: the scene 30 Hardie (1997) 316–17 explores an application of Vernant’s notion of a ‘tragic moment’ to the circumstances of post-Actium Rome in which Virgil’s Aeneid was produced. 31 Pelling, p. 96. 32 Pelling, p. 75. 33 Pelling, pp. 76, 81–3. 34 Cf. Pelling, p. 77. 35 Hdt. 7.159.1 q je lœc oNlþneØe › —º
 `ªÆø, Il. 7.125 q je lœc oNlþneie ªæø ƒºÆ —º .

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between Croesus and Cyrus in the Wrst book of the Histories evokes the situationally similar scene between Priam and Achilles in Iliad 24.36 It is interesting that this Iliadic scene was already evoked (I argued), again by situational similarities, in the Odyssey.37 In a sense both the manner of Herodotus’ allusion to Homer and his choice of intertext are very much in the Homeric mould. Pelling also considers how allusion might be eVected even through proverbial or commonplace language. Similarly, I argued in my chapter for the possibility of allusion via formulaic language in the early epic tradition. The crucial point for Pelling about Herodotus’ interaction with the Homeric poems is that it sets oV a chain-reaction of other interactions: intertextuality with Homeric episodes is, very often, coupled with intratextuality within the Histories themselves. The scene between Priam and Achilles in Il. 24.480–4 is not only an intertext for the Herodotean scene between Croesus and Cyrus (Hdt. 1.88.1), but that Herodotean scene is also an intratext for the scene between Psammenitus and Cambyses (3.14–16). This, too, is in the Homeric mould. I argued that a scene from the *Memnonis (Aethiopis) where Achilles Wghts and kills Memnon is an intertext for Il. 16.431–61, 666–83, where Patroclus Wghts and kills Sarpedon; and that scene is intratextual with Il. 22.167–87, where Achilles Wghts and kills Hector. Or again, Od. 7.234–97, where Arete quizzes Odysseus about the clothes he is wearing, may be intertextual with a version in which Penelope recognized Odysseus from his clothes; but it is also intratextual with Od. 19.213–60, where Penelope indirectly quizzes Odysseus about his clothes, and comes within a hair’s breadth of recognizing him. In all these Homeric and Herodotean passages, there is signiWcance in both the distance and the closeness of the scene to its intertext and intratext. Another arguably Homeric technique is the signalling of intertext or intratext. Pelling’s point that the presence of Croesus in the scene at Histories 3.14–16 signals

36 Hdt. 1.88.1 (Cyrus and his retinue marvel at Croesus) Ipehþlaæœ  ˙qœym ŒÆd ÆPe ŒÆd ƒ æd KŒE K  , Il. 24.483–4 (Achilles and his retinue marvel at Priam) S `غf h›lbgsem Nd¿m —æ Æ ŁØ
Æ_ j ŁÆ
b ŒÆd ¼ººØ. 37 Od. 7.145 (Alcinous and the Phaeacians marvel at Odysseus) haulaæom ´ d ˙q
oymter. See Currie, p. 12.

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its intratextual relationship with Histories 1.88 mirrors my point that the presence of Antilochus at Il. 17.679–700 and 18.1–34, and that of Penelope at Od. 19.476–9, signals the original poetic contexts from which those motifs have been transferred.38 The reader may ponder the extent to which Herodotus (or, for that matter, Virgil)39 may be indebted to Homer for the technique. Herodotus’ combination of glances back to the ‘beginning’ (that is, to Homer) with glances forward to the most recent times (to Herodotus’ own day) enables questions to be raised about both the nature of history writing and about historical progress. In terms of the former, the Histories can be seen continually to reposition themselves on a sliding scale stretching from archaic epic to the contemporary ‘scientiWc’ discourse of the Wfth-century enlightenment: the way that ‘Thucydides was to write’,40 and the way some Presocratics and Hippocratics were already writing and thinking. Interaction with Homer thus constitutes an important part of the Histories’ exploration of their generic status. In terms of historical progress, the events of Herodotus’ main narrative, chieXy falling within the period c.560– 479 bc, are made to resonate with events both of Homer’s heroic age and of contemporary history of the 470s–420s (and especially 430s–420s) bc. Here, interaction with Homer constitutes part of Herodotus’ exploration of patterns of history. We may compare the way the issue of progess or regress is explored in Virgil’s Aeneid, sparked again, in part, by Homeric intertextuality.41 Or, keeping closer to Herodotus’ own cultural milieu, one may think of tragedy: the ability of the Histories to let Homeric scenes and personalities appear behind historical ones is the Xip side of tragedy’s capacity to oVer glimpses of historical situations and Wgures behind the heroic characters on the stage, ‘zooming’ from the world of the play to the present.42 Once again—a correlate of the question posed with Pulleyn’s chapter—it is not clear how we are to unravel the literary and 38 Pelling, p. 88; Currie, pp. 26–7, 19. 39 Cf. Lyne (1987) ‘Index’ s.v. ‘ ‘‘Signals’’ to other texts’. 40 Pelling, p. 83. 41 Quint (1993) ch. 2. 42 S. R. West (1992) 117–18, on Agamemnon and Pausanias in Aesch. Ag.; Braswell (1998) 40–1 n. 48, on Amphiaraus and Aristides in Aesch. Sept.; Bowie (1997), on Philoctetes and Alcibiades in Soph. Phil.

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cultural elements in this interaction. To what extent is Herodotus’ interaction with Homer a historiographical or a historical one? Unquestionably, the history of the Wfth and fourth centuries interacted strikingly with the aristocratic and individualistic world of the Homeric heroes.43 Historical persons of the Classical period could also self-consciously emulate epic heroes in real life, Alexander’s emulation of Achilles in the fourth century being a famous example.44 Such anachronisms as challenging an enemy champion to single combat (Paris, Il. 3.18–20; Hector, Il. 7.39–40) still persist in the Wfth century (the Athenian Sophanes, Hdt. 9.75). Individuals continue to perform barely credible aristeiai in battle, halted by horriWc wounding which turns out not to be fatal (the Aeginetan Pytheas, Hdt. 7.181, 8.92). It is notable, too, how many of the Homeric interactions considered by Pelling occur in characters’ speeches: is then the epicizing rhetoric theirs, or Herodotus’?45 The truth lies, surely, unspectacularly between the two: history itself presented some interactions with Homer, but the Histories discovered many others, of a profounder and more thought-provoking kind. Herodotus, as Pelling presents him, shows an awareness of the crucial open-endedness of such interaction. Herodotus’ narrative interacts with Homer’s narrative, Herodotus’ narrative interacts with itself, contemporary Wfth-century history interacts with Herodotus’ narrative, and subsequent history will duly interact with Herodotus’ narrative. Pelling’s study of Herodotus’ interactions embodies much that is central to the interactions considered in this book: this is an interaction which is both prospective and retrospective, cultural as well as literary. This chapter also raises the question of what is entailed by reading Homer through Herodotus, as other chapters explore the implications of reading Homer through Virgil and Virgil through Ovid.46 43 Cf. GriYn (1998) 57–8 on the importance of ‘great personalities’ for contemporary 5th-cent. perceptions of history. 44 In general, see Hornblower (2002) 290 ‘Homeric reminiscences abound in both of our two literary traditions about Alexander, and it is clear that this reXects not just a literary reworking of the facts but the facts themselves’, ‘the inXuence [sc. between history and historiography] Xowed both ways’. Note also Agesilaus’ imitation of Agamemnon in 396 bc (Xen. Hell. 3.5.3). 45 Compare the reminiscence of Il. 4.35 in Cinadon’s rhetoric at Xen. Hell. 3.3.6. 46 Cf. Currie, pp. 36–8; Robinson, p. 213.

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Gregory Hutchinson’s chapter takes us from the Classical into the Hellenistic period. It also brings us back from an interaction between a non-epic genre and epic (Herodotus’ Histories with the Homeric poems) to an interaction within the epic genre (Callimachus’ Hecale and Apollonius’ Argonautica with both the Homeric epics and other early epics, such as the Heracleis and Theseis, known to Aristotle, Poet. 1451a20).47 Hutchinson emphasizes that, in interacting with Homer, the Hellenistic epic poets are also interacting with a critical tradition on Homer which had been developing in the late Classical and Hellenistic periods, and is represented for us (chieXy) by Aristotle’s Poetics. The role of the critical tradition in shaping epic poets’ interactions with their predecessors is an important theme of the volume.48 It is relevant, of course, that Callimachus and Apollonius were both poets and critics: part of the interplay here is between practitioners and theoreticians of epic. Callimachus, in the Hecale, engages in ‘conscious and subversive play’ with Aristotle’s reading of Homer.49 Hutchinson’s focus is not the Hellenistic poets’ reception of Homeric language or motifs, but rather their interaction with Homer in their handling of epic form.50 The overriding critical concept here is unity or ‘oneness’, after the Aristotelian precept that an epic should have ‘one plot’ (¥ FŁ ) and should imitate ‘one action’ ( Æ æA%Ø )—a feature judged to have separated Homer from other archaic epicists (Poetics, chapter 8). In Hellenistic epic, oneness is explored partly through the length of the poem: that is, through the number of its books. For Hellenistic readers who knew the Iliad and Odyssey in editions of 24 books, the one-book Hecale already made a literal gesture to oneness.51 The Argonautica, with its 47 Cf. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 96. 48 See especially below on the chapters of Leigh, Clarke, Wilson. Also, Robinson, pp. 209, 211, on Ovid’s interaction with Virgil. Note also Jenkyns, passim (e.g. on Arnold as poet and critic). Cf. Burrow (1997b) 90 for Milton’s use of 17th-cent. commentaries on Virgil. The epics both use commentaries on their predecessors and become commentaries on their predecessors: cf. Hardie (1993) 118. 49 Hutchinson, p. 113. 50 See, on this aspect of Apollonius’ interaction with Homer, Campbell (1981); Knight (1995); Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 89–132, 266–82. 51 Hutchinson, p. 116 assumes a ‘Hellenistic book-division’ of Iliad and Odyssey. For an argument that they were original, see Heiden (1998) and (2000), with bibliography.

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four books, takes a more complex approach. The poem displays overall unity, but the book divisions complicate; they suggest discrete divisions, which are nevertheless transcended. The poem thus presents itself as a unity, but with parts. The four books of the Argonautica also constitute a formal interaction with Homer, evoking the four-book narrative of Odysseus’ wanderings at Odyssey 9–12.52 In this formal interaction there is also opposition in imitation, since that four-book Odyssean narrative seems already to have interacted with an early Argonaut story.53 Formal interaction in terms of book numbers of course continues in the epic tradition: most obviously, Virgil’s 12-book Aeneid with the 24-book Homeric epics, and Ovid’s 15-book Metamorphoses with the 12-book Aeneid.54 Oneness is also explored by Callimachus and Apollonius in the ‘management’ (NŒ Æ) of their epics. Aristotle (Poetics, chapter 8, again) insisted that a plot is not made one by virtue of having one hero, but only by having one action. Callimachus and (especially) Apollonius subject the critical notions of ‘one hero’ and ‘one action’ to intense pressure. As Hutchinson shows, there is in the Argonautica constant interplay between the Argonauts’ ‘one’ labour, the recovery of the Xeece from Colchis, and the multiple labours of their outbound and return voyage. Even the one climactic labour in Colchis becomes double, as recovery of the Xeece entails yoking the bulls and sowing the crop of warriors. There is sustained interplay too between the one hero, Jason, and the many heroes, the Argonauts. Again, even the one hero is bifurcated, since the climactic labour is ultimately to be accomplished by the collaboration of Jason and Medea. The Argonauts’ heroism is problematized (in contrast with Heracles, who has a Wxed number of labours, and an unambiguously active heroism); and there are problems with Jason as leader of the expedition and hero of the poem. Complex questions are consequently raised about male and female roles, active and passive heroism—interestingly, both already themes (as I argued) of the 52 Hutchinson, p. 116. 53 Currie, p. 6; cf. Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 90. 54 Cf. Armstrong, p. 137 n. 14; Robinson, p. 214. Milton’s 10-book Paradise Lost (1667) probably evokes Lucan’s 10-book Bellum Civile (Pharsalia)—although Lucan had himself probably envisaged 12 books; the 12-book Paradise Lost (1674) evokes Virgil’s Aeneid.

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Odyssey’s interaction with the Iliad.55 The split heroism of Jason and Medea in the Argonautica invites comparison with the split heroism of Odysseus and Penelope in the Odyssey. Penelope has a metaphorical ‘Odyssey’ within her own home, comparable to Odysseus’ on a vast world stage (note the simile at Od. 23.231–40, answering the one at 5.394–9). At the end of the poem, it is Penelope’s Œº , not Odysseus’, that is accentuated (Od. 24.196–7: contrast Od. 9.20). In the Argonautica, Medea has her own ‘labour’ to balance the Argonauts’ (Argon. 4.1, cf. 4.1776). But in Apollonius’ epic the juxtaposition of male and female and of active and passive heroism is in a much less harmonious equipoise. In the Odyssey, Odysseus’ suVering and his Œº are, ultimately, parallel and complementary to Penelope’s suVering and her Œº ; and the suVerings of both are ended in a single moment. In the Argonautica, however, the suVerings and labours of Medea rise as those of Jason and the Argonauts subside: ‘The symmetry [or perhaps ‘‘asymmetry’’, which has both an intratextual and an intertextual aspect], and its disquieting implications, are made clear.’56 Hutchinson shows how ethical complexity is achieved by the inclusion of additional lives and additional perspectives on the narrative. We Wnd contrasting and interlocking stories: for instance, of the sons of Phrixus and the Argonauts in the Argonautica, and of Hecale and Theseus in the Hecale. Here too the Hellenistic epicists are seen to confront their reading of Aristotle with their reading of Homer: the perspectives of (especially) Priam in the Iliad and Penelope in the Odyssey deepen and complicate the heroism of Achilles and Odysseus in those epics. Such deepening and complication are, however, taken onto a new plane with Callimachus’ Hecale and Apollonius’ Medea: these poets’ interaction with Homer in the ‘management’ of epic form enables them also to evoke the tragic eVect of the Homeric epics, especially the Iliad.57 For Hutchinson, therefore, the Hellenistic epicists’ interaction with Homer raises searching ethical questions about the hero of a ‘modern’ (that is, Hellenistic) epic:58 we should compare Pelling’s argu55 Currie, p. 13. 56 Hutchinson, p. 126. 57 Hutchinson, pp. 121, 128. 58 Hutchinson, p. 129: ‘Critically and ethically, the reader is engaged and provoked’; contrast (provocatively) Jenkyns, p. 325: ‘The Argonautica does little thinking’.

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ment that searching political questions are raised about ‘modern’ times by Herodotus’ interaction with Homer. Again as with Herodotus, the Hellenistic poets’ interaction with Homer enables generic questions to be raised: is a poem like the Hecale still an epic poem? There are also aesthetic questions: can epic poems written in this manner still succeed, even if they Xout (or at least complicate) the Poetics’ prescriptions for a good epic? The Hellenistic poets can be seen to oVer a practical response to theoretical strictures. The next four chapters are dedicated to Roman epic. Continuities, of course, were strong between Greek (Hellenistic) and Roman cultures: there is a seamless transition in a way there is not with the vernacular literatures considered in the third part of this book. Emphasizing the vast range of the Aeneid ’s source-texts, and the variety of their genres, Rebecca Armstrong presents the Aeneid ’s appropriative interaction with not just earlier epic but ‘all’ earlier literature as a self-conscious analogue of Rome’s treatment of its provinces: this Roman epic and the Roman empire are both engaged in acts of appropriation and redeWnition. On this reading, the Aeneid emerges as a project of literary imperialism, cultural counterpart to Roman (and speciWcally Augustan) military imperialism.59 Earlier literature—not only Greek, but the Latin literature of the Republic— is made to sing to a Roman tune. It is also transposed to the appropriate key. Light-hearted source-texts from the Odyssey surrender their humour and intimacy to the stern coldness of the Aeneid and a witty line of Catullus (66.39) is turned into a serious expression of ‘raw emotion’, in keeping with the gravity of the Roman imperial mission.60 Armstrong sees ‘conquest’ as a metapoetical Wgure for Virgil’s relationship with his literary models (similarly, in a later

59 Cf. Hardie (1998) 57 ‘This act of literary aggrandizement also makes the Aeneid a peculiarly apt complement to the ideology of the new princeps Augustus, buttressed as it is by a claim to the universal power of Rome; Virgil’s poetic triumph, as vividly described at the beginning of the third Georgic, makes of him the Wtting poet for the triumphator Augustus; the literary imperialist rides by the side of the military imperialist’. Cf. Hardie (1993) 1–2; Quint (1993) 7–8. 60 Cf. also Austin (1971) pp. xiii–xiv on the Virgilian transformation of the tone of Homeric and Apollonian intertexts.

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chapter, Leigh sees Capaneus’ ‘assault’ on heaven as a metapoetical Wgure for Statius’ relationship with his Virgilian model). The aspiration to subsume ‘all’ earlier literature is not new with the Aeneid. The Iliad and Odyssey, too, incorporate other poetry in what might be seen as a self-consciously appropriative way.61 The genres subsumed by the Iliad include heroic epic (the material of the *Memnonis (Aethiopis), Cypria, etc.), theomachy-titanomachy (Il. 21.385–520), theogony (Il. 14.200–4), ‘gods-poetry’ (Il. 1.153– 353),62 catalogue poetry (Il. 2.484–759), and Near Eastern poetry (Il. 5.355–430).63 The Iliad and Odyssey vigorously appropriate characters and episodes from other epics. In the Iliad, Diomedes has been appropriated from the Theban cycle, while Sarpedon belongs in Lycia and to an earlier generation. The Odyssey has lifted Circe and the Sirens from an Argonaut epic, and Odysseus’ katabasis is indebted to a Heracles epic.64 Hellenistic epic is no less appropriative. Apollonius’ Argonautica subsumes (to mention just the obvious appropriations) Archaic epic (especially the Odyssey), choral lyric (especially Pindar’s fourth Pythian), and Attic tragedy (especially Euripides’ Medea); it may be relevant to note that Athenian tragedy, too, had already made a point of subsuming all the lyric genres.65 Such a strategy of literary appropriation therefore neither begins nor ends with the Aeneid.66 But it is in a Roman context that it seems to acquire a distinctively political aspect.67 With Polybius, the genre 61 Cf. Currie, p. 22 n. 102, citing Danek (1998) 231 ‘our Odyssey presents itself as an epic which could potentially take up the material of all known epics and thus ultimately replace all other epics’ (trans. from the German). The notion of the Iliad and Odyssey as ‘totalizing’ texts, in this sense, is not just a later Greek construct (contrast Hardie (1993) 1 ‘In the case of the Homeric epics the totalizing impulse is perhaps perceived more clearly in the later Greek interpretation of the poems than in the texts as they might present themselves to an ‘‘unbiased’’ modern eye’). 62 Janko (1994) 168 ‘Homer parades his mastery of other types of epic composition in his repertoire’. For the term ‘gods-poetry’, see Taplin (2000) 38. 63 Cf. Currie, p. 23 and n. 107. 64 See GriYn (1995) 3–4; Janko (1994) 371; M. L. West (2005) 43–7. 65 Herington (1985) 79. 66 Cf. Wilson, p. 275: Tasso and Milton ‘incorporate into epic themes, tropes, and styles more often associated with other genres, including tragedy, comedy, mockheroic, pastoral, and history writing, as well as romance’. 67 One might contemplate a possible political dimension to the literary appropriations of Greek tragedy and Apollonius’ Argonautica. Fifth-century Athens and

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of universal history came to present Rome as the end-point of world history; at the same time, Polybius’ Histories set out to subsume other forms of history writing.68 This teleological view of Rome was incorporated into Ennius’ Annales; it was taken up from there, and given a further dimension, by Virgil. As world history Wnds its fulWlment in Rome and Augustus (Aen. 1.278–9, 286–96, 6.791–807; cf. Ov. Met. 15.829–31), so too, we are now to understand, literary history Wnds its fulWlment in this Augustan epic.69 But what makes the expansiveness of the Aeneid ’s literary interactions imperialistic and speciWcally Augustan? After all, a comparably inclusive intertextuality can be found in Republican—neoteric—Latin poetry (Lucretius, and Catullus’ Peleus and Thetis), where it lacks not just an Augustan aspect, but also a patriotic-political one. An answer might appeal to three things. First, the contemporary political context: the Aeneid may be thought to chime with Augustan imagery of world domination (we are obliged, though, to recognize that the Aeneid also contrasts with contemporary propaganda, such as Augustus’ Res Gestae and the imperial monuments: see Harrison’s chapter).70 Second, there is Virgilian metaphor itself: the proem of the third Georgic presents the poet contemplating the Augustan epic as an imperial conqueror (G. 3.8–48) (again, though, we must recognize that the Virgilian narrator also distances himself from the conquering princeps, G. 4.559–66). Third, there is Ovid’s reception of the Aeneid, which latches onto precisely this aspect of it (as Robinson’s chapter investigates;71 we should not, however, expect Ovid to be an evenhanded reader of the Aeneid, as Robinson makes clear). The metapoetics of the Metamorphoses may indeed alert us to the metapoetics of the Aeneid. As Ovid’s poem on ‘mutated forms’ (Met. 1.1 mutatas . . . formas) is itself engaged in a mutation of Alexandria under the Ptolemies Soter and Philadelphus were both imperially ambitious societies; on the relationship between Ap. Rhod. Argon. and Ptolemaic political interest, cf. Hunter (1993a) 152–69, (1993b) p. xi. 68 Marincola (2001) 121 ‘just as Rome subsumed individual nations, so Polybius’ history subsumed all other forms of history’. 69 Cf. Quint (1993), e.g. p. 9. 70 Cf. Hardie (1986) 378–9. 71 Cf. Hardie (1986) 379 ‘Ovid’s greater explicitness and succinctness often makes it possible to use him as a kind of commentary on what in Virgil is only hinted at’. Lucan’s reception of the Aeneid might lead to similar conclusions: cf. Quint (1993) 7–8.

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literary forms, so Virgil’s poem on Roman world conquest (Aen. 1.279 imperium sine Wne dedi) may plausibly be seen as engaged in a conquest of world literature.72 So we may see the Aeneid as ‘a growing literary empire which both mirrors and contrasts with the political empire of Augustus’.73 With this phrase, Armstrong hints that the Aeneid may also part company with the Augustan imperialist enterprise. Armstrong herself emphasizes the ‘mirroring’; the ‘contrasts’ are developed in the chapters of Harrison and Robinson. Armstrong is concerned to explore how the Aeneid imposes meaning on the texts with which it interacts (it may be tempting to think of the way in which the Roman imperialist is to ‘impose custom on peace’, Aen. 6.852). The reading of intertextuality, however, is notoriously fraught.74 To keep the imperialistic metaphor, it is not clear whether we should think of the Aeneid as annexing earlier literature or of earlier literature invading Virgil’s text.75 Even imperialism, for that matter, need not involve a simple imposition of the victor’s culture on the vanquished, as Horace famously recognized (Epist. 2.1.156–7). It is, perhaps, above all tragic intertexts that may be felt to redeWne the teleology of the Aeneid. Rather than a triumphant appropriation of another genre by this Roman epic, the intrusion of tragedy (Dido in book 4, Marcellus in book 6, Amata in book 12) might be seen as complicating the Aeneid ’s triumphalism.76 Indeed, Armstrong’s reading of the interaction of the Aeneid with earlier literature also lends itself to more problematizing readings of the poem. The case of Dido oVers an opportunity to see the Aeneid as problematizing its own annexation of earlier literature. Dido in Virgil’s hands is ‘The Epic Woman’, a summation of Homer’s Calypso 72 For the metapoetic interpretation of Aen. 1.279, cf. Kennedy (1997) 152–3. 73 Armstrong, p. 157. 74 Cf. Hinds (1998) 100–4; D. P. Fowler (2000) 134 ‘intertextuality represents a view of text as inherently open-ended, multiple, and unstable in opposition to notions of univalent, self-contained meaning . . .’. 75 Cf. Lyne (1994); D. P. Fowler (2000) 128, on Verg. Aen. 6.851 and Lucr. 5.1128: ‘the question as to whether we make Aeneid 6 correct the Epicurean retirement of the Lucretian intertext or the Lucretian traces subvert the Aeneid is obviously one that cannot be kept within the sphere of the literary but which reaches out into many aspects of our constructions of the transition from Republic to Empire’. 76 Hardie (1997).

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and Nausicaa, of Apollonius’ Hypsipyle and Medea, and of Catullus’ Ariadne.77 But she is also Dido (Elissa), a pre-existing literary Wgure in her own right. The story of Dido and Aeneas’ love aVair is a conspicuous innovation, though not necessarily Virgil’s; the traditional stories of Aeneas and Dido could not have brought the two together, given the traditional dates of the fall of Troy (1184 bc) and of the foundation of Carthage (c.814 bc).78 The traditional story of Dido was current in Virgil’s day: it is the version followed by Pompeius Trogus (perhaps following Timaeus) in his Philippic Histories.79 It is this version, up to the point of Dido’s founding of Carthage, that is summarily recounted by Venus at Aen. 1.340–68.80 The traditional Dido story is thus the one assumed by the Aeneid up to its point of contact with the Aeneas story. The traditional story continued with Elissa (Dido) immolating herself publicly on a pyre to avoid marriage to the local Libyan king Hiarbas (Virgil’s Iarbas) and stay faithful to her late husband Acharbas (Virgil’s Sychaeus) and with Dido subsequently being ‘worshipped as a goddess, as long as Carthage was unconquered’ (Justin 18.6.8).81 In the Aeneid, the traditional Wgure of Dido is subjected to a battery of literary models: she is infected not just by the heroine of epic, but the even more unhappy heroines of tragedy (Medea, Phaedra) and love elegy. Under the intertextual pressure of these literary females, the traditional Wgure of Dido comes apart at the seams—the honoriWc, virtuous death on the pyre being redeWned as a tragic, guilty one. We may even see an acknowledgement of the innovation, if 4.696 nec fato . . . peribat, ‘not by fate’, may be allowed to carry the overtone ‘not according to tradition’.82 77 Armstrong, p. 149. 78 Austin (1971) pp. xi–xii takes the innovation to be Virgil’s. But the love aVair may have featured in Naevius’ Bellum Poenicum (cf. Cyril Bailey and Philip Hardie in OCD (3rd edn.) s.v. ‘Dido’) and in the generation before Virgil may have been known to Varro (who had not Dido, but Anna, fall in love with Aeneas: Servius on Aen. 4.682) and Ateius Philologus (who wrote an essay on ‘Whether Aeneas loved Dido’). Cf. Pease (1935) 17–21. 79 Trogus is ‘usually dated to the reign of Augustus’ (McDonald and Spawforth in OCD s.v.). His Histories are preserved epitomized by Justin. 80 Cf. Justin 18.4–5. 81 Cf. Sil. 1.81–92. 82 For ‘fate’ as ‘tradition’, cf. Currie, p. 7; Janko (1994) 371 on Il. 5.662, 5.674–5: ‘The poet warns his hearers to revise their expectations, by saying that Sarpedon is not yet fated to die.’

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The subsequent meeting of Aeneas and Dido in the Underworld (Aen. 6.440–76) can be seen as oVering a retrospective commentary not just on Aeneas’ but on the Aeneid ’s treatment of Dido (granted, especially, that a nekyia is a Wtting place for a poem to explore its relationship to tradition).83 It is a shock, perhaps, for the reader, as well as for Aeneas, to Wnd Dido in the Underworld. The shock is accentuated by the implications of the intertextuality of Aen. 6.460 with Catullus 66.39 (The Lock of Berenice), which Oliver Lyne brilliantly explained.84 Berenice’s lock, translated to the heavens and deiWed (Catull. 66, after Callim. fr. 110) mirrors Aeneas’ anticipated translation and deiWcation (Aen. 1.259–60, 12.794–5), and contrasts with Dido’s own relegation to the Underworld (Aen. 6.441); the removal of a lock from Dido’s head by divine agency (Aen. 4.693– 705) links her further to Berenice, but in Dido’s case the severed lock merely facilitates her soul’s passage to the Underworld. The Catullan–Callimachean intertext and the scene as a whole brutally juxtapose Aeneas’ prospective apotheosis with Dido’s very present death. But this Underworld meeting needs to be read against the tradition in which Dido (Elissa) was deiWed after a noble suicide. This tradition is alluded to, in an ‘Alexandrian footnote’, at Aen. 4. 322–3 (sc. exstincta est,) qua sola sidera adibam / fama prior. In a jarring departure from that tradition, the Aeneid here inscribes Dido into a new Catalogue of Women, literary females who for the most part killed themselves after a tragic or unholy love (Phaedra, Procris, Eriphyle, Evadne, Pasiphae, Laodamia, and Caeneus: 6.445–9).85 The Aeneid’s Dido is the most ‘recent’ addition to this roster of heroines (6.450–1 ‘among whom Phoenician Dido was wandering, fresh (recens) from her wound’). Arguably, the Aeneid here tropes its own rewriting of literary history. Comparison with a passage from the second book helps to make the point. At Aen. 2.268–97, the dream visitation of Hector to Aeneas tropes the relationship of the Aeneid to the Iliad, the literary succession from Iliad to Aeneid being Wgured in 83 Cf. Currie, pp. 21–2; Hardie (1993) 103–5, (1998) 53. 84 Lyne (1994). 85 Compare the comments of Lyne (1987) 17, on Virgil’s treatment of Amata in book 12: ‘According to Vergil, but against the tradition, she hangs herself: a ‘‘degrading death’’ [‘informe letum’], as Vergil calls it (12.603), beWtting the desperate, the self-disgusted: Jocasta, Phaedra, and—according to Vergil—Amata.’

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the succession from Hector to Aeneas.86 Here we have metapoetic tropes which resonate throughout the epic tradition (see especially Wilson’s discussion of Tasso and Milton): there is the dream, the diYculty of recognition, the mutilation of the hero of the older poem almost beyond recognition (Aen. 2.274–5 quantum mutatus ab illo j Hectore . . . ). Comparable themes pervade the passage in book 6. The whole Underworld episode is a dream-like experience (Aen. 6.893–9).87 Here, too, we have diYculty of recognition (6.451–4, esp. 452 agnouit).88 The traditional heroine has once again suVered disWguring violence (6.450 uulnere).89 The ‘great wood’ (6.451 silua in magna, cf. 6.444), in which Dido is now to be glimpsed, is metapoetically suggestive:90 the Aeneid seems here to trope Dido’s incorporation into a vast body of literary material originally distinct from the Dido story. The pull of literary stereotypes has seemingly redeWned, distorted, the traditional Dido. Above all, though, the Aeneid ’s rewriting of literary history in this episode seems to be troped as a shocking, jarring one. The story of Dido had, after all, been the traditional one up to its incorporation in the plot of Rome (Aen. 1.340–68). There is, evidently, Virgilian appropriation and redeWnition going on here.91 But it is not a triumphalist nor necessarily a controlled redeWnition, especially if (in speculative vein) we may see the surprise evinced by Aeneas at the transformation he has eVected on Dido (6.458 ‘was I, alas, the cause of your death?’, 463 ‘I could not believe . . .’) as troping a failure of authorial control, the hero here as elsewhere serving as a Wgure for the poet.92 Virgil’s Carthage episode symbolizes an act of Roman imperialism (symbolically, Rome sacks Carthage: 4.669–71); it is also an act of literary appropriation (the Aeneas story co-opts 86 See Hardie (1993) 102–3, esp. 102 ‘the hero of the Iliad hands over to the hero of the Aeneid, just as the Roman Virgil takes over the epic mantle from Homer’, 112–13. Note esp. the intertextuality with Ennius’ dream (Ann. bk. 1, frr. 1–4 Skutsch), where Ennius is cast as the successor (reincarnation) of Homer. 87 Hardie (1998) 53. Explicitly a dream in Virgil’s source-texts, Cicero’s Dream of Scipio and Ennius’ dream; also in Tasso’s adaptation, GL 14.1–19. 88 Cf. Hinds (1998) 9–10 on Luc. 1.686 agnosco. 89 Hinds (1998) 14 ‘ ‘‘violation’’ may have its metapoetic dimension too’. Cf. ibid. p. 10 on Pompey’s deformis truncus (Luc. 1.685), and Lyne (1987) 17 (cited above, n. 85) on the untraditional suicide of Amata as informis leti (Aen. 12.603). 90 Cf. Hinds (1998) 11–14; Wilson, p. 288. 91 Cf. Macrob. Sat. 5.17.5, quoted by Austin (1971) p. xii. 92 For Aeneas as ‘Virgil’, cf. Hardie (1993) 102; for Capaneus as ‘Statius’, cf. Leigh, ch. 8.

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the Dido story). Arguably, Virgil tropes his rewriting of the tradition as an unwitting trampling over the Dido story, as Aeneas unwittingly tramples over Dido and Carthage. Empire in the Aeneid is partly, but recurrently, a story of unwanted accidents (the ‘wounding’ of Dido, re-enacted in the wounding of Silvia’s pet stag). Analogously, perhaps, Virgil’s creation of a literary ‘empire’ presents itself as containing accidents. The Aeneid combines a strong sense of teleology with a sense of ‘this was not meant to be’, on the level of both military and literary imperialism. The key agents of the poem (Aeneas, Jupiter) do not seem fully in control of their actions.93 Nor (it seems) is the narrator clearly able to steer the plot exactly as he intends. This seems especially to be the case if we see Jupiter as a Wgure for the narrator, responsible for imposing closure, Wnis, on the poem (cf. Aen. 1.241 and 12.793).94 There are, indeed, diYculties (which the Aeneid does not obscure) in seeing the Aeneid as literary telos and Rome as historical telos of the world, diYculties further exposed by Ovid in the Metamorphoses (see Robinson’s chapter).95 The analogy between Virgil’s interaction in the Aeneid with ‘world’ literature and Rome’s imperial interaction with world history is an intriguing and suggestive one, ambiguous in itself between panegyrical and oppositional readings of Virgil and prompting further contemplation of the complexities and ambiguities involved in ‘conquest’, in both the military and literary sphere. The scope of the book is considerably expanded by Stephen Harrison’s consideration of monuments as an ‘intertext’ of the Aeneid: the Augustan building programme can be seen as another kind of contemporary discourse with which the Aeneid interacts. This widened conception of ‘text’ gives interaction a sense which draws it into the realm of ‘cultural poetics’: an approach in which literary texts and cultural artefacts are equally objects of critical attention.96 It is an interesting question whether the imperial discourse constituted by the Augustan monuments in turn interacts 93 Cf. Lyne (1990). 94 Cf. Kennedy (1997) 147–8; Feeney (1991) 137. 95 Cf. Feeney (1990); Hardie (1992) 70–1; Martindale (1993) 37–8. 96 On this more expansive construction of ‘text’, cf. e.g. D. P. Fowler (2000) 128–9. On ‘cultural poetics’, cf. Dougherty and Kurke (1993), esp. pp. 5, 131 (after Greenblatt).

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with the Aeneid. Harrison does not himself consider any such instances; Robinson (brieXy) does.97 The interaction of epic poetry with physical monuments is a theme of Homeric as well as Virgilian epic. Monuments provide a powerful connection between past and present. The nature of the connection, however, may be quite diVerently realized. In the Iliad and Odyssey, monuments are present in the narrator’s own day as ruined vestiges of a remote heroic past; in the Aeneid, the monuments are present in the narrator’s own day as glorious manifestations of contemporary Rome, introduced in the narrative by prolepsis (Aen. 8.348 aurea nunc, olim siluestribus horrida dumis). Monuments may imply both a historical narrative and a generalized view of history. A sinister bargain among the gods lies for the poet of the Iliad behind the ruins of Argos, Sparta, and Mycenae (Il. 4.50–4), which were presumably visible to the poet’s contemporaries; and this narrative is emblematic of gods’ relations with humans as a whole.98 In the Aeneid, the architectural splendour of contemporary Rome suggests the gods’ unceasing support for the Roman mission— though Virgil’s text is, characteristically, more complex and ambiguous.99 Epic monuments oVer a perspective on poetry, as well as on history. In the Iliad, monuments such as a tomb are a medium for transmitting a hero’s fame to posterity, and are thus parallel to the bard’s song.100 In later Greek panegyrical poetry, especially Pindaric 97 Harrison, p. 178: ‘if there is allusion, we are (as in the other instances adduced in this chapter) dealing with allusion by poet to building rather than vice versa’. Robinson, p. 216 considers a possible reception of Aeneid on the Ara Pacis, and p. 191 the institution of the Ludi Saeculares as a possible response of Augustus to Virgil’s fourth Eclogue. Horsfall (1995) 166 asks whether the presence of the statue of Aeneas in the Forum of Augustus was ‘Provoked by the publication of the Aeneid ?’ 98 On Il. 4.50–4, see GriYn (1980) 196–7 and n. 54. 99 Note esp. the ambiguity of Aen. 8.348, quoted above: ‘golden now, but sometime [sc. in the past or in the future: see OLD s.v. olim 1 and 3] bristling with woodland thorn-bushes’. The future site of Rome at the time of the narrative also features ‘monuments/warnings’ (monimenta) of former men (8.312, cf. 356). These were the inhabitants of Saturn’s Golden Age (324–5)—who thus inevitably raise questions about the longevity of Augustus’ Golden Age (6.792–4). Compare, in general, Scipio Aemilianus’ fears for the future of Rome at the sack of Carthage: Polyb. 38.21; App. Pun. 132; Diod. 32.24. Cf. Hardie (1992) 59–60. For monuments in subsequent epic, cf. e.g. Luc. 9.961–79; Tasso, GL 15.19–20; Milton, PL 1.692–9; in Spenser: van Es (2002) 21–48. 100 For this function of song, cf. Il. 6.357–8; Od. 3.204, 8.580, 24.196–201; of a tomb, cf. Il. 7.86–91; Od. 4.584, 24.80–4; Cic. Arch. 24. Cf. Ford (1992) ch. 4.

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epinician, the concept is developed further: song is parallel to and in competition with monuments (tomb, statue, temple) as instruments of immortality (Pind. Pyth. 6.5–17, Nem. 4.79–81, 5.1–2).101 The theme is taken up into Augustan poetry in encomiastic contexts, notably in the proem of Virgil’s third Georgic (G. 3.13–39).102 The metaphor of the poet as imperial monument-maker invites comparison with the metaphor explored by Armstrong of the poet as imperial conqueror.103 Yet the metaphor of the Aeneid as an Augustan literary ‘monument’ is, like the metaphor of the Aeneid as an Augustan literary ‘empire’, a powerfully ambiguous one. If Virgil encourages us at G. 3.13–39 to see his epic poem as parallel to a monumental commemoration of Augustus and imperial ideology, then the practice of reading the Aeneid complicates the relationship: a diVerence is reinstated between the poem and the monuments. ‘[T]he Wltering of politically charged monuments through indirect literary allusion, analogous to the Wltering and modiWcation of other literary texts, allows (as in the Aeneid generally) more complex, nuanced and humane views on the tragic aspects of heroic achievement to have a place alongside undoubted compliments to the striking reconstruction of Rome under Augustus.’104 The Aeneid ’s interaction with the Augustan monuments constitutes one aspect of Virgil’s reception of imperial discourse; it may be seen alongside others, such as the Virgilian reception of imperial sentiments subsequently codiWed in the Res Gestae.105 (There may be irony—and a further proof of the inescapable open-endedness of interaction—if we wish to see post-Virgilian Augustan monuments, such as the Ara Pacis, as in turn enforcing an imperialistic reading of the Aeneid.)106 The Aeneid encourages us to redeWne the monuments, just as (Armstrong argued) Virgilian literary intertextuality encourages us to redeWne its literary intertexts. Like the epic itself, the monuments 101 Cf. (in prose panegyric) Isoc. Evagoras 73. For Callimachean development of the theme, see R. F. Thomas (1983) 96–9. 102 Cf. Hor. Carm. 3.30.1 V.; Prop. 3.2.17–26, 4.1.57 (Robinson, pp. 204–6), 4.1.65–7. In Neronian epic: Luc. 9.961–86. 103 Cf. also Prop. 4.1.57 V., exploiting the ambiguity of opus as denoting a literary or architectural ‘work’. 104 Harrison, p. 183. 105 Tarrant (1997b) 181. 106 Cf. Robinson, p. 216.

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in the epic can be aVected by unforeseen tragedy. Harrison illustrates the point with Augustus’ ‘mausoleum’: built as a dynastic tomb for Augustus, the mausoleum came to house the body of his intended heir Marcellus before it did his own. Monuments turn out to be texts as open as Virgil’s literary source-texts, as liable to redeWnition and recontextualization as they are.107 It seems to be in the nature of monuments that their meaning changes as events overtake them. A modern example makes the point with unusual explicitness: the ‘Siegestor’ in Munich, constructed in 1852 with the inscription ‘dem bayerischen Heere zum Ruhme’, destroyed in the Second World War and subsequently restored, now bears the inscription ‘dem Sieg geweiht, vom Krieg zersto¨rt, zum Frieden mahnend’.108 Such considerations suggest that Virgil would very likely have seen his own ediWce, the Aeneid, as itself open to redeWnition, for all its apparent pretensions to totality (closure, unassailability).109 Certainly, it did not have long to wait for it, at the hands of Propertius and, especially, Ovid. In discussing the Augustan poets’ responses to the Aeneid, Matthew Robinson returns us to literary interaction with the Aeneid. Here, as with Pelling’s exploration of Herodotus’ interaction with Homer, we are dealing with the interaction of non-epic literary genres with an epic. Their diverse interactions with the Aeneid reveal Horace, Propertius, and Ovid each as idiosyncratic, sometimes wilful, contemporary readers of Virgil’s epic. The interaction is played out partly on the level of genre. Virgil’s career of generic ascent (from pastoral to didactic epos to heroic epic) posed a dilemma for contemporary poets who, like Virgil, started out in the professedly nugatory genres of lyric (Horace) and love elegy (Propertius and Ovid). Such poets were now constrained either to remain resolutely within those genres or else to copy Virgil’s ascent.110 Ovid’s interactions with the Aeneid were expressed across a range of diVerent genres. In the pre-exile poetry there is even a 107 Cf. D. P. Fowler (2000) 193–217, e.g. 206 ‘Nothing is more changeable than the meaning of a monument.’ 108 1852: ‘to the fame of the Bavarian army’. After 1945: ‘dedicated to victory, destroyed in war, counselling peace’. 109 Cf. Hardie (1993) 2 and Armstrong, pp. 131–2. 110 Virgil’s ascent, set out in the spurious proem to the Aeneid, was a model, of course, for Spenser (FQ proem canto 1: from Sheaperdes Calendar to Faerie Queene)

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generic ascent mirroring, however parodically, Virgil’s: from love elegy (Amores) to ‘didactic’ love elegy (Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris) to ‘patriotic’ aetiological elegy (Fasti) to ‘epic’ (Metamorphoses). Horace and Propertius, on the other hand, worked out sustained responses within, respectively, the genres of lyric and elegy to Wrst the idea and then the reality of the Augustan epic. Initially, in Horace’s Wrst three books of Odes and Propertius’ Wrst three (four?)111 books of Elegies, the poets parade the ideological opposition of lyric and elegy respectively to panegyric epic (pledging commitment, for instance, to the proelia of the bedroom rather than those of the battleWeld). Subsequently, in Horace’s Carmen Saeculare and his Odes 4 and in Propertius’ ‘fourth’ book, all following the publication of the Aeneid, we see them exploring the patriotic potential inherent in those genres and placing them in (playful) competition with the Augustan epic. Horace now espouses increasingly the model of the public, encomiastic lyric poet Pindar, capable of immortalizing his human subject, over the private, sympotic lyric poet Alcaeus; Propertius realizes a patriotic element latent in Callimachus’ aetiological elegiac poetry. These could be responses to actual political pressure, but a literary dynamic is also discernible. Robinson portrays Horace as a reader sensitive to the ambiguities and conXicts of Virgil, and not averse to prising them further apart. According to Robinson’s metapoetic reading of Odes 1.3, Horace avails himself of the Archaic lyric form of the propemptikon (e.g. Sappho 5 LP) to exploit the sea voyage as a metaphor for writing epic. In doing so he plays back to Virgil the nervousness Virgil had himself expressed towards ‘the open seas’ (epic) in the Georgics (2.44–5). Virgil, it now appears, is oV to accomplish a cultural ‘conquest’ of Greece for Rome, as Virgil had himself suggested in another metapoetic metaphor in the Georgics (3.10–11)—the metaphor investigated by Armstrong.112 Horace emphasizes the and Milton (Epitaphium Damonis and Lycidas to Paradise Lost ; cf. Paradise Regained 1.1). Cf. Conte (1994) 289–90. Most (1993) 77 sees Hesiod as initiating the theme of the poet’s career. 111 e.g. Lyne (1998b). 112 Robinson, p. 189 n. 31.

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‘audacity’ of Virgil’s enterprise (Carm. 1.3.25, 27):113 Virgil’s ‘sea voyage’—undertaking an epic poem after Homer—seems tantamount to challenging Jupiter (Carm. 1.3.37–40). This Horatian Wgure is a signiWcant one: we will see it reappear in Statius (whose narrator styles himself as Capaneus challenging Jupiter: see Leigh’s chapter) and Milton (whose narrator styles himself as Satan/Bellerophon challenging God: see Wilson’s chapter). Horace’s Wgure interacts, moreover, with the end of his previous ode. There, the narrator prayed that Augustus, a god among men, ‘may return late into the sky’ (Carm. 1.2.44 serus in caelum redeas)—now the subject of an infelicitous-seeming echo, 1.3.38 caelum ipsum petimus stultitia, ‘we seek the very sky in our stupidity’. Thus, the end of Odes 1.3 ‘saps’ (to use Oliver Lyne’s metaphor) the end of the preceding political ode; in Odes 1.3, the narrator not only distances himself from Virgil’s epic project, and its implicit ideology, but also undermines the hyperbolical imperial panegyric of his own preceding ode.114 Intertextuality again goes hand in hand with intratextuality.115 Even the sapping may itself recall Virgilian technique, for the dialectic of earlier passages with later was a fundamental feature of Eclogues and Georgics—and was to be again of the Aeneid.116 In the Carmen Saeculare, produced after the appearance of the Aeneid, Robinson argues that Horace ‘saw more than just a patriotic voice in Virgil’s poem’.117 Whereas Armstrong sees Virgil as pressing other literature into the service of the great Roman patriotic epic, Robinson sees Horace in the Carmen Saeculare as having to sanitize oppositional elements in Virgil’s version of the Aeneas myth, in order to press them into a more unequivocally panegyrical context. Things are diVerent again in the fourth book of Odes, where Horace begins to meet Virgil on his own turf: lyric is now paraded as a panegyrical medium to rival epic. The relegation of Aeneas to the Underworld in Carm. 4.7.14–15 exploits an epic trope, the descent to the 113 Cf. Leigh, ch. 8 on the literary critical uses of audere and synonyms. 114 Lyne (1995) 163–4. 115 We may note that Odes 1.2 is intertextual with the end of Georgics 1 (Lyne (1995) 43–9), as Odes 1.3 is intertextual with the beginning of Georgics 2. 116 Cf. Lyne (1995) 164; cf. ibid. p. vii for the relation between Horatian ‘sapping’ and (Virgilian) ‘further voices’. 117 Robinson, p. 194.

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Underworld as a way of exploring the poet’s relationship with predecessors. There is also the characteristic opposition in imitation: where Virgil had put a traditionally deiWed Dido in the Underworld, Horace now puts the traditionally deiWed Aeneas there. Where Horace is sensitive to the ambiguities and complexities of Virgilian epic, the Propertian narrator is (or feigns to be) oblivious to them.118 Propertius responds to the Aeneid, before and after its appearance, as if it were the Augustiad that Virgil didn’t write, and may never, despite G. 3.8–39, have contemplated writing. The Wrst poem of Propertius’ second book assumes an Augustan epic must ‘ground Caesar’s name in his Trojan forefathers’ (2.1.42, cf. Verg. G. 3.35–6). The Aeneid, of course, reverses this procedure, oVering an Aeneas epic that looks forward to Augustus.119 The last poem of Propertius’ second book glosses the forthcoming Aeneid as a narrative of the battle of Actium (2.34.61–2), a narrative whose pitfalls Propertius illustrates in the central poem of his Wnal book (4.6.11–68). The Aeneid, however, narrates the sea battle only in a few lines, and then only in an ecphrasis (Aen. 8.675–728).120 In billing the forthcoming Aeneid as ‘greater than the Iliad’ (2.34.67), Propertius stylizes Virgil’s epic as a crude, perhaps reckless, emulation of Homer. The Aeneid ’s actual emulation of the Homeric epics, and its use of such language, is altogether more ambiguous (cf. Aen. 7.44–5).121 Throughout in Propertius, the Aeneid is seen through the uncompromising eyes of the love-elegist. Nor is Homeric epic immune to such reductionism: the Iliad was just a war for a beautiful woman (2.3.31–40). The dialogue between elegy and the Augustan epic is both two-way and productive. Where, for instance, the Propertian narrator polemically redeWnes his patriotic military duty as private love (militia amoris: cf. 1.6.30), Virgil’s Aeneas redeWnes his private love as love of country (amor patriae: cf. Aen. 4.347);122 the redeWnition is also a negation. The opposition between the elegist and the military man (compare especially the Propertius and Tullus of 1.6) arguably anticipates the later antithesis between the ‘pitiful hero’ of romance 118 Robinson, p. 208. 119 Cf. GriYn (1985) 168. 120 Cf. GriYn (1984) 208–9. 121 Hardie (1998) 54–5. 122 For amor patriae, ‘love of country’, cf. Aen. 6.823.

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and the ‘martial hero’ of epic (see further below, on Wilson’s chapter).123 Moreover, in the Propertian narrator’s striking identiWcation of himself with the type of Antony—a topic which Jasper GriYn has illuminated—we have a theme of fundamental importance not just for Virgil’s Aeneas, but also for the heroes of the Renaissance epics of Camo˜es, Ariosto, and Tasso, for whom playing the part of the speciWcally epic (rather than romance) hero is synonymous with embracing the model of Augustus, and rejecting that of Antony.124 Ovid’s awareness of what, in Robinson’s words, would make Virgil ‘wince’125 is anticipated by Propertius, as much of Propertius’ fourth book anticipates Ovidian developments. The aspects of the Aeneid that Ovid especially latches onto—its totalizing tendency, its teleology, its pretended unassailability—oVer some indication of what Ovid saw in the Aeneid, and conWrmation of the reading of the Aeneid given by Armstrong. The Metamorphoses is more totalizing even than the Aeneid, beginning earlier and ending later; Ovid now makes Virgilian intertexts sing to an Ovidian tune; and the Aeneid itself ‘becomes a frame for stories about metamorphoses, subsumed within Ovid’s own epic’.126 The teleology of the Aeneid is also subverted: Rome is no longer the end-point in world history, but, by implication, a stopping-point in that history (Met. 15.420–52).127 Ovid’s epic shows a keen awareness of working changes on literary tradition, and of itself being subject to change (Met. 15.165 omnia mutantur, nihil interit; cf. 1.2 nam uos mutastis et illa). Ovid is both aware of and exaggerates ‘subversive’ elements in the Aeneid, such as love elegy and metamorphoses.128 Ovid’s oppositional reading of Virgilian epic—allowing full reign to the digressive, the fabulous, and the amorous—anticipates even more strikingly than Propertius does the later developments of romance.129 123 For the antithesis, cf. Burrow (1993) 4. 124 Propertius and Antony: GriYn (1985) ch. 2. Antony and Renaissance epic: esp. Tasso, GL 16.4–7; cf. Quint (1993) 32–41. Aeneas and Antony: cf. Pelling (1988) 17. 125 Robinson, p. 209. 126 Robinson, p. 213. Cf. Hinds (1998) 121. 127 Hardie (1992) 60–1. 128 Hardie (1992) 62–75. 129 Hardie (1992) 70 ‘I think one could describe the Metamorphoses as an epic moving strongly in the direction of what was later to be romance’; cf. Burrow (2002) 312.

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Robinson’s chapter reminds us that, while the Roman poets were perceptive readers of Virgil, they were (unsurprisingly) selectively so.130 The Aeneid is diVerently nuanced for diVerent readers with diVerent agendas.131 The reader must judge what such contemporary poetic readings can show us about the Aeneid: whether we should see, for example, Ovid as a commentary on Virgil, capable of taking us closer to an authentically Augustan understanding of the Aeneid;132 or whether we have another illustration of the fact that literary meaning is created by readers, and that once we have seen these features in Ovid, we are bound to Wnd them in Virgil.133 In Statius’ Thebaid, Matthew Leigh considers a Flavian response to the Aeneid. As in Hutchinson’s chapter, we have here a response to a foundational epic by a later epicist. Again, the interaction at stake is not primarily an intertextual relationship:134 Leigh focuses on the Thebaid ’s ways of talking about itself, explicitly and implicitly through metapoetic metaphor; in other words, on the rhetoric of Statius’ imitation (or emulation?) of Virgil. Leigh also draws attention to the politics of modern scholars’ constructions of literary history, reminding us that critics’ ways of talking about the Aeneid, and about literary hierarchies in general, are ideologically charged.135 Leigh’s chapter unites two recurring themes of the volume. First, the use of a metapoetic Wgure to trope a poet’s interaction with a 130 Cf. Tarrant (1997b) 183. 131 Cf. D. P. Fowler (2000) 16, quoted by Pelling, p. 97 n. 59. Writers of Renaissance epic—Dante, Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser—continued to respond to the ideological ambivalence of the Aeneid: Burrow (1997b), esp. 82, 85, 86. 132 Robinson, p. 213: ‘one could argue that his poems form a kind of commentary on the Aeneid’; cf. Hardie (1986) 379 (cited above, n. 71). 133 Cf. Tarrant (2002) 26–7. These questions echo those posed by Pelling, p. 104; cf. D. P. Fowler (2000) 130–1. 134 On Statius’ ‘multiple intertextual relationships with his predecessors’, see Pollmann (2004) 53–8. 135 Leigh, p. 221. For the general point, cf. Martindale (1993) 23–9, 49, 66; Orgel and Goldberg (2004) pp. xxvii–xxviii, on the acclamation of Milton’s Paradise Lost by Dryden (The State of Innocence) and Addison (The Spectator, 1712): ‘[Dryden’s] coupling of such terms as ‘‘noble’’ and ‘‘sublime’’ ascribes to the poem quasiaristocratic value; the coupling of generic and class markers ‘‘elevates’’ the poem in ways that safeguard it against revolutionary or republican readings . . . Treating the poem as a supreme instance of ‘‘the highest kind’’ of poetry, an epic that deserved to be

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predecessor:136 here Capaneus’ taking up arms against Jupiter in book ten of the Thebaid (esp. 10.832–3, 842–5) is taken as a Wgure for Statius’ poetic challenge to Virgil. This metapoetic reading of the Capaneus episode has particular resonance with Robinson’s reading of the end of Horace, Odes 1.3, ‘in our stupidity we seek the sky itself and by our sin we do not allow Jupiter to put aside his angry thunderbolts’—referring to Virgil’s attempt to emulate Homer with the incipient Aeneid. The second recurring theme of Leigh’s chapter is the mediation of the poetic interaction by the critical tradition—a concern especially of Hutchinson’s chapter. Leigh’s metapoetic reading of the Capaneus episode is underpinned by the fact that words used of both Capaneus and the Statian narrator—terms for ‘sublimity’, ‘great-mindedness’, ‘tumidity’, ‘insanity’, ‘audacity’, ‘following’, ‘rivalling’ (sublimis, magnanimus, tumidus, insania and synonyms, audeo, sequor, tempto)—are terms of contemporary literary critical discourse, employed by critics like ‘Longinus’, Quintilian, and Pliny, as well as by poets speaking in a critical capacity: Statius in the Silvae, Martial, and Petronius. The explicit rhetoric of the Statian narrator, especially in the apostrophes of Hopleus and Dymas (Theb. 10.445–8) and of the Thebaid itself (12.816–17), is one of humble deference to Virgil (10.446 inferiore lyra, 12.817 longe sequere et uestigia semper adora). This stance needs to be seen against a background in which poets (and critics) typically conceive literary relationships agonistically: a contest between defending champion and aspiring challenger.137 Indeed, the literary scene from the early Greek tradition to Flavian Rome featured actual competition between poets.138 On the whole, called ‘‘divine’’, Addison sought at the same time to make it normative, the realization of its genre; and beyond that, the embodiment of a comfortable and conforming Christianity’. (Similarly, Orgel and Goldberg (1991) p. x.) On the ideology involved in recognizing some intertexts and ignoring others, cf. D. P. Fowler (2000) 128. 136 For the identiWcation of poet with hero, cf. Wilson, pp. 282–3, 295 (Tancredi and Satan as Wgures for Tasso and Milton respectively). For Aeneas as a Wgure for the Aeneid, see above on Aen. 2.268–97 and 6.440–76. For Odysseus ‘standing for’ the Odyssey, cf. Currie, p. 22 n. 102. In general, cf. Hardie (1993) 99–116. 137 See Russell (1979) 16 on the competitive element in imitatio. Cf. Armstrong, p. 135 n. 11 on Dares and Entellus at Aen. 5.362–484. 138 In the early Greek epic tradition: Currie, p. 6 (esp. Hes. Op. 26). In Flavian Rome: Leigh, p. 241; cf. Pollmann (2004) 12.

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Homer’s role as the defending champion was recognized.139 In Rome, Ennius claimed supremacy as the Roman Homer.140 Subsequently, Virgil supplanted Ennius.141 For Propertius, in an apparently mischievous hyperbole, Virgil even supplanted Homer (2.34.65–6). In a famous passage, Lucan measured himself against Homer, pointedly overlooking Virgil (9.980–6).142 Statius’ pose, ostensibly refusing to shape up to Virgil and settling for zero in this apparently zero-sum game, is thus a striking one. Yet, as Leigh shows, the Statian rhetoric of deference is complex.143 Through the metapoetic Wgure of Capaneus, Statius explores a model on which defeat brings a kind of victory (the game is not, in fact, zero-sum). Capaneus is a mad challenger, doomed to failure; but he is ennobled and uplifted by the defeat. Statius buys unstintingly into the notion of a ‘divine’ Virgil. But the hierarchy implied is inherently unstable, for classical attitudes to the divine are crucially ambiguous. On the one hand, there is recognition of a qualitative diVerence between human and divine: ‘mortal things beWt mortals’ (Pind. Isthm. 5.16). On the other hand, it is quite proper for humans to be spurred to emulate the divine: ‘one should not, as those who deal in precepts say, being human have human thoughts or being mortal mortal ones, but should become immortal as far as is possible’ (Arist. EN 1177b30–4).144 The divinity of a Jupiter (or a Virgil) is therefore ambiguous, poised between deterrent and inspiration. Also ambiguous is the fate of a Capaneus: being struck by lightning betokens both divine displeasure and divine election.145 In the Thebaid, Capaneus’ deeds go ‘not unpraised by the Thunderer himself ’ (11.11).146 In Euripides Supplices, the lightning-struck Capaneus was practically heroized

139 Cf. Morgan (1999) 28–32. A Wctional Contest of Hesiod and Homer, in which Hesiod worsts Homer, may go back to Alcidamas in the 4th cent. bc. 140 Leigh, p. 219 n. 9. 141 Leigh, p. 219 nn. 9–10. 142 Leigh, p. 222. 143 Cf. Hardie (1993) 111 ‘The explicit statement of the poet may not of course coincide with his poetic practice’. 144 Cf. Leigh, p. 230, on the human gaze being properly directed heavenwards. 145 Cf. Rohde (1925) i. 320–2. 146 Leigh, p. 240.

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(934–8, 980–3).147 The language of the envoi to the Thebaid implies heroization or apotheosis as the forthcoming fate of the poem (12.818–19 mox, tibi si quis adhuc praetendit nubila liuor, j occidet, et meriti post me referentur honores, ‘soon, if any cloudy envy covers you, it will perish, and the honours due will be paid after my death’).148 Capaneus’ assault on heaven will be recalled one last time—and implicitly compared and contrasted with Statius’ poetic enterprise—in the envoi (12.816), if we take nec tu diuinam Aeneida tempta to mean not just ‘don’t rival’, but ‘don’t you make an assault on149 the divine Aeneid ’. Leigh’s discussion reveals several ‘fault-lines in Statius’ language of deference’.150 How extensive the fault-lines are is a matter for debate. Notably, in calling the Thebaid ‘for twelve years object of my wakeful toil’ (Theb. 12.811 bissenos multum uigilata per annos), Statius trumps Virgil, who was engaged on the Aeneid for eleven years (Vita Donati 25).151 (Here we see another distinct mode of epic poets’ interaction with their predecessors, mediated by the biographical, rather than the critical, tradition.)152 Further, by following far behind in the footsteps of the divine Aeneid (Theb. 12.816–17), it may be implied that the Thebaid will itself become divine, like an Epicurean following in footsteps of Epicurus (Lucr. 3.1–30, 6.1–8, 27–8),153 or like anyone treading in the footsteps of a deiWed exemplar (as the sequence Hercules–Aeneas–Augustus in the Aeneid). Finally, while Statius’ recognition of Virgil’s divinity is on the face of it an expression of deference, it may on scrutiny amount to 147 Rohde (1925) i. 321. 148 Hardie (1993) 111 and n. 39, 113. 149 OLD s.v. tempto 9a ‘make an attempt on (by military force)’. Cf. Shackleton Bailey’s translation in the Loeb Thebaid: ‘essay not’. Leigh discusses tempto in n. 23. 150 Leigh, p. 218. 151 Pollmann (2004) 13. 152 There are numerous other examples of such ‘autobiographical intertextuality’. Ovid burned the Metamorphoses (Ov. Tr. 1.7.15–26), just as Virgil had instructed the Aeneid to be burned (Vita Donati 39): see Robinson, p. 215 n. 177. (Compare too the burning of the epic in Tennyson’s The Epic 25–38, quoted by Jenkyns, p. 328.) Lucan wrote the Bellum Civile (Pharsalia) ‘before the age at which Virgil wrote his Culex’ (Stat. Silv. 2.7.73–4): see Leigh, p. 221. Milton, like Homer, is blind (PL 3.33–6). Tarrant (1997a) 57 recognizes ‘Virgilian biography . . . as an aspect of Virgilian reception’. 153 Hardie (1993) 111.

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a claim to equivalence. In fact, the notion of Statius laying siege to a Jovian Virgil replicates the erstwhile situation of Virgil laying siege to a Jovian Homer, the situation evoked (Robinson argued) at Horace, Carm. 1.3.38–40. The theme of Statian diVerence from, and deference to, Virgil then arguably collapses into aYnity and legitimizes the aspiration of the later poet. The metapoetical Wgure employed by Statius for his interaction with Virgil itself interacts with a metapoetical Wgure for Virgil’s interaction with Homer. In the last three chapters of the book, devoted to the literatures of medieval and Renaissance Europe and of Victorian Britain, the cultural and literary continuity that has obtained so far in the tradition is broken; and this hiatus has implications for the nature of their interactions with classical epic. The heroic narratives of the medieval North, the subject of Michael Clarke’s chapter, pose a unique problem in this volume. How can medieval works be interacting with an ancient Greek epic which their authors can hardly have known? Yet when we confront the Iliad with the Old English poems Beowulf and The Battle of Maldon and with the Old Irish prose narratives Togail Troı´ and Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge (TBC), strikingly similar motifs appear: the call for promises at the feast to be made good on the battleWeld (Il. 20.79– 85 and Beowulf 2633–8, 2646–9); complex narratives exploring the ambiguity of the warrior’s manliness, delicately poised between greatness and excess (Achilles’ and Hector’s Iªæ : Il. 9.699–700, 22.457; Heremod’s oferhygd and Byrhtnoth’s ofermod: Beowulf 1740, Maldon 89); the warrior’s superhuman ‘warp’ (Il. 18.203–18 and TBC1 2237–78). Clarke rejects the view that a common origin for the ancient Greek, Old Irish, and Old English texts is to be sought in Indo-European poetry.154 This leaves an apparent choice between stark alternatives. First, a hypothesis of no interaction: the perceived similarities between Homer and these narratives of the medieval North may be the product of parallel development, arising from basic similarities in the cultures which produced them. But, Clarke argues, this hypothesis as generally formulated tends to make questionable assumptions about ‘heroic poetry’, and fails to do

154 Clarke, p. 247 n. 16, cf. p. 260 n. 37. Cf. GriYn (1980) 39 n. 97.

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justice to our sense that we are dealing with non-coincidental resemblances. Second, a hypothesis of direct interaction: Homeric epic may somehow have inXuenced the medieval works in a comparable way to that considered in the previous chapters. Yet this seems to founder on the virtual certainty that Northern Europe in the Middle Ages was not acquainted with and could not have understood the Greek epics. Clarke attempts to relax the dilemma by exploring the possibility of indirect and hidden routes of interaction between the texts. The Irish narrative on the sack of Troy, Togail Troı´ 1, oVers a valuable control. It has a demonstrable extant classical source: the Latin Historia de excidio Troiae of ‘Dares Phrygius’, whose availability and inXuence in the medieval period are well known.155 The Irish narrative is a creative translation, with abundant expansion, of Dares’ narrative; the paradoxical result is something more Homeric-looking in both style and content than the Latin original. This test case shows that Homeric resemblance may be due to factors supervenient on any actual interaction. Clarke identiWes two such factors. First, an expansive Irish narrative aesthetic coincidentally similar to Homer’s, an aesthetic ‘particularly liable to produce seemingly Homeric images in this context’.156 Second, the injection of classical images culled from anthologies (Xorilegia) or contained in rhetorical handbooks or scholia, which were continuously transmitted throughout the period; in some cases, images of ultimately Homeric provenance may have been reapplied to new contexts coincidentally similar to their original Homeric ones. We should reckon, then, with an infusion of both native Irish and of classical (including quasi-Homeric) elements— and with a seamless assimilation of the two. This test case has suggestive implications. TBC1 is extremely close to Togail Troı´ 1:157 similar processes may also be suspected there. The implications for the English poems Beowulf and Maldon are less clear. The Old English Old Testament poems, at least, show a comparable contamination of native and borrowed elements to Togail Troı´, although the demonstrable borrowing here is from Christian rather than classical 155 See the edition of Meister (1873) and the translation of Frazer (1966) 11–15. 156 Clarke, p. 267. 157 Cf. Clarke, pp. 265–6.

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sources.158 Beowulf and The Battle of Maldon stand in a similarly close relation to the Old Testament poems as TBC1 does to Togail Troı´ 1, so a comparable borrowing (and seamless assimilation) of foreign elements—including classical elements—is conceivable there. This kind of interpenetration of native and borrowed elements mirrors what we found (above, on Pulleyn’s chapter) with the Iliad ’s assimilation of Babylonian Anu–Antu and Greek Zeus– Dione: the resources of the native culture are utilized to naturalize cross-cultural borrowings. The hypothesis of parallel development is thus upheld, but with an important modiWcation. The parallel between Homeric and Old English/Old Irish epic is not ‘merely sociological’.159 That is, it is not a product simply of similar social structures in Iron Age Greece and medieval northern Europe, and of these literatures reXecting their society (compare above on the chapters of Pulleyn and Pelling); rather, there is a parallel literary aesthetic at work as well. The hypothesis of interaction is also both upheld and modiWed. In the case of Togail Troı´, direct interaction is not with Homer himself, but with ‘Dares’ ’ Historia de excidio Troiae. Again, we are reminded (as we were by Leigh) that literary hierarchies are cultural, and ideological, constructs: ‘the carriers of . . . inXuence seldom correspond to the texts that later hindsight sees as the great classics of international literature’.160 In a way, though, interaction with Dares Phrygius entails indirect interaction with Homer (with whom Dares interacts).161 Indirect interaction is also entailed by the use of Xorilegia, rhetorical handbooks, and scholia. We have already amply seen 158 Clarke, p. 259: ‘the union between imported story and native poetic tradition is smooth and seamless’. 159 Clarke, p. 250; cf. p. 261 n. 39 and pp. 270–1. 160 Clarke, pp. 270–1. 161 The Historia de excidio Troiae is a Latin translation ascribed to Cornelius Nepos of the 1st cent. bc, but probably executed in the 5th or 6th cent. ad. The Greek original, The Phrygian Iliad (,æıª Æ  (ºØ ), ought to antedate Aelian (c. ad 170– 235): Ael. VH 11.2; cf. Phot. Bibl. 190 p. 147 Bekker. The Historia de excidio Troiae is evidently a response to the Iliad: its Wctional author, the Trojan Dares, has a walk-on part in that poem (Il. 5.9, 27); it surpasses Homer by oVering an earlier, ‘contemporary’ account of the same events (for the hysteron proton, see Currie, p. 35 n. 152); it replaces Homer’s perceived philhellenic perspective (e.g. schol. BTon Il. 10.14) with a Trojan one; and it rewrites the heroic ethos of the Iliad with a more ‘romance’ one.

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how the interaction of many classical authors with Homer and Virgil was informed by the critical tradition; for medieval writers, the scholarly tradition and its oVshoots will sometimes have constituted the sole mode of interaction. The medieval northern narratives’ interaction with Homer is thus a matter of parallel development reinforced with messy cross-contaminations. This recognition destabilizes the notion of Old English and Old Irish epic as ‘primary’ epic:162 in fact, writers in these traditions ‘were quite capable of working with materials imported from alien cultural worlds and transmitted by written means’.163 Clarke’s chapter (and perhaps the study of epic interactions in general) thus tends to undermine the distinction of ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’ epic. In my chapter I also challenged the view of Homeric epic as ‘primary’, identifying several Homeric features characteristic of ‘secondary’ epic.164 For Emily Wilson, Tasso’s and Milton’s interaction with classical (and especially Virgilian) epic is part of a complex negotiation by these poets with their whole poetic tradition, the most crucial interplay being arguably between classical epic and vernacular romance.165 Both these genres, or modes, were prone to stereotyping: epic strove relentlessly towards a narrative telos, romance endlessly deferred that telos; while the epic hero was motivated by an overriding sense of (patriotic) duty, the romance hero was swayed by a sense of (personal) pity. In the generation before Tasso and Milton, Ariosto in Orlando Furioso and Spenser in The Faerie Queene experimented with hybrids of epic and romance.166 The sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury critics and poets (Tasso was both) thus inherited—and critiqued—views both of what epic should be like and of what Virgil in particular was like. Tasso and Milton can be seen highly productively to confront the inherited poetical and critical tradition with their own reading of the classical epics. Their Wrst-hand engagement 162 Cf. Clarke, p. 244. 163 Clarke, p. 259. 164 Currie, p. 38. 165 Wilson, p. 274. See Burrow (1993); Quint (1993) 31–41, chs. 6 and 7. 166 Burrow (1997b) sees Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso as one of the ‘hybrids of vernacular romance and classically inXuenced epic’ (p. 83) and Spenser’s Faerie Queene as ‘an epic romance’ (p. 86).

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with the classical texts renuanced the stereotypes and opened up new possibilities of poetic meaning.167 This is another important, cyclical, feature of the epic tradition. It is instructive to compare Hutchinson’s discussion of how the Hellenistic poets reread the texts of Homer against the dominant intervening critical tradition. Against such a background, epic in the hands of Tasso and Milton inevitably raises generic questions.168 Tasso and Milton steer a middle way between renouncing the classical epic tradition and slavishly reproducing it. Wilson pursues these questions by considering passages where intertextuality is coupled with metapoetic metaphor: the key passages are Aen. 3.41–6 (the Polydorus episode) as an intertext for Tasso, GL 13.38–47 (Tancredi in the enchanted forest); and Aen. 2.274–9 (the dream apparition of Hector) as an intertext for Milton, PL 1.84–7 (Satan’s opening address to Beelzebub).169 In these passages the themes of change, of subsistence through change, of recognition, and of failed recognition are seen as tropes for Tasso and Milton’s relationship with their tradition. The theme of poets troping their relationship with their predecessors is by now a familiar one in this volume (see especially Leigh’s chapter). Like Leigh, Wilson can support her metapoetic reading of Tasso, GL 13.38–47 by pointing to the language of the contemporary critical tradition: in this case, the metaphor of the ‘material of poetry’ as a ‘forest’ can be paralleled in Tasso’s own Discourses on the Heroic Poem. Wilson’s argument for an identiWcation of Tasso and Milton with their heroes Tancredi and Satan also recalls Leigh’s argument for an identiWcation of Statius 167 Note Burrow (1997b) 88 ‘[There] is a continual oscillation between received readings of the poet and direct responses to his works. The strongest means of resisting a received reading is to return to the works themselves in order to show that the received image of them is partial or misleading.’ Cf. Burrow (1993) 4–5 ‘Sixteenth-century epic romance is underwritten by an urge to Wght back to Virgil, and to unwrite prevalent readings of the Aeneid.’ 168 Wilson, p. 276: ‘Renaissance epic raises problems of generic and literaryhistorical identity. What makes one poem the same genre as another?’ Cf. Burrow (1993) 285 ‘How can a new narrative, and a new heroic ethos, be both like and diVerent from, a past work, without either replicating that earlier work, or forcibly transforming it into the image of the present?’ 169 On the metapoetic signiWcance of Virgil, Aen. 2.268 (already appreciated by Petrarch: Hardie (1993) 103 n. 22; also an intertext for Tasso, GL 4.49), see above (as well as Wilson, pp. 290–2). See Burrow (1993) 77 V., (1997b) 84 on Tasso and the Polydorus episode.

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with his hero Capaneus. Leigh’s reading of Statius may itself be inXuenced by a reading of Milton: in concluding, ‘I like Statius because I think he was really of the Devil’s Party’, Leigh adapts a phrase applied by Blake to Milton to express the latter’s sympathy with his character Satan.170 If Leigh was guided to his reading of Statius by Milton, then we have another striking illustration of how readings of later stages in the tradition can aVect readings of earlier— and also a reminder that, like any good commentary, a poet’s reception of his predecessors may oVer valuable critical insight, as well as a potentially obfuscatory Wlter. The explicit self-comparison of the Miltonic narrator with Bellerophon in the proem of book 7 (in addition more generally to the implicit comparison with Satan171) oVers a striking parallel to Leigh’s reading of Statius as a Capaneus in Thebaid 10 and to Robinson’s reading of Virgil as a Bellerophon Wgure in Horace, Odes 1.3 (37–40). Yet Milton has adapted the Wgure with a twist—it tropes not so much the poet’s audacity of grappling with a ‘divine’ poetic predecessor as grappling with a subject matter that is divine and beyond human reach (note how the subject matter of Paradise Lost frequently resembles that from which Raphael warns Adam, PL 8.64–202). For Wilson, Tasso’s and Milton’s interaction with classical epic provokes complex ethical questions—as do, for Pelling and Hutchinson, the interactions of Herodotus and the Hellenistic poets with Homer. ‘For Milton, the proper relationship of a poet to his sources is part of a broader ethical question: how to relate to the past, and to change.’172 Religious questions are also raised: ‘Could the presence in classical epic of pagan gods and pagan magic be adapted in a Christian poem?’173 Pulleyn explores how in the Iliad Near Eastern religious conceptions could be amalgamated with Greek ones. Even in the polytheistic poem, intertextuality with Near Eastern literature may accentuate religious diVerence. At Il. 5.428–30, Zeus’ insistence that warfare is not Aphrodite’s province contrasts 170 Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: ‘The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil’s party without knowing it’. 171 Note the eVect of the juxtaposition of PL 7.13–20 with PL 6.898–900. 172 Wilson, p. 295. 173 Wilson, p. 274.

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suggestively with Babylonian Ishtar, Aphrodite’s intertextual model.174 In Tasso and Milton, however, intertextuality with classical epic articulates much profounder religious diVerences. Greeks and Trojans share the same religion in the Iliad; Christians and Muslims in Gerusalemme liberata do not. Homeric intertextuality underlines the point. At Il. 6.297–311, when the Trojan women congregate in Athena’s temple to pray that the goddess may break Diomedes’ spear, Athena refuses because she is implacably opposed to the Trojans— and because, simply, in the Iliad, ‘The plans and purposes of gods can . . . be inscrutable’.175 In Tasso’s adaptation, the comparable prayer of the Muslim women of Jerusalem for Godfrey’s spear to be broken goes strikingly unheard for the more fundamental reason that their god does not exist (GL 11.29–30).176 Christianity, perhaps, gives sixteenth- and seventeenth-century epicists a similar cultural superiority vis-a`-vis the ancient world to oVset literary anxiety as the Roman empire gave Roman epicists vis-a`-vis the Greek world. Milton’s Christian epic outdoes classical epic in much the same way that Virgil’s Roman epic surpasses Homer; Milton, like Ovid before him, is able to build on the Aeneid ’s all-inclusiveness, its teleology, its ‘conquest’ of world literature.177 The classical story of the expulsion of Cronus and the Titans from Olympus and their relegation to Tartarus is subsumed in Paradise Lost into the Christian story of Satan and the angels’ fall from Heaven (PL 1.50, 508–14); the story of Zeus’ hurling Hephaestus from Olympus is a reXex of the same event (PL 1.738–51).178 Milton here can exploit a Renaissance humanist reading of classical literature 174 See above on the intertextuality of Il. 5.355–430 and Gilgamesh vi.1–91. 175 GriYn (1980) 169. 176 Cf. GL 20.114. There may be ‘contamination’ in Tasso of the Iliadic scene with 1 Kings 18. 18–40 (God—YHWH—hears Elijah, but Baal does not hear the 450 prophets of Baal), a reference I owe to Richard Rutherford. 177 On Milton’s ‘conquest’ of classical epic tradition, cf. Burrow (1993) 284–5. The universal supremacy of Christ (Messiah) provides Milton with a Christian teleology which can supplant the Roman imperial teleology provided by Augustus for Virgil: note esp. the intertextuality of PL 12.370–1 ‘[Messiah shall] bound his reign j With earth’s wide bounds, his glory with the heavens’ with Aen. 1.286–7 Caesar, j imperium Oceano, famam qui terminet astris. 178 Cronus (Saturn) and Titans: Hes. Theog. 617–819. Hephaestus: Il. 1.590–4. Fall of angels and Satan: 2 Peter 2: 4; Jude 6; Revelation 12: 7–9.

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as a Xawed revelation of the Christian truth.179 This accords with the way the New Testament appropriates and redeWnes the prophecies of the Old; but it is also in the tradition of long-standing classical epic interactions, reminiscent of how (Armstrong shows) Virgil appropriates and redeWnes Homeric prophecy.180 Robinson has suggested a kind of classical precedent for even that most notorious Christian appropriation of Virgil, the reading of the fourth Eclogue as a prophecy of Christ’s birth, if the Augustan regime hijacked that Eclogue to turn it into a prophecy of Augustus’ own birth.181 Richard Jenkyns explores Victorian writers’ interaction with, above all, the idea of epic. Whereas the seventeenth century produced an English epic that became a classic, Paradise Lost, the nineteenth century did not. Nineteenth-century interactions with epic (which had now to embrace Milton as well as Homer and Virgil) were played out instead partly on the level of critical discussion, including critical discussion in poetry. Once again, we see the role of the critical tradition, discussed by Hutchinson, Leigh, and others in this volume; and once again poetry and criticism are seen to inXuence each other reciprocally.182 Victorian interactions with epic (at least, the more notable ones) were otherwise played out in non-epic, or not clearly epic, genres: thus Jenkyns’ investigation broadly invites comparison with Robinson’s discussion of the interactions of the lyric and elegiac Augustan poets with Virgil, and with Pelling’s discussion of the Wfth-century historian’s interaction with Homer. This inevitably raises, once again, generic questions. Did the novelists see themselves 179 Orgel and Goldberg (2004) p. xix ‘To the Renaissance humanist, the classical world is a version of the biblical, but its stories are fables, the result of an imperfect understanding of the truth of scripture, an incomplete revelation’. 180 Cf. Armstrong, p. 139, on Il. 20.302–8 and Aen. 3.94–8: ‘Virgil says what Homer, had he only known the glorious truth, should have said’. For important limits to the parallelism between typological biblical exegesis and Virgilian Homeric intertextuality, see GriYn (1985) ch. 9, emphasizing that the Aeneid sets out not merely to supersede its Homeric model, but to derive moral complexity from it. 181 Robinson, p. 191: ‘[Augustus] enforces a reading of the text that . . . identiWes the mysterious puer as none other than himself, co-opting the poem and its prophecies to the service of his regime’. Cf. also GriYn (1985) 188. On the Christian appropriation of the Eclogue, see Clausen (1994) 126–8. 182 Jenkyns, p. 301: ‘[Arnold’s] Sohrab and Rustum is so saturated in Homer that the essays On the Modern Element in Literature and On Translating Homer almost seem to be continuing by other means a debate which the poem initiates.’

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as ‘epicists in prose’? What was the status of the ‘verse novel’: Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh and Robert Browning’s The Ring and the Book? And what are we to make of Byron’s Don Juan, styled by its author an ‘epic satire’?183 Like the Romantics before them, the Victorians ‘looked . . . upon classical civilization as completed, over and done with; and they debated their own relationship to that distant epoch’.184 Their situation thus resembles that of the Renaissance writers; yet the nineteenth-century response was diVerent. Whereas Virgil was the more important classical epicist for the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Homer was the more important for the Victorians. Standing at the beginning of the tradition, Homer provided the stronger contrast with the present. The Victorian interaction with the idea of epic is, Jenkyns shows, typically bound up with ideas of social and cultural advance: epic becomes again a medium to explore cultural development, as Pelling argued it was already for Herodotus in the Wfth century bc. Yet while Herodotus used evocations of Homeric style and content to call into question how far his century had progressed from the time of Homer, the fact of social progress was a given for the Victorians, and seemed to preclude their adoption of the Homeric form or tone. For Blackwell and DuV in the eighteenth century, and for the Victorians Macaulay and Peacock, epic was the peculiar property of primitive cultures, and therefore inaccessible to their own.185 The recurring perception of epic as totalizing, universal (compare Armstrong on Virgil, Robinson on Ovid, Wilson on Tasso and Milton), now becomes almost paralysing. ‘Virgil’s example, fortiWed by Milton, . . . imposes on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the idea that epic must be colossal in its ambitions and immense in its success’.186 The inhibiting eVect of the foreboding of poetic failure seems to have been felt to an acute degree by the Victorians; but their 183 Jenkyns, p. 302: ‘if such works are not to be placed within the genre of epic, it may indeed be worth our while to ask why’; p. 311 on Don Juan: ‘But what was epic?’, ‘Is Don Juan epic?’ 184 Jenkyns, p. 305. On Homer and the Romantics, cf. Webb (2004). 185 To these writers, one might add also Hegel’s Aesthetics (T. M. Knox (1975) ii. 1045; 1st pub. 1835–8), quoted by Burrow (1993) 1 n. 1. 186 Jenkyns, p. 323.

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response should perhaps be seen as diVerent in degree rather than kind from their classical forerunners. ‘Greek poets went on composing epics after Homer, and Latin ones after Virgil without the sense that they were taking oV on a kamikaze Xight.’187 But the fear of the perilous ‘sea voyage’, at least, was there, in Augustan Rome (Verg. G. 2.44–5; Hor. Carm. 1.3.1–24: see above). A characteristic refuge for Victorian writers from the universalizing aspiration of epic was found in ordinary life, the ordinary hero: this is the path taken in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh and the novels of George Eliot. An important precedent here was set in Romantic poetry by Wordsworth’s proclamation of the autobiographical subject matter of his Prelude as ‘in truth, heroic argument, j And genuine prowess’ (1805: 3. 182–3): an intertextual interaction with Milton’s own explicit interaction with the Iliad: ‘argument j Not less but more heroic than the wrath j Of stern Achilles’ (PL 9.13–15).188 Notably, where Milton outbids Homer and looks to a higher, more divine plane, Wordsworth underbids both, turning inwards and closer to home. In essence, this too is a response that has been anticipated earlier: one thinks most immediately of Hellenistic epic, especially the jarringly ordinary Hecale of Callimachus’ epyllion.189 But already the Odyssey’s response to the Iliad consisted in giving greater prominence to the lower social classes (especially Eumaeus) and to everyday concerns.190 Jenkyns argues that epic is, or should be, a genre which ‘thinks’.191 The various chapters of this book have tried to show it also as a genre which is peculiarly good to think with: about the place of a particular 187 Jenkyns, p. 324. 188 Jenkyns, pp. 326–7. 189 Or of the concern of Apollonius in the Argonautica to assimilate the heroic action to ‘a construction of universal and ordinary experience’ (Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 101). 190 e.g. Hutchinson (1988) 57; Fantuzzi and Hunter (2004) 197. A crucial mediator between archaic and Hellenistic epic is again Euripidean tragedy: note esp. Ar. Ran. 959–63; Arist. Rhet. 1404b24–5. The decision of the Odyssey poet (in the person of Athena) to clothe his hero in rags (13.399–400) strikingly anticipates Euripidean (cf. Ar. Ach. 412–15) and hence Hellenistic developments (e.g. Callim. Hec. fr. 30 Hollis, with Hollis’s note ad loc.). Compare the greater prominence of women in the Odyssey: cf. Currie, pp. 13–14. 191 Jenkyns, p. 325: ‘the greatest epic poetry thinks’.

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author, work, genre, or society within cultural and literary history. The Victorian responses to epic can be seen to echo many earlier other stages in the epic tradition; or perhaps to echo the way earlier stages echo earlier stages. How many of these constitute complex interactions, how many parallel developments, how many a simple consequence of the fact that a reader will Wnd aspects of his or her reading of later texts in earlier, and vice versa, is ultimately a question that must be left for the reader of this volume to answer.192

192 I thank Anna Clark, Michael Clarke and Glenn Black for discussion throughout the writing process, and Richard Rutherford for commenting on the written version.

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Index of Passages from texts in Akkadian, Greek, Hebrew, Hittite, Italian, Latin, Modern English, Old English, Old Indic, and Old and Middle Irish. For details of editions used, see p. 432.

A K KA DI A N Epic of Gilgamesh VI 1–91 59, 336 VI 80–2 335

XI 162 65

GREEK Aelian VH 11.2 366 n.161 [Aelius Aristides] Rhetorica 1.142 Schmid 224 n.25 Aeschylus Choe. 231–2 18 n.82 Sept. 424–5 225 n.26 427–8 228 441 226 n.37 529–30 227 n.41 Supp. 381 54 n.33 TrGF iii.375 32 n.143 Alcman (PMG) 3.1–3 44 n.194 14(a)1–3 44 n.194 fr. 42 68 Anthologia Palatina 9.190.2 105 n.1 Antipater of Sidon LVIII.2 Gow-Page, HE 105 n.1 Apollodorus Epit. 20.1 25 Apollonius Rhodius Argon. 1.15–16 117 n.24

1.97–100 124–5 n.48 1.149–50 116 n.21, 124 n.45 1.247–305 120 1.251–2 124 1.253–5 122 n.36, 124 n.46 1.255 118, 120 1.256 124 1.259 124 1.263–305 122–4 1.268–77 126 n.54 1.278 124 1.284–9 124 1.286 122 n.35 1.341 122 n.35 1.362 117 n.24 1.404–5 118 1.441–2 117 1.448 122 n.35 1.466–8 227 n.41 1.557–8 127 1.627–30 119 1.630–9 150 1.637–8 119 n.29 1.675–96 150 1.793–833 150 1.685 122 n.36 1.742–6 119 n.29

414 Apollonius Rhodius (cont.) 1.769–72 119 n.29 1.685–8 119 1.836–41 150–1 1.861–74 151 n.52 1.879–82 151 1.896–7 151 1.901–3 117 n.24, 118 n.26 1.919–21 122–3 n.39 1.989–1011 119 1.1003–5 128 n.59 1.1213–17 119 n.31 1.1211–69 125 1.1265–72 119 n.31 1.1298–1308 120 1.1310–28 120 1.1315 125 1.1318 118 1.1339 125 1.1345 125 2.1 119 2.38–40 119 2.88–91 119 2.135–41 123 n.41 2.147–50 125 n.50 2.154 125 2.183 122 n.37 2.197–201 122 n.37 2.218 122 n.36 2.221 122 n.37 2.236–9 122 n.38 2.239 122 n.37 2.254 122 2.257–8 122 n.39 2.310 121 2.311–425 120–2 2.327 122 2.410 123 n.43 2.419–20 122 n.35 2.424 118 n.27 2.444–7 121 2.615–18 117 n.24 2.662–8 119 2.715–19 120 2.744–91 123 2.757–8 123 n.41 2.762–71 120 2.776 123 2.796–9 123

Index of Passages 2.803 123 2.833–4 120 2.858–63 121 2.885–93 121 2.985–95 120 2.1090–1227 120 2.1098–1103 123 2.1140 123 n.43 2.1152 123 2.1208–13 119 n.30 3.210–41 12 3.250–2 127 3.253–67 123 3.304–13 124 3.423 123 n.43 3.528–33 127 3.584–8 124 n.45 3.594–605 124 n.45 3.623–7 119 n.29, 126 3.656–63 126 n.54 3.732–5 127 3.876–86 143 n.22, 155 n.68 3.983 128 3.997 118 3.1054 119 3.1105 127 3.1134–6 127 3.1189 118 n.27 3.1306–7 118 n.26, 27 3.1327–9 119 3.1407 118 3.1407, 4.1 126 4.1 344 4.50–65 127 4.151 119 n.30 4.193 126 4.203 126 n.52 4.241–3 127 4.360–5 126 4.368–9 127 4.411–13 128 4.468–9 119 n.31 4.541 127 4.560 127 n.57 4.560–1 117 4.576–9 125 n.50 4.587–8 127 n.57 4.661 153 n.57 4.730–7 120 n.32

Index of Passages 4.783–832 125 4.811–16 127 4.1028 35 n.152 4.1031–5 119 n.29, 126 4.1036–40 126 4.1060–7 126 n.54 4.1121–69 125 4.1775–6 118, 126 4.1275–6 117, 118 n.27 4.1307 117 4.1319–21 117 4.1651–88 127–8 4.1682–6 128 n.59 4.1776 344 Fragments (Powell) fr. 5.4–5 122 n.37 fr. 12.15 127 n.58 Appian B Civ. 1.16 177 Pun. 132 353 n.99 Aristophanes Acharn. 412–15 373 n.190 Ran. 959–63 373 n.190 Lys. 1295 44 n.194 Peace 435–6 80 n.16 Aristotle Eth. Nic. 1145a27 95 n.56 1177b30–4 362 Metaph. ˜1015b36–1016a12 108 n.5 ˜ 1016a20–4 109 n.9 ˜ 1023b26–1024a10 109 n.8 ˜ 1023b26–36 110 ( 1052a19 108 n.5 1077a20–36 110 Ph. 1.185b7 108 n.5 Poet. 1450b24 110 1450b29–30 109 1450b36–1451a6 110 1451a16 109 n.9 1451a20 342 1451a25–6 116 n.23 1451a27–8 109 1451a31–2 110 1452a15 108 n.5 1452a29–31 279

1453a29 108 n.5 1454b15–18 107 1455b10 109 1459a30–34 109 1459a30–7 111 1460a11–b5 109 Rh. 1357a22–b1 109 n.7 1365a31–3 91 1402b12–1403a10 109 n.7 1404b24–5 373 n.190 1411a 2–4 91 Fragments (Rose) fr. 70 107 fr. 163 337 n.24 [Aristotle] Mund. 1.1 232 n.65 Arrian Anab. 3.10.1–2 228 n.46 Athenaeus 4.138 b-c 100 n.65 Bacchylides 9.9 44 n.194 Callimachus Aet., bks 1–2 (Massimilla) fr. 1 145, 148 fr. 1.3–4 108 fr. 9.13–14 214 n.173 fr. 25.21–2 113 Aet., bks 3–4 (Pfeiffer) fr. 67.9–10 147 n.37 fr. 110 350 Ia. 13 114 n.18 Hecale (Hollis) fr. 2.1 114, 115 n.19 fr. 7 113 fr. 10 116 fr. 13 116 fr. 17 124 fr. 17.2–4 116 fr. 17.3 113–14 fr. 18 116 fr. 30 373 n.190 frr. 47–9 115 n.19 fr. 49.2–3 114, 116 n.22 fr. 60 116

415

416

Index of Passages

Callimachus (cont.) fr. 68 118 n.26 fr. 69.1 112 fr. 69.4–9 116 fr. 79 113 n.17 fr. 80.1–2 116 n.22 fr. 80.5 114 fr. 101 112 Hymn 2 105–13 145 n.29, 189 n.29 Epigr. (Pfeiffer) 1.9–10 147 n.38 6 107 28.1 23 n.110 Fragments (Pfeiffer) fr. 407. XL 107 fr. 491 115 n.19 Crinagoras (Gow-Page, GP) X 166 n.20 XI.1 105 n.1 Dio Cassius 51.19.2 171 n.33 53.26.1 166 n.20 53.30.5 167 Dio Chrysostom 52.14 21 n.101 53.1 107 Diodorus Siculus 4.59.6 113 n.16 32.4 353 n.99 Diogenes Laertius 5.22–7 107 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Pomp. 3 78 n.8 Comp. 25 (Usener-Radermacher, ii.132–3) 105 n.1 De Imit. fr. 6.2.4 (Usener-Radermacher, ii.204) 108–9 Thuc. 10 (Usener-Radermacher, ii.338.4–10) 108 n.5 Dosiadas Ara 5–8 128 n.59 Epici Graeci (West) Cypria, Proclus § 6 10 Aethiopis, Proclus § 1 24 Aethiopis, Proclus § 2–4 25–41

Little Iliad, Proclus § 2 21 n.101 Naupacti[c]a fr. 6.3 118 n.27 See also Panyassis. Epictetus 1.6.19 230 n.59 Epicurus 127 Arrighetti 107 n.3 Euripides Bacch. 141 67 El. 539–40 18 n.82 IT 407–21 191 n.40 Phoen. 1130–3 225 n.26 1172 234 n.80 Supp. 934, 980–3 362–3 Heraclitus fr. 104 DK 3 n.16 Herodotus Proem 78–85 1.4.1–2 85 1.5.3 85 1.8.2 83 1.13.2 83 1.32 86 1.35.1 86 n.30 1.45.2–3 86 n.30 1.67 90 n.40 1.86.6 86 1.87.2 84 n.24 1.88.1 86, 339 1.155.1 100 2.86.3 73 n.118 2.117 77 n.6 3.14–16 87–9, 339 3.119 100 4.32 77 n.6 5.32 100 n.64 5.91–3 101–3 5.97.3 79 6.11.1–2 80 6.109.3 81 n.18 7.5.2 98–9 7.11.1 100 7.20 78 7.103–4 95 7.105.1 94 7.156.2 90 n.40

Index of Passages 7.157.2 91 7.158.4 91 7.159.1–162.2 89–92 7.159.1 338–9 7.178.2 94 n.53 7.181 341 7.197.3 95 7.208.3 93–4 7.209.1–2 94 7.217.2 92 n.48 7.219.2 92 n.48 7.220.2–4 92–5 7.223 92 n.48 7.223.3 95 n.55 7.225 92 n.48, 97. n.60 7.226.2 94 7.229.2 95–6 7.231 96 7.234–7 94 7.238 92–3 n.48, 99 8.3.2 100 n.64 8.56 83–4 8.60a 81 n.18 8.64.1 84 n.24, 97 n.60 8.65.1–2 84 n.24 8.77 84 n.24 8.78.1 97 n.60 8.83.1 92 n.48 8.84.2 84 n.24 8.92 341 8.114.2 98 8.118.2 80 n.18 8.124.2–3 95 n.56 9.7b.2 96 9.26 97 n.60, 98 9.27.4 90 n.42 9.47 92 n.48 9.48 94–5 9.62.2 97 n.60 9.71.3–4 96 9.75 341 9.78–9 98–100 9.78.2 94 n.53 9.88 100 9.113.2 100 9.120.4 100 Hesiod Theog.

1 15 n.73 35 77 n.7 36 15 n.73 188–93 59 535–60 66 640 68 n.91 984 41 n.182 987–91 33 n.144 992–1001 117 n.24 Op. 26 6 415 51 684–94 191 n.40 Fragments (Merkelbach-West) fr. 23a.17–26 33 n.144 fr. 23a.20 60 n.61 fr. 357.2 41 n.184 Homer Il. 1.1 125 1.2 13 1.5 82 n.20 1.6–8 81–2 1.25 47 1.43–6 192 n.51 1.69 335–6 1.153–353 346 1.189–92 125 1.240–4 25, 103 1.260–72 123 1.352 30 1.353 53 1.354 51 1.358 57 n.49 1.399 53 1.396–406 76 n.2 1.416–18 30 1.420 53 1.463 69 n.95 1.495–510 144 n.27 1.497–9 53 1.498 32, 51 1.502–6 32 1.503 50 1.518–21 58, 82 1.528–30 82 n.20 1.530 54 1.541–2 32

417

418 Homer (cont.) 1.560 51 1.566 54 1.580 51 1.590–4 76 n.2 1.597–8 68 2.11 94 n.52 2.13 54 2.87–90 151 n.53 2.149–54 83–4 2.260 8 n.43 2.300–32 9 2.412 51 2.488–93 189 2.484–759 346 2.486 15 n.73 2.547 57 2.549–51 33 n.144 2.552–4 90 3.18–20 341 3.95 101–2 n.68 3.126–8 97, 117 n.24 3.380–2 33 n.145 3.385 72 4.8 57 4.29 102 4.30 51 4.35 341 n.45 4.49 65 4.50–4 353 4.123 48 4.166 51 4.354 8 n.43 4.336–421 97 4.370–418 76 4.384–98 42 n.187 5.23 33 n.145 5.62–3 79 5.64 79–80 n.14 5.91 51 5.311–18 33 n.145 5.338 67 5.339–42 58, 61–3 5.349 58 5.355–430 335–6, 346 5.370 59 5.381 59 5.383–404 76 n.2 5.388 61 n.65 5.428–30 369–70

Index of Passages 5.662 349 n.82 5.674–5 349 n.82 5.699 41 n.182 5.777 63 n.73, 67 5.788–9 90 n.41 5.803–8 42 n.187 6.15 115 n.19 6.42 62 6.100–1 252 6.199 41 n.182 6.258 68 6.297–311 370 6.305 57 6.357–8 97, 353 n.100 6.407–39 115 n.19 6.407 252 6.429–30 127 6.457–8 88 n.36 6.490–3 8 n.47 6.521–5 97 n.61 7.39–40 341 7.85 33 n.146 7.86–91 353 n.100 7.92 101–2 n.68 7.114–15 90 n.41 7.125 90, 338–9 7.141 48 7.345–420 42 n.187 8.2–4 56–7 8.10–17 76 n.2 8.17–27 53, 57 8.32 57 8.48 57 8.80–129 332 n.3 8.229–34 249 8.306–8 155 n.66 8.360–9 111 8.363 117 n.24 9.28–30 101 9.168 42 9.182–98 42 9.352–5 90 n.41 9.410–16 30 9.434–605 122 9.485–95 116 n.23, 127 9.535 65–6, 336–7 9.556–65 122 n.37 9.590–5 122 n.37 9.617–22 42

Index of Passages 9.646 258 n.33 9.678–9 258 n.33 9.693–5 101 9.699–700 252, 364 10.173–4 80–1 10.216 71 10.313 101–2 n.68 10.579 69 n.95 11.1–2 92 n.48 11.146 99 n.62 11.368 79 n.13 11.404–10 96 n.59 11.604 79–80 n.14 11.608–10 42 11.631 68 n.93 11.794–7 30 12.46 251–2 12.275 51 12.445–9 76 13.35 63 n.73 13.120–2 97 n.61 14.54 51 14.153–360 57 14.170–1 64 14.170–8 67 14.200–4 346 14.319 60 n.61 15.18–24 76 n.2 15.138–41 34 15.184–92 53 15.221 41 n.182 16.1–3 26 n.121, 38 n.167 16.36–9 30 16.50–1 30 16.64–857 25–41 16.72 42 16.221–4 72 16.233 60 16.384–92 337 n.27 16.431–61 35–6, 38 n.167, 339 16.456 33 n.146 16.521–2 34 16.567 62–3 n.72 16.666–83 339 16.670 34, 64, 67 n.89 16.753 252 16.680 34, 67 n.89 16.674 33 n.146 16.130–44 28

16.431–61 32–3 16.443 102 16.480–505 25–41 16.666–83 32–3 17.91–105 96 n.59 17.91–3 97 17.125 28 17.126–7 92–3 n.48, 99 17.132–7 228 n.50 17.140–68 97 n.61 17.193–6 62–3 n.72 17.194–7 28 17.274 92 n.48, 97 n.60 17.281–5 228 n.50 17.361–2 92 n.48 17.414–9 96 n.59 17.434–5 92 n.48 17.502–4 92–3 n.48 17.556–9 96 n.59 17.626–33 92 n.48 17.645–7 228 n.51 17.679–700 340 17.715–61 25 17.746–53 228 n.50 18.1–34 340 18.1–2 26 n.121, 38 n.167 18.8–11 30 18.17 26 n.121, 38 n.167 18.25 72 18.26 40 18.35–71 25 18.56 90 18.59–60 57 n.49 18.79 53 18.84–5 28 18.95–6 29–31 18.98–126 97 18.117–19 34 18.144 29 18.176–7 92–3 n.48, 99 18.189–91 29 18.203–18 263–4, 364 18.232–3 92 n.48 18.316–30 268 18.369–19.13 28 18.437 90 18.464–7 29 18.534–5 99 19.1–2 92 n.48

419

420 Homer (cont.) 19.12–13 28 19.38 34 n.150, 68 19.205–32 73 19.39 73 19.113 117 n.24 19.221–4 267 n.50 19.287–302 115 19.302 248 19.347 34 n.150, 71–2 19.348 73 19.353 34 n.150 20.4–6 57 n.49 20.47 53 20.79–85 249, 364 20.234–5 33 n.145, 336–7 20.264–8 29 20.291–340 33 n.145 20.302–8 137–9, 371 n.180 20.234 69 20.332 92–3 n.48 20.443–4 33 n.145 21.34–114 122 21.108–12 122 n.39 21.109–10 34 21.122–35 122 n.39 21.199 53 21.385–520 346 21.505 53 21.507 67 21.594 29 21.597 33 n.145 22.33–92 124 n.45 22.60–5 88 22.105–8 252–3 22.126 77 n.7 22.135–6 96 n.59 22.166–87 38 n.167, 339 22.181 102 22.322–63 25 22.323 29 22.359–60 25 22.368 28 22.385 27 n.124 22.395–404 99 22.416–29 115 22.422 13 22.455–9 253, 364 22.477–514 248 n.18

Index of Passages 22.484–507 124 23.24–7 99 23.82–92 27 n.124 23.186–7 34 n.150 23.110–897 25 23.676–7 101–2 n.68 24.15–22 99 24.22–30 82 24.31–140 13 24.84–112 32 24.221 335–6 24.235 71 24.281–508 11–15 24.480–4 86, 339 24.487–9 88 n.35 24.493–512 115 24.505–6 86 n.30 24.516 86 n.30 24.518–51 80 24.525–6 86 n.30 24.543–9 115, 122 n.38 24.547 53 24.718–81 248 n.18 24.734 117 n.24 Od. 1.1–5 111 n.12 1.4 13 1.10 15 1.22–87 13 1.33–43, 64–79 82–3 1.161–2 13 1.235–43 13 1.339 15 n.73 1.349 62 1.356–64 8 n.47 2.82–4 101–2 n.68 2.163–76 9 3.204 353 n.100 4.12–14 124–5 n.48 4.83–5 28 n.127 4.170 117 n.24 4.240–64 19 4.187–8 24 4.240–64 43 4.240–3 117 n.24 4.285–6 101–2 n.68 4.445 34 n.150 4.445–6 64 n.78 4.534–5 119 n.31

Index of Passages 4.584 353 n.100 4.703–66 123 4.722–8 111 n.12 5.1–224 13 5.5–20 144 n.27 5.55 57 n.49 5.94 63 n.73 5.165 68 5.221–4 111 n.12 5.335 57 n.49 5.372 18 n.84 5.394 ff. 12 n.58 5.394–9 344 6.8 62 6.102–9 143 n.22, 155 n.68 6.130–6 13 6.149–85 142–3 6.228 18 n.84 6.255–7.154 11–15 6.328–31 141 n.20 7.145 339 7.211–12 111 n.12 7.234–97 17–18, 339 7.259–60 34 n.150, 67 n.89 7.265 34 n.150, 67 n.89 8.80–1 57 8.155 111 n.12 8.363 57 8.364–5 62 n.72 8.461–8 152 n.54 8.480–8 122 n.39 8.500 15 n.73 8.523–30 126 n.54 8.530–1 80 n.15 8.560 353 n.100 9.6 3 n.16 9.19–20 15 9.20 344 9.37–8 111 n.12 9.191 62 9.227–8 227 n.39 9.263–7 13 9.359 63 n.73 9.447–60 122 9.526–36 117 n.25 9.532–5 117 9.542–5 121 10.135–9 121 10.222 62–3 n.72

10.519 68 11.27 68 11.110–17 117 n.25 11.181–204 124 11.225–332 22 n.102 11.330 62 n.72 11.333 101–2 n.68 11.409–11 119 n.31 11.468 27 11.482–91 22 n.102 11.522 24 11.532–3 8 n.47 11.601–26 6, 15, 22 n.102 11.622 117 n.24 12.37–110 121 12.61–3 67 12.70 6, 15 12.137–41 117 n.25 12.258–9 111 n.12 13.1–3 101–2 n.68 13.189–93 143 n.24 13.261 62 13.287–302 141 13.399–400 373 n.190 14.196–8 111 n.12 15.246 88 n.35 15.348 88 n.35 16.393–9 101–2 n.68 17.36–56 123 17.312–23 124 17.383 3 n.16 18.151 68 18.193 34 n.150 19.96–604 16–23 19.129 111 n.12 19.164 77 n.7 19.213–60 339 19.344–8 111 n.12 19.357 41 n.183 19.476–9 340 19.483–4 111 n.12 19.491 41 n.183 20.18–21 111 n.12 20.69 68 20.88–94 20 20.134 41 n.183 20.320–1 101–2 n.68 21.207–8 111 n.12 21.56–7 20

421

422 Homer (cont.) 21.350–8 8 n.47 21.381 41 n.183 22.411–18 99 23.101–2 111 n.12 23.212 88 n.35 23.231–40 344 23.233ff. 12 n.58 23.242–3 62–3 n.72 23.248–50 117 n.24, 118 n.27 23.300–9 111 n.12 23.310–41 21 24.16 27 24.36–7 22 n.102 24.40 40 24.47–62 25 24.59 34, 67 n.89 24.71–84 27 n.124 24.76–9 35 n.152 24.77–9 27 24.80–4 353 n.100 24.85–92 25 24.93–4 22 n.102 24.124–85 21 24.192–202 22 n.102 24.196–201 353 n.100 24.196–7 344 24.296 33 Homeric Hymns Hymn. Hom. Ap. 174–5 15 Ven. 202–6 33 nn.144, 145 Cer. 237 34 n.150 Cer. 311–12 65 n.87 Merc. 1–9 2 Merc. 130–2 66 Merc. 247–8 67 Hymn. Hom. 18.1–9 2 Ion of Chios (FGrH 392) F16 92 n.47 Isocrates Evag. 73 354 n.101 Josephus AJ 15.89 173 n.39 Ap. 2.58 173 n.39 Linear B Tablets PY Tn 316 57, 59

Index of Passages KN V 52 57 [Longinus] Subl. 1.3 230 n.56 1.4 233 n.76 2.2 224 n.25 3.3 237 n.91, 240 8.2 226 n.34, 230 8.4 234 n.81 9.2 229 9.10–11 233 9.10 228 n.51, 229 n.52 9.11–15 229–30 9.11 234 n.81 12.4 233 n.76 13.1 230 13.2 77, 234 n.81 13.4 240 15.3–4 233–4 33 237 35. 2–4 230 nn.56, 58, 231 n.61 36 230 n.56, 237 n.90 38.5 224 n.25 Lycophron Alex. 1274 153 n.57 Megaclides F9 Janko 125 n.50 Mimnermus fr. 11.3 West 117 n.24 Nicander Ther. 500–5, 674–5, 685–8 147 Panyassis frr. 19–22 West 125 n.50 Pausanias 9.11.6 112 Philodemus Poem. 1.15.21–6 Janko 107–8 1.42.5–8 Janko 108 n.5 5.x.24–31 Mangoni 108 n.5 5.xiv–xv Mangoni 108 n.5 PHerc. 207 107 1581 107

Index of Passages Pindar Ol. 1. 43–5 35 n.152 1.62–3 34 n.150 2.78–80 32, 197 n.86 3.4–6 44 n.194 6.103–4 189 n.26 9.48–9 44 13.96–8 79 n.13 Pyth. 2.62–3 189 n.26 4.110 124–5 n.48 4.120–3 124 n.48 4.142 119 n.31 4.165 117 n.24 4.205 119 n.31 4.220 118 n.27 4.229–33 118 n.27 4.244–6 120 n.33 6.5–17 353–4 6.28–42 332 n.3 9.63 34 n.150 11.39–40 189 n.26 Isthm. 4.37–44 78 5.16 362 5.62–3 44 n.194 7.16–19 197 n.83 Nem. 3.9 79 n.13 3.26–7 189 n.26 4.79–81 354 5.1–2 354 5.2–3 189 n.26 7.12–13 197 n.83 7.62–3 79 n.13 8.20–1 44 n.194 9.27 96 n.59 Plato Ion 534b 234 n.81 Meno 99d 95 n.56 Phaedr. 264c2–269a3 110 n.10 Resp. 372c-d 100 n.65 586a 230 Symp. 208c 94 Ti. 90a, 91e 230 Plutarch Alex. 31.11–12 228

Per. 8 233 n.76 8.9 91 n.46, 92 n.47 28.4 91 n.46, 92 n.47 28.7 92 n.47 Polybius 1.3–5 108 3.1–5 108 n.4 12.9.1 108 n.5 36.9.9–11 228 38.21 353 n.99 Oxyrhynchus Papyri POxy 2258A fr. 9 back 114 n.18 3434 114 n.18 3698 127 n.58 4640 118 n.26 4712 126 n.51 Sappho fr. 5 L-P 356 Scholia ad Ap. Rhod. Argon. 2.178–82b 122–3 n.39 Scholia ad Hom. Il. 6.491 108 n.5 18.312–13a 108 n.5 19.108 337 n.24 Simonides fr. 531 PMG 94 n.51 fr. 564.4 PMG 3 n.16 fr. 11 West 78 Sophocles Aj. 124–6 80 n.15 762–77 228 Ant. 135 234 n.80 Phil. 591–7 21 n.101 603–21 21 n.101 TrGF iv fr. 704–5 122–3 n.39 Strabo 5.3.8 167–8 7.7.12 59–60 13.1.53 138 n.15 Suda  521.15–16 105 n.1 Supplementum Hellenisticum (Lloyd-Jones and Parsons) 339A.14 108 n.5

423

424 Theocritus 1.71–2 147 16.40–6 197 n.83 16.76–7 147 Thucydides 1.72.4 101 2.12.3 80 n.16 2.25.2 95 n.56 2.35–46 91 n.46, 92 n.47

Index of Passages 4.87.6 94 n.53 6.15–16 93 n.50 Timotheus 791.202–36 PMG 44 n.194 Xenophon Hell. 3.6 341 n.45 5.3 341 n.44 Mem. 4.11 230 n.59

HEBREW Old Testament Exodus 14.1 54 1Kings 18.18–40 370 n.176 Psalms 48.1–2 55 51.16–17 66

68.4 52 n.26 78.25 66 n.88 82.1 56 89.7 56 14.12 292

HIT TITE Myth of Telepinus

ANET p. 126 65

I TA L I A N Dante Alighieri Inferno 13.48 286 Tasso, Torquato Gerusalemme Liberata 3.22 281–4 3.23.1–2 282 4.49 368 n.169 11.29–30 370 12.67.8 284 12.68 284 12.78–9 285

12.86–9 285 12.86.1–4 284 12.91–3 284 12.94 285 13.38–47 285–9, 368 13.49 289 14.1–19 351 n.87 15.19–20 353 n.99 16.4–7 359 n.124 18.25–38 289 20.114 370 n.176

LATIN Anthologia Latina 225 S-B 222 n.20 Augustus Res Gestae 2 164 n.14

19–21 159–83 19 162 n.7 20.1 174–5 20.4 175 31 179

Index of Passages Catullus 11.21–4 155 n.66 34.17–24 193 n.55 62.39–44 155 n.67 64.89 155 n.68 64.132–3 155 n.63 64.250 155 n.63 64.312–3 148 n.42 64.335 155 n.63 66 350 66.28 229 n.54 66.39 147 n.37, 156, 345, 350 68b 210 76.3 155 n.63 85 210 87.3 155 n.63 101 155 nn.64, 65 Cicero Arch. 18 234 n.81 24 353 n.100 Leg. 1.26 230 n.59 Nat. D. 2.140 230 n.59 Orat. 234 233 n.76 Tusc. 1.3–1.5 133 1.5 219 n.8 Att. 15.1a.2 233 n.76 2.25.1 235 n.83 Fam. 4.5 144 n.26 Columella Rust. 1 praef. 29–30 241 n.106 1 praef. 30 219 n.8, 220 n.14, 233 n.76 10 praef. 3–4 220 10.433–6 220 n.14 Curtius Rufus 4.13.8–9 228 n.46 Dares Phrygius 16 268 Donatus Vita Vergili (Hardie) 25 135 n.10, 363 27 186 n.12 31 215 n.181 39 215 n.177, 363 n.152 Ennius Ann. (Skutsch) 1.1–4 350–1 n.86

425

155 185 n.3 363 134 n.7 Epigr. (Vahlen) 18 187 n.13 Aulus Gellius 2.18.7 218 n.2 6.14.4–5 237 n.91 12.8.2 177 13.27[26].2 218 n.2 17.10.7 215 n.177 Horace Carm. 1.1.34 194 n.66 1.26.11 194 n.66 1.32.4–5 194 n.67 1.1.36 190 1.2.44 357 1.3 188–91, 356–7, 361, 364, 369, 373 1.4 195 2.13.24–8 194 n.66 3.30.1ff. 354 n.102 3.30.13 194 n.66 4.2 195 4.2.1–12 304 n.9 4.2.1 218 n.2 4.2.27–32 304 n.9 4.4 195 4.7 195–8 4.7.14–16 195–6, 357–8 4.7.23–6 196 4.8 196–8 4.9.1–12 198 4.9.25–34 197–8 4.12.25 191 n.42 4.14 195 4.15 189 n.27 4.15.31–2 198 Carm. saec. 9 194 n.63 10–11 192 n.48 13–14 194 n.62 17–24 192 n.48 33 192 41–4 192–3 49–52 193–4 50 192 n.48 Epist. 1.19.32–3 194 n.67 1.20 223

426

Index of Passages

Horace (cont.) 2.1.50 219 n.9 2.1.156–7 348 2.1.245–7 191 n.41 2.1.252–3 238 n.93 2.2.99 194 n.67 Sat. 1.4.9–10 304 n.9 1.10.67–71 304 n.9 2.1.10–12 191 2.7.28–9 235 n.83 Hyginus 68.2 228 n.47 Jerome Ep. 121.10.5 219 n.9 Justin 18.4–5 349 n.80 18.6.8 349 Juvenal 1.1–18 238 n.95 [Lactantius Placidus] Commentarius in Statii Thebaida 10.828 235 n.83 10.850 226 n.34 12.816 224 n.23 Livy 1.55.6 176 4.20 164 n.17, 165 5.13.6 171 6.37.12 171 25.12.9 171 42.47.4–9 228 Lucan Bellum Civile 1.685 351 n.89 1.686 351 n.88 6.246 234 n.79 9.961–86 354 n.102, 362 9.961–79 353 n.99 9.980–6 221–2 9.990–6 222 Lucilius fr. 1189 Marx 219 n.9 Lucretius 1.62–79 231 3.1–30 363

3.3–6 218 n.2 5.117–19 232 5.1161–3 225 n.28 6.1–8 363 6.27–8 363 Macrobius Saturnalia 2.4.31 186 n.11 5.17.5 351 n.91 Manilius 3.9–13 128 n.59 Martial Epigrams 3.38 236 7.23 223 n.21 8.18 224 n.23 11.48, 11.49 220 Ovid Am. 1.1.1 235 n.86 1.5 210 1.15.25 235 n.86 3.11.33–4 210 Ars am. 1.453 210 3.337–8 210 n.148 Fast. 1.4 189 n.27 1.81–2 177 2.3 189 n.27 2.195–242 210 n.154 2.331–52 210 2.533–42 163 2.543–6 162 2.863–4 189 n.27 3.463 209 3.697–710 162–3 3.790 189 n.27 5.51–70 178 n.54 Met. 1.1–4 213–4 1.1 347 1.2 359 1.82–6 230–1 1.222–3 225 n.32 6.273–4 292 7.433–50 113 n.16 12.64 211 13.623 211

Index of Passages 13.638–74 211 13.722–3 212 14.78–81 211 14.116–18 212 14.120–1 212 14.157 211 14.464–511 211 14.530–65 211 n.158 15.165 359 15.420–52 359 15.431–49 212 15.829–31 347 Rem. am. 811–12 189 n.27 Tr. 1.7.15–26 215 n.177, 363 n.152 1.7.23–4 214–5 2.1.63 214 2.533 209 n.140 4.10.51 208 Paulus Fest. p.103M 50 Petronius 115.2 232 n.67 115.5 234 n.81 116.1 238 n.93 118.6 232 n.67, 234 n.81 123 v. 209 238 n.93 124.2 232 n.67 Pliny, Elder HN 7.114 215 n.177 35.27 182 35.93–4 182 36.91 172 Pliny, Younger Ep. 1.2.2 239 n.102 1.5.12–13 218 n.2 6.21.1 240 n.105 7.12.4 237 n.91 7.20.4 239 n.102 7.30.4–5 218 n.2, 224 n.24, 236 9.26.2–9 236–7 9.26.4 240 n.105 Propertius 1.6 358–9 1.7 200

1.9 200 1.9.9 199 1.17.19–24 207 n.130 2.1.17–45 186 n.9 2.1.17–36, 39–46 199–200 2.1.40 201 n.100 2.1.42 358 2.1.72 201 n.100 2.1.78 202 n.103 2.3.31–40 358 2.10 148 n.44 2.10.19–26 186 n.9 2.13.17–42 207 n.130 2.13.31–4 201 n.100 2.16.39–42 202 n.107 2.31.3–4 173 2.31.9–10 169 2.31.13–14 172 2.31.15 170 2.34 200–3 2.34.61–2 358 2.34.65–6 219, 362 2.34.67 358 3.1.7 203 3.2.17–26 354 n.102 3.3.1–52 186 n.9 3.3.5 201 n.100 3.3.22–4 189 n.27, 28 3.4 203 3.7.1–8 191 n.40 3.9.3–4, 35–6 189 n.28 3.9.35–60 186 n.9 3.16.21–30 207 n.130 3.18 183 n.63 4.1 203–6 4.1.57ff. 354 n.102, 103 4.1.65–7 354 n.102 4.3 213 4.5 207 4.6 172, 207 4.6.11–68 358 4.6.65–8 202 n.107 4.7 207 4.8 207 Quintilian Inst. 1.2.21–6 218 n.2 10.1.46 213 n.167, 220 n.15 10.1.54 109 n.6

427

428 Quintilian (cont.) 10.1.81 220 n.12 10.1.85–6 219–20, 224 10.1.88 209 10.2.17 218 n.2 10.2.18 220 n.12 10.5.5 218 n.2 Sallust Cat. 1.1 230 n.59 48.1 235 n.83 Seneca Ep. 79.7 220 92.30 230 n.59 94.56 230 n.59 Dial. 8.5.4 230 nn.59, 60 Med. 910–15 128 n.59 Tranq. 1.14 229 n.54 Servius Aen. 1.242 193 n.58 1.294 181–2 1.488 193 n.58 4.682 349 5.45 160 6.69 171–2 6.861 167 n.21, 215 n.181 6.900 211 n.159 7.170 177 7.778 147 n.37 8.720 169 Silius Italicus 1.81–92 349 n.81 1.84 168 n.26 2.337 235 n.83 8.592–4 222 n.19 15.227–8 238 n.93 15.405–6 238 n.93 Statius Achil. 1.733 229 n.54 Silv. 1. praef. 324 2.7.35 224 n.23 2.7.73–4 221, 363 n.152 2.7.79–80 222 4.2.8–10 222 4.4.53–5 220 n.11 4.7.25–8 224, 235 Theb.

Index of Passages 1.3 235 n.84 3.600 229, 238 3.602 226 n.37 3.604–5 225 3.661 225 3.668–9 234 n.80 4.165 232 n.67 4.175–6 225 5.567–8 225 5.653 229 n.54 6.479 238 6.731 232 n.67 6.734–6 226 n.38 6.753–5 225 6.823 238 6.827 229 n.54 8.357 229 n.54 8.406–7 234 n.79 9.547 229 9.548–50 227 n.40 9.550 226 n.37 10.32 234 n.80 10.258–9 227 10.445–8 220–1, 361, 361 10.482–6 227 10.486 234 n.80 10.607, 609 234 n.79 10.632–782 234 n.79 10.657–9 234 n.79 10.662 229 n.54 10.677 234 n.79 10.711–12 234 n.79 10.745 232 10.751–5 234 n.80 10.781–2 234 10.804 234 n.79 10.827–37 232–6 10.832–3 360–1 10.842–5 360–1 10.845–52 232 10.847 225 10.849–52 226 10.870–2 232 10.874–5 225–6 10.897–8 232 10.899–906 226 10.907–10 233, 234 n.80 10.909 238 10.915–20 232

Index of Passages 10.915–17 226 10. 918–9 234 n.80 10.927–30 233 11.1–2 234 n.80 11.1 229, 234 n.79 11.7–8 226 n.35 11.10–11 240–1, 362 11.14–15 232 n.67 11.122–4 235 12.795 229 n.54 12.800 235 n.86 12.808 234 n.81 12.810–19 223–4 12.811–12 324, 363 12.814 229 n.54 12.816–7 220–1, 324, 361 12.816–19 363 Suetonius Aug. 7.2 185 n.3 28.3 175 29.1 178 31 179 31.1 172 40.5 215 n.181 89.2 185 n.3 89.3 186 n.6 Tibullus 2.5 172 n.34, 203–4 Valerius Flaccus 4.148–53 226 n.38 8.106–8 128 n.59 Virgil Ecl. 4.5 191 n.45 5.51 235 n.83 6.1–8 186 n.9 6.1–2 136 n.12 6.3–5 147–8, 202 6.3 187 n.14 8.6–12 187 n.15 9.27–9 235 n.83 G. 1.40 190 n.36 2.40–6 189 2.44–5 356, 373 2.175–6 190 n.36 3.8–48 347 3.8–9 187 n.13 3.10 187 n.15

3.10–11 189 n.31, 356 3.12–16 168 3.12 205 3.13–39 354 3.13 205 n.118 3.16 148 3.17–22 219 3.22–3 163 3.30 187 3.34–6 200 n.94, 358 3.36 187 3.45–6 187 4.162–9 151 n.53 4.559–66 347 4.565–6 190 n.36 Aen. 1.1–7 201 n.98 1.7 205 1.8 206, 214 1.227–53 144 n.27 1.241 352 1.259–60 36, 196 n.75, 350 1.260 229 n.54 1.278–9 347, 348 1.286–96 347 1.286–9 36, 370 n.177 1.291–6 181 1.297–304 149 n.48 1.314–493 12 1.326–30 142–3 1.340–68 349, 351 1.364 150 1.387–401 143–4 1.430–6 151 1.488–93 137 n.14 1.488 193 1.498–504 143 n.22, 155 n.68 1.572–4 150 1.586–613 12 1.601–21 214 n.176 1.605–6 143 n.23 1.610 151 n.52 2.225–7 160 n.2 2.268–97 350 2.268 368 n.169 2.270–97 207 n.133 2.274–9 290–2, 368 2.274–5 351 2.289 276 3.41–6 286, 368

429

430 Virgil (cont.) 3.44 276 3.73–98 147 n.36 3.94–8 137–40, 371 n.180 3.103 139 3.156–68 139–40 3.658 156 3.692–708 146 n.34 3.710–15 162 4.1–2 153 n.63 4.31–53 150 4.103 203 n.111 4.265–76 151 n.52 4.300–4 151 4.305 155 n.63 4.327–30 152 4.335–6 151 4.339 155 n.63 4.340–7 150–1 4.347 358 4.421 155 n.63 4.457 168 n.26 4.520 155 n.63 4.622–9 152 n.53 4.693–705 350 4.696 349 5.45–60 161–4 5.320 239 n.102 5.461–84 226 n.38 5.731–42 207 n.133 5.815 226 n.38 6.9–13 170 6.20–33 172 6.45–97 212 6.69–76 171 6.122 172 6.128–9 210–12 6.129–30 239 n.102 6.440–76 350–2 6.460 147 n.37, 156 6.494–500 277–8 6.679 141 n.19 6.692–3 155 n.64 6.756–892 178–83 6.783 205 n.122 6.791–807 182, 347 6.792–4 353 n.99 6.798–800 147 n.39 6.806–7 179 6.836 175 6.846 134 n.7

Index of Passages 6.847–53 133–5 6.851–3 193–4 6.852 348 6.854–9 165 6.872–4 167 6.878–81 166, 181 6.882–6 155 n.65 6.882 166 6.893–9 351 6.898–9 211 6.900 211 7.1–4 153 n.57, 211 7.44–5 201 n.99, 358 7.116–7 140 n.17 7.170–8 176–7 7.178–91 177 7.192 177 7.378–83 146–7 7.407–66 147 n.36 7.759–60 147 7.648 226 n.37 7.765–9 196 n.76 8.7 226 n.37 8.105 77 8.122–3 203 n.110 8.188–9 203 n.110 8.293–302 113 n.16 8.301 36 8.126–74 140–1 8.312 353 n.99 8.324–5 353 n.99 8.328–32 146 n.34 8.347–8 175, 353 8.356 353 n.99 8.360–1 203 8.382–4 37 8.470–523 140–1 8.609–15 141 n.19 8.653 175 8.675–728 358 8.703–5 172 8.720–3 169–70 9.77–122 211 n.158 9.433–7 155 n.66 9.446–9 175–6 10.449–51 165–6 10.464–73 36–41 10.469–70 6 10.495–505 173 10.693–6 228

Index of Passages 10.707–16 228 10.723–9 228 10.732–5 227 10.763–8 226 n.36 10.773–4 227 10.774–6 226 n.38 10.789–820 332 n.3 10.825 166 10.880 227 n.39 11.1–6 226 n.38 11.42 166

11.581–2 147 n.37 11.68–71 155 n.67 11.271–4 211 n.158 12.192 206 n.126 12.409–19 147 12.603 350 n.85, 351 n.89 12.793 352 12.794–5 196 n.75, 350 Vitruvius De arch. 2.1.2 230 n.59

M OD E R N E N G L I S H Milton PL 1.50 370 1.84–7 292, 368 1.84 293 1.94–9 293–4 1.184 294 1.242–4 294 1.253–6 294 1.508–14 370 1.692–9 353 n.99 1.738–51 370 2.727–8 297 3.33–6 363 n.152

3.682–5 297 4.774 297 4.800 297 4.823–39 297–8 6.898–900 369 n.171 7.13–20 369 n.171 8.64–202 369 9.13–19 327 n.37, 373 9.33–8 274 9.44–5 295 12.370–1 370 n.177 Paradise Regained 1.1 355–6 n.110

For English authors after Milton, please see General Index.

OL D ENGL I SH Battle of Maldon 86–8 254 89–90 255, 364 93–5 254 212–24 249 n.20 251 256 312–13 256 Beowulf 677–80 254 685–7 254 1711–13 257

2345–7 257–8 1740–2 257, 363 2518–37 255 2633–8, 2646–9 248–9, 364 3150–5 247–8 Genesis B 272 255 n.31 Instructions for Christians 1.130 255 n.31

OLD INDIC Atharvaveda

1.32.4 51

431

432

Index of Passages

4.35.1 71 6.4.3 51 Isopanishad 14 71 Rigveda 1.159 51

1.160 51 1.185 51 4.56 51 6.70 51 7.53 51

OLD AND MIDDLE IRISH Clann ollaman uaisle Emna 13–14 269 n.54 Ta´in Bo´ Cuailnge 1 955 261 n.39 2088ff. 263 n.42 2237–78 261–4, 364

2264–5 268 2711–17 266–7 Togail Troı´ 1 724–31 268 1159–66 267 1471–88 269

The following are the editions of Greek and Latin texts used (for other abbreviations, see p. xi and the Oxford Classical Dictionary, pp. xxix–liv). Arrighetti, G. (2nd edn., 1973), Epicuro. Opere (Torino). Diels, H. and Kranz, W. (6th ed., 1951), Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker i-iii (Berlin). Gow, A. S. F. and Page, D. L. (1968), The Greek Anthology. The Garland of Philip and Some Contemporary Epigrams (Cambridge). Gow, A. S. F. and Page, D. L. (1965), The Greek Anthology. Hellenistic Epigrams i (Cambridge). Hardie, C. (1966), Vitae Vergilianae Antiquae (Oxford). Hollis, A. S. (1990), Callimachus Hecale (Oxford). Janko, R. (2000), Philodemus On Poems (Oxford). Lobel, E. and Page, D. (1955), Poetarum Lesbiorum fragmenta (Oxford). Lloyd-Jones, H. and Parsons, P. (1983), Supplementum Hellenisticum (Berlin and New York). Mangoni, C. (1993), Filodemo, Il quinto libro della Poetica (Naples). Marx, F. (1904–5), C. Lucilii carminum reliquiae (Leipzig). Massimilla, G. (1996), Aitia Libro primo e secondo (Pisa). Merkelbach, R. and West, M. L. (1967), Fragmenta Hesiodea (Oxford). Page, D. L. (1962), Poetae melici Graeci (Oxford). Pfeiffer, R. (1949–53), Callimachus i–ii (Oxford). Powell, J. U. (1924), Collectanea Alexandrina (Oxford). Rose, V. (1886), Aristotelis qui ferebantur librorum fragmenta (Leipzig). Schmid, W. (1926), Arisitidis qui feruntur libri Rhetorici II (Leipzig). Skutsch, O. (1985), The Annals of Quintus Ennius (Oxford). Usener, H. and Radermacher, L. (1899–1929), Dionysii Halicarnasei Opuscula i–ii (Leipzig). Vahlen, J. (1903), Ennianae Poesis Reliquiae (Leipzig). West, M. L. (2nd ed., 1992), Iambi et elegi Graeci ante Alexandrum cantati i–ii (Oxford).

General Index Greek words have been alphabetized as they would be transliterated. Achilles 11–14, 25–32, 41–3, 58, 72–3, 76, 80, 82, 84, 86, 89–91, 95, 97, 103, 114, 127, 245, 251–2, 258, 262–4, 268, 270, 290, 321, 339, 341, 344 Actium 164, 167, 169, 170, 173, 186, 200–1, 207, 358 active and passive heroism 13, 111, 113, 116, 118, 126, 324 n. 31, 343–4 Adam 293, 296, 323, 369 Aeacus 197 Aeetes 118, 123–4 Aegisthus 82 aemulatio 218, 360 Aeneas 36, 137–45, 150–3, 155–6, 160–4, 170–2, 180, 192–3, 195–8, 203, 211–12, 222, 226, 276–8, 286–8, 290–3, 349–52, 357–9, 363 Aethiopis 23–41, 137 n. 14 ¼ŁºØ see labours Agamemnon 82, 89–91 Iª øæ=Iªæ  252; see also manhood Ajax 96–7 n. 59, 228–9 Alcaeus 194–5, 356 Alcimede 123–4 Alexander the Great 182, 341 Alexandrian scholars see criticism, interaction with literature ¼ºªÆ 13, 124; see also suffering alius 35 n. 153; see also secondariness; succession ¼ºº 35; see also secondariness; succession Alma-Tadema, Lawrence 319 Amata 348, 350 n. 85 ambition, poetic 131–2, 145, 156–7, 224, 239–41, 323; see also selfconfidence ambrosia 34, 63–7, 335, 337

¼æ 62–3; see also clothes, immortal Amphimedon 21 Amycus 119, 121 analepsis 10, 40, 116 n. 23, 154 n. 61 analysis, Homeric 16, 19, 21, 261 n. 39 Anchises 133–4, 139, 155, 160–4, 179, 182, 193–4, 207 Andromache 76, 115 n. 20, 127, 252–3, 322 Anius 211 Anna, sister of Dido 150 Antilochus 25–7, 31, 35 n. 152, 38, 41, 340 Antimachus 309 Antony, Mark 167, 359 Antu 60–1, 335, 366 Anu 58, 335, 366 anxiety of influence 132, 135–6, 209, 221, 239, 275, 288, 290, 370, 373; see also secondariness Apelles 181 Aphrodite 57–9, 61–3, 67, 73–4, 369–70; see also Venus Apollo 25, 32–3, 82, 138–40, 192, 203, 206 Cynthian 187, 202 Palatine 169–74 Apollonius of Rhodes 105–29, 145–6, 149–53, 323, 324, 325, 342–5 apotheosis 31–6, 160–4, 196–7, 222, 234–5, 349, 350, 357, 362–3, 369; see also divine author; heroization; immortality; nekyia; sky, seeking the Apsyrtus 117, 125 n. 50, 127–8 Ara Pacis 163, 216, 354 Iæ see excellence Arete ( `æ ) 17–18, 41, 142, 339 Argo, Argonauts 6, 12 n. 59, 15, 37 n. 161, 109, 117–28, 150–1, 343–4, 346

434

General Index

Ariadne 118, 149, 155, 207 Ariosto, Lodovico 274, 286–7, 359, 367 Aristotle 106–14, 279, 342 arma 201, 210, 235 armour, divinely made 28–9 Arnold, Edwin 302 Arnold, Matthew 301, 302, 305, 307–9, 310, 317, 320, 326, 328–9 assembly of gods 56–8 Athena 11–14, 17, 19–20, 35, 57, 73, 83, 84, 141–4, 333 Athens 90–2 Atys, son of Croesus 86 audacity 188, 190, 220, 224–5, 233, 235, 237, 357, 361, 369 audere see audacity audience 3–4, 16, 43, 78 augury 336 Augustus, Emperor 36, 159–83, 185–8, 191–5, 198–200, 209 n. 140, 215–16, 347–8, 358–9, 363, 371 Austen, Jane 316 Baal 52, 54–5, 58, 370 n. 176 Bailey, Philip James 302 Battle of Maldon 253–9, 260, 364–7 Bellerophon 357, 369 Beowulf 248, 254–8 Beowulf 243–71, 364–7 Berenice, wife of Ptolemy III 350 biographical tradition of poets 135 and n. 10, 221, 363 Blackwell, Thomas 245 n. 4, 303–4, 305, 372 Blair, Hugh 244 Blake, William 310, 326, 369 blood see Yøæ Boiardo, Matteo Maria 274 book numbers 105, 116, 118, 120–1, 137 n. 14, 214, 311, 328, 342–3 Boreadae 120, 123 Brennus, the Gaul 172 Bridges, Robert 310 Briseı¨s 85, 115, 248 Bronte¨, Emily 318 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 312–16, 326, 372, 373 Browning, Robert 310, 314, 315, 326, 372 Brutus, L. Iunius 182

Bulwer-Lytton, Edward George 301 Burges, James Bland 301 burning an epic poem 135, 215 and n. 177, 363 n. 152 Byrhtnoth 253–7 Byron, George Gordon, Lord 302, 306, 311–12, 321–2, 326, 372 Caesar see Augustus, Emperor; Julius Caesar Caldero´n, Pedro de la Barca 307 calendars, Roman 162–3 Callimachus 105–29, 139 n. 16, 145–8, 189, 200, 202, 204–5, 206, 214, 342–5, 350, 356 Calypso 13–14, 141, 149 Cambyses, son of Cyrus 87–9, 339 Camo˜es, Luis de 302, 359 Campus Martius 168 Candaules, of Lydia 83 Capaneus 217, 219, 225–9, 232–40, 346, 357, 361–3, 369 Capitol 174–8 Carlyle, Thomas 321 catalogue 112, 113 n. 16, 128 n. 59 of Ships 90, 112 of Women 22 n. 122, 350 Catullus 154–6, 192, 210, 347, 350 causation 81–5, 109, 116, 117 n. 25, 338 cedere 201, 219 nn. 7–8 Chadwick, Hector Munro and Nora Kershaw 245 Chalciope 123–4, 127 change 276–7, 279, 290–6, 299, 347, 359, 368 characterization 22–3 ‘childhood’ of society 245, 306–7; see also cultural progress Choerilus 309 Christianity 259, 274–5, 283–5, 289, 292–3, 295, 317, 365–6, 369–71 Chryseı¨s 85 Cicero 133, 236 Circe 121, 141 civil war 199 Cleopatra: queen of Egypt 136, 173 wife of Meleager 43 wife of Phineus 122 n. 37

General Index cliche´s 77, 80, 332, 339; see also formulas Clorinda 276, 278, 281–5, 288–90, 299 closure 117, 118, 124, 126, 206, 352, 355 clothes: immortal 34, 67, 72 token of recognition 18, 339 Clough, Arthur Hugh 301, 312, 327 comedy see humour commonplaces see cliche´s competition, poetic 6, 10, 39, 224, 240–1, 244, 361–2 composition in performance 1–2 Conan Doyle, Arthur 318–19 conquest 345; see also imperialism contamination (contaminatio) 37 and n. 160 Corneille, Pierre 307–8 Cottle, Joseph 301 Crassus, M. Licinius 164 criticism, interaction with literature 37 and n. 161, 104, 106–29, 209, 211, 217–41, 342, 343, 345, 361, 366–7, 367–8, 371 Croesus, of Lydia 84, 85–9, 339 Cronus 370; see also Saturn Cu´ Chulainn 245, 261–3, 265, 268–70 cultural poetics 352 cultural progress 245, 304–7, 340, 372 cultural revivalism 244 Cupid 198 Cybele 139, 159 n. 1 Cyclops 62, 82, 121–2, 155–6, 227 n. 39 Cyrus the Great 85–9, 339 Cyzicus 120 Daedalus 172, 190 Danaids 173–4 Dante Alighieri 286–7, 289, 307–8 Dares and Entellus 135 n. 11, 226 n. 38 Dares Phrygius 261 n. 39, 265–8, 271, 365–6 and n. 161 Dawn (Eos) 31–5 Deiphobus 212, 277–8 Demaratus, of Sparta 94–5 Diana 170, 172, 193–4, 196 Dickens, Charles 318–19

435

Dido 141, 149–53, 155, 207, 211, 309, 323, 348–52, 358 Diomedes 58, 61, 67, 252, 346, 370 Dione 59–61, 335, 366 Dionysius, of Phocea 80–1, 91 divine author 219–21; see also apotheosis Dodds, E. R. 245 Doliones 125 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor 316 dreams 20, 207 n. 133, 288–90, 351, 368 Drusus, Claudius Nero 194–5 Dryden, John 217, 225, 239 Duff, William 304, 372 Dutch painting 319–20 Dyaus 50–1, 53–4 elegy 199–208, 214, 349, 358, 359; see also Propertius elevation 78–9, 91, 230 and n. 56; see also grandeur; sublimity Eliot, George 317–18, 319, 373 Eliot, T. S. 304 ellipse 7, 30, 40 Empedocles 107 empire see imperialism Ennius 154, 187, 213, 219, 318, 347, 362 envy 363 Epic Cycle 1, 10, 15, 22 n. 102, 23–4, 37, 43–4, 45, 84, 137 n. 14; see also Aethiopis Epicurus 231 epitaphioi 90–1 n. 42, 91–2 epithets 246 Ethiopians 28 n. 127 Eumaeus 373 Euripides 233–4, 373 n. 190 Euryalus 155; see also Nisus and Euryalus Eurycleia 17, 19, 43 Evander 140, 175–7 Eve 293, 296, 297, 323 excellence 251–3, 256–7 excess 227, 251–3, 256–8, 269, 364 exclusus amator 207 fable 87 fabula 10

436

General Index

fame 78, 81 n. 18, 93–5, 97–8, 344, 353 fate, synonymous with tradition 7, 30, 35, 333, 349 and n. 82; see also gods, figure for poet / narrator Ferguson, Samuel 301 Fitzgerald, Edward 321 fixed texts 2–3, 8, 43, 45, 331 florilegia 267, 365, 366 fluidity see fixed texts foreshadowing 18–19 formulas 4–5, 9, 10, 26 n. 121, 56, 77 n. 7, 88, 246–7, 292–3, 331–2, 339; see also cliche´s; type scenes Forum of Augustus 178–83 Freud, Sigmund 280, 287 n. 31 funeral oration see epitaphioi further voices 135, 275 Ganymede 69 Gelon, son of Deinomenes 89–92 genre 105–6, 131, 145–7, 214, 274–6, 302, 309–11, 316, 340, 342, 344, 345, 346, 355–6, 368, 371–2 Giants / Gigantomachy 119, 128 n. 59, 190, 225–6, 230, 232 Gilgamesh 59 Gilgamesh, Epic of 59–61, 86, 369–70 Glaucus 120, 125 Godfather, The 250 gods: and causation 81–5 as figure for poet / narrator 19, 238, 333, 352, 357, 361; see also fate (don’t) feast on sacrifices see sacrifices Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 307–8, 316, 321, 327 Golden Age 353 n. 99 grandeur 76, 78, 83, 237, 247, 316–18 grand style 81, 246–7, 305, 307–8; see also grandeur; sublimity Gray, Thomas 318 Grendel 254–5 Gyges, of Lydia 83 Hades 53 Hardy, Thomas 319 Harpies 121 haruspicy 336 Hecale 113–16, 344, 373

Hector 13, 25, 28, 38, 41, 74, 76, 89, 90, 99, 103, 115, 207, 251–3, 290–2, 313, 320, 322, 339, 341, 350, 368 Helen, of Sparta 19, 72, 85, 95, 97 Hellenistic kingship 167 Hephaestus 28–9, 68–9, 370 Hera 35–6, 57, 58–9, 64, 67, 83, 125 Heracles 6, 106–14, 118–20, 123, 125, 127, 342, 343, 346; see also Hercules Hercules 36, 207, 363; see also Heracles Hermes 11–15 hero, as figure for narrator/poet 217, 233–41, 282 and n. 22, 287, 289, 299, 351, 357, 368–9 hero cult see heroization ‘hero’s moon’ see lu´an la´ith heroes, Roman 179–82; see also heroism heroic poetry 243–4, 246–7, 270–1, 273–4, 309, 364 heroism 13–14, 74, 75–6, 83, 94, 98, 116, 119, 132, 145–6, 183, 226–8, 240, 243, 252–3, 291, 311, 313, 318, 338, 340, 341, 343–4, 364; see also active and passive heroism; manhood; ordinariness, opposed to the heroic heroization 94 n. 51, 113, 219, 222, 362–3; see also apotheosis Herodotus 75–104, 338–41 Hesiod 7, 356 n. 110 hexameters (manque´s), in prose 90 and n. 40, 94 and n. 53 hierarchy of genres 145–7; see genre; grandeur; grand style Hippolytus 196–7 historical epic 148, 185–6 historical romance 316 historiography 75–104, 108, 154, 338–41 Holford, Margaret 301 Homer, cult of 219–20, 222 n. 19 Homeric Hymns 2, 7, 66–7 honey 67–8 Hopkins, Gerard Manley 310 Hopleus and Dymas 220, 361 Horace 188–98, 304, 355–8 hospitality 110–11, 114, 120 Hrothgar 257–8 humour 58, 140–5, 214 n. 176, 229, 311

General Index hygd (Old English) 257–8 Hylas 125 hypotactic narrative see narrative, hypotactic and paratactic Hypsipyle 119, 125, 149–52 oł see sublimity Yøæ 61–3 ideology 159–83, 185–216, 247, 251, 346–60; see also imperialism; politics Idmon 120 imitatio 218, 360 immortality 62–5, 93, 125, 185, 195–8, 328; see also apotheosis; fame immortalization see apotheosis imperialism 92, 132–57, 287–8, 323, 345, 347, 348, 351–2, 354, 370 impiety 190, 225–7 Indo-European 48 and n. 5, 49–54, 56, 61, 62, 64–5, 70–2, 247 and n. 16, 334–6 intention 78 intertextuality 2, 4, 5, 11–12, 26, 160, 264, 276, 327, 331, 334, 340, 347, 348, 350, 354, 357, 360 n. 134, 368, 370, 373 intratextuality 5, 11–12, 26, 38, 156, 275–6 and n. 8, 339, 340, 357 inversion 13, 22, 29, 32, 36, 124, 136, 198; see also opposition in imitation Irving, Henry 310 Ishtar 59, 370 Islam 283, 370 Jason 116–28, 151–3, 343–4 Johnson, Samuel 303, 307, 316, 322 Joyce, James 318 Julius Caesar 36, 221–2, 265 temple of 160–4 Juno 193 Jupiter 36, 50, 139, 221, 232–3, 236, 238, 352, 357, 362, 364 Feretrius, temple of 164–6 Capitoline, temple of 174–8 katabasis 6, 346; see also nekyia; Underworld Keats, John 301, 310, 312

437

Œº see fame knights 274, 315; see also romance Kumarbi, Song of 336 labours (¼ŁºØ; Ø, labor) 112–14, 116–20, 125–6, 210, 212, 343–4; see also suffering labyrinth 172 lamentation 124, 248 Lampon, son of Pytheas 98–100 Laomedon 193 Lausus 166 Leighton, Frederic 320 length of poem 105, 112–13, 116, 145–6, 201, 214, 342 Leonidas, of Sparta 92–8 Leto 172 Linear B 47 n. 2, 48, 57, 59–60 lightning see thunderbolt literary hierarchies 355, 360 and n. 135, 366; see also genre lives, narratives of 111, 113–16, 121–8, 344 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 320 [Longinus] 217, 229–30, 233–4, 237, 240 lu´an la´ith (hero’s moon) 262, 270 Lucan 221–3, 264, 311, 325 Lucretius 154, 213, 231, 347 Ludi Saeculares 191 Lycaon 122 and n. 39 Lycus 120, 123 lyric 308 Greek 44, 78, 195 n. 71, 346, 356 Horatian 188–99, 356–8 See also Horace; Pindar Macaulay, Thomas Babington 306–7 Macpherson, James 244–5 madness 234–41, 252, 290, 307, 326, 361, 362 Maecenas, Gaius 186, 187 n. 16, 188, 189, 199 n. 93 Maginn, William 320 magnanimity 229 male and female 13–14, 85, 120, 123–4, 126–8, 149–50, 207, 283, 343–4 man and beast 230 manhood 251–2, 364

438

General Index

Manlius, M. Capitolinus 175 Marcellus, M. Claudius 165–6, 180 Marcellus, son of Octavia 155, 166, 167, 169, 180–1, 183, 348, 355 Mardonius, of Persia 94, 98–9 Mars Ultor 178–9 Mausoleum of Augustus 167–9, 355 Medea 35 n. 152, 124, 126–8, 149, 152, 343–4 Meleager 43, 122 Memnon 23–41, 137 n. 14, 332, 339 memory, literary 275–6 Menelaus 97, 123 BØ 95–8, 125, 258  252, 255–6 *Memnonis (Aethiopis) 23–41 metamorphosis 211 and n. 158, 213, 359; see also change metapoetic (metaliterary) 35 n. 153, 114, 122 n. 39, 135 and n. 11, 188, 192, 238, 288 and n. 32, 333, 345–6, 347, 351, 356, 360, 362, 364, 368; see also ‘troping’ metopes, of temple 112, 121 Mezentius 226–7 Milton, John 37 n. 158, 274, 276–81, 292–9, 302, 303, 306–8, 318, 322, 323, 326, 333, 350, 357, 360–1 n. 135, 367–71, 373 Minos 118 Minotaur 175 mirror-story 21 misdirection 16 n. 78, 22 mise en abyme 110 Mnesiphilus, of Athens 83 Mnestheus 90 mod (Old English) 255–8 monuments 159–83, 205–6, 347, 352–5 Morris, Lewis 302 Morris, William 302, 310 ‘multiple correspondence’, between source text and target text 14–15, 26, 38–9, 136, 333 Murray, Gilbert 322–3 mutation see change FŁ see plot mutilation 98–9, 276–7, 350–1, 352

narrative, hypotactic and paratactic 110–29 narrative inconsistencies 7, 16–21, 29, 42, 333, 336–7 narrative, primary and secondary 10, 18, 21, 30, 33 n. 45, 43, 122, 336–7; see also perspective; speeches, characters’ naturalism 319 Nausicaa 13–14, 35 n. 152, 143–4, 149, 152 n. 54 Near East 23 and n. 107, 47–74, 334–6, 346, 369–70 nectar 67–73, 335, 337 nekyia 21–2, 172, 196, 210, 211–12, 333, 350, 357–8; see also katabasis; Underworld neoanalysis 4, 14, 16, 17, 24, 26, 27, 31, 37, 39 n. 173, 41, 43, 332 and n. 3, 336, 337 n. 28 Nestor 80–1, 90, 123 Newman, F. W. 320 Niobe 172 Nisus and Euryalus 175–6, 220 ‘nod’, Homeric 20; see also narrative inconsistencies novel 316–19 novelty 41, 44, 305 Octavian see Augustus, Emperor Odysseus 9–23, 73, 82, 83, 84, 103, 110–11, 114, 116, 117, 123–4, 141–5, 153, 229, 321, 322, 339, 343–4, 346 oferhygd (Old English) 257–8, 364 ofermod (Old English) 255–6, 364 NŒ Æ 109, 343 Old Testament 54–6, 58, 66, 259, 365–6 Olympus 53–7, 334 oneness 105–29, 342–3 opposition in imitation (oppositio in imitando) 13, 22, 27 n. 124, 29, 35–6 and n. 152, 38 and n. 162, 333, 358 oral(-derived) poetry 1–45, 243, 246–7, 331–4 ordinariness, opposed to the heroic 98, 312–13, 318–19, 373

General Index Ossian 244 Ovid 208–16, 293, 324, 355–6, 359–60 Palatine 169–74, 203 Pallas 36, 141, 155, 165–6, 173–4 Panyassis 108–9, 309 parallel development 243–4, 247, 250, 258–9, 261, 264, 269–71, 305, 364, 366, 367 paratactic narrative see narrative, hypotactic and paratactic Parentalia 161, 163 Paris 25, 38, 82, 341 Pater, Walter 301, 304–5 Patroclus 25–8, 38, 41–3, 72–3, 93, 99, 115, 207, 248, 251, 268, 339 Pausanias, of Sparta 98–9 Peacock, Thomas Love 306 Peleus 28 Penates 139–40 Penelope 17–23, 42, 111, 114, 123, 207, 322, 340, 342, 344 Penthesilea 24, 137 n. 14 Pericles, of Athens 91–2 peripeteia 115, 121–2, 124 perspective 111, 115, 121–9, 344 Petrarch 282, 283 Philodemus 107 Phineus 120–2 Phoenix 42–3, 122 Phrixus 120, 124, 344 pietas 164, 196; see also pius Pindar 23, 24, 32, 44, 79 n. 13, 116–17, 168, 187, 189, 195–8, 304, 307–8, 346, 353–4, 356 pity, pitiful hero 359, 36 pius 190 n. 34, 193, 196, 222; see also pietas plot 106–29, 342 poet, identified with hero see hero, as figure for narrator/poet politics 76, 87, 92, 100–3, 345; and literary criticism 217, 221–2, 360–1 and n. 135; and poetry: see ideology Polybius 108, 346–7 Polydeuces 119, 121 Polydorus 276–7, 286–7, 368 Polyphemus see Cyclops Polyxo 150

439

Ø see labours Poseidon 53, 82, 137–8 Poynter, Edward John 319 æA%Ø 109 n. 9, 342 Priam 11–14, 84, 86, 87–9, 114–15, 122, 322, 339 ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’ epic 35 n. 152, 38, 243, 311, 367 Prithivi 51 Proclus 23; see also Epic Cycle progress see cultural progress prolepsis 40, 154 n. 61, 172, 353 Prometheus 66 propaganda see ideology Propertius 199–208, 355–6, 358–9 prophecy 10, 29–31, 137–40, 117, 120, 171, 212, 371 proverbs 77 and n. 7, 88, 91–2 n. 46, 339; see also cliche´s Psammenitus, of Egypt 87–9, 339 Pytheas, son of Ischenous 341 Quirinus see Romulus reading 78, 111, 118, 129; see also reception reception 3–4, 37–9, 76, 78, 103–4, 213, 333–4, 341, 336, 338, 347, 354, 357, 358–60, 369, 374 recitation 188 n. 19 recognition 17–22, 113, 116, 277–99, 339, 351, 368 recusatio 147–8, 186–7, 199–200 renewal 192–4; see also ‘new’ songs resonance see traditional referentiality rhapsodes 44–5 riastartha (Old Irish) 261 rkb (Semitic) 52 romance 274–5, 317, 358–9, 366 n. 161, 367; see also knights Romantics 305, 372, 373 Romulus 165, 180, 182 Ruskin, John 315 n. 20 sacrifices 65, 69, 335, 336 sa¯poˆn (Hebrew) 54–5 ˙‘sapping’ 357 and n. 116 Sarpedon 25, 27, 32–6, 38, 41, 64, 339, 346

440

General Index

Satan 256, 259, 276, 278, 292–9, 357, 368–9 Saturn 353 n. 99; see also Cronus Schiller, Friedrich 304, 307–8 scholia, Homeric 90 n. 41, 104, 108, 229, 337 n. 24 Scott, Walter 316 sea 188–90, 356–7, 373 secondariness 37 n. 161; see also sequel; sequi; succession secondary narrative see narrative, primary and secondary self-confidence of poet 137, 221–2, 295; see also ambition Semitic see Near Eastern sequel 8, 11; see also secondariness; sequi; succession sequi 220, 223–4, 239 n. 102, 361, 363; see also secondariness; sequel; succession Shakespeare, William 307–8 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 310 Sibyl 171, 211–12 ‘signalling’: of intratext 339–40 of source text 6, 15 n. 71, 19 and n. 89, 26–7, 35–6, 88 and n. 37, 333, 339–40 Silius Italicus 10 n. 54, 220 similes 126 n. 54, 151 and n. 53, 210, 228, 251, 266–8, 270, 289, 337 n. 27 single action 316; see also oneness; plot sky: god 50–3, 334 raising gaze to the 230–1 seeking / assaulting the 188, 226, 357, 361, 363–4, 369 Sleep and Death 32–4 Smith, Alexander 301 Soclees, of Corinth 101–2 Solon, of Athens 86 Sophanes, of Decelea 341 Sophocles 307–8, 317 Southern Slavian epic see Yugoslavian epic Southey, Robert 302 Sparta 93–8

speeches, characters’ 80–1, 90–1, 124, 337, 341; see also narrative, primary and secondary Spenser, Edmund 274, 353 n. 99, 367 spolia opima 164–6 Statius 10 n. 54, 217–41, 264, 324, 357, 360–4 Stevenson, Robert Louis 319 story, opposed to fabula 10; see also lives, narratives of; plot sublimity 229–30, 237, 308–9, 361 succession 221, 227, 243, 318, 350; see also secondariness; sequel; sequi suffering 115, 117, 126, 172; see also active and passive heroism supplication 13, 41 Swinburne, Algernon Charles 310, 328–9 Ta´in Bo´ Cu´ailnge 260–70, 364–7 Taine, Hippolyte 319 Tancredi 276, 278, 281–90, 299, 368 Talos 128 Tasso, Torquato 274–8, 281–90, 299, 302, 333, 351, 359, 367–70 Telemachus 123 teleology 108, 212, 347, 348, 352, 359, 367, 370 Telepinus 65 Tennyson, Alfred 310, 311, 327–9 Terry, Ellen 310 Teucer 139 Themistocles, of Athens 83 Theocritus 107 n. 3, 114 n. 18, 147 Theseus 106–7, 112–16, 172, 342, 344 Thetis 29–32, 35, 53–4, 58, 72, 125, 144 n. 27 Thucydides 78, 83, 84, 85 thunderbolt 51, 188, 233 and n. 76, 361, 362 Tiberius, Julius Caesar Augustus 194–5, 203–4 Tibullus 187 n. 17 Tiphys 120 Togail Troı´ 265–9, 364–7 Tolstoy, Leo 316 totalizing, epic as 131–57, 322, 345–8, 355, 359, 370, 372

General Index traditional referentiality 5 n. 24, 9 n. 48, 331 tragedy 4, 22, 44–5, 75, 77, 86 n. 30, 124, 141, 154, 228, 297, 309–10, 317, 318, 338, 340, 346, 348, 349 transferred motif 4–5, 14, 17, 18, 19, 31–4, 36, 336, 340 transformation (‘warp’) of hero 261–4, 269, 364 translation 244, 245, 265, 267, 273, 320, 365 translation of hero from battlefield 31–4 troping 333, 350–1, 357, 368; see also metapoetics Turnus 173–4 type scenes 5, 12, 17 n. 81, 22, 24, 33 n. 45, 36, 331

441

Vedas 48, 50–2, 71 Venus 142–4, 193, 198 Victorians 301–29, 371–4 viewpoint see perspective violation see mutilation Virgil, cult of 219–21, 222 Wagner, Richard 66–7 washing feet 18–19 Wilde, Oscar 310 wine, gods drinking 68–9, 335, 337 Wolf, Friedrich August 321 women 85, 123, 149–53, 248, 321; see also male and female wood 285–90, 351, 368 Wordsworth, William 326–7, 373 wound see mutilation wrath see BØ Xerxes, of Persia 94, 100, 313

Ugaritic 52 Ulster Cycle 260 Underworld 165, 196–7, 207 n. 133, 277, 357–8; see also katabasis; nekyia unity 274; see also oneness universality, of epic see totalizing, epic as

Yugoslavian epic 1–2, 5, 246 Zaphon, Mt 54 Zeus 35–6, 49–61, 67, 73, 82, 112, 138, 333, 334–5, 366 Zeus’ will (˜Øe . . . ıº ) 117, 125 Zion, Mt 55